Not good.

"'the FUCK is wrong with you?" she demands. Her voice is sharp, but wavers just a little like she's trying to convince herself to object.

She's going to stand but you put your hand back on her head before she so much as shifts and say, "You owe me a prize. You know the rules."

Incredibly, Zoe stays down and glares at you. "We made those rules when I was, like, six."

"And now you're, what, nineteen? Almost twenty? What's your point? The rules are clear. I get a prize, anything I want. Now do it. I know you secretly get off on this stuff." Your tone is firm, confident.

"Fuck this, I'm not doing this. You can go to h—" she cut off as if realizing what you'd just said. When she speaks again, her voice is much softer, almost timid. "What do you mean?"

"I mean I know you get off on this stuff. And that's not all I know. And if you don't want everyone else to know what I know, you'll obey the rules and do as your told. It's just one picture. Hurry up before I get the bright idea of making a video. Say one more word and maybe I will."

All blood drains from Zoe's face at your tone. You're very self-assured as you stand there and she has every reason to believe you actually have something on her. Her eyes dart to your face, to your phone, and then to the floor. Color returns to her cheeks and your glasses assure you she's extremely aroused, embarrassed, and angry in fairly equal parts.

"Do it. And remember, it has to be just right before I'll actually take the picture, so you need to really sell it. Could take you a few minutes to get it right. What time was Mom coming home, again?"