Lola and the Locked Door

Author's note: This story follows the events of several other stories I've written. It can be read as a standalone installment but makes some references to a few of my earlier stories. If you want to know how my first boyfriend lost me to an older ex-marine (Grant), read "Lola's First Boyfriend." If you want to know why my college professor (Professor Daniels) decided he had to have me at any cost, read "Lola the College Cocktease." And if you want to know how I got my revenge, read "Lola and the Professor's Wife."

If you don't want to read any of my previous stories (boo), then here's what you need to know in order to enjoy this one:

My name is Lola, and I'm a half-Asian girl with big tits and serious daddy issues. My dad is white, and we've been estranged since I was 18, so I mostly fuck older white guys as a way to fill the void he left in my life (or so my therapist says). I have major submissive tendencies that are triggered by aggressive, big-dick alpha males who act like they own me. I have a bad habit of putting myself in situations where these guys have the upper hand, and when that happens, I almost always end up with a huge cock (or two) buried inside me. At the same time, I also get off on being withholding, so I love to tempt and torment small-cock beta males who don't deserve me. When I was a freshman at USC (go Trojans), I fell prey to an ex-marine named Grant, who lured me into becoming a share-slut for him and his friends. That summer, I inadvertently seduced my college professor, who eventually betrayed my trust and forced himself on me. Afterwards, I got my revenge by luring the professor into a situation where he could only watch in horror as a more dominant man took control of his sexy Filipino wife.

I'm in my late-20s now, but this story takes place during my junior year of college.

Hugs,

Lola

*****

In the weeks and months after I lured Professor Daniels' wife into Grant's clutches, something wonderful and unexpected began to happen: I began to climb, slowly but surely, out from the depths of my depravity.

While I had surrendered myself to Grant and his ex-Marine friends as a willing fuck toy, it turned out that the Professor's wife was downright eager to embrace her new life as their share-slut. After so many sexless years and so much self-abnegation, Marisol had repressed so much pent up sexual energy that when Grant broke her resolve it was as if a volcano erupted inside her. She had devoted more than a decade of her life to family, and while her marriage and her children had surely brought her tremendous joy, a fundamental part of her had gone unnourished until Grant arrived to make her whole.

When she'd gone home with Grant that night, high on ecstasy and drunk on submission, she couldn't have known that another man would be waiting for them at Grant's apartment. She had no way of predicting that over the next few hours, the two men would manhandle her drum-tight, yoga-toned, thirty-something Filipino body in ways that would transport her back to her carefree days as college slut.

And once Marisol had tasted once more the forbidden fruit of her youth, there was no going back. She'd renounced her submissive nature once, but now that it had been reawakened, she didn't have the strength to repress it a second time. Having gone so long without the touch of an alpha male, the Professor's wife craved Grant's dominance in a way that even I never had.

Grant exploited this eagerness by transforming Marisol much as he had transformed me, converting the Professor's beautiful Filipino wife into the slutty Asian MILF of his dreams. Within a few weeks, he had tattooed his mark on her and bleached her hair blonde. He replaced her flirty blouses and fun skirts with tube tops and ripped jeans that begged for male attention. I don't know how she possibly explained it all to Professor Daniels' or her kids, but it didn't matter, because after her initial surrender there would be no refusing Grant anything.

As Marisol's transformation matured, she began to take my place as Grant's favorite Asian fuck toy. Besides her insatiable eagerness, it helped that Grant and most of his Marine Corps buddies had already fucked me several times, while Marisol was a fresh piece of ass. Her lean yoga wife body didn't offer the same kind of pleasures as my big tits and 20-year-old pussy, but the fact that she was a married to the Professor and a genuine slut wife allowed Grant and his mates to indulge in a new and different kind of fantasy. Marisol was a different flavor of Asian slut, and as we all know, variety is the spice of life.

Under other circumstances, I might have taken umbrage at being replaced, but Marisol hardly felt like competition. After all, I had lured her into Grant's clutches myself, and every time he and his mates pumped another load into her drooling mouth and drenched pussy, it served as a reminder of how I had humiliated Professor Daniels. Given all of this, I was more than happy to concede to her the mantle of Marine Corps share-slut.

Unfortunately for Professor Daniels, however, my interest in him began to wane as soon as Marisol surrendered to Grant. Once I had taken his wife and forced him to accept his life as a cuckold, it was hard to get excited about any further humiliation. Nothing I could do would be more emasculating than watching his wife walk out the door and knowing that she would return to him glazed in another man's cum. Having fully avenged the Professor's depredations, my work with him was done.

So in a single, exquisitely-orchestrated night, I had manage to free myself from both Grant and Professor Daniels. I'd been caught between them in a tangled web of dominance and submission, but Marisol had cut through this Gordian Knot, reordering the world through her surrender. Now, the dominance hierarchy was elegantly simple: Grant in his rightful place at the top of the pyramid as the conquering alpha male; Marisol below him, her submission affirming his right to rule; and Professor Daniels, the lowest of the low, an unworthy beta male forced to concede his wife. The body of a beautiful woman is the original currency of man, and with hers, Marisol had paid the oldest price to restore the world to its natural order and free me from my bonds.

Now that Grant, Marisol, and the Professor had each assumed their inborn evolutionary roles, there was no place for me in their affairs. Thus released, I entered a period of blissful repose. For the first time in over a year, I was able to see myself on my own terms as neither an alpha share-slut nor a beta temptress but a 20-year-old college girl with her own hopes and dreams.

The rest of my sophomore year was a time of intense focus and diligent self-reflection. I resolved to make better choices and to forgive myself for the things I'd done to please and pleasure older men. I could never undo fucking my married boss at my old country club job or letting Grant tattoo my body with the mark of a two-cock slut. I couldn't forget cumming shamefully for Professor Daniels or seeking atonement by begging a football player to ruin my virgin ass with his enormous Black cock. I had done these things and they were now a part of me, but they didn't have to define me any longer. These older men had exploited, coerced, and overpowered me in vulnerable moments, but if I let these memories continue to shame me, then I was still under their control. The only way to take back my power was to free myself from the shame I felt.

As a tennis player, I'd learned that the only way to improve the flaws in your game was to attack them relentlessly, because avoiding your weaknesses got you nowhere. Decent players tailor their games to minimize their weaknesses, but great players lean into their weaknesses until they become strengths. Borrowing from this approach, I decided that the only way to address my feelings of shame was to confront them head on.

Over the months that followed, I delved deeply into myself, wrestling with my own desires and the dark places they had taken me. Whether I liked it or not, there was no sense in denying that demanding men seemed to unlock my latent submissive nature. I liked to be cajoled and controlled because there was a kind of safety in surrender. When a man took control of me, my actions ceased to be my own, and he assumed a kind of responsibility for whatever was going to happen. Implicit in my submission was a desire to trust that these men would care for me if I gave them what they wanted.

This seemed to explain why I was habitually drawn to the most imposing and dominant alpha males. If my submission was designed to elicit a protective response, then it followed that the strong and aggressive men would trigger my submissive tendencies, as these men would be better able to defend me against the ravenous pursuits of other suitors. The internal logic of my desire was that only the most dangerous and physically dominant man could save me from the threatening hunger of his rivals. I seemed to worship male dominance because only the most dominant alpha male could protect my body from being pillaged relentlessly by one man after another. If I belonged to the strongest man, I reasoned that all others would respect his claim.

All of this seemed to explain my attraction to alpha males and my readiness to submit to their dominance. However, it didn't explain why it turned me on when they debased and degraded me. After all, many women have an implicit preference for alpha males, but not all of them are willing to endure being shared, used, and branded by these men as a slut, and fewer still would reward this abuse with one pussy-clenching, body-shaking orgasm after another.

Why did my pussy begin to soak whenever these alpha males referred to me as a "cum slut" or a "fuck toy" or "cock sleeve"? Why did my body respond so readily to their sneering, scornful depravity? Why did I get off on being treated like a whore? Why did it excite me to be used as their big-breasted, half-Asian cum dumpster?

These aspects of my sexual deviance defy easy explanation. One might see this as evidence of low self-esteem, that I like the degradation because I think it is all I deserve. But I think it has more to do with the way in which it reveals the reckless, audacious urges that my body inspires in these men and the daredevil acts of primal desperation that it drives them to commit.

For while I am aware of the effect that these alpha males have on me, I am equally conscious of the effect that I have on men. I know that my body does not lend itself to virtuous thoughts and honorable intentions. My long, silky hair and dark, almond eyes. My pert, upturned nose and full, pouty lips. The honeyed glow of my skin and the elegant accent of my Asian features. The curve of my round, shapely ass and the swell of my soft, full breasts. Every inch of my body speaks to sinful urges, a feast of forbidden delights that invites men to gorge themselves in an orgy of lust, greed, and gluttony.

I know that my body is a temple of temptation that reduces men to their most primitive instincts. Good men, married men, family men—it doesn't matter. No matter how virtuous these men are in other realms of life, they cannot help but fill with vice when they gaze upon my body. In a perverse way, we are a perfect match, for they often seem as helpless to resist me as I am unable to refuse them.

So despite the shame I feel when these men curse me as a slut and a whore, I cannot help but revel in their abuse, because I know they are really cursing themselves. They are cursing themselves for cheating and lying and breaking their vows. They are cursing themselves for abandoning their values and compromising their principles. They are cursing themselves because their desire to fuck me hijacks their better judgment and tears at the very fabric of their character.

Twisted as it may be, part of me believes that the greatest compliment a man can give a woman is to pursue her against his own self-interest. What could be more flattering than a man whose hunger is so ravenous that he will risk his career, forsake his family, and betray his own morality just to feed it?

My father was such a man, and ultimately, he was destroyed by his own insatiable appetite for naive, exploitable 19-year-old girls. I have to believe that he wanted to be a good man but his urges got the better of him. So when a man in the grip of desire reduces me to a "big-cock slut" or a "slab of Asian fuckmeat," I know that it is only because my body has reduced him to a slavering, sex-drunk Neanderthal.

So when alpha males abuse and humiliate me during sex, they are unwittingly giving me the depraved validation that I so desperately crave: that the temptations of my body are so powerful that they can drive men back to their basest animal instincts, and that if I can make any man succumb to his own forbidden urges in spite of himself, then somehow my father's transgressions will be redeemed as ordinary or even inevitable.

These realizations did not occur to me all at once, but over months of steady introspection during my sophomore year of college, I began to develop these and other theories for why I surrendered so readily to the whims of aggressive men. I thought that if I could rationalize my own behavior, then it would feel less shameful, and I hoped that if I could understand the origins of my submissive nature, then perhaps I could learn to control it.

So after more than a year of wild, shame-fueled, cum-soaked nights with abusive older men, I withdrew from sex entirely during the spring semester of my sophomore year. In addition to my journey of introspection, I spent these months concentrating on improving my tennis game and embracing my budding interest in public health. I also began to reverse some of the physical changes that Grant had imposed on me, dying my hair back to its natural black color and retiring some of the sluttiest outfits he had insisted I wear.

For some reason, though, I couldn't bring myself to get rid of the Roman numeral II that Grant had tattooed on my wrist. Part of this was the practical difficulty of removing a tattoo, but that wasn't the only explanation. In truth, I felt that removing the tattoo would in some ways be a concession to the shameful nature of what it represented. In order to really own my own sexuality, I couldn't deny or erase the truth of what I had done.

The tattoo had to stay because the acts themselves could not be undone. In order to be my own woman, I had to reckon with the fact that my body had once belonged to Grant and his buddies. If those who forget the past are doomed to repeat it, then the Roman numeral on my wrist would never let me forget that I was once a two-cock, double-team share-slut for a group of dominant, merciless ex-Marines.

By the end of my sophomore year, I was in a much better place, and I had an exciting summer opportunity ahead of me. Along with a few other public health students, I'd been selected for a program that would send me to Cambodia to work on a variety of public health issues, including malaria prevention and expanding access to clean drinking water.

My summer in Cambodia was full of world-expanding, life-changing experiences, most of which have no place in this particular story. But as you'll see, it also played an important role in the events that followed.

Being in Cambodia was therapeutic for me in many ways. For one thing, almost all of the other public health students in the program were girls, and many of the Cambodian people we interacted with were women and children. There were no aggressive men or alpha males there to pursue me, and there was a kind of freedom in this that allowed me to let my guard down.

The campus of USC and the larger city of Los Angeles were practically teeming with men who were constantly undressing me with their eyes or finding excuses to put their hands on my body. There was a background thrum of competitive tension that infused LA, an inaudible pulse that seemed to stimulate sexual aggressive behavior. The entire city was practically a meat market, with big tits and hard bodies on display wherever you looked, and lust hung heavy in the air like smog.

In Cambodia, I was able to relax in a way that I never could in LA, and being away from the tennis court for a summer was also a welcome respite from my own ultra-competitive nature. And as I let my guard down, I opened myself up to the kind of man who would never have held my attention in an environment like LA.

One of the program coordinators was a man named Justin, a young medical student just a few years out of college. He was tall, blonde, and handsome in a goofy sort of way, but his good looks were somewhat obscured by a dismal sense of style and a crippling shyness that made him clumsy around girls. Because he was a few years older, our program coordinator, and an aspiring doctor, Justin by all rights should have been sought after by every girl in our program, yet most of them seemed to see him in a more brotherly light.

Initially, I thought of Justin much in this way, but that began change as the summer went by and I got to know him better. Beneath his dorky exterior, he was a kind, selfless, and compassionate man who was deeply committed to improving public health for people around the world. When he talked about medicine, he spoke of it as a calling, and that kind of passion for helping others was attractive to me in a totally new and unfamiliar way. Away from the alpha males who typically sparred for the right to claim me, I had time to explore the subtler, more sophisticated charms of a man like Justin, and by the end of our summer in Cambodia, the two of us had fallen for each other.

While I'd had a boyfriend for a short period at the beginning of college, Justin was my first serious relationship, and the first man who wanted me for more than my body. I can say this definitively, because although Justin and I developed an intense connection during our time together in Cambodia, we never went beyond kissing and touching each other.

This wasn't for a lack of mutual attraction. Rather, it was in deference of the fact that Justin was a devout Mormon and, at the age of 25, still a virgin.

While most devout Mormons go to Mormon schools to meet other Mormons and marry young, Justin had taken a different route. He'd gone to an Ivy League school as an undergrad, and as one of the few Mormons there, had found dating and relationships to be a challenge. In addition to being somewhat socially awkward, Justin's Mormonism marked him as "weird" in the eyes of many non-Mormon classmates, which only exacerbated his natural shyness. Moreover, his parents had made no secret of the fact that they wanted him to marry a Mormon girl, so the idea of trying to persuade a girl to date him only to have his parents disapprove seemed like a futile exercise.

As a result, Justin threw himself into his studies and graduated near the top of his class. Then, the Church sent him on a mission to Cambodia, which is how he became involved in the public health program where we met. But through all of this, Justin never met the Mormon woman he was supposed to marry, and in waiting for her, he had failed to learn the ropes of dating and relationships. So by the time he and I met, Justin was a mature, serious man in many facets of life but deeply inexperienced in ways of love and women.

But while our sexual histories could not have been more different, I felt a certain kinship with Justin, because we had both missed out on many of the normal relationship milestones that most people experience during their early 20s. Admittedly, we had missed them for very different reasons. For Justin, religious and family obligations had kept him from experimenting with dating and casual sex. For me, the exploitation of my submissive nature by a relentless stream of predatory alpha males had made it impossible for me to have a boyfriend or a conventional sex life.