A creeping sensation of being hunted settled deep into my bones. Even within the walls of my own home, my privacy felt utterly violated, a persistent thrill that, secretly, I craved. When the first letters arrived, my husband dismissed them as a sick joke. But this stranger knew everything—our daily routines, my habit of lounging braless, letting my heavy tits swing free, even the specific lace of the lingerie I wear.
The true violation, the proof he was always watching, was in the explicit details. He documented my husband’s obsession with eating my daughter’s sweet pussy and chronicled every single time I’ve tempted my stepson to the edge, draining his cock with my experienced mouth. These weren’t just letters; they were chapters from our own personal XXX Files, a pornographic dossier compiled by a ghost.
The final ultimatum was clear: he wouldn’t stop until we moved out. But we were prisoners to our own depraved lust, too addicted to the taboo fucking to ever stop. If our unseen voyeur was going to watch us, we decided to give him a fucking show he’d never forget. All four of us, putting on the performance of a lifetime, just for him.
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