Perform for Me
Copyright© 2025 by Ashley Camaron
Chapter 27: Vulnerable Voyeurism
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 27: Vulnerable Voyeurism - Teenage hacker Sam spies on his neighbors' most explicit secrets. But when the manipulative Madison catches him, she doesn't want silence—she wants a show. Now, he's the one on camera, forced to obey her explicit commands and act out her most degrading fantasies. It's a twisted game of psychological torture, and if he doesn't perform, she will burn his entire world to the ground.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa NonConsensual Heterosexual Fiction Crime Anal Sex Facial Oral Sex Tit-Fucking Voyeurism
Sam trudged back to his house under the gray dawn light, every step a reminder of the night’s chaos. His ribs throbbed from the cracked bone, and the slap Emily had delivered still burned on his cheek like a brand of deserved shame. But beneath the pain, a fragile spark of hope flickered—the alliance with Emily, her cold rage fueling a plan to dismantle Madison’s empire. For the first time, he wasn’t entirely alone in this nightmare. As he reached his door, he glanced back at Emily’s house. Madison had promised Emily, in that saccharine voice, to “help her heal”—arranging therapy, bolstering security, playing the devoted mother. “We’ll rebuild, sweetie,” she’d said, hugging Emily tight. “Mommy’s here now.” It was all theater, Sam knew—Madison covering her tracks, ensuring Jake’s escape didn’t trace back to her manipulations.
He slipped inside, locking the door behind him, and collapsed onto his bed. Exhaustion clawed at him, but sleep wouldn’t come. His phone buzzed almost immediately—a text from Madison, as inevitable as the tide.
My daughter thinks you’re a hero. Time to start taking advantage of that.
Sam’s stomach twisted. Even now, with police reports filed and Jake on the run, she was scheming. He typed back, fingers hesitant: What do you mean?
Her reply came swift: Oh, spy boy, don’t play dumb. She’s vulnerable, grateful. Perfect time to worm your way in. But not tonight. Tonight, we’ll have to get our fun somewhere else. Pull up the feeds. I have a show in mind.
He hesitated, staring at the screen. The alliance with Emily burned in his mind—this was supposed to be over, or at least winding down. But Madison’s hooks were deep; defiance meant exposure, ruin. With a sigh of resignation, he booted up his computer, the familiar array of hacked feeds flickering to life. His growth showed in the repulsion—he no longer felt the thrill, only dread and a growing resolve to end this. But for now, he complied.
Which one? he texted, buying time.
Elena Vargas. Remember her?
Sam’s pulse quickened. Elena, the passionate woman who’d poured out her loneliness in solitary pleasures. He switched to her feed: her bedroom cam, hidden in a vent during one of Madison’s early directives. The room was dimly lit, candles flickering on the nightstand. Elena, in her mid-30s, with curves that spoke of confidence reclaimed after her divorce, lay on her bed in a silk robe. Her dark hair fanned out, and she was already in the throes—eyes closed, one hand trailing down her body. Oblivious to the digital eyes on her.
But Madison wasn’t done. Another text: Split the screen. Add my feed. Watch us both.
Sam did, his setup allowing a dual view: Elena on one side, Madison’s private cam (hacked into her own bedroom) on the other. Madison appeared, smirking at the camera as if knowing he was watching. She was in her room at Emily’s house, door locked, dressed in a similar silk robe. “Good boy,” she purred via text, then switched to voice notes, her words syncing with the visuals. “Now, enjoy the show. I’ll mimic her every move. Two women, one oblivious, both for your pleasure.”
On the left screen, Elena slipped her robe off, revealing full breasts and toned thighs, her skin glowing in the candlelight. Beads of sweat already dotted her forehead, anticipation building as she reached for a thick dildo from her drawer—veined, imposing, at least eight inches long and girthy enough to challenge. She grabbed a bottle of lube from the nightstand, squirting a generous amount onto her palm. Slowly, sensually, she coated the toy, her fingers gliding up and down its length, making it glisten. Her breaths came deeper, nipples hardening as she pinched them with her free hand, pulling and twisting until they stood erect, flushed pink. Elena’s face was a mask of pure ecstasy—eyes half-lidded, lips parted in a soft moan, lost in her private world.
Madison, on the right, discarded her robe but skipped the lubing—her own dildo (an exact match Sam saw) already in hand, slick from her arousal. She waited, calculating eyes flicking to the camera, a sly smile playing on her lips as she mirrored Elena’s posture. No ecstasy there; her expression was performative, predatory, like a director staging a scene.