Lola’s Graduation Day

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 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.

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

Hugs,

Lola

***

After Coach Brett drove me home from the hotel and dropped me off at my apartment near campus, I crawled into bed and slept for several hours. When I awoke, the sun had already set, and I felt the strange, upside-down sensation of an inverted world.

Had it all been a dream? The images that filled my mind were jumbled and out of order, different men and their enormous bodies, in front and in back of me, Black and white, a moving mosaic of grunting and moaning. It was all too real to be a dream, but even so, I couldn't fathom that I'd let them all fuck me in the same night.

Yes, I'd been with two men at the same time, but that was more than two years ago. I wasn't the same naive, 19-year-old girl anymore. I'd grown up, made peace with the mistakes I'd made during my freshman year. I'd forgiven myself for letting Grant share me with his marine corps buddies. It had all made sense as part of my journey towards self-discovery and self-improvement.

But how, then, could I make sense of what had just happened? I could make out at least three different men from the fragments in my mind, all of them huge and Black, plus Coach Brett himself.

Had I actually fucked them all? There was no way, I thought to myself. My days of taking two men at the same time were behind me. That chapter of my life was supposed to be over and done. There was no place now for a gang bang like that in my narrative of personal growth.

And yet the vividness of the images in my mind seemed to match the aches inside my body. Lying in bed, I ran my fingers over the folds of my pussy, which were sore and tender and puffy with inflammation. As the images began to weave together, I began piecing together snippets from the night, a carnival of hedonism and excess at which I was the only attraction.

My body filled with shame and guilt. How could I have let this kind of thing happen again?

The truth, as I eventually came to accept it, is that no one follows a linear journey through life. We make mistakes as we grow. We backslide into old habits that we assumed we had outgrown. And for those of us who are susceptible to compulsive or addictive behavior, the reality is that we'll never completely outgrow our impulses. We can strive for growth and learn to cope, but we must always stay vigilant, knowing that our triggers may be lying in wait for us around every turn. And we must learn to forgive ourselves when we regress into old patterns of behavior.

An alcoholic never ceases to be an alcoholic. He can get sober and stay sober, but the conditions that made him an alcoholic in the first place are incurable. If he drinks, then it doesn't matter how long it's been or how far he's come. His addiction will never disappear--it is only ever dormant, just waiting for the right (or wrong) trigger to activate it.

Being a slut isn't so different. We can work to understand our tendencies and our triggers, to strengthen our resolve through self-discipline and self-restraint. And yet, we can never fully outgrow our urges. At best, we learn to live with them, to control our impulses rather than being controlled by them.

But being a slut is different from other addictions in one important way. You see, liquor has no will of its own. We imagine that the bottle calls to us, but it wants nothing from us and wishes nothing for us. Dominant men, on the other hand, are a special form of addiction, the kind that literally has a mind of its own, like a bottle that aggressively, relentlessly demands that you drink it.

And for a big cock addict like me, the real danger is that once the first taste hits your lips, you won't be able stop at just one.

...

The next day, I went to student health services to get a full STD workup. It's embarrassing to admit, but this was a drill that was all too familiar to me. I hadn't had to do it in awhile, but it had been a staple of my schedule as a freshman, when I'd had unprotected sex with more than 20 different men over the course of the year, all of them Grant's Marine corps buddies and total strangers to me.

So far, I'd been pretty lucky: aside from a UTI, I'd never contracted any kind of sexually-transmitted disease, and I'd never had a pregnancy scare. Still, I knew my behavior qualified as high risk, so I always made sure to get myself checked regularly.

The nurse who came to administer the tests was a small, pretty Asian woman who couldn't have been more than 5 years older than I was. We chatted a little bit, she took a blood sample and performed a pelvic exam, and then she left the room.

When she re-entered the room sometime later, she was holding my chart.

"Well, Lola," she said. "The good news is that your HIV rapid screen came back negative. The other test results will be emailed to you in the next few days."

"Thanks," I said, sitting up to go.

"But there is something else I wanted to talk to you about," she said.

"What?"

"On the intake questionnaire, you said that you hadn't been with multiple partners."

"I haven't," I said, beginning to blush.

The nurse sat down next to me, as if she were my girlfriend rather than a medical professional who had just had her hands inside my vagina.

"You know this is a totally judgement-free space, Lola."

"What are you saying?" I murmured.

"You have some bruising... around your pelvis," she said, her tone walking the line between clinician and confidante. "It's consistent with what we often see in cases of sexual assault."

"I--I wasn't assaulted," I said, protesting immediately. "It was just sex..."

"Because of the bruising, I ran the swab I took from you through a kit," she continued softly. "There was semen from at least two different partners present."

"That's--that's impossible," I said, shaking my head. "There must be something wrong with your test."

"Maybe," she said, nodding. "But I wanted to ask you about your partner."

"It's not possible," I said again. "I--I didn't come here to talk about this."

"You don't have to talk to me," she said, standing up. "But if you ever do want to talk to someone, there are people out there who will listen."

She reached into a rack mounted on the wall of the office and pulled out a pamphlet. Then, she handed it to me. "Resources for Women's Sexual and Reproductive Health," it said on the top.

"I don't need this," I said, pushing it back into her hand.

"You don't have to read it," she said, pushing it back. "You can throw it out when you get home if you want to. But just take it, okay?"

"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. I crumpled the pamphlet up and stuffed it into my backpack.

...

Later that night, I was fishing around in my backpack for my water bottle when my hand landed on the crumpled up piece of paper. I pulled it out, thinking that I would throw it in the trash, but something stopped me.

Beneath all of the sexual assault hotline numbers and survivor's counseling groups, a name written in bold-face print caught my eye: Sex Addicts Anonymous. Next to the web address, it said, "Anonymous counseling and support services for women struggling with sexual impulse control." I paused for a moment, and then crumpled the pamphlet back up, tossing it in the trash just as I had intended.

But as I tried to study that evening, my mind kept wandering back to that website. I'd never thought of myself as a sex addict before. To be honest, I didn't even know the term existed. And if it did, then wouldn't it be a male affliction, the kind of thing that drives middle-aged perverts to ride the subway in a trench coat or pay for sex? I didn't see how a young, beautiful college girl could qualify for something like this.

And really, could sex even be an addiction, I wondered? Surely enjoying sex wasn't the same as being an alcoholic or a pill-popper. I'd never known anyone who considered themselves to be addicted to anything, so the only point of reference I had in mind was the D.A.R.E. program caricatures that I remembered from my middle school days. What could that possibly have to do with the intense attraction I felt towards certain kinds of dominant men?

These questions kept gnawing at me until, finally, I opened up a private browsing window on my laptop and punched in the URL. Within a few seconds, I had joined a forum using a guest account name. It all felt very much like the early days of the internet, when someone might open up a conversation by asking "A / S / L."

As I skimmed the chatroom logs, a moderator named "Yasminx" sent me an automated hello message. There was some boilerplate language there, as well as a link to another post, which she describe as "introductory reading for first timer visitors." I clicked on it and began to read:

"The Story of Yasminx

I am not the kind of woman you would expect to find here. I am Persian, so you must forgive me if I seem blunt or arrogant. False modesty and mincing words are not valued in my culture the way that they are in America.

If you were to see me on the street, you would assume that I have the world at my fingers. Wealth, influence, beauty--these things have come easily to me. And yet I mention them only to dispel the notion that there is a certain type of woman who can suffer from addiction. I speak of my blessings only to show you that the trappings of success are no safeguard against the darkness of desire.

I grew up in Tehran after the fall of the Shah, when the fundamentalists took over. Although the revolution happened before I was born, you could still feel the tension between the old liberal elites and the new theocracy. My parents encouraged me to believe that I could have a life outside the home, but every aspect of society told me that this was impossible.

When I was 18, they finally got me out of the country, sending me to the U.S. to enroll in university. I was supposed to live with my cousin, whose family had left during the Revolution and established themselves here in Los Angeles.

When I arrived in LA, it was the first time I had ever set foot outside of Iran, and I was woefully unprepared for the culture shock that awaited me. To that point in my life, I'd known nothing but the veil and all of the restrictions that come with it. As a teenage girl, I was rarely permitted to move about the city on my own, and I had very little experience interacting with men outside my own family.

My cousin, who had grown up in the U.S., was eager to Americanize me as fast as possible. She saw this as a chance to liberate me from the regime that had driven her parents from Iran, so she immediately set about teasing and needling me for my repressed upbringing.

Within weeks, she had bought me an entirely new wardrobe, which seemed to be intended to Westernize me in more ways than one. The tight, revealing outfits she chose practically invited men to drink me in, and I quickly came to the know the unfamiliar sensation of a man's eyes on my bare skin.

Soon, American men began to approach me. This happened on the streets, in coffee shops, at the library. Men approach women in Tehran, of course, but it's a far different experience when you're wearing the hijab and traveling with company. Here in Los Angeles, my cousin was my most frequent companion, and she only encouraged these flirtations. I'd grown up with strict ideas about pre-marital sex, but my cousin seemed to view casual sex with an American man as an important part of my assimilation.

About six months after I arrived in the U.S., I met the man who would start me down the long, dark path of addiction. I won't describe him here, but it suffices to say that he found in me a girl caught between two worlds, trying vainly to walk the tightrope between my repressive upbringing and the libertine world I had somehow come to inhabit. With my family a thousand miles away and my cousin his willing accomplice, he initiated me into the ways of dominance, submission, and addiction.

There were many men after him, so many that the memories run together like drops of water, enough to all but drown me. But far from drowning, I have learned to swim and sail, to harness the same currents that once threatened to carry me away.

I share my story because I remember how hard it was for me to confront my own addiction. I would sooner have shamed myself for choosing to live as a whore than accept that I was unable to control my desires. But I have discovered that if you have the courage to concede what is beyond your control, then you will find power in places you never thought to look."

As I read this post, I felt a sense of recognition that I'd never known before, as if I'd been unmasked for the first time. Until now, only men had born witness to my darkest desires, exposing the urges simmering inside me so that they could feast on the bounties of my flesh.

But here was another woman who could put into words what I'd been feeling. Here was the sister I'd been missing, a woman who could relate to the cravings I felt, someone I could talk to without fear of being judged as a slut or labeled as a freak. Her story wasn't my story, but I felt like it could have been.

I took a deep breath and began typing into the chat box.

"Are you real?"

A few seconds later, a reply popped up on the screen.

"Yes my dear, very real"

"Can i talk to you about something?"

"ofc"

I took another deep breath. Then, I started typing.

...

A couple of days later, I had just come home from a track workout at the sports center and was stepping out of the shower when I heard my phone vibrate. I walked into my bedroom, and as I dried my hair, I glanced down at the screen on the vanity next to my mirror.

It was a text from Coach Brett: "Are you still at the gym?"

I hadn't seen him since he had driven me home from the hotel and dropped me off the previous weekend. I'd been to the sports center a couple of times since then, but I'd been careful to avoid him, even pretending that I had been sick in order to skip our team's weekly strength training session.

I was still trying to process what had happened at the hotel that night, to figure out how I had let things get so out of hand so quickly. And I was all too aware of the fact that Coach Brett had coaxed me into consenting to a repeat performance this coming weekend, a looming reality that I didn't feel prepared for at all.

So I was relieved that I'd left the sports center straight away to come home rather than lingering there with my teammates. I wasn't sure if I could face Coach Brett right now, but this way, I wouldn't have to lie to him either.

"Already home," I texted back.

As soon as the message was delivered, I could see that he was typing a response.

"I have something for you," the message read.

The typing continued. Before I could respond, my phone lit up again.

"I'll bring it over," it read.

Shit, I thought. He had insisted on picking me up and dropping me off the previous weekend, so he knew exactly where I lived.

"It's not a good time," I texted back quickly. No response.

My heart started to race. Was he seriously going to come here? I was not prepared to see him right now.

"My roommates are home," I texted, hoping that this might dissuade him.

This was actually true, and it only added to my mounting anxiety. I lived with two other girls from the tennis team, both of whom knew Coach Brett from our weekly workouts. If either of them saw him coming to see me at our apartment, I knew the gossip machine would churn into overdrive, and the secret of what I'd done for him the previous weekend wouldn't stay hidden for very long.

Frantically, I let the towel wrapped around my body fall to the floor, grabbing the pajama top and bottoms that were laid out conveniently on my bed. I hurriedly pulled them on, stepping out of my bedroom and into the living room.

Thankfully, neither of my roommates were there. They both had their doors shut, which meant that they were probably studying in their rooms.

Just as I breathed a tiny sigh of relief, I heard my phone buzzing in my bedroom. I sprinted back in and looked at the lock screen.

"Coming up," it read.

Shit shit shit. I racked my brain for what to do, my heart beating faster and faster.

"Wait outside," I texted. "I'll come out in a minute."

But as soon as I sent the text, I heard a knock at our door.

My blood went cold. I glanced out into the living room, looking to see if either of my roommates had heard the knock and were moving to answer it. But both of their doors remained closed.

I needed to think, but there wasn't time. Coach Brett knew I was home. If I refused to answer the door, he might knock again... and again... and again... until eventually, one of my roommates would have to open the door.

My hair was still damp from the shower, but I didn't have time to dry it, so I grabbed a hair-tie from my vanity and pulled the long, silky black strands back into a ponytail. Then, as quickly and quietly as I could, I padded barefoot across the living room floor and grasped the door handle. I took a deep breath and opened the door just a crack.

Through the crack, I could see Coach Brett's shaved head and his red-brown goatee, which broke into a wide smile when he saw me.

"Hi there," he said.

"Hi," I muttered, my voice barely a whisper. "What are you doing here?"

"I have something for you," he grinned, patting the pocket of his pants. "Can I come in?"

"Now's not really a good time," I said, looking away. "My roommates are studying."

"This won't take long," he said insistently, pushing the door open as I took a step back.

As the door swung gently open, Coach Brett's full body came into view, his broad shoulders and thick, corded arms filling the doorway. He looked like he had come straight from work, because he was wearing a pair of khaki shorts and a USC Football polo shirt that seemed too small to fit his muscular frame.

"You need to be quiet," I said softly, closing the door behind him as he stepped inside. I nodded my head towards the two closed doors. "I don't want to bother them."

"I can be quiet," he said, lowering his voice. "Can you?"

The longer we stayed in the living room, the more likely it was that one of my roommates would hear us, and I didn't want either of them to recognize Coach Brett's voice. So I gestured for him to follow me as I walked across the apartment and into my room. Once we were safely inside, I softly shut the door behind us.

Coach Brett took a couple of steps into the room. He looked around as if surveying the surroundings.

"So this is your room," he said matter of factly.

I walked past him to the other side of the room, trying to keep a distance between us. Then, I turned to face him.

"I'm really busy right now," I said quietly. "So can you just tell me why you're here?"

"You don't look busy," he said, looking me up and down.

As I felt his eyes on me, I was suddenly aware of the skimpy pajama set I was wearing, a soft cotton tank top with spaghetti straps and matching pair of mid-thigh drawstring shorts. I'd gotten dressed in such a hurry that I hadn't had time to put underwear on, so there was nothing beneath the pajamas except my freshly-washed skin, still damp from the shower.