12 Hours

April O’Neil’s at the office, pouring coffee like it’s the only thing keeping her upright. She tells her employee Alana Cruise to start the pitch. Halfway through, Alana’s screen lights up with dirty shots of her eating another girl out. She slams the laptop shut, mumbles an apology, then sneaks it open again. The next message makes it crystal clear: keep quiet or your husband sees the pictures. Meeting ends and Alana bolts. Later, April gets home to a note on the doorstep—wear this tonight, eyes are already on you. Her phone buzzes next: fuck two women or hubby learns everything. She tries Georgia Jones first; no answer. Cornered, she starts dressing when the doorbell rings. Georgia’s on the porch, mascara running, same damn threat hanging over her head. While they’re still trading theories, Jenna Sativa knocks with a package. Delivery done, she turns to leave, but her phone pings—she’s in on it now, three-way or bust. Inside the box sits a webcam, lens already winking. It takes some coaxing, but Jenna caves; they’ve all got skin in the game. The three tangle hard—tongues, fingers, thighs slapping—while the red light rolls. Phones stay dark when they finish, and for a second they laugh like they beat it. Thing is, someone else might still be watching.