The next morning came too fast. Stiles barely slept, her mind spinning with filthy dreams of cameras, strangers’ hands, and thick cocks stretching her. When Jackson woke her with soft kisses down her neck, whispering, “Today’s the day, baby—we’re gonna get rich,” she felt a dizzying mix of terror and secret excitement. Her pussy was already slick before she even got out of bed.

They arrived at the agency just after noon. The building was in a rundown part of the city—a nondescript office block with tinted windows and a discreet sign that read “Starlight Adult Entertainment.” Inside, the lobby smelled faintly of cigarette smoke and cheap cologne. A bored receptionist buzzed them through to a small waiting room with faded posters of busty women on the walls.

Stiles’s outfit was pure sin, chosen by Jackson that morning. A tiny black pleated skirt that barely skimmed the curve of her ass cheeks—if she bent even slightly, everything would show. A white crop top with a plunging neckline, so tight her massive breasts looked ready to burst free, the thin fabric doing nothing to hide her stiff pink nipples. No bra, of course. Just a microscopic black thong underneath, already damp from her nerves. Sheer thigh-high stockings and sky-high heels completed the look, making her thick thighs and juicy ass pop with every shy step. She kept tugging at the hem of her skirt, cheeks burning as she felt eyes on her.

Mr. Argent, the producer, greeted them in his cluttered office. He was a burly man in his late forties—thick neck, hairy forearms, a gold chain glinting against an open shirt collar. His dark eyes raked over Stiles the second she walked in, lingering on her deep cleavage, then dropping to her barely covered ass. A slow, hungry smile spread across his face.

“Damn,” he muttered, not even trying to hide it. “You must be Stiles. Jackson said you were something special, but fuck… you’re a walking wet dream.”

Stiles blushed crimson, staring at the floor, fingers twisting the hem of her skirt. “Th-thank you, sir,” she whispered, voice tiny.

Jackson sat beside her, practically vibrating with greed. “Told you, Mr. Argent. She’s perfect. Innocent face, body built for p*rn.”

Mr. Argent leaned back in his chair, eyes never leaving Stiles. “Let’s see if she’s got what it takes. Tell me about yourself, sweetheart. Describe that body for me. Be specific.”

Stiles’s breath hitched. She glanced at Jackson, who nodded eagerly. Swallowing hard, she started in a shy, trembling voice, “I’m… twenty-five. I have… really big boobs. They’re heavy and… soft. My nipples are pink and sensitive.” Her hands hovered near her chest as if wanting to cover herself, but she forced them down. “My waist is small, but my hips are wide… and I have a big, round ass. It jiggles a lot when I walk.” She paused, face on fire. “And… down there… I have a pink, fat pussy. Completely shaved. It’s… always kind of puffy.”

Mr. Argent groaned softly, adjusting himself under the desk. “Jesus Christ. Stand up, baby. Give me a little strip-tease. Show me what you just described.”

Stiles’s eyes widened. “R-right now?”

“Now,” he said firmly, leaning forward. “Slow. Make it sexy.”

Jackson squeezed her hand. “You got this, babe. Just like we practiced.”

Trembling, Stiles stood. Music wasn’t playing, but she swayed awkwardly at first, then found a rhythm. She turned her back to them, bending slightly so her tiny skirt rode up, flashing the bottom curves of her creamy ass and the thin thong string disappearing between her cheeks. Slowly, she peeled the crop top up and off, her enormous breasts bouncing free—heavy, perfect teardrops with pale pink areolas and stiff nipples begging to be sucked. She cupped them shyly, lifting and squeezing, a soft whimper escaping her plump lips.

Then the skirt. She unzipped it with shaking fingers, letting it drop to the floor. Now she stood in just the thong, stockings, and heels—porcelain skin glowing under the harsh office light, every curve on display. Mr. Argent’s gaze was pure lust, his hand openly palming the bulge in his pants.

“Turn around slow,” he ordered, voice thick. “Let me see everything.”

Stiles obeyed, twirling naked except for the thong. Her massive tits swayed, ass jiggling softly. When she faced them again, Mr. Argent nodded. “Thong too, sweetheart. Show me that pretty pink pussy.”

With a tiny sob of embarrassment, she hooked her thumbs in the strings and slid the thong down, stepping out of it. Her fat, hairless pussy came into view—lips puffy and glistening, already wet from the humiliation and attention. A thin string of arousal clung to the fabric as it dropped.

“Fuck me,” Mr. Argent breathed. “Play with those assets, baby. Touch yourself like you do at home.”

Stiles’s hands moved hesitantly—one cupping a heavy breast, thumb circling her nipple until she gasped. The other slid down her flat tummy, fingers parting her slick folds. She rubbed her clit slowly, thighs trembling, a shy moan slipping out as her pussy leaked onto her fingers.

“Perfect,” Mr. Argent growled. “You’re hired already, but we need a chemistry test. Come with me.”

He led the still-naked Stiles down a short hallway to a small casting room—bright lights, a large bed with white sheets, cameras on tripods. Jackson followed, eyes gleaming with pride and arousal.

“Wait here,” Mr. Argent said, then disappeared briefly. Moments later, the door opened again.

Derek stepped in—completely naked, confident, smirking. He was gorgeous: mid-twenties, tall and ripped, broad shoulders tapering to a chiseled V-line. Dark hair tousled, sharp jaw, full lips curved in a cocky grin. And between his muscular thighs swung a thick, heavy cock—half-hard already, easily nine inches even soft, with a fat head and heavy balls.

His eyes locked on Stiles and widened, that smirk deepening. “Holy shit. You’re even hotter than the pics Jackson sent.” He strode closer, cock swinging with each step. “I’m Derek. Looks like I get to break you in today, beautiful.”

Stiles’s entire body flushed scarlet. She instinctively crossed an arm over her huge breasts and cupped her pussy with the other hand, but her eyes dropped straight to his dick. It was already thickening, rising as he stared at her naked curves. Her pussy throbbed, fresh slickness coating her thighs.

Mr. Argent cleared his throat. “Chemistry test. Start simple—kiss her, Derek. Make it real. Stiles, stroke his cock. Show me you can handle a big one.”

Derek didn’t wait. He closed the distance in two strides, towering over her. One strong hand cupped her flushed cheek, the other slid down to grip her fat ass cheek hard, fingers digging into the soft flesh. “Don’t be shy, baby,” he murmured, voice low and filthy. “I’ve been hard since I saw your tits in the hallway.”

He pulled her into a deep, hungry kiss—tongue invading her mouth immediately, tasting her sweet pink lips. Stiles whimpered into it, body melting despite herself, her small hands uncrossing to clutch his broad shoulders. His cock pressed against her tummy, hot and heavy, growing fully erect now—massive, veiny, easily ten inches and thick as her wrist.

Derek broke the kiss, grinning down at her. “Fuck, you taste sweet. Now get those little hands on my dick, princess.”

Blushing furiously, Stiles reached down, her tiny fingers wrapping around his shaft—or trying to. She could barely close her hand around the girth. It throbbed in her grip, hot velvet over steel. Slowly, shyly, she started stroking—up and down the long length, twisting gently at the head like Jackson had taught her.

Derek groaned, head tipping back. “Goddamn, that’s good. Look at you—shy little thing with hands made for jerking cock.” He squeezed her ass harder, pulling her closer so her massive tits mashed against his chest. “Pump it faster, baby. Make me cum all over those perfect tits.”

Stiles’s strokes sped up, both small hands working his monster cock now—pumping firmly, thumb rubbing the sensitive underside, occasionally swirling over the leaking tip. Wet sounds filled the room as precum oozed from his slit, coating her fingers. She bit her plump lip, eyes wide and glassy with arousal, her pussy dripping down her thighs.

“That’s it,” Derek growled, hips thrusting lightly into her grip. “You’re a natural, aren’t you? Bet this fat pussy’s soaking thinking about this dick inside you.” He leaned down, sucking one of her stiff nipples into his mouth, biting gently until she cried out.

The combination—his dirty words, his mouth on her tit, her hands flying over his throbbing cock—pushed him over fast. “Fuck—gonna cum—” he grunted.

Stiles didn’t let go. She stroked harder, faster, aiming him at her chest. With a deep, animal groan, Derek erupted—thick ropes of hot cum shooting across her massive breasts, painting her pink nipples and cleavage white. Some splashed up to her neck, even a little on her flushed cheek. He came hard, pulse after pulse, until her tits were glazed and dripping.

Panting, Derek stepped back, admiring his work. “Jesus. Best handjob I’ve had in months.”