Can't fool those three

You barely are able to steer that horny thing off the main path.

The next dark alley is just a gap between two closed sheds above the cobbles, out of the sisters’ line of sight and only a few steps from where people are still walking. Sandra is already pulling you into it, already shoving the sundress up, already clinging to you like she will go under if she loses contact. The run-in with the three sisters has her shaking—known faces, known voices, the near-miss of being read while she was bare and full of you. The heat of it has nowhere to go except this.

One of her legs hooks high around your hip, then higher, until she is almost in a standing split against the brick, heel digging into you for leverage. She does not ask nicely.

“Harder. Please. Harder—”

You give it to her.

The sundress bunches at her waist. You drive into her in deep, punishing strokes that slap wet against the quiet of the alley, her back hitting the wall with every thrust. Sandra clings with both arms around your neck, face buried against your throat, moaning into your skin like volume is the only thing she cannot afford. She wants it harder anyway. She wants you to fuck the exhibition out of her body somehow, as if enough force will burn off the fact that her university friends just looked at her and knew.

It does not burn off.

Every time you bottom out she clenches and pulls you tighter, like drowning is still on the table. The breeze from the beach still reaches the mouth of the alley. Footsteps still pass on the path a few metres away. She comes apart on the risk as much as on your cock, gasping your name against your neck, begging for more in the same breath.

Her legs give out before you are even off the cobbles.

Sandra does not complain. She just makes a small, wrecked sound when her knees buckle and lets you turn and hoist her onto your back. Her arms lock around your shoulders, cheek against the side of your neck, and the sundress—already doing nothing—rides up the rest of the way. Anyone behind you gets a clear view of her bare ass and used, shiny cunt with every step. She knows it. She keeps looking back over her shoulder, panting into your ear, telling you when to cut down a side street, when to wait for a gap between walkers, when to move. The manoeuvring turns the walk home into a long, stop-start exercise in not being seen and in how much she moans anyway when she almost is.

You get her through her front door, set her down, and steer her toward the bathroom when she sways. She waves you off with a shaky smile. You go to the kitchen for water.

The scream that follows is loud enough to stop your heart.

You are in the bathroom in seconds, expecting blood, tile, a fall.

What you find is Sandra on the floor in the corner, knees drawn up, face buried in both hands. Her phone lies a metre away, screen spiderwebbed from being thrown like it burned her. She does not look hurt. She looks exposed in a way the alley did not manage.

You pick the phone up carefully.

A new group chat. Sadie added her. Maya and Lila are already in it. The first messages are not even pretending.

Links. Photos of skirts. Sundresses. Short ones, thin ones, wrap styles that lift if you breathe wrong. Captions that are not subtle.

better for no panties

this one won’t show a line because there isn’t one

wind-proof my ass, just own it Sandra

tell John we said hi

They knew.

Not in the polite, let-you-off-the-hook way on the path. They knew everything she had been hoping they had only guessed. Bare under the dress. Freshly fucked. Walking around like that on purpose. The three of them have turned it into a shopping list.

Sandra’s voice comes out muffled against her palms, small and mortified.

“They know. They actually know.”