Stiles glided through the dimly lit penthouse suite like she owned every inch of it—and for the next few hours, she basically did. The black silk dress clung to her like a second skin, the neckline plunging so low it barely contained the heavy swell of her big, soft tits. Every step made them jiggle just enough to draw eyes, the hem riding high on her thick thighs, showing off the curve of her juicy ass that swayed hypnotically. White skin glowing under the low lights, pink lips curved in that signature flirty smirk, she looked like sin wrapped in luxury.

She was 30, and she knew exactly what her body did to men. Rich ones especially. Tonight’s client—a tech billionaire twice her age—had already tipped her enough to cover rent for months before they even touched. He was sprawled on the king bed, tie loosened, eyes hungry.

“Goddamn, Stiles,” he groaned as she straddled his lap, grinding slow and deliberate. “You’re worth every penny.”

She laughed, low and teasing, fingers trailing down his chest. “Baby, I’m worth way more than that. But lucky you—I like generous men.” Her pink lips brushed his ear. “Now tell me how you want it. Slow and sweet? Or should I ride you until you forget your own name?”

He chose the latter. Stiles was good. Really fucking good. She knew every angle, every rhythm, every filthy word that made them lose control. She could take a man apart with her mouth, her pussy—pink, fat, and always so wet and welcoming—or just the way she looked at them like they were the only thing in the world that mattered. Clients left dazed, addicted, booking her again before she even left the room.

But beyond the bedroom, Stiles was… kind. Funny. She’d listen to their sob stories about lonely marriages, failing businesses, dead dreams. She’d crack jokes to lighten the mood, make them laugh even when their dicks were down her throat. She never judged. She just made them feel wanted, seen, alive. And when the night ended, she’d slip back into her real life—quiet apartment, takeout, binge-watching dramas—with a soft smile, content that she’d given someone a little escape.

Meanwhile, across the city in one of the most exclusive neighborhoods, Derek Hale buried his face in textbooks.

At 23, he was tall—taller than most—broad-shouldered, lean muscle from occasional gym sessions he did more out of routine than vanity. Dark hair always slightly messy, big doe eyes that could melt hearts if he ever looked up from his notes long enough. Handsome in that effortless, devastating way. Girls at university whispered about him. “He’s so hot, why doesn’t he date?” “Bet he’s got a secret girlfriend.” But no. Derek was painfully shy. Virgin. Never even kissed anyone properly. The thought of approaching a girl made his palms sweat and his words tangle.

He lived in a sprawling modern mansion with his parents—glass walls, marble floors, infinity pool overlooking a river. Rich didn’t begin to cover it. Peter Hale, 50, CEO of Hale Industries, still turned heads with his sharp jaw, silver-streaked hair, and quiet intensity. His wife, Talia Hale, 48, was breathtaking—elegant curves, flawless skin, the kind of beauty that aged like fine wine. They adored their only son. Spoiled him quietly. Worried endlessly.

“Derek, you’re home late again,” Talia said one evening, setting a plate of fruit in front of him as he studied at the kitchen island.

“Just library, Mom,” he mumbled, cheeks pink. “Exams.”

Peter leaned against the doorway, arms crossed. “You should go out sometimes, son. Meet people. Girls.”

Derek’s ears turned red. “Dad… I’m fine. Really.”

They exchanged looks. The same look they’d shared for years. Their perfect, smart, kind boy was missing out on life.

A few days later, Talia was at the exclusive golf club with her circle—wealthy wives, champagne brunches, gossip laced with diamonds.

“My Derek,” Talia sighed, twirling her club. “So handsome, so brilliant. But no girlfriend. Not even a date. I worry he’ll graduate without ever… you know.”

One friend laughed. “Talia, darling, once they taste it, they can’t go back. Why not… arrange it? Pay someone experienced to seduce him. Show him the ropes. Gently.”

The table erupted in giggles.

“An escort?” another chimed in. “Classy one. Discreet. Someone who can make it feel real.”

Talia blinked. Then smiled slowly. “That’s… actually not terrible.”

They pulled out phones, scrolling high-end escort sites. Profiles loaded—glamour shots, bios dripping sex.

Then one appeared.

Stiles.

The photo: her in a tiny red dress, tits spilling out, ass curved perfectly, pink lips parted in invitation. Bio: “Your escape. Your fantasy. Your secret. Discreet, affectionate, unforgettable.”

Talia’s breath caught. “Well… she’s hot.”

The friends whistled. “Understatement. That body? She’d ruin him in the best way.”

Talia hesitated only a second. “I need to talk to Peter.”

Back home that evening, the mansion quiet—Derek at a study group—Talia found Peter in his office, whiskey in hand.

“Honey,” she started, sliding onto his lap. “I have an idea for Derek.”

He raised a brow. She showed him the profile.

Peter stared. Long. Hard. “An escort?”

“She’s perfect. Experienced. Kind, from what the reviews say. We hire her to… date him. Seduce him. Bring him out of that shell. Once he feels it, he’ll chase it himself.”

Peter groaned, rubbing his temples. “This is insane.”

“But it’s for him. Our baby deserves to feel wanted. Loved. Fucked properly for once.”

He exhaled sharply. “Fine. But we do this carefully.”

Through the agency, they got her private number. Peter made the call—deep voice, professional.

“Stiles? This is… a potential client. Discreet arrangement. Can you come to an address tomorrow afternoon? My wife will be there too.”

Stiles paused. “Wife? Okay… intriguing. I’ll be there.”

The next day.

Derek was out—university project.

The doorbell chimed.

Talia opened it, elegant in silk blouse and skirt.

Stiles stood there—white mini dress so short it was criminal, low-cut to show deep cleavage, black lace bra peeking, heels making her legs endless. Hair cascading, pink lips glossy, perfume sweet and sinful.

She froze for half a second. Expected a man. Not… this.

Then Peter appeared behind Talia, suit impeccable, handsome as ever.

Stiles recovered fast, flashing a wicked grin. “Well hello… are you two planning a threesome? Because damn, I’m not opposed.”

Talia flushed pink. Peter coughed, ears red.

Stiles laughed, stepping inside as Talia closed the door. “Relax, I’m kidding. Mostly.”

The living room was stunning—open plan, marble, floor-to-ceiling windows, plush sofas. Talia gestured. “Please, sit. Juice? Water?”

“Juice sounds perfect, gorgeous,” Stiles purred, eyes flicking over Talia’s figure. “Those tits and ass? Talia, right? Not gonna lie, you’re fucking hot.”

Talia nearly dropped the glass, cheeks burning. Peter cleared his throat again.

Stiles accepted the drink, crossing her legs—dress riding higher. “So… how are we doing this? You want me on my knees first? Peter fucking me while I eat you out, Talia? I’m game for whatever kinky setup you’ve got.”

Peter choked on air. Talia waved her hands frantically. “No—no! That’s not— We called you for something else.”

Stiles tilted her head, confused but amused. “Oh? Enlighten me, then.”

Talia took a breath. “We… have a son. Derek. Twenty-three. Shy. Virgin. Never dated. We love him more than anything, but he’s missing out. We want you to… seduce him. Date him. Make him feel good. Bring him out of his shell.”

Stiles blinked. Once. Twice.

Her flirty smile faded into genuine shock.

“You want me… to fuck your son? As a job?”

The room went silent.