Undercover Parent

 

COMING TO YOU LIVE FROM OUR STUDIO!

"This is delicious."

Evie Hyde crossed her legs—long, tanned, ending in Louboutins that cost more than most people's rent—and smiled at the camera. That smile. The one that said I know something you don't. The one that had made her the most talked-about host on television.

"Welcome to Undercover Parent—the show where mommies and daddies get to find out exactly what their little angels have been up to." She flicked a strand of platinum blonde hair over her shoulder. "Tonight? David Patterson. Forty-three. Insurance salesman. Divorced. And desperate to know why his nineteen-year-old daughter Molly has been so... secretive lately."

She turned to the man in the chair. Nervous. Sweating through his cheap shirt. Evie could smell his mediocrity from here.

"David. You applied to our show because you're worried about Molly. Tell us why."

"She's changed." He twisted his wedding ring—still there, still a habit, even after the divorce. "She used to tell me everything. Now she's distant. Evasive. I'm still paying her college tuition—she's supposed to be at Michigan State, studying business—but she barely calls. When she does, she's... different. More confident. I don't know." His jaw tightened. "I just want to know my daughter again."

Evie's smile widened. Oh, David. You have absolutely no idea.

"And you have no suspicions about what she might be doing? No theories?"

"Maybe a new boyfriend? Drugs? I don't—she just won't let me in."

"Mmmh." Evie leaned forward, enjoying this—enjoying him, this pathetic middle-aged man who thought he knew his little girl. "Well. Our neural-link technology will let you ride along in Molly's body for twenty-four hours. You'll experience everything she experiences. See what she sees. Feel—" A pause. A wicked glint. "—what she feels. Are you ready?"

David swallowed. "Ready."

"Liar." Evie smirked. "But let's do it anyway."

---

The sensation was like falling into warm honey.

One moment David was in the studio, headset pressed to his temples, Evie's perfume still lingering in his nostrils. The next—

Oh.

He was lying face-down on a plush pink duvet. Satin. Expensive between his—her—fingers. Long nails. Acrylic. Painted bubblegum pink.

"Mmm... fuck, you feel amazing..."

The voice came from behind. Deep. Male. Confident.

And there was something—someone—inside him.

David's eyes shot open. He looked down at a body that was absolutely, devastatingly not his. Small hands. Slender wrists. Two perfect, heavy C-cup breasts spilling out of a lacy black bralette that probably cost more than his weekly grocery shop.

And between his legs—

"Oh God—"

The cock drove deeper and David's new mouth fell open in a moan he couldn't control. The pleasure was obscene. A full-body electric shock that started somewhere deep inside a tight, pink pussy and radiated outward like a fucking tsunami.

(That's her—my—cunt. That's a real dick inside me. Inside her. Oh fuck oh fuck—)

"Right there, baby?" The guy—Braden, the name surfaced from borrowed memory—grabbed a fistful of blonde hair and pulled. David's neck arched. Molly's back curved like a cat in heat as the thrusts came faster. Harder. The wet slap of skin against skin filled a bedroom he didn't recognise. Modern. Minimalist. Way too expensive for a nineteen-year-old student.

Unless she wasn't just a student.

The phone on the nightstand buzzed. Then again. Then constantly—notifications stacking up like a slot machine hitting jackpot. David's eyes—Molly's eyes, blue and lined with the kind of expert cat-eye that took hours to master—caught a glimpse.

OnlyFans: 47,832 subscribers New tip from @BigDaddy_99: $500 New tip from @CummyCamel: $200

Forty-seven thousand—

"Fuck, Molly—your pussy's so tight—"

Braden leaned forward and the new angle hit something inside that made David see white. Her clit throbbed. Her nipples ached against the lace. Every nerve ending in this pornographic body was alive in a way his forty-three-year-old male form had never been.

(Stop it. Stop enjoying it. This is your daughter—)

But the thought dissolved as another orgasm built. And built. And—

"Fuck yes!"

Molly's voice cracked on the scream. Her painted nails dug into the duvet. Her pussy clamped down like a vice and David felt it—the clench, the release, the wet gush of her own pleasure flooding around Braden's cock.

Braden pulled out. David—Molly—rolled onto her back, chest heaving, those perfect tits rising and falling.

But they weren't done.

"Face or tits?" Braden asked, already stroking himself. Professional. Transactional. Like they were discussing a coffee order.

Molly's body sat up on autopilot. Her tongue ran across her bottom lip—plump, glossed, eager.

"Both."

(What—)

"Fuck yeah." Braden moved closer. Stood over her. His hand worked faster.

David tried to pull back. Tried to resist. But he was a passenger in this body—a passenger who felt everything—and Molly knew exactly what she wanted.

She wanted this.

She loved this.

Her chin tilted up. Her mouth opened. Her eyes locked onto Braden's with the kind of hungry confidence that made men stupid.

"Give it to me," she purred. Her voice. Her words. David just had to watch. Had to feel.

The first rope hit her cheek—hot, thick, sticky—and David's brain short-circuited. The taste. Salt. Musk. Something primal and filthy and—

Another stripe across her forehead. Her left cheek. Her chin.

"Fuck yeah—" Braden groaned, aiming lower now.

The next burst landed directly on her tongue. David tasted it—really tasted it—warm and bitter and unmistakably male. His daughter's tastebuds. His daughter's mouth. His daughter's eager little tongue swirling through the mess like it was dessert.

Then Braden shifted aim. The final ropes decorated her chest—splattering across the lacy black bralette, painting those perfect C-cups with streaks of white. A thick glob landed right on her cleavage and slowly, slowly, began to drip downward.

David felt it all.

The heat on her skin. The weight of it. The way it clung to her eyelashes when she blinked. The taste lingering on her tongue. The smell—musky, masculine, everywhere.

And worse—so much worse—the satisfaction.

Because Molly wasn't disgusted. Molly wasn't ashamed.

Molly was thrilled.

Her body practically vibrated with pleasure. With pride. With the smug satisfaction of a girl who knew exactly how pretty she looked with cum on her face and exactly how much men would pay to see it.

---

The aftermath was a blur of sensation and horror.

Molly walked to the bathroom—David felt the cum cooling on her skin, felt it drip down her chest with every step—and looked in the mirror.

Jesus Christ.

Her reflection was pornographic. Blonde hair mussed. Mascara slightly smudged. Cum streaked across her face like abstract art. More of it pooling in her cleavage, dripping slowly between those perfect tits.

And the smile on her face—Molly's face—was pure, unfiltered satisfaction.

She reached up. Scooped a thick glob from her cheek with one manicured finger.

And licked it off.

(Mmmmmh...)

That wasn't me, David told himself frantically. That was her. Her body. Her—

But he'd felt the taste. The texture. The little burst of pleasure that came from being such a good girl.

He'd felt her enjoy it.

Molly looked around her bathroom —marble countertops, rainfall showerhead, a vanity lit by Hollywood bulbs—and began to undress.

David had tried to disconnect. Tried to retreat into some corner of her mind where he didn't have to feel this. But the neural-link didn't work that way. He was her. Every sensation. Every thought. Every impulse.

The bralette hit the floor. Then the thong—soaked through, David noted with horror and something worse, something that felt almost like appreciation for how wet she'd been.

Molly turned on the shower. Steam filled the room. She stepped under the water and—

Oh.

The heat cascaded down her body. Over those perfect tits. Down the flat plane of her stomach. Between her legs where she was still swollen, still sensitive, still throbbing from the pounding she'd just taken.

David felt the water on her skin. Felt the way her nipples hardened under the spray. Felt the ache between her legs that wasn't satisfied—it was never satisfied, he realised. His daughter had a sex drive that wouldn't quit.

Molly reached for a shelf built into the shower wall. Shampoo. Conditioner. Body wash—something expensive, something that smelled like vanilla and jasmine and sex.

And then—

A suction cup dildo. Thick. Black. Veined. At least eight inches long with a base that looked like it meant business.

Molly pressed it onto the marble bench seat with a wet squelch. It stood there, obscenely upright, water cascading off its shaft.

(No. No, she's not—)

She was.

Molly positioned herself over it. One hand braced against the shower wall. The other reached between her legs, spreading herself open—David felt her fingers slide through slick folds, felt how ready she still was—and then she was sinking down.

Down.

Down.

Down.

The head breached her entrance and David's mind went white. The stretch. The fullness. Her pussy—his pussy—their pussy—opening around that thick shaft like it was made for this. Like it had been waiting for this.

"Fuuuuuck..." Molly's voice echoed off the marble.

She bottomed out. Eight inches buried to the hilt. Her thighs trembled. Her nails—those bubblegum-pink acrylics—scratched against the tile.

And then she started to ride.

Slow at first. Up. Down. Up. Down. Getting a rhythm. Getting into it. Water sluiced down her body as she rode that dildo like it owed her money.

(Stop. Please stop. This is—)

But her body didn't stop. It couldn't stop. The orgasm from the shoot had only taken the edge off. Now she needed more. She always needed more.

Faster now. Her tits bounced with every thrust. Her ass slapped against the marble bench. The wet, obscene sounds of her pussy swallowing that dildo filled the shower—schlick, schlick, schlick—punctuated by breathy moans that David couldn't control.

"Yes—right there—fuck—"

One hand left the wall. Slid down her stomach. Found her clit and started rubbing in tight, desperate circles.

The pleasure built. And built. And—

Molly came with a scream that bounced off every surface. Her pussy clamped down on the dildo so hard David felt every ridge, every vein, every inch of it pulsing inside her as her whole body shook.

She rode out the aftershocks for what felt like an eternity. Then, finally, she lifted herself off. The dildo emerged with a wet pop and David felt—God—he felt the emptiness left behind. The way her pussy gaped slightly. The way it missed being filled already.

Molly cleaned herself. Washed her hair. Shaved her legs with practised efficiency.

And then—David's heart sank—she reached for a small pot on the shelf. Sugar scrub. She was going to—

The scrub was rough against her most sensitive skin. Molly worked it in circles, exfoliating, smoothing, making sure every inch of her was perfect. And when she rinsed it away, David felt it.

Smooth. Impossibly smooth. Not a single hair. Not even stubble. Just soft, bare, baby-smooth skin that practically begged to be touched.

She'd had a wax. Recently. A full Brazilian. And now this—maintenance. Making sure her pussy was as pretty and porn-ready as the rest of her.

David felt the satisfaction bloom in her chest. The pride. She loved how she looked. How she felt. How marketable every inch of her was.

---

Two hours later, Molly was walking down Melrose Avenue in a pair of Louboutins like Evie's, that clicked like exclamation points on the pavement. David had lost track of the sensations—her feet didn't hurt at all, these heels were practically an extension of her body—and now they were entering a boutique that had no prices on anything.

That's never a good sign.

"Hey, babe!" The girl behind the counter—stick-thin, raven-haired, covered in tattoos—waved. "The new haul came in. Want me to pull your usual sizes?"

"Please." Molly's voice was casual. Easy. Like she belonged here.

Because she did.

David watched—felt—as Molly tried on outfit after outfit. A mesh bodysuit that left nothing to the imagination. A latex skirt that clung to every curve. A sheer dress that was essentially lingerie masquerading as fashion.

Each item went on her body and David felt the fabric against her skin. The cool slide of silk. The second-skin grip of latex. The way certain materials made her nipples harden, made her pussy pulse with anticipation.

(How much does any of this even cost?)

The answer came when Molly checked out.

"That'll be $2,847."

Molly didn't blink. Didn't hesitate. She tapped her phone to the card reader and walked out with three bags of clothing that cost more than David earned in a week.

After taxes.

His daughter was wearing his weekly take-home pay on her body. And she looked incredible.

---

Next the Nail Bar.

"Okay sweetie, what are we thinking today?"

Molly settled into the padded chair and extended her hands for inspection. Her current nails—bubblegum pink, medium length—were apparently so last week.

"Longer," she said. "Stiletto. And I want them to match my new content aesthetic. Like... porn-star pink with little rhinestones."

The technician—a tiny woman named Kim who clearly knew Molly by name—smiled. "Big shoot coming up?"

"Always."

David felt the process. The filing. The shaping. The UV lamp curing the gel. The precise application of each tiny rhinestone. And then—when they were done—the weight of them.

These nails were long. At least two inches past her fingertips, tapering to sharp points that looked like weapons. They were obscene. They were impractical. They screamed I don't type for a living and my hands are for decoration, not work.

And Molly loved them.

She held her hands up, turning them this way and that. The rhinestones caught the light. The porn-star pink was almost neon. Every gesture was now a performance—deliberate, languid, sexy.

David felt her pleasure. The way these nails made her feel powerful. The way they signaled to the world exactly what kind of girl she was.

---

Back in the apartment. Molly collapsed onto the pink velvet sofa and pulled out her phone.

A text from someone labelled Tiff 💋.

Tiff 💋: How was the shoot babe?? Braden's cock looked SO good in the preview 😍

Molly: Facial was INSANE. Wait till you see the vid 😘

Tiff 💋: Ugh I'm SO jealous. When's your consultation for the upgrade??

Molly: Thursday!! DD baby 🍈🍈

Tiff 💋: YESSS!! You're gonna look so hot. Your dad still paying tuition?

Molly's thumbs flew across the screen. David felt the smile spread across her face—that smile. The one that said she knew something he didn't.

Molly: Oh yeah. He has NO idea I dropped out. Still depositing tuition money every month like a total dope 🤡

Molly: Best part? I'm using his "tuition" money to pay for my new tits lmaooo

Tiff 💋: OMFG NO 😂😂😂

Tiff 💋: Wait so when he finally finds out...

Molly: I'm gonna tell him HE paid for my boob job 😇

Molly: Every time he looks at my new DDs he'll know his little girl's tits are thanks to daddy's tuition money 💕

Tiff 💋: YOU'RE SO EVIL I LOVE IT

Molly: He's such a fool. He literally thinks I'm studying business right now 🤦‍♀️

Tiff 💋: You ARE studying business babe. The business of being a hot slut with perfect tits 😘😘

Molly: 💋💯

David felt the warmth in her chest. The satisfaction. The absolute certainty that she was smarter than him. Better than him. That he was a mark, a source of income, a dope to be played.

His daughter. His little girl. Planning to use his money—money he'd scraped together, money he'd worried about, money he thought was securing her future—to buy herself bigger tits for her porn career.

And she was going to tell him. Eventually. When she was ready. When it would hurt the most.

---

The apartment was dark except for the soft glow of ring lights. Molly had set them up with the practised efficiency of someone who did this every single day.

She was naked. Freshly showered again—she'd wanted to be perfect for this. Her skin was smooth and glowing. Her new nails caught the light as she arranged herself on the bed.

The camera on the tripod was rolling. Her phone was propped on the nightstand for a second angle.

And on the bed with her—

A magic wand. The heavy-duty kind with the big head and the powerful motor.

And a string of anal beads. Pink. Graduated. Starting small and ending with beads the size of golf balls.

(This is—she can't—)

But she could. And she did.

Molly started slow. Teasing the camera. Running those obscene stiletto nails over her body—over her perfect C-cups (soon to be DDs, David reminded himself with horror), over her flat stomach, over her smooth, waxed pussy.

She spread her legs wide. The camera caught everything. Every fold. Every glisten. She was already wet—always wet, David realised, this girl was always ready—and her fingers dipped inside herself with a moan that was half performance, half genuine need.

Then the anal beads.

She reached behind herself. Pressed the first bead against her asshole—and David felt it. The tight ring of muscle resisting, then yielding, then swallowing the bead with a pop that sent a jolt of pleasure straight to her pussy.

(Oh God—)

The second bead. Bigger. More pressure. More stretch.

The third. And the fourth. Each one thicker than the last, filling her ass in a way that David had never—would never—experience in his own body. But in Molly's body, in this pornographic body built for pleasure, it felt—

It felt good.

It felt like another piece of the puzzle. Another way to be filled. Another hole to offer up to the camera, to the subscribers, to the world.

"Mmmmmh..." Molly's voice was pure sex. "You like that? You like watching me fill my ass?"

She wasn't talking to David. She was talking to the camera. To forty-seven thousand strangers who would pay to see this. To touch themselves to this.

The magic wand came next. She pressed it against her clit and—

Oh.

OH.

The vibration hit like a freight train. David had never felt anything like it. Never imagined anything like it. Her clit was sensitive—pornographically sensitive—and the wand sent waves of pleasure cascading through her entire body.

Molly started to shake. Her back arched. Those long nails dug into the sheets. The anal beads shifted inside her with every movement, pressing against the thin wall between her ass and her pussy, adding another dimension of fullness that made her eyes roll back.

"I'm gonna—fuck—I'm gonna—"

She came. Hard. Her whole body seizing. Her pussy clenching around nothing, her ass clenching around those beads, her clit throbbing against the wand as wave after wave of pleasure crashed through her.

And then—because she was a professional, because she was good at this—she kept going. Another orgasm. And another. Each one building on the last until she was a shaking, moaning, sobbing mess on the sheets.

When she finally stopped, she was dripping. Sweat. Cum. The sheets beneath her were soaked.

She looked at the camera. Winked. Reached back and slowly—slowly—pulled the anal beads out, one by one, groaning at each pop.

"Goodnight, boys."

She reached for the camera. The screen went black.

---

And now... back to our studio!

Evie was waiting. Legs crossed. Smirk firmly in place. She'd watched the whole thing, of course—the feed piped directly to her private monitor. She'd seen David's face inside Molly's body. Seen the facial. The shower dildo ride. The shopping. The nails. The anal beads. The orgasms. All the orgasms.

Delicious.

"So, David." She leaned forward. "You've lived as Molly for twenty-four hours. You've experienced... everything." The word dripped with innuendo. "The sex. The facial. The taste of another man's cum on your daughter's tongue. The shower dildo ride. The shopping spree that cost more than you earn in a week. Those lovely new nails."

She held up her own hand, displaying a perfect French manicure. "The waxing. The anal beads. The magic wand. The—what was it?—three? four? orgasms before bed?"

David flinched at each item. Each reminder. Each sensation he could still feel if he thought about it too hard.

"You also learned that your daughter has been playing you for a fool. That she dropped out of college months ago. That she's been taking your tuition money—" Evie paused, let the words hang, "—to pay for breast implants. DDs, if I recall correctly. And she plans to tell you. Eventually. That you paid for her new tits."

Silence.

"How does that feel, David? To know your little girl used your money—money you earned selling insurance—to make herself more fuckable for forty-seven thousand strangers?"

David Patterson—back in his own body, his own chair, his own receding hairline—looked at the camera.

His daughter was a whore.

His daughter was rich.

His daughter had played him for a fool.

And she was going to rub it in his face. Eventually. When she was ready.

"I..." He swallowed. "I should be angry."

"Should you?" Evie raised a perfectly sculpted eyebrow. "Are you?"

David thought about his cubicle. His commute. His gut hanging over his belt. His bank account that had never seen six figures. The tuition payments he'd worried about, stressed over, worked overtime to afford.

He thought about Molly—his little girl—riding a dildo in the shower, shopping for clothes she'd fuck on camera, getting nails designed to look pretty wrapped around a cock, waxing her pussy smooth for strangers, cumming on anal beads and a magic wand like it was just another Tuesday night.

He thought about the taste of cum on her tongue. The satisfaction in her smile. The pride.

He thought about her new tits. DDs. Paid for by him. Every time he looked at her, he'd know.

"I'm actually kind of proud," he whispered.

Evie's smile widened. There it is. "Proud. That's... fascinating. Your daughter dropped out of college. She's selling her body online. She lied to you for months. She stole your money to buy bigger tits for her porn career. She's a total whore—and she loves it. And you're proud?"

"She's... she's successful. She's independent. She's—"

"Rich?" Evie offered. "Covered in cum? Cumming on anal beads for strangers? Laughing at you with her friends?"

David didn't deny it.

"Let me ask you something, David." Evie uncrossed her legs, leaned in close. "When she rode that dildo in the shower—when she came on those anal beads—when she felt that magic wand on her clit—did you feel it?"

Silence.

"Did you enjoy it, David? Inside your daughter's body? Being her?"

The camera zoomed in on his face. The shame. The confusion. The undeniable truth written across his features.

"I... yes."

Mmmmh. Evie practically purred. "And were they the best orgasms of your life?"

He didn't answer. He didn't need to.

---

The studio audience applauded. The credits began to roll. But Evie wasn't done.

She leaned into the camera, that wicked smile playing on her lips.

"Now, I know what you're thinking. 'Evie, how do you top that?' Well..." She crossed her legs. "Next week, we have a very special episode. Karen Whitfield. Forty-seven. Devout Christian. Sunday school teacher. Choir director at Grace Community Church."

A photo appeared on screen. A severe-looking woman with helmet hair and a pearl necklace. The kind of woman who clutched her purse tighter when she saw a black man walking toward her.

"Karen is convinced her eighteen-year-old daughter, Chloe, is a good, pure, God-fearing virgin. She's never had a boyfriend. She's home by curfew. She's perfect."

Evie's smile widened.

"But when Karen jumps into Chloe's body for twenty-four hours... she's going to discover that her precious little angel has a very specific type."

The screen cut to a preview. A blonde head bobbing. Dark skin. Muscular thighs. A very large—

"Very specific."

Evie winked.

"Karen Whitfield is about to learn what her daughter's been doing every night she thinks Chloe is at Bible study. And trust me—" Evie leaned in close to the camera, her voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper, "—she's going to feel every inch of it."