Stiles stood in front of the full-length mirror in her luxurious walk-in closet, slowly turning side to side. At 35, she was more breathtaking than ever. Her skin was porcelain white and flawless, glowing under the soft lighting. Her full pink lips looked permanently kiss-swollen. Her massive tits strained against the tiny, sheer black crop top she’d chosen — so tight that her hard nipples poked obviously through the thin fabric. The matching micro-skirt barely covered the bottom curve of her fat, juicy ass. Every step made the skirt ride up, flashing the smooth, hairless skin of her thick thighs and the hint of her plump pink pussy lips if she moved just right. No bra. No panties. She loved dressing like this at home. It made her feel powerful, desired… even if no one but her husband ever saw it.

She was one of the biggest actresses in the industry. Since she started acting at 25, every movie she touched turned to gold. Directors loved casting her in bold, slutty roles — the kind where she wore almost nothing, moaned like a whore on camera, and left audiences throbbing. On screen, she was the ultimate fantasy: the seductive secretary who fucks her boss on his desk, the cheating wife who rides her lover in the backseat, the high-class escort who drains men dry. Her expressions during those scenes were legendary — eyes half-lidded, lips parted, body arching like she was genuinely cumming.

But off-screen? Stiles was different. She tried so hard to be a good wife.

Her husband, Jackson, walked into the bedroom just as she was slipping on a pair of sky-high heels. At 40, he was tall, handsome, and ridiculously rich. The producer every actress wanted to work with. He had married Stiles because she was the most beautiful woman he’d ever seen… and because her movies printed money. Their marriage wasn’t bad. There were no big fights. But lately Stiles felt a quiet emptiness. Jackson treated her more like a prized investment than a wife. He praised her body for how it sold tickets, not for how it felt in his hands.

“Baby, I brought something for you,” Jackson said, tossing a thick script onto their king-sized bed. “The writers just sent this over. It’s going to be huge.”

Stiles picked it up, her pink nails tapping the cover. That night, after Jackson fell asleep, she curled up in bed wearing nothing but the tiny crop top and read the entire script.

The story was filthier than anything she’d ever been offered.

The female lead was a stunning young wife married to an older, arrogant, rich businessman who fucked her hard and well whenever he was home… but he was almost never home. So she starts seducing their new muscular young gardener. The sex scenes were raw, long, and explicit — blowjobs with drooling spit, rough doggy style against the garden wall, her riding him reverse cowgirl while moaning like a bitch in heat, creampies, multiple orgasms, even a scene where she begs him to cum inside her while her husband is away on a business trip. By the end, she gets pregnant with the gardener’s baby and leaves her rich husband for the younger, hung stud.

Stiles’s thighs pressed together as she read. Her fat pink pussy was soaked. Her nipples were aching. She could feel her juices leaking onto the expensive silk sheets. The role was basically soft p*rn. But god… it turned her on so much her clit was throbbing.

The next morning at breakfast, she wore an even sluttier outfit — a tiny white babydoll dress that was practically see-through, her big tits jiggling freely with every movement, the hem so short it showed the lower curve of her ass.

“Jackson… the script is a bit too much,” she said softly, biting her plump lower lip. “There are so many sex scenes… and full nude scenes. I’d basically be naked the whole movie.”

Jackson looked up from his phone, eyes roaming over her body like he was appraising an asset.

“You’re perfect for it, Stiles. That body of yours — those huge tits, that fat ass, those pretty pink lips — the camera is going to worship you. Your expressions in those bold roles are unmatched. This movie is going to make us both even richer. Trust me.”

Stiles nodded slowly, still unsure. “Who’s the male lead?”

“Suggestions are open, but the director is pushing hard for a new guy. Derek Hale. You know him?”

Stiles’s heart skipped. She had watched his movies. The 30-year-old was everywhere lately — tall, ridiculously handsome, with a ripped muscular body that made women scream. His charm and flirtiness were legendary. Every interview he flashed that cocky, sexy smile and left female fans dripping.

“I’ve seen his films,” she said quietly. “He’s… good.”

A few days later, it was confirmed. Stiles and Derek would lead the movie.

The script reading day arrived. Jackson couldn’t make it — another important meeting. Stiles walked into the large conference room wearing the sluttiest outfit yet: a tiny, skin-tight red dress that clung to every curve. The neckline plunged so deep it barely contained her massive tits, the sides of her breasts fully visible. The hem was so short that when she sat down, everyone could see she wasn’t wearing panties — her smooth, plump pink pussy lips peeking out just enough to tease. Her long legs were crossed, but the dress rode up dangerously high.

The moment Derek Hale walked in, the entire room felt hotter.

He was even better in person. 30 years old, tall as hell, broad shoulders, thick muscled arms straining against his black shirt, sharp jawline, messy dark hair, and those intense eyes that looked like they could fuck you through your clothes. He had that dangerous, flirty charm that made women weak.

His eyes landed on Stiles and he froze for a second, clearly stunned.

“Fuck…” he muttered under his breath, then flashed that signature charming grin as he walked straight toward her. “Stiles… I can’t believe I’m finally meeting you. I’ve been a huge fan since I started. You’re even more fucking beautiful in person. That body… Jesus Christ.”

Stiles felt her pussy clench at the way he said it — so direct, so hungry. Her nipples hardened instantly against the thin fabric. She tried to keep her voice steady.

“Thank you, Derek. I’ve seen your work too. You’re very… talented.”

He pulled out the chair right next to her, sitting way closer than necessary. His muscular thigh brushed against her bare leg.

“Talented?” He leaned in, voice low and filthy, just for her. “Baby, I’ve watched every one of your bold scenes. The way you moan, the way your tits bounce when you’re getting fucked on screen… I’ve jerked off to you more times than I can count. And now I get to act those scenes with you? This is gonna be the hottest movie ever made.”

Stiles’s cheeks flushed. She crossed her legs tighter, but it only made her wet pussy lips rub together. She reminded herself she was married.

“Derek… I’m married,” she said softly, trying to sound firm, but her voice came out breathy.

He smirked, eyes dropping shamelessly to her barely-covered tits, then lower to where her dress had ridden up, almost exposing her fat pink pussy.

“I know, pretty girl. But that doesn’t mean I can’t appreciate what’s in front of me. Look at you… no bra, no panties… that tiny dress is basically screaming ‘fuck me’. Your husband lets you dress like this for script readings? Lucky bastard.”

Stiles’s breath hitched. Her clit was throbbing. She could feel herself getting wetter, her pink pussy lips swelling with arousal.

“Watch your mouth,” she whispered, but there was no real anger in it.

Derek’s grin widened, voice dropping even lower, filthy and teasing.

“Why? You gonna tell me your pussy isn’t getting wet right now hearing me talk like this? I bet those fat pink lips are already dripping for me. When we film those garden scenes… when I have to bend you over and fuck you like the script says… I’m not gonna hold back, Stiles. I’m gonna make you moan for real.”

Stiles squeezed her thighs together, fighting the heat flooding her body. She was married. She was supposed to be the good wife. But the way Derek looked at her — like he wanted to devour her — made her feel things Jackson hadn’t in years.

This movie was going to be dangerous.