Derek had been casing the mansion for weeks, his sharp eyes missing nothing from his hidden vantage points in the surrounding woods. Jackson’s place was a burglar’s wet dream—isolated, dripping with excess, and guarded by a security system that was more show than substance. He’d studied the routines meticulously: the staff left by 8 PM, the alarms were on a predictable loop, and Jackson himself was a creature of habit. Fridays? The bastard was always out late, schmoozing at some elite club or buried balls-deep in one of his side pieces. Derek knew the layout from blueprints he’d “borrowed” online, but he hadn’t seen much of the wife. Rumors said Jackson kept a hot young thing locked away, but she never left the grounds. No matter—Derek wasn’t there for people; he was there for the safe in the study, rumored to hold cash, jewels, and documents worth a fortune on the black market.

One crisp Friday night, under a moonless sky, Derek made his move. Dressed in all black—tight shirt hugging his ripped, muscled frame, pants that allowed silent movement—he scaled the perimeter wall with ease, his strong arms pulling him over like it was nothing. He jammed the outer cameras with a quick hack from his phone, then picked the side door lock in under a minute. Heart pounding with that familiar adrenaline rush, he slipped inside, the cool air of the mansion hitting him like a whisper. The place was dark, save for the faint glow of nightlights in the halls. He moved room by room, methodical and silent: living room yielded nothing but fancy art, kitchen had silverware he ignored—too bulky. The study was a bust; the safe was there, but it needed a code he hadn’t cracked yet. Frustration gnawed at him as he headed upstairs, boots ghosting over the marble steps.

The master bedroom was at the end of the hall, door slightly ajar. Derek pushed it open slowly, his dark eyes scanning the opulent space: king-sized bed with silk sheets, massive windows overlooking the city, and a walk-in wardrobe that could hide a small army. He started searching—nightstands, under the bed, behind paintings—for any hidden compartments. His gloved hands worked quickly, pulse steady despite the risk. Then, a sound: the twist of a doorknob from the adjoining bathroom. Fuck. Someone was home.

Derek stiffened, his breath catching as he dove for the wardrobe, sliding into the farthest section amid hanging suits and dresses. He pulled the door shut just enough to peek through a sliver, heart slamming in his chest. The bathroom door opened, steam billowing out like a seductive fog, and out stepped… her. Stiles. Completely naked, fresh from the shower, water droplets glistening on her flawless white skin like diamonds. Derek’s breath stopped dead in his throat. God, she was the most beautiful thing he’d ever seen—better than any score, any jewel. Her big, fat tits bounced softly with each step, pink nipples hard from the cool air, full and heavy like they were begging to be sucked. Her ass was a fucking masterpiece, round and juicy, jiggling as she walked to the vanity. And between her thighs? That pretty pink pussy, fat and plump, shaved smooth, lips pouting invitingly. She was drying herself off innocently, towel rubbing over her curves, but to Derek, it was pure slutty torture—bending slightly to dry her legs, ass cheeks spreading just enough to give him a glimpse of that sweet hole, tits swinging forward as she arched her back. She twisted to reach her back, her fat pussy lips parting slightly, and Derek felt his cock harden instantly, throbbing painfully against his pants. He hadn’t planned for this. Hadn’t expected a goddess like her in this cold house.

Stiles hummed softly to herself, oblivious, her pink lips pursed as she patted dry her inner thighs, legs spreading wider than necessary—innocent to her, but to Derek, it was like she was putting on a show, teasing him with every shake and shimmy of that big ass. She tossed the towel aside, standing there nude for a moment, admiring herself in the mirror with a sad little sigh. Then she turned to the wardrobe, and Derek froze, his hand instinctively going to his zipper to relieve the ache. She opened a different section—thank fuck for the massive closet—and pulled out a slutty little lingerie set: sheer black lace babydoll that would barely cover her tits, with a matching thong that rode high on her hips. She slipped it on slowly, the fabric clinging to her wet skin, nipples poking through the lace like invitations. Derek bit his lip hard, palming his cock through his pants as he watched her adjust the straps, her fat pussy outlined perfectly by the thin material. He was rock hard, pre-cum leaking, imagining burying his face between those thighs.

But then, the bedroom door burst open. Jackson. Derek cursed under his breath, frustration boiling over. According to his research, the asshole shouldn’t be home for hours—Fridays were his “nights out.” Every fucking plan ruined. Derek pressed back into the shadows, peeking as Jackson stormed in, still in his suit, looking pissed and entitled as ever.

“You little slut,” Jackson growled, eyes raking over Stiles in her lingerie. “Parading around like that? You know what that does to me.” He didn’t wait for a response—grabbed her roughly by the arm, slapping her fat ass hard enough to make it jiggle and redden. Stiles yelped softly, her big tits heaving. “Jackson, please… I just got out of the shower,” she whispered, her voice kind and pleading, but he ignored her, squeezing her ass cheeks brutally, fingers digging in. “Shut up. You’re my wife—my property. Get on the bed.”

He pushed her face-down onto the silk sheets, not even bothering to kiss her or touch her gently. Stiles landed with a soft oomph, her ass up in the air, thong pulled aside roughly as Jackson yanked his pants down. His cock was out in seconds, hard and demanding, and he slammed into her without warning, burying deep into that fat pink pussy. Stiles cried out, a mix of discomfort and forced moan, her walls stretching around him. “Slow down, Jackson… it hurts,” she whimpered, poor thing trying to be good, hands clutching the sheets. But he didn’t care—pounded into her roughly, hips slapping against her big ass, grunting like an animal. “Take it, you whore. This is what you’re for—my pretty fucktoy.” He slapped her ass again, harder, leaving red marks, ignoring her soft sobs of “Please, be softer… I want to feel good too.”

Derek watched from the wardrobe, breath ragged, unable to look away. Stiles’s body was a vision—tits bouncing with each thrust, ass rippling, pussy gripping Jackson’s cock as juices slicked down her thighs despite the pain. Derek’s hand slipped into his pants, wrapping around his thick, throbbing length—longer and girthier than Jackson’s, he noted with dark satisfaction. He jerked off slowly at first, then faster, imagining it was him railing her, making her scream in pleasure instead of discomfort. Fuck, she deserved better than this selfish prick. Jackson rutted like a beast, ignoring her pleas, chasing his own release. “Yeah, moan for me, slut,” he snarled, but her sounds were more whimpers than moans.

Jackson came with a guttural roar, pumping his load deep inside her, then pulled out abruptly, cum dripping from her fat pussy onto the sheets. He didn’t even look at her—just rolled over, muttering “Good enough,” and passed out, snoring within minutes. Stiles lay there, trembling, soft cries escaping her pink lips as she curled up. Poor, kind Stiles—trapped, unsatisfied, her body still aching. She reached down tentatively, fingers slipping between her thighs to circle her swollen clit, trying to finger herself to the orgasm Jackson never gave her. “Mmm… please,” she whispered to herself, two fingers dipping into her cum-filled pussy, thrusting softly, her big tits heaving with frustrated breaths. But it wasn’t enough—she was too worked up, too emotional, tears streaming down her cheeks as she rubbed harder, ass clenching, but no release came. “Why can’t I…?” she sobbed quietly, giving up after long, torturous minutes, rolling onto her side, whimpering like a wounded animal.

Derek felt a pang—actual pity—for this beautiful creature. Jackson was a bastard, no doubt, leaving her like that, wet and wanting. But watching her finger herself, innocent yet so slutty in her desperation, pushed Derek over the edge. He stroked faster, biting his glove to muffle his groan as he came hard into his hand, hot spurts coating his palm, imagining filling her up instead. Fuck, he had to have her. But for now, he was trapped too—waiting in the dark as the house fell silent, his cock still twitching, plans shattered but a new obsession born.