**Author's Note:**
Candi doesn't do love stories. She does real bodies, real hunger, and real consequences. When a stag party dares her to give the groom a proper send-off, Candi delivers a filthy, unforgettable lesson in sex, control, and exactly what it means to fuck a woman who knows her worth.
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The place was pure filth.
Not the curated kind. Not clean lines and high-spec bathrooms of some modern clubs. This was sticky-floor, fog-machine, bass-thumping filth - red lights, black walls, and the smell of sweat, vodka, and cheap aftershave. The kind of club where inhibitions came to die and bad decisions were born.
And then Candi stepped in.
Big, bold, and built to ruin - she moved with a confidence that came from knowing exactly what the fuck she was. A real woman. Curves that turned necks. Tits that bounced. Thighs with weight. An arse that made men forget their names.
White thigh-high boots, glossy and loud with every step. A black leather mini skirt sprayed onto her hips, clinging to that thick, powerful arse like shrink wrap. Up top, a cherry-red halter neck, stretched tight across her massive, natural tits - no bra, just full attitude. Her right nipple ring pressed visibly through the fabric like it wanted attention.
Her blonde ponytail whipped behind her with every sway. Lips painted red - proper fuck-me red - and dark eyes that looked like they might contain the secrets of the universe. Tattoos climbed her arms, the script on one forearm catching the light, a floral thigh piece peeking as she walked.
She didn't check for eyes because she knew she had them. She always had them. Yes, she was a bigger girl - but she carried it well and was hot as fuck. she knew she quite literally sent men weak at the knees. Regularly did on her cam channel.
At the bar, she ordered something pink and ridiculous with extra ice. No need for subtlety. Candi wasn't that kind of woman. She drank with purpose and she fucked the same way.
Drink in hand, she moved toward the dance floor and danced. Not for the men ogling, but for herself.
A slow roll of her hips. A sway that said I know you're watching and I don't care. One hand lifted to the back of her neck, her head tilting just enough to expose her throat. Her tits bounced with every step, the leather skirt riding up just a little further each time.
The room responded like it always did.
Necks craned. Jaws dropped. Elbows nudged. The pack noticed the lioness in heat.
And that's when she clocked the stag group.
Not directly, at least not at first, but she could smell that kind of testosterone from across the room. Bunch of twenty-odd lads, all wearing matching t-shirts - 'One More Night of Freedom', or some other shite slogan. Pissed, loud, and gawping.
But one of them stood out.
Not because he was looking - they all were - but because he looked like he was trying not to. Boyish face. Tall but awkward. T-shirt just a little too tight across the chest. Eyes too honest for this crowd.
The groom.
She let her eyes skim past him like he wasn't special. Like she hadn't already planned half a dozen ways to ruin him.
She kept dancing - slow, almost lazy - and let the heat build. Every so often, she'd glance toward the group, catch one of them mid-whisper or mid-point. They were watching. All of them. But he was staring now.
At her tits. At her thighs. At the way her arse flexed under that skirt when she turned. And every time she looked his way, he looked away too late.
She grinned to herself. Not yet, baby. Let mummy cook, she thought.
She danced some more, now bordering on filthy, before draining her glass and walking past them once - just close enough that they could smell her perfume. She didn't look. Just brushed a hand through her ponytail, let her tits sway, and her hips roll. Let the tension coil.
Then she looped back to the bar. Ordered another drink and sipped it slowly.
That's when one of them broke.
Stocky, drunk and red-faced. Pint in hand and full of lager confidence he wouldn't normally possess. He staggered toward her with a grin that was about 80% pissed and 20% cheek.
"You alright, love? Gotta say - our mate over there's strugglin'. You've got him well hard in them jeans."
Candi didn't flinch. Just turned slightly, one brow raised. "That so?"
"Swear down." He laughed and jerked a thumb back. "He's the stag. Poor sod's gettin' married next weekend. Sayin' goodbye to his balls and all that."
She licked her straw. "He doesn't look like he's been using them much."
"Exactly!" The lad leaned in, conspiratorial now. "We reckon he needs a taste of a real woman. Like, before he settles down with that skinny little stuck-up bitch he's marrying."
She smirked. Her eyes locked in, laser focused now.
She looked past him - this time right at the groom. And the groom looked right back. Lust, curiosity and guilt etched all over his pretty, unready face.
Candi gave a slow, dirty and downright dangerous grin. She stepped past the mate like he didn't exist and closed the distance quickly. She stopped inches from the boy.
"You alright, sweetheart?" she purred. "You look like you've never seen a real woman before."
***
He didn't answer right away. Couldn't. The words wouldn't come out of his throat.
He just blinked up at her, caught somewhere between arousal and panic, like a schoolboy who'd stumbled into the wrong changing room.
Candi grinned wider.
Up close, he was even greener than she'd expected. Neat hair, flushed cheeks, collar already damp with sweat. He smelled like aftershave, Red Bull, and nerves. Definitely still in his mid-twenties.
Perfect.
She leaned in close enough that her pierced nipple brushed his chest.
"What's your name, darlin'?" she asked, voice husky.
He hesitated. "Uh...mmm...Sam."
She let the name hang. Nodded once.
"I'm Candi," she said. "You've never had your cock sucked by a woman who knows what she's doing, have you, Sam?"
His eyes widened. His jaw dropped. He looked at the floor, feeling tiny and helpless.
She gave a soft hum. "Didn't think so."
Behind them, the stags were half-watching, half-cheering, pretending not to care but secretly buzzing.
Candi turned without another word and pulled Sam with her - hand tight around his wrist - onto the dance floor. The bass hit harder now, drowning out everything else. The lights strobed red and blue and gold, flashing across her thighs and her cleavage.
She stopped somewhere near the centre - not in a spotlight, but close enough.
Then she turned. Pulled him against her. Her arse pressed to his crotch in a slow grind.
One hand lifted and cupped her own breast, pushing it up through the halter until the curve was obscene. His hands hovered like he didn't know where to put them - too polite, too scared, or too inexperienced.
She reached back, grabbed both his wrists, and dragged his palms up over her waist, over her ribs, and straight onto her tits.
That got a reaction.
He moaned out loud. The music drowned it out, but Candi heard it. Or felt it.
"That's it," she whispered. "Squeeze 'em. Squeeze 'em properly."
He did.
She ground harder against him, his cock growing in his jeans. Her hands slid down her own body, over her thighs, up under her skirt - right there in front of him. She tilted her head back, hair swinging, tits pushed high, mouth open like she was halfway to heaven.
He leaned around to kiss her.
She gave him a quick kiss, nothing more than a peck on the lips really, and pushed him away with a finger.
"Nuh-uh. Not here," she said. "Not yet."
She turned again - this time facing him, tits brushing his chest, her hand sliding down between them. Then, she grabbed his bulge. Full palm and a firm squeeze.
He groaned like he'd been slapped.
