Mother of The Bride POV

Krissy shoves me down in the chair, camera already in my hands, and says if I look away she’ll stop. I don’t risk it. My wife walks straight to Kyler, fingers the lace hem of her daughter’s slip, and rips it down to her waist. Kyler gasps; that sound jerks straight to my cock. Krissy palms one small breast, squeezes until the nipple hardens between her knuckles, then bends and sucks it loud enough for the mic to catch. She steps sideways, drags Alison closer by the waistband of her panties, and shoves two fingers straight into her. Alison’s knees buckle. Krissy curls those fingers, pumping slow and steady, until slick strings drip down her wrist and onto the carpet. She glances at me. "Zoom in," she says. I do. Kyler turns, finds her mother’s mouth, and they kiss hard—teeth, tongue, breath. Alison drops to her knees without being told, presses her face between Krissy’s thighs, and starts licking. The wet sounds mix with Kyler’s moans as Krissy slides a hand between their daughter’s legs and circles her clit with two knuckles. Kyler’s hips rock into that touch, greedy. Krissy breaks the kiss, smirks at the camera, then pushes Kyler onto the bed on all fours. She spanks her once—sharp crack—before lining up behind her, rubbing the soaked strap-on head along Kyler’s cunt. One thrust and she’s buried. Kyler cries out, face pressed to the sheets. Alison crawls up, straddles Kyler’s shoulders, lowers herself onto her mouth. Kyler licks without hesitation, tongue flashing. Krissy fucks her harder now, palm flat between Kyler’s shoulder blades to pin her while she watches me sweat behind the lens. Every slap of skin is recorded. Every wet suck. Krissy locks eyes with the camera again. "Don’t you dare stop filming, baby," she purrs, driving in deeper. "This is our little family video."