They hauled Stiles toward the festival. Neon lights pulsed against swaying palm trees—drums thumped somewhere deep. Lantern-strung alleys wound past booths selling fire-roasted meats and sticky rice sweets. Stiles stumbled, barefoot in the sand. Her outfit? A crimson thong so flimsy it vanished between her cheeks—and a silver mesh "bra" barely containing her heavy breasts.

Derek gripped her elbow… hard. Peter walked behind—his palm constantly smacking Stiles’s exposed ass cheek. Thwack. The sharp sound echoed. Stiles flinched. People stared—women whispering, men grinning. Scott leaned close— "See them looking? They know what holes you offer." Stiles blushed furiously… but her nipples tightened visibly beneath the mesh.