The private studio on the agency’s lower level was already humming when Scott and Stiles arrived—softbox lights glowing, reflectors angled, the faint scent of fresh coffee and heated bulbs in the air.

Derek was there.

Not just overseeing from a distance like a normal CEO. He was right in the middle of it, sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up to his elbows, exposing inked forearms and the thick veins that ran over his muscles. He stood beside the lead photographer, Liam, murmuring low instructions, eyes flicking to the door the second they walked in.

Stiles felt that stare hit her like a hand between her legs.

She’d dressed “conservative” for the drive over—at least by her standards: a tiny white crop top that ended just below her tits, no bra, nipples poking through, paired with a pleated micro skirt that flipped up with every step and knee-high boots. Still slutty as hell, but compared to what was waiting for her, it was practically modest.

“Good morning,” Derek said, voice smooth and dark, crossing the room to greet them. His gaze dragged slowly down Stiles’s body—lingering on the way her heavy breasts strained the thin cotton, the strip of bare midriff, the endless legs. “Right on time.”

Scott bowed slightly, nervous smile in place. “Morning, sir. Thank you again for this.”

Derek barely glanced at him. “Stiles,” he said, softer, offering his hand. She took it, and again that thumb brushed over her skin—deliberate, possessive. “You look beautiful already. But we’re going to make you lethal.”

A pretty assistant in her mid-twenties appeared at Stiles’s elbow—Janet, clipboard in hand, makeup case rolling behind her. “This way, please. Hair, makeup, and wardrobe.”

Stiles glanced back at Scott, biting her lip. He gave her an encouraging nod, eyes shining with pride.

Derek watched her ass sway as she followed Janet behind the partition.

Twenty minutes later, Janet handed Stiles the “outfit.”

Stiles stared at the scraps of fabric in her hands and felt her stomach flip.

The bra was two tiny black lace triangles connected by thin straps—barely enough to cover her areolas, let alone the full swell of her massive breasts. The thong was even worse: a whisper of black string with a minuscule patch in front that would cling to her fat pussy lips like a second skin, the back nothing but a thread disappearing between her thick ass cheeks.

“I… I’ve never worn anything this revealing,” Stiles whispered, cheeks burning. “Not even back then.”

Janet smiled professionally. “Mr. Hale wants raw sex appeal for the test shots. Trust me, you’ll kill it. Everyone out there is professional.”

Stiles swallowed. Her heart hammered. But the contract was signed. And deep down—way deeper than she wanted to admit—the idea of walking out there practically naked, with Derek watching… it made her thighs slick.

She changed.

The bra did nothing to hide her. Her huge tits spilled out the sides and top, nipples barely concealed by the lace edges, stiff and obvious. The thong sat low on her hips, the front triangle soaked already from her arousal, molding to every fold of her plump, hairless pussy. From behind, her round ass was fully exposed, the string vanishing completely.

She looked in the mirror and barely recognized herself—pure, walking sin.

Janet touched up her makeup: smoky eyes, glossy pink lips, hair tousled into bedroom waves. Then she led Stiles out.

The studio went dead silent.

Scott’s jaw dropped. His wife—his sweet, beautiful wife—looked like a high-class porn star. Those perfect tits heaving with every nervous breath, nipples threatening to slip free. That obscene ass jiggling softly as she walked on bare feet toward the white seamless backdrop.

Derek didn’t move. Didn’t breathe for a second. His dark eyes raked over her slowly, possessively, like he was already fucking her in his mind. His cock thickened hard against his thigh, impossible to hide in the fitted slacks.

“Jesus fucking Christ,” he muttered, low enough only Liam heard. Then louder, “Turn around for me, Stiles.”

She did, slow, cheeks flaming.

The sight of her ass—round, creamy, completely bare except for that pathetic string—made Derek’s hands flex at his sides.

Scott finally found his voice. “Sir… isn’t this a bit… much? For a calendar shoot?”

Derek didn’t even look at him. “It’s exactly enough,” he said, voice rough. “Look at her, Scott. Really look. That body was made to be worshipped on camera. Those tits—fuck, they’re obscene. Heavy, perfect handfuls begging to spill out. And that ass… I could bounce a coin off it. And her pussy—” His gaze dropped openly to the tiny damp patch clinging to her folds. “Already soaking through the thong. She’s a walking wet dream.”

Stiles whimpered softly, thighs pressing together. She was drenched. Humiliated. And so turned on she could barely stand.

Scott shifted uncomfortably, face red, but he didn’t push back. He never did with authority. “I… I guess if it’s for the art…”

Derek smirked. “Exactly. Art.”

He stepped closer, circling Stiles like a predator. “We’re starting simple. Hands on your hips. Arch your back. Push that ass out.”

The camera clicked.

Stiles obeyed, trembling. The pose thrust her tits forward, ass back—pure invitation.

“Good girl,” Derek praised, voice filthy. “Now look over your shoulder at me. Bite that pretty lip.”

Click. Click. Click.

“Spread your legs a little. Let the thong pull tighter—yes, like that. Show us how fat and pink that little cunt is.”

Stiles’s breath hitched. She did it, feeling cool air kiss her exposed lips. The fabric was soaked now, outlining every detail.

Scott sat on a stool off to the side, hands in his lap, trying to look supportive. He was proud—God, she was stunning—but the restlessness gnawed at him. The way Derek spoke to her, looked at her… it wasn’t professional. But what could he say? This was his boss. This was the opportunity of a lifetime for Stiles.

“On your knees now,” Derek directed. “Ass toward the camera. Look back at us.”

Stiles dropped slowly, knees on the soft padding, back arched deep, tits hanging heavy in the useless bra, nipples finally slipping free with the movement. She didn’t fix them.

Derek groaned audibly. “Perfect. Stay just like that.”

The camera fired rapidly.

Stiles’s pussy throbbed. Every click felt like a touch. Every filthy murmur from Derek—“Such a greedy little body… made to be fucked senseless…”—sent another rush of wetness down her thighs.

She was lost in it. Pose after pose: on her back with legs spread, thong pulled aside just enough to tease bare lips; crawling toward the lens, tits swaying; hands cupping her breasts, pinching her own nipples when Derek told her to “make them harder for the shot.”

Scott watched it all, proud smile strained, cock half-hard in his pants despite the unease twisting his gut.

Derek never took his eyes off her.

By the end of the session, Stiles was shaking—flushed, dripping, nipples swollen, pussy aching to be filled.

Derek stepped forward as she stood on wobbly legs.

“You were incredible,” he said low, for her ears only. His knuckles brushed the underside of one breast, “We’re just getting started.”

Stiles looked up at him, lips parted, eyes glazed with need.

Behind them, Scott clapped proudly. “You were amazing, baby!”

But Stiles barely heard him.

All she could feel was Derek’s stare promising so much more.

The shoot just started.

And the real corruption had only just begun.