Stiles pushed the apartment door open, her legs still shaky from the brutal fucking she’d taken from Peter at the club. Her tiny black dress was twisted and riding high on her thick thighs, hickeys dark on her neck and the tops of her fat tits. Her hair was a wild mess, lipstick smeared, and she walked with that unmistakable “just got dicked down hard” limp. Her pink fat pussy felt swollen and used, even though Peter had worn a condom — her body still hummed with the memory of his cock stretching her.

She stepped into the dining room. Lydia and Derek were sitting at the table, half-finished plates in front of them, wine glasses half-empty. The second Lydia’s eyes landed on her daughter, a slow, wicked smirk spread across her face.