12 Cams, 3 Teens 2 Milfs & 1 Wife

CH 01 CAMERAMAN

The transition from the woodworking shop to the new house wasn't just about moving furniture; it was about relocating a legacy of surveillance. The shop had been my sanctuary, a place where the scent of sawdust and linseed oil met the cold, calculated hum of security.

"What should we do with these cameras?" the technician asked, his voice echoing in the now-cavernous workspace.

"I'm gonna sell them. I don't need them anymore," I replied, though the thought of parting with the equipment felt like stripping the armor off the business I'd built from nothing.

He looked at the array of lenses and the central hub, a system I'd invested in three years prior when the shop's expansion made it a target. They were high-fidelity units, the kind that didn't just record movement but captured the nuance of a shadow. He grimaced, shaking his head. "There's no market for used security cameras. I hate to throw them out. They're good quality, sound, night vision, battery backup. How's your camera system at home?"

"I don't have any," I admitted. "I'm moving into a new place this weekend."

A puzzled expression crossed his face, a mix of professional concern and disbelief. "Now that you're a celebrity, you should. I can set them up in a few hours. Fifteen bills to get all twelve working. I could start tonight, and finish tomorrow."

I felt the familiar tug of hesitation. "My wife doesn't want them. She says they make her feel like she's in prison."

He leaned in, his voice dropping to a conspiratorial whisper. "So don't tell her. I can hide everything. This way, you're the only one who knows."

As he spoke, my mind didn't go to security or thieves. It went to Claire. I had watched her transform from a sweet kid into a woman who commanded attention without even trying. Her years of competitive dance had sculpted a lithe, athletic body, long, lean legs with the powerful definition of a sprinter and calves that peaked perfectly when she walked. Her frame was petite, yet her breasts were perfectly proportioned, a testament to the "good genes" that ran in her family.

Then there was Jane, Claire's mother. She was the quintessential MILF, standing a bit taller than her daughter but sharing that same captivating silhouette. Jane's body was a bit fuller, anchored by a juicy, rounded ass and legs that seemed to go on forever.

She had a penchant for retro and vintage dresses; she looked like a pin-up girl stepped out of a 1940s advertisement, demure until you noticed how the fabric clung to every curve.

I remembered the Pimp and Hos party last year. Jane had arrived in a vintage-style corset dress that pushed her breasts up to her chin, while Claire had opted for a more modern, daring take on the theme. The tension in the room whenever they moved was palpable.

They were both fitness junkies, constantly posting photos from their 5Ks and marathons. But my favorite was the 'Lacey Racey' charity run for the Children's Heart Foundation. In that race, lingerie was the uniform. Last year, Claire had run in a blue bikini so minimal it defied physics; the top was a mere vertical stripe that barely masked her nipples, and the bottom was a thin strap that sat precariously between her hips.

Jane, ever the classic, wore red lace panties that offered a glimpse of her neatly trimmed bush, with red heart-shaped stickers positioned over her nipples.

I had saved those photos. They were the silent partners in my late-night fantasies when Rikki was too exhausted or away on business. They were, quite frankly, a major reason I chose this specific house. I knew they would use the pool. Claire practically lived with us anyway, sharing a bed with my daughter Lizzy, and Jane had her own dedicated guest room.

Jane had been our rock when Rikki and I were grinding through 100-hour work weeks. She was our nanny, cook, and shopper, a permanent fixture in our lives. Now that we were successful, the help wasn't a necessity, but the proximity was.

The thought of those two, and their friends, shedding their clothes in my pool house was the final push. "That's a good idea," I said, my voice betraying a hint of the anticipation blooming in my chest. I scribbled the address. "I'll be there at six for a delivery."

The technician was a man of his word. When I pulled into the driveway of the new property, his van was already idling. The air was cool, smelling of damp earth and the promise of a fresh start. As I showed him the strategic points around the house and the pool area, I could already see the angles in my mind.

We worked through the night, fueled by XL pizzas and a six-pack of beer. The second night was more of the same, Chinese takeout and soda while he finalized the cloud sync. By the time he was done, the house was a digital fortress. He taught me the interface: how to pan, tilt, and zoom with a swipe of a finger, and how to archive footage to a secure, encrypted cloud that only I could access.

Once he left, I was alone in the silent, half-furnished house. I sat in the utility room, the glow of the tablet the only light. I tested the interior cameras first, everything was crisp. Then, I turned my attention outside.

The camera near the tree line caught a flicker. I zoomed in, cutting through the copse of trees that separated my land from the neighbor's. I saw a wood deck and large glass sliders. Inside, a massive TV was playing a scene featuring Penelope Kay.

The quality was so high I could see the distinct shape of her nipples on the screen within my screen.

Then, a real woman walked into the neighbor's room, completely nude. Her breasts had the slight, natural sag of experience. I watched, my breath catching, as she knelt before a man. My hand moved to my lap as another woman, younger, stumbling slightly, joined her.

As they began a dual assault on the man, I realized why the younger one had stumbled: her arms were cinched tightly behind her back. The sight of her bound and vulnerable, servicing the man while the older woman looked on, sent me over the edge.

My phone shrieked. I jumped, my head cracking against the low ceiling.

"Hey stud, are you coming home?" Rikki's voice was like a bucket of ice water.

I stared at the screen as the man finished, his release coating the faces of the two women. "I'll... I'll be home in an hour," I choked out, hanging up before I could lose my nerve.

I cleaned myself up, locked the new house, and drove home with my heart hammering against my ribs. I tried to initiate something with Rikki the moment I walked in, but the "Red Baron" wasn't having it. She was annoyed I'd hung up on her, and she shut me down with a coldness that made the silent, watching eyes of my new house seem warm by comparison.

CH 02 BIG WOOD

The morning commute was a nostalgic crawl past Bert Lehr High. I couldn't help but offer a silent "GO LIONS!" as the brick facade slid by.

My mind drifted to the old neighborhood legends, specifically Miguel, the one-time "El Chapo of Erin Falls." It was a hell of a transformation; after nearly getting busted, he'd pulled a complete 180, trading the underworld for an agriculture degree. Now, he was a legit farmer, running the biggest operation in the county.

I'd taken a different path, following my old man's boot prints straight into the Navy. It was during those years at sea that the seeds of Creative Woodworks were planted. I'd rented a small self-storage locker and crammed it with tools, carving out a makeshift woodworking shop in the dark.

It started with a few pieces for fellow sailors, but the Navy is a small world. Word traveled through the fleet faster than a radar sweep. Soon, I was taking commissions for shipboard furniture and custom cabinets for commands across the base. By the time I hit land, I'd nearly doubled my Navy pay just by selling to squids and jarheads.

Reopening my dad's old shop was the only thing that felt right. I brought on Orville, my dad's former right-hand man, and Craig, a "suit" who'd finally choked on the corporate grind. We spent our early days in a haze of sawdust and sweat, selling toys, games, and handcrafted furniture at regional craft shows.

The turning point was a memorial bench I'd built, free of charge, for a family grieving their child. That one act of kindness put us on the map. Within a year, we'd outgrown the backyard shed, moving into a sprawling commercial space with seven full-time woodworkers and two salesmen. We specialized in the rugged stuff, outdoor furniture and novelty items, but we never turned away a unique request.

For the curious: yes, we are kink friendly. I've turned out more than one custom Woody for the ladies and a surprising amount of gear for the gentlemen. I actually had to dedicate a specific corner of the shop just to handle the volume of impact toys we were shipping.

Then came the client who changed everything. She'd ordered a massive built-in entertainment unit, and she was so floored by the quality she dropped ten grand on yard furniture next.

As it turned out, she was a production company bigshot. She pitched me to HGTV, and suddenly, I was the star of a greenlighted reality show. I spent months in a suit-and-tie purgatory, haggling with lawyers and TV cretins who promised I'd be bigger than Rick Harrison. The silver lining? They footed the bill for the massive overflow storage shed and paint room I'd been dreaming of.

Of course, there was a catch. They needed my old storage space for their production gear, so the new shed had to be a behemoth, my sole hub for lumber and raw materials. It was almost a wrap; the final electrical and plumbing inspections were scheduled for today. If we cleared those, we could move in by the weekend.

The shop was a symphony of industrial noise when I walked in. Craig, now my production supervisor, had the place humming. He was a master of logistics, the kind of guy who could navigate a total SNAFU without breaking a sweat.

His hyper-organization allowed me to step back and hunt for the big-picture contracts. He gave me a sharp wave as I grabbed my morning joe and retreated to the office.

The sales team was leaving today, and the replacement hunt was a nightmare. My inbox was a graveyard of bad resumes. If you're applying for a woodworking job and you spell it "w-o-u-l-d" five times on a CV, you're not getting a call.

Out of twenty-seven applicants, only one had the spark: a young woman, Ms. Lisdiller.

"Hello?" a voice answered on the third ring.

"This is Creative Woodworks calling for Ms. Lisdiller. Is she available?"

"Speaking."

"My name is Mr. Houlihan. I'm the owner." We talked for several minutes, the conversation flowing easily. She didn't just know sales; she knew the grain. Her confidence was palpable. I checked my calendar. "Let's schedule a formal interview for the eighteenth at ten in the morning. Does that work for you?"

"That works," she said, her tone professional yet relaxed.

"Do you have any questions?"

"I do, but I'm sure you'll answer them at the interview."

I hung up feeling a rare sense of relief. But the shop didn't stay quiet for long. A CNC machine breakdown from the week prior had left us fifty-four man-hours in the hole. Craig had already left a mountain of furniture parts on my workbench.

I spent the morning in the zone, the smell of sawdust and the weight of the tools grounding me. I wolfed down a meatball parm sub and a sweet tea at lunch, finishing the order just as my laptop chimed for the web meeting. I braced myself. If he calls me 'Bubala' one more time, I'm going to lose it.

His smarmy, high-def face appeared on the screen. "Bubala, good to see you again! So, we officially have a title: Big Wood. It tested well with the focus groups."

I winced. "Big Wood." Revolutionary.

"Thursdays at nine," he rattled off, ignoring my expression. "Reruns Saturday. How's the shop?"

"Cameras are up," I said, thinking of the high-res voyeurism from the night before. "The shed's being inspected today. I move stock this weekend."

"Good! Now, about the test footage... the viewers liked the diversity. Six of thirteen cast members are PoC..."

"Five of eleven," I corrected, my voice tight. "Two resigned. I'm looking for replacements."

His eyes lit up with a predatory gleam. "Perfect! We need feminine presenting cast members. Four-ish. Use she/her pronouns."

I buried my face in my hands. The migraine arrived right on schedule. He started pitching "girl-next-door" types, Rory Gilmore, Pam Beesly. "Cute, but not super hot," he said, as if he were selecting a finish for a coffee table.

"I have two part-time spots," I growled. "I need woodworkers, not a casting call. My crew looks like Duck Dynasty, not Tool Time. Real female woodworkers don't look like bimbos."

"I thought you'd say that, Bubala. Accounting will call you. We'll move you to a commission structure. You can hire more people and stay on budget."

I felt the walls closing in. "I have final say on hiring. I'm not hiring some air-head just because a producer wants to get his dick wet."

"You're learning, Bubala," he laughed.

I slammed the laptop shut. The reality of the deal was sinking in. I opened the email from accounting and saw the cold, hard data. By lowering the hourly rate and banking on the show's fame to drive sales commissions, I could technically afford a larger team. It was a gamble. I posted the new ads with a heavy heart, the industrial hum of the shop suddenly feeling like a countdown.

CH 03 PRETTY LITTLE SPY-ER

As I drove home, Craig sent me the daily recap. We had a huge web order come in, and we beat our sales goal by fifteen percent. Despite the production staff assisting all those customers, we not only caught up, we were six man-hours ahead of schedule. By the time I got home I was in a much better mood.

When I walked in, I heard Rikki on the phone with the moving company to make sure they would be on time tomorrow morning.

Claire and Lizzy were in Lizzy's room doing whatever teen girls do. They had graduated high school last week, and planned to take a gap year and figure out what they wanted out of life.

I went into the kitchen and started dinner. As I cooked, Rikki finished her phone call. She came up to me, "Smells good," and snaked her arms around me. Her tits pressed against my back, and she kissed the back of my neck.

"As nice as this is, why don't you go take a bath. Dinner will be ready in about half an hour."

She squeezed me, and whispered, "If dinner's any good, dessert's on the menu tonight." When she let go, I swatted her ass. She giggled and sashayed upstairs.

As dinner simmered, I went upstairs and knocked on Lizzy's door. "Is Claire staying for dinner?" I hoped they could hear me over the music.

"I don't know." Lizzy's voice burst through the door, and my eardrums. "What's cooking?"

"No dice. Tell me if she's staying, and you'll find out what we're having at the table."

Before Lizzy answered, the doorbell rang. I grimaced at the girls on the other side of that wall of music, and headed downstairs. I opened the door for Jane. "Hey lady, always a pleasure." I hugged her, and tried to kiss her on the lips.

She pulled back, "No Denny. Not with others here." Then she kissed me, with passion. Once we pulled our lips apart, she walked in and shouted, "Claire, time to go."

"I invited her to stay for dinner, since this is our last night in the house."

"I was going to take her to Pop's."

"Nonsense! Eat with us." I heard the girls come downstairs. "Girls go set the table for five."

"Where the hell did you get those outfits," Jane snapped.

I looked at them, and shook my head. Lizzy wore black, lacey, french cut, bikini panties with a blue bow hiding her pot o' gold. Her top was a button down blue denim shirt, tied at the bottoms of her breasts. She was so exposed, she had to be careful when she moved, or she would spill out of it.

Claire's skirt was long enough to cover her, but her top was a thin, plain white, tee-shirt. It was cut so the bottom of the shirt ran across the lower part of her breasts. It was also cut down the center and tied together like a shoelace.

Claire looked at her mother, "Mom, Megan's annual summer soiree is this weekend. The theme is Bare as you Dare. What do you think?"

"You look more like a couple of 'accountants' promoting your paid site." I said as I fought to keep my eyes in my skull.

Jane nodded in agreement. "Go change, we'll discuss this later." The girls stomped back upstairs. Once they were out of earshot, Jane and I laughed. We made our way to the kitchen, "Red or White?" I held up two wine bottles.

"White." I handed her the bottle and checked dinner. The girls returned dressed in their normal clothes and set the table. Rikki joined us as I served.

We ate.

We talked.

We laughed.

We reminisced.

It was bittersweet.

Once we were finished, Jane cleared the dirty dishes. I asked Rikki, "Was dinner good, honey?"

She laughed. "Wonderful, I could use some dessert tonight."

Jane spoke up, "Some dessert would be perfect."

Rikki and I laughed hard. Everyone else at the table looked at us confused. When I caught my breath, I suggested "Let's all go to Jahn's for a Kitchen Sink Sundae. Jahn's Ice Cream Parlor was one of the few places from my childhood that survived the expansion and gentrification of Erin Falls. I was going to miss living a short drive away.

What is a Kitchen Sink Sundae you ask? It starts with two scoops of every flavor of homemade ice cream Jahn's offers. Vanilla, Chocolate, Strawberry, Coffee, Butter Pecan, Cherry Vanilla, Mint Chip, Pistachio Almond, Cookies & Cream, Vanilla Fudge, Chocolate Chip, and Sherbet.

On top of that, they add fudge and caramel. Then banana, pineapple, and nuts. It's topped with a small mountain of fresh homemade whipped cream. Then for color, there are enough sprinkles to put a mere mortal into a sugar coma. It's topped with at least two cups of cherries. It serves fifteen to twenty. The five of us had never finished one, but we kept trying.

Rikki rode with Jane to discuss the move. The girls rode with me so they wouldn't get roped into any extra work. They sat in the back and giggled about God knows what.

After we devoured almost 3/4 of the sundae, our best effort to date, we all headed home. Lizzy stopped at the door, "Daddy? Why do we have to move? I love this house and the new one is so far away from Claire."

I hugged Lizzy, "Baby, we talked about this. Except for my time in the Navy, I've lived in this house my whole life. Our names and addresses have been online for over a decade. Anyone who can type can find where we live. With the TV show, it's not safe. Any mental case can walk right up to the front door. Our new home is in a gated community, with twenty-four hour security, and our property is fenced, and has other security measures to protect us."

She snuggled against me, "I'll miss our home." I kissed her on the top of her head, and she went to her room.

Once Lizzy left, Rikki kissed me. "I need to change. Make us some nightcaps, and meet me in our bedroom."

I flicked my tongue against her lips and cupped her ass cheeks. "I can't wait babe." I let her go and she strutted upstairs which made her body sway enticingly.

I made myself a Manhattan and a screwdriver for Rikki. I brought the drinks to our bedroom, and almost stumbled over a settee. A handful of candles scattered about the room gave it a soft warm, romantic glow. Great for setting the mood, bad for safety. The closed bathroom door told me where Rikki had concealed herself. "I'm here."

"Sit on the bed," Rikki instructed. After a few seconds music filled the room. I knew the song as soon as I heard it. It was our song. Not the one from our first dance, the one from our first time.