The fireplace crackled, casting flickering golden light over the three of them. Jackson was half-slumped against the arm of the couch now, cheeks flushed deep red, eyes glassy from the high-proof wine Derek kept pouring. He was still conscious, still loud and cocky, but the alcohol had stripped away whatever little filter he had left.

It was Jackson’s turn to dare. He grinned sloppily, arm draped heavily over Stiles’s shoulders, fingers lazily tracing the plunging neckline of her red dress. “Alright… Stiles, baby,” he slurred, voice thick. “Give Derek a little holiday flash. Just your tits. Show him what he’s missing out on. Come on, you’re my slutty girl, right?”

Stiles’s heart slammed against her ribs. Her pink lips parted in protest. “Baby… no, that’s too much—”

Jackson laughed, cutting her off, squeezing her shoulder hard. “Don’t be shy now. You love showing these off for me. Just a quick flash. Do it for the holidays.” His tone was cocky, demanding, the same one he used when he made her bend over in public or spread her legs for his phone camera.

Stiles’s cheeks burned crimson. She glanced at Derek—big mistake. He was watching her intently, dark eyes hooded, jaw tight, like a predator waiting for permission. She hated how that look made her stomach flip. With trembling fingers, she reached for the already-low neckline of her dress and tugged it down.

Her massive, perfect tits spilled out into the warm air—full, round, and heavy, pale skin glowing in the firelight. Her pink nipples were already stiff from the cool room and the humiliation, sitting high and proud on those fat mounds. They bounced slightly as they settled, jiggling like they were made for worship.

Derek let out a low, involuntary groan, the sound rumbling deep in his chest. “Fuck…”

Jackson grinned wider, proud as hell. “See? Told you they’re fucking incredible. Best tits in the city, bro. So soft, so bouncy. Go ahead, stare—she loves the attention.”

Stiles couldn’t take it. She yanked the dress back up fast, covering her breasts, arms crossing protectively over her chest. Her face was on fire, but worse—she felt that shameful pulse between her bare thighs, her fat pussy lips swelling, getting slick against nothing. She pressed her legs together, praying no one noticed.

Jackson took another sloppy sip of wine, sinking deeper into the cushions, eyelids drooping. “Your turn, Derek…”

Derek’s voice was rough, controlled, but laced with hunger. “Stiles… I dare you to dance for us. A proper holiday dance.”

Jackson barked out a drunken laugh. “Yes! Give us a slutty one, baby. Like you do for me in the bedroom. Play with those big tits, shake that fat ass. Make it good.”

Stiles wanted to disappear into the floor. But Jackson’s expectant stare—and the way he always got what he wanted—made her stand on shaky legs. The dress was so short it barely covered her ass now that she was moving. Soft music still played low in the background, something slow and sensual. She started swaying her hips, awkward at first, arms stiff at her sides.

“Lose the shyness,” Jackson slurred. “Grab your tits. Jiggle ‘em.”

Face flaming, Stiles reached up and cupped her huge breasts through the thin red fabric, squeezing them together, making them bounce as she rolled her hips. She turned slowly, bending forward a little, arching her back so her ass pushed out—thick, round cheeks straining the hem of the dress. She gave it a little shake, the flesh rippling obscenely.

Derek’s cock was rock-hard in his jeans, throbbing painfully as he watched. When Stiles spun again, facing away, the dress rode up just enough—flashing the bottom curve of her bare ass and, for a split second, the puffy pink lips of her hairless pussy peeking between her thighs. She didn’t even realize she’d flashed her cunt, but Derek saw everything. His breath hitched, hands gripping his thighs to keep from grabbing her right then.

“Good girl,” Jackson mumbled, head lolling. “Keep going…”

The next few rounds blurred—silly dares like Stiles feeding Jackson cake from her fingers, Jackson trying (and failing) to do a push-up and collapsing in laughter. But the alcohol was winning. Jackson’s words were barely coherent now, eyes half-closed.

Then it was Derek’s turn again. He looked straight at Stiles. “Truth or dare?”

She swallowed, voice small. “Truth…”

Derek leaned forward, elbows on his knees, voice low and dangerous. “When’s the last time you came thinking about someone other than Jackson?”

The room went dead silent except for the crackle of the fire.

Stiles’s eyes widened. Her mouth opened, closed. She couldn’t answer—not honestly. Not with Jackson right there, even drunk. And definitely not with the way Derek was staring, like he already knew.

“I… I can’t…” she whispered.

Derek’s lips curved into a dark smirk. “Then punishment. Ten slaps on that pretty ass.”

Jackson waved a lazy hand from the couch, barely awake. “Yeah, yeah… spank my girl… she likes it…”

Stiles’s heart raced. She stood slowly, walking over to Derek on trembling legs, standing in front of him like a sacrifice. She expected him to make her bend over the coffee table.

Instead, Derek grabbed her wrist gently but firmly and pulled her down across his lap, face-down, ass up. Stiles gasped as she landed, her huge tits pressing into the couch beside his thigh, dress riding all the way up her hips.

Derek groaned again the moment her bare ass was exposed—plump, fat cheeks, smooth and pale, jiggling from the sudden movement. Her thick thighs parted just enough to show the glistening pink slit of her pussy, already wet and swollen from all the teasing.

“Fuck, Stiles…” he muttered under his breath, too low for Jackson to hear.

His big, tattooed hand came down hard on her right cheek—CRACK. The sound echoed. Stiles yelped, body jerking, ass rippling from the impact.

Another slap—left cheek this time, even harder. CRACK.

Stiles whimpered, fingers clawing at the couch cushion. It stung, but the heat bloomed straight to her clit, making her drip onto his jeans.

Again and again—left, right, left, right—his palm turning her pale skin pink, then red. Each slap made her fat ass bounce, her pussy lips parting slightly with every jolt, showing Derek how soaked she was. By the fifth slap, Stiles was a moaning mess, little cries spilling from her pink lips, hips grinding involuntarily against his thigh.

“Such a perfect fucking ass,” Derek growled quietly, just for her ears. His cock was steel beneath her stomach, throbbing with every squirm she made.

Jackson, barely conscious, clapped sloppily from the couch. “Yeah… spank that slut… she deserves it…”

By the tenth slap, Stiles’s ass was glowing red, handprints overlapping, and she was panting, tears pricking her eyes, pussy throbbing so hard she thought she might cum just from this.

Derek’s hand lingered after the last slap, soothing the burning skin with slow circles… then dipping lower, thumb barely brushing the slick lips of her cunt. Stiles bit her lip to stifle a desperate moan.

Jackson’s head finally dropped back fully, soft snores starting—he was out cold.

Derek and Stiles were suddenly, dangerously alone.

And the night had only just begun.