Prove it

The sisters do not ease up.

Once Sandra finishes detailing the voice-drop, the belts, the way “Daddy” lands in her gut, Sadie leans so close to the camera her face fills the cracked screen.

“Prove it.”

Maya’s grin is pure trouble.
“Yeah. Demonstration. What do you actually do to him. Live. Right now.”

Lila, quieter, more dangerous:
“Unless it’s all talk.”

It hits Sandra exactly right.

The unfiltered lust that floods her face is so open that all three eyebrows climb. She does not need convincing. She does not even pretend to protest. One second she is cross-legged on the couch with Jeff the Land Shark; the next she is on her feet, eyes bright, already moving.

“Fine.”

She sets the phone on the cupboard by the veranda doors, angling it so the three of them get a side view of the room and the glass. Found-footage framing. A slice of living room, the edge of the door, sunlight cutting across the floor. They watch her pad into frame barefoot, still in nothing but your shirt, the hem barely covering anything when she moves.

She opens the veranda door just a crack.

The summer air slides in. From the sisters’ angle they see her shoulder, the line of her thigh, the way she braces one hand on the frame.

Then the bitter-sweet, drawn-out call, loud enough to carry across the garden:

“Daddddyyy… I’m sooo horny.”

Sadie makes a strangled noise off-mic.

Sandra is not finished.

She stretches one bare leg out through the gap, toes pointed, the shirt riding up so high that from outside it looks like she might be completely nude. A long, deliberate flash of skin. Then she leans further, peeking her head out into the sunlight, searching the garden for you with an expression that is pure invitation and zero shame.

On the phone screen the three sisters are losing their minds in real time—silent open-mouthed laughter, frantic whispering, Sadie mouthing oh my god.

Then Sandra’s whole body jolts.

She yanks the leg back, slams the door most of the way shut, and drops out of the camera’s main view with a heavy thud. A panicked scramble of limbs on the floor. The shirt. Bare knees. The phone only catches the aftermath: her on the tiles, face burning, eyes wide, one hand clamped over her own mouth.

Outside, you are not alone.

You have been documenting the shed—photos of the charcoal corner, the blackened stretch of roof, a measuring tape still in your hand—when a middle-aged woman slows on the path beyond the hedge. Friendly stranger. Neighbour from further down, out for a walk. She notices the damage and stops with genuine concern.

“Everything all right? That looks recent.”

You straighten, wipe your hands on your jeans, and give her the clean version. Fire bowl. Too much spiritus. Summer-dry wood. Nobody hurt. Roof needs looking at. You are mid-sentence, pointing at the damaged corner, when the call carries clear across the lawn.

“Daddddyyy… I’m sooo horny.”

The woman’s eyebrows rise. Then a bare leg slides out of the cracked veranda door, pale in the sun, followed by Sandra’s head, searching, completely unaware.

The woman makes an amused sound behind her hand—half chuckle, half polite attempt not to laugh out loud. Her eyes are kind. She has clearly decided this is young-couple chaos rather than a crisis.

“I think,”
she says, voice warm with restrained laughter,
“you should probably go to her.”

You smile a little helpless.

“Yeah. That would be best.”
You offer a light, embarrassed laugh and a small apologetic gesture.
“Sorry for the disturbance. She’s… having a moment.”

“No disturbance at all. Give her my regards. And get that roof seen to.”

She continues down the path, still clearly amused, and you turn toward the house.

The stern walk is not entirely performance.

You cross the grass, pass the blackened shed, and head for the veranda door with the steady pace of a man whose girlfriend has announced her horniness to the neighbourhood. Inside, the phone on the cupboard is still transmitting. The three sisters have a perfect side-angle on the door as it opens.

You step into the frame.

Sandra is on the floor where she fell, shirt rucked up, face scarlet, looking up at you with a mixture of lust, horror, and the dawning realisation that her friends just watched the entire failed demonstration. From the phone come three overlapping reactions—Sadie cackling, Maya wheezing, Lila’s quiet, delighted “oh she fucked up bad.”