Saturday morning came fast.

Stiles stood in front of her full-length mirror, turning slowly, admiring the damage she’d done to herself. The dress—if you could even call it that—was scandalous: tiny black thing, barely more than a slip of fabric, spaghetti straps so thin they looked ready to snap, neckline scooped so low it showed the full inner curves of her big, heavy tits. No bra. No panties. Just smooth white skin, pink nipples already hard and poking against the thin material, and between her thighs, her fat pink pussy completely bare under the hem that skimmed the very tops of her thighs. One wrong move and everything would be on display.

She slicked glossy pink lipstick over her full lips, fluffed her hair until it fell in soft waves, spritzed perfume right between her cleavage and at the pulse of her throat. She looked like pure, walking temptation.

“Time to ruin a virgin,” she murmured to her reflection, smirking.

The high-end grocery store in Gangnam was bright, pristine, full of marble floors and soft jazz. Organic everything, prices that made normal people flinch. Stiles stepped inside at 9:58, heels clicking, already drawing stares from every direction. She didn’t care. She was hunting.

She wandered the aisles slowly, pretending to browse—picking up a bottle of kombucha here, a pack of exotic berries there—until she turned into the vegetable section.

And there he was.

Derek Hale.

In the flesh.

Tall—God, so much taller than the photo suggested—broad shoulders stretching the simple gray hoodie, lean muscle flexing under the sleeves as he reached for something on a higher shelf. Dark hair messy in that effortless way, sharp jaw, full lips parted slightly as he concentrated. He didn’t look shy at all. He looked like he could pin a girl to a wall and fuck her senseless if he wanted to.

Stiles’s breath caught. Her pussy clenched hard, a sudden rush of wet heat between her thighs.

Fuck. He’s even prettier up close.

She moved closer, hips swaying, heart pounding with something that felt dangerously like real excitement.

Derek was examining tomatoes when she “accidentally” collided with him—hard enough to make him stumble half a step, but soft enough that he instinctively reached out to catch her.

His big hands wrapped around her upper arms.

Stiles gasped theatrically, pressing right into him so her soft tits squished against his chest through the thin dress.

“Oh my god—I’m so sorry!” she exclaimed, voice sweet and breathy.

Derek froze. His eyes went wide, pupils blown. Cheeks flushed crimson in seconds. He let go like she’d burned him, stepping back, hands hovering awkwardly.

“I—it’s okay,” he stammered, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper. “Really. No problem.”

Stiles bent down slowly—deliberately—to pick up the cucumber that had rolled from her hand during the “collision.” She arched her back, ass pushing out, the tiny dress riding up until the full, juicy curves of her bare cheeks were exposed, the pink slit of her fat pussy glistening just enough to be obscene if he looked down.

She heard his sharp intake of breath. A choked little sound.

She straightened slowly, turning to face him again, cucumber in hand. Her tits were practically spilling out now, nipples straining visibly against the fabric.

She smiled—slow, filthy, pink lips curving.

“You okay, handsome? You look a little… red.”

Derek swallowed hard. His Adam’s apple bobbed. He couldn’t stop staring—at her face, then lower, then jerking his eyes back up like he’d been caught stealing.

“I—yeah. Fine.”

She stepped closer. Close enough that her perfume wrapped around him. Close enough that the heat of her body brushed his.

“God, you’re so tall,” she purred, reaching up to trail manicured nails lightly down his bicep. “And so muscled. Wow. I bet you could pound a girl so hard she forgets her own name.”

His face went nuclear. Eyes huge. Mouth opening, closing. No words.

She laughed softly, throaty. “I’m Stiles. And you are…?”

“T-Derek,” he managed, voice cracking on the second syllable.

“Derek,” she repeated, letting it roll off her tongue like sin. “Pretty name for a pretty boy. How old are you, Derek?”

“Twenty… twenty-three.”

She gasped dramatically, hand to her chest—making her tits jiggle. “Oh my god. So young. I’m thirty, you know. But look at you… such a big, strong guy. Age doesn’t matter when a man’s built like this, right?”

She gave him a slow, slutty smile, tongue peeking out to wet her bottom lip.

Derek looked like he might actually pass out. He grabbed a bunch of carrots from the display, trying to focus on anything but her.

But Stiles wasn’t having it.

She pressed in closer—her fat, soft tits squishing deliberately against his arm as she reached past him for a peach.

“Mmm, look at this,” she murmured, holding the ripe, juicy peach up between them. “So soft… so full. Kinda like my ass, don’t you think?”

His eyes flicked down involuntarily—to the curve of her hip, the way the dress clung to her thick thighs.

She set the peach down, picked up two perfect melons, cupping them in her palms.

“And these… big, heavy, begging to be squeezed.” She bounced them lightly. “Just like my tits. You like big tits, Derek?”

He made a strangled noise—half whimper, half gasp.

She leaned in, lips brushing his ear as she whispered, “And this…” She plucked a deep red, ripe plum from the bin, rolling it between her fingers. “So plump. So wet-looking. Reminds me of my pussy. Pink. Fat. Dripping just thinking about a big, strong boy like you.”

Derek’s breathing was ragged now. He gripped the cart handle so hard his knuckles went white. His jeans were visibly tenting—thick, obvious bulge straining.

Stiles’s eyes dropped to it deliberately. She licked her lips.

“Poor thing,” she cooed, voice dripping sympathy and filth. “You’re so hard already. That big cucumber earlier? I was thinking… bet your cock’s even bigger. Thicker. Longer. Bet it’d stretch me so good.”

He couldn’t speak. Just stared at her, flushed to his ears, chest heaving.

She tilted her head. “Do you have a girlfriend, Derek?”

He shook his head frantically. No. No girlfriend.

Stiles’s smile turned predatory.

“Then go out with me,” she said, voice low and commanding. “Tomorrow night. Dinner. My treat. Say yes, handsome.”

Derek opened his mouth. Closed it. Shy panic in his eyes. He couldn’t form words.

Stiles didn’t wait.

She reached down—bold as hell—slid her hand into the front pocket of his jeans, fingers brushing the hard length of his cock through the fabric as she fished out his phone.

He jolted, a choked “w-wait—” escaping.

She ignored him, unlocked it with a quick swipe (thank god no passcode), opened contacts, typed her number, and saved herself as:

Stiles 🍒🍑💦

Then she called her own phone—let it ring once—saved his number as:

Derek 🍆💦

She handed the phone back, letting her fingers drag over his bulge one last time.

Derek stared at the screen, eyes wide at the emojis. Face scarlet.

Stiles leaned in, pressed her entire soft, heavy body against him—tits crushed to his chest, hips grinding once, teasingly against his erection.

She kissed his cheek—slow, wet, lingering—then whispered hot against his ear:

“Answer when I call, baby boy. You’re going on that date with me. No excuses.”

She pulled back, gave him one last filthy wink.

Then turned.

And walked away—hips swaying, fat ass bouncing under the tiny dress, knowing his eyes were glued to every jiggle, every inch of bare thigh.

She didn’t look back.

But she felt his stare burning into her the whole way out of the store.