Lola’s Graduation Day

"I am," I said, crossing my arms in front my chest.

"Okay," he shrugged. "Well, I have something for you."

"What is it?" I asked.

"A gift," he said, sitting down on the edge of my bed. He took a small box out of his pocket and placed it next to him.

"What kind of gift?" I asked uncertainly.

"Open it," he replied, gesturing for me to sit.

Slowly, I sat down on the other side of the box, trying to keep as much of the bed in between us as possible. Yet the bed seemed to tilt towards him, one side weighed down by his much larger body.

"Open it," he repeated, grinning.

Uncertainly, I reached for the box. It was soft, felted material, hinged on one edge like a jewelry box. I took a breath and snapped it open.

Inside, resting on a bed of velvet, was a thinly-woven golden chain. It was an exquisitely simple necklace: no pendant, but so delicately braided that it would have been almost invisible if it didn't catch the light just so. It was tasteful and understated in an expensive, luxurious sort of way.

I let my eyes linger on the necklace in silence for several seconds, unable to turn away but still too stunned to touch it.

"It's beautiful, isn't it?" he said. "Let me put it on you."

"What--what is this?" I whispered, wresting my eyes away from the necklace to look at Coach Brett. "What are you doing?"

"It's a gift," he replied, smiling. "You like it, don't you?"

I snapped the jewelry box shut and placed it back on the bed between us.

"But what is this supposed to mean?" I whispered, a note of anxiety in my voice. "You're--you're messing with my head."

"Don't overthink it, Lola," he said reassuringly. "You're a beautiful girl. You deserve to have beautiful things."

"But why are you doing this?" I said, standing up and stepping away from the bed. "You're NOT my boyfriend."

"No, I'm not," he said, shaking his head. "But so what?"

"So stop acting like it!" I hissed. "You can't just... just come over here and give me gifts like we're together."

Coach Brett stood up and paused for a second, scratching his goatee thoughtfully.

"I thought you would like this," he said. "I thought this was what you wanted."

"What?" I said, trying to keep my voice calm. "I never... what are you talking about?! This isn't what I want!"

"Okay," he nodded pensively. "So what do you want, then?"

"I want... I want an actual boyfriend," I blurted. "Not a fake one."

"Is that really what you want?" he said. "A boyfriend?"

"Yes," I said, crossing my arms in front of my chest defiantly.

"Then why don't you have one?" he said.

"What?" I murmured, taken off-guard by his question.

"If you really want a boyfriend, then why don't you have one?" he repeated slowly.

"I just--I just don't," I stammered.

"But why, Lola?" he said, taking a step towards me. "I mean, look at you."

I watched his eyes sweep hungrily over my body again.

"Don't play dumb. We both know you're hot as fuck," he whispered. "That face... those lips... these tits... this 22-year-old body..."

His voice grew husky as he spoke.

"You mean to tell me that you really want a boyfriend, but you just don't have one," he said, his tone almost mocking. "C'mon, Lola."

"I haven't met the right guy," I whispered, looking down.

"Oh, well, if that's the problem, then let me introduce you to a few more," he sneered. "I know a few you might like."

"It's not... I'm not--" I stammered.

"It's okay," he said, his tone suddenly softening. He took another step towards me. "You really don't have to lie to me."

"I'm not lying," I whined. Why did I suddenly sound like I was pouting?

"Who are you trying to convince, Lola? Me, or you?"

"I haven't found the right guy yet," I said again, my voice quavering more this time.

"You don't have to lie to me," he said, taking the same reassuring tone. "I know the truth. I saw how you were with them. I watched you."

I looked up at Coach Brett, an anxious lump filling my throat at his mention of the night at the hotel.

"Not everyone needs a boyfriend," he said softly. "A boyfriend isn't going to give you what you need."

"How do you know?" I whispered. "You... you don't even know me..."

"Actually, I do," he said. "I've seen the most honest version of you, the one you try so hard to keep hidden."

"That's not me," I protested softly. "That's not."

"I wish you could have seen what I saw," he said, stepping forward, closing the space between us. "I was you could have watched yourself with them."

"That wasn't me," I repeated, clinging to the words like a mantra.

"It was the hottest thing I've ever seen," he whispered, his voice growing hoarse. "You were so fucking sexy. I can't stop thinking about it."

"Please don't say that," I whispered, hugging my arms around my chest. He was so close to me that I could feel the warmth of his huge body. "Please..."

"I thought you were just some hot, slutty college girl," he said, licking his lips. "But you're so much more than that."

"Stop--stop talking like that," I whispered, trying to step backwards but feeling the edge of the bed behind me.

"You're a born performer, Lola," he said, leaning his huge body towards me to whisper in my ear. "You're a natural fucking porn star."

I hugged my chest even more tightly, trying desperately to hide the fact that my nipples were now fully engorged and poking lewdly through my flimsy pajama top. I could feel them pressing through the fabric, digging into my forearm like little bullets.

"I can give you what you want," he said, towering above me. "Fancy dinners. Five-star hotel rooms. Expensive jewelry. And an endless supply of big dick athletes, all of them aching to get a piece of your tight, young, Asian pussy."

"You need to go now," I murmured, feeling his breath on the side of my neck. "You can't be here..."

"You say you want a boyfriend," he continued. "But a porn star like you isn't built to be with one man."

"Stop saying that," I said, turning away from him. "That's not me."

"But it is," he whispered, moving in behind me. I could feel his body pressing lightly against mine, his hardness twitching against the curve of my ass as it came to life. "I can prove it."

"You shouldn't be here," I said, trying to sidestep away from him. "I shouldn't have let you in."

Before I could step away, he raised his arm, corralling me in the corner of my own room, boxed in by the wall, my vanity, the bed, and his body.

"You need to go," I said, turning towards him and pointing at the closed door. "I'm serious."

As I stood there, pointing defiantly at the door with one hand on my hip, Coach Brett's eyes drifted down to my chest, where my nipples were now painfully hard and on on full display, poking unguarded through my pajama top.

"I wanna show you something," he said, reaching into his pocket.

"Please go," I said, recrossing my arms, a pleading note in my voice. "Brett, please."

"I'll go," he said, holding up his phone. "But there's something you need to see first."

He tapped his phone and turned the screen to face me as a video began to play.

"No, no," I murmured in disbelief. "You didn't--"

"A little recruiting tape," he said softly.

There, on the screen, was the inside of a familiar hotel room. And there, in the center of the frame, were two people: a Black man and a half-Asian girl.

"You--you filmed it?" I whispered, my voice and my heart both breaking as I spoke. "Brett, how... how could you?"

"How could I not?" he whispered, tapping the screen again to pause the video. "You were just too fucking sexy."

"You need to delete it," I said, turning away. My body and my voice were trembling. "Delete it right now, Brett."

"In a minute," he said. "But first, I want you to watch it with me."

"No way," I said, shaking my head furiously. "I am NOT doing that."

"You really need to see it," he said softly. "If you watch it with me, I promise I'll delete it."

"You're a liar," I said. "I don't trust you."

"Look, Lola, I'm not gonna post this video online or share it with anyone," he said, moving in behind me again. "Think about it. Those guys are five-star high school football recruits. They might not be famous yet, but they will be soon. If this video were to get out, someone would recognize them, and there would be a huge scandal."

I looked over my shoulder at him.

"I don't want a scandal," he said softly. "Neither do they, and neither do you. A scandal doesn't help anyone, does it?"

"Then... then why?" I whispered. "Why did you film me?"

"Because watching you with them... it was the hottest thing I've ever seen," he said, gently placing a hand on my waist. "I couldn't help myself."

"You didn't even ask me," I said. "You had no right to do this."

"I couldn't help myself, Lola," he replied, shaking his head. "Watch it with me and you'll understand."

"Y--you had no right," I said, my voice quavering. "I don't... I don't let guys film me..."

Yet even as the words let my lips, memories came flooding back to contradict me.

I thought of the summer after my senior year, when I'd worked as a tennis instructor at a swanky country club outside of Las Vegas. All summer, my boss Magnus--an older, wealthy white man with a pretty blonde wife and two kids--had slowly seduced me, preying upon my 19-year-old naivety as he lured me into a compromising situation. I remembered how, when I was finally at his mercy--topless and drunk and on my knees in his office--I had let him take pictures of me as I sucked his married cock and let him cum inside my young, fertile pussy.

Then, this image vanished, replaced by a more recent memory that was only a few months old. I'd been at Coachella with friends, drunk on the freedom of being newly-single and high off a hit of cocaine. My friend, Elsie, was negotiating with two Black bouncers outside an exclusive party, trying but failing to get us inside. Then, one of the bouncers had looked past her, propositioning me directly in front of my friends: a video of me topless as the price of admission. Despite Elsie's objections, I had agreed, eagerly bouncing my tits for two total strangers as they greedily filmed it all.

I shook my head, trying to wipe the memories from my mind as if it were an Etch-A-Sketch. Really, though, I was trying to shake the question that had crept inside my head.

If, in that hotel room, Coach Brett had in fact asked whether he could film me... what would I have said?

"Just watch it with me once," he said, wrapping his arm around me so that the screen was facing us both. "We watch it together, it'll be over in a few minutes, and then I'll delete it, if that's what you still want."

"You promise you'll delete it?" I whispered. "You swear you aren't lying to me?"

"I'll give you the phone," he said. "You can delete it yourself if you want."

I took a deep breath.

"Fine," I said. "But then you need to leave."

"Okay," he said, his voice a devious mix of glee and mischief. "Here we go."

Then, he tapped his phone, and the figures on the screen leapt into action.

On the screen, I watched myself crawl onto the bed in the middle of the hotel room, facing away from the camera on all fours. I wasn't sure yet what was going on, but I could tell that this was relatively early in the night, because although I was topless, I still had on the little black thong and strappy black heels that I'd worn for what I thought was a date night with Coach Brett.

Then, I looked back over my shoulder at the other person in the frame, a huge Black man who was standing at the foot of the bed. He was so tall that his head was cropped from view, but his exquisitely chiseled chest was in full view.

"Face the room, bitch," I heard him say. "I want them to see what I'mma do to you."

Hearing the man's voice again playing through the tinny iPhone speakers, a shiver ran down my spine, goosebumps forming on my bare arms.

"It's too loud," I murmured, looking up at Coach Brett as he loomed over me, watching the video over my shoulder as he held the phone in front of us both. "You--you need to turn it down..."

"It's about to get louder," he replied, eyes fixed to the screen.

"Brett, my roommates..."

"Shh," he said, his thick, heavy hand gently squeezing my waist. "It's starting to get good."

Returning my attention to the screen, I saw that the man in front of me was now completely naked.

"Oh fuuuck," I heard myself gasp, my own voice echoing out of the phone for the first time.

I could feel the heat rising in my chest and in my face. In the video, you still couldn't see his cock, but hearing my own voice, I could feel myself being transported back to that moment, when I had first laid eyes on the gigantic tool that he intended to bury inside me.

Suddenly, my head began to swim, overwhelmed by the vividness of my memories and the delirious prospect of becoming a spectator to my own debasement. It felt as if I were reliving the scene and watching it unfold all at the same time.

"You and me about to put on a show," the Black man said. I could see that he was stroking himself, but his cock was still hidden from the camera by his enormous body. "I'm gonna tear that pussy up."

"Brett--Brett, I can't," I whispered, a tremor of panic roiling my nerves. I turned away from the screen and closed my eyes. "I can't watch this..."

"Call me Coach," he whispered back, his fingers moving delicately to the drawstring at the front of my pajama pants.

"Brett... Coach, please," I pleaded, grabbing his hand to restrain him as he began to pull at the drawstring. "Don't make me watch this..."

"You can close your eyes," he whispered. "But the sound is just as good."

From behind closed eyelids, I heard the volume on the video begin to climb.

"You a big cock slut, huh?" said the Black man's voice, much louder than before. "That what you are?"

"Coach, my roommates!" I squealed. "My roommates are home!"

Coach Brett didn't respond. Instead, I heard the sound of the bedsprings squeaking loudly as the Black man climbed onto bed beside me.

"They're going to hear it!" I said in despair. "Please, Coach, it's too loud!"

"Then open your eyes," he whispered. "And watch."

Reluctantly, I opened my eyes.

"Good girl," Coach Brett purred, lowering the sound back to its original volume.

Kneeling behind me now, the Black man on screen dwarfed me, making my smooth, toned body look pale and frail next to his enormous frame.

"Tell them what you want," he growled.

"I want him to fuck me," I said on screen.

"What else?" he said, taking hold of my thong.

"I--I want him to cum in me," I heard myself moan.

"Good," the man replied, tearing the tiny black thong from my body. "And what about them?"

"I... I want you to watch," I heard myself say. "I want you all to watch him fuck me."

As I heard myself say these words, a surge of shame filled my body, because I was struck by how passive and pliant the girl on screen was. This huge man--an 18-year-old boy despite his overgrown, adult body--had spoken only a few words to me, yet there I was, giving him everything he wanted and more. When he asked me a question, I could have offered him a perfunctory response, but instead I was searching for the right answer, digging deeper and deeper into the depths of my depravity to find the words that would please him most.

I felt my face flush with humiliation as I realized that the girl on the screen seemed to show no sign of hesitation, no moment of anguish as she searched her soul for the morality of what she was doing or saying. Instead, what I saw was an almost reflexive obedience, an automatic acquiescence that bordered on obeisance.

Since my earliest sexual experiences, I'd known that certain men seemed able to control me, and that if I gave them the opportunity, it was almost inevitable that they would discover and exploit my vulnerability. I knew that despite my best efforts, I seemed to gravitate towards these men, pulled into orbit by their enormous mass like a lost satellite, only to find myself crashing into them like a meteor hurtling towards the Earth.

I'd known about all of this, and yet for all the times I had lived this very experience firsthand, I had never seen it for myself. But here, for the very first time, I was watching it happen. There on the screen was undeniable, incontrovertible proof of my basic instincts, my true nature as a submissive, big cock-worshipping, half-Asian slut.

"No," I mouthed inaudibly, urging the girl on the screen to change her fate. But I could see that lust, longing, and anticipation were written across her face.

"Okay, slut," the Black man said. And then I watched as he plunged into me.

Then, the video erupted with the sounds of my own voice, moaning obscenely as he plowed into me, much too loud even with the phone at lower volume.

"It's too loud," I said, but my voice was so weak that my whispers were drowned out by the moans of the girl on screen.

"OOOOOOOOHHHhhhhh GODDDDDddddd... OH MY OH MY OH MY FUCK--"

The Black man behind me was railing into me furiously now, slapping my ass over and over in between vicious, heart-stopping strokes. But my attention wasn't trained on him, because I couldn't take my eyes off my own face.

If I had hoped to see some signs of resistance, there were none. No signs of resignation, either, that might suggest a girl who had given in to an inevitable fate. Instead, I was confronted with the shameful face of a girl who seemed to be relishing her ravaging, biting her lip and furrowing her brow, focused only on giving and receiving pleasure, desperately seeking to release the tension that had been building inside of her.

I watched mutely as the man on screen continued to pound me mercilessly.

"You like that shit?" the Black man cried.

"OHHHHHH OH JESUS"

"Tell 'em, bitch... Tell 'em bout me!"

"HE'S INSIDE ME! OHGODOHGOD, HE'S SO FUCKING BIG--UHNNNN--HE'S SO FUCKING DEEP IN ME!"

"More, slut! More!"

"HE'S TAKING ME! HE'S--HE'S STRETCHING ME! UHHHNNN--UHHNNN--HE'S BREAKING ME!"

"Black cock hit different, huh bitch?"

"Your cock--uhhnnnnn--your cock--I can't..."

"You a big cock slut, bitch? Or maybe you a Black cock slut?"

"OH--OH--OHHHH FUUUUUUUUUUUUUCK"

"What kind of slut are you?"

"I'M YOUR SLUT! I'M YOUR BLACK COCK SLUT!"

And then, for the first time, I watched myself cum.

I saw my body begin to shake uncontrollably, tremors surging from my toes to the tips of my fingers, my eyes shut tight as overstimulation overrode all my other bodily functions. I heard myself moan, practically bleating, a primal sound emanating from somewhere within me.

"Oh my god," I whispered, transfixed by the scene on the screen.

And then, suddenly, I remembered that I wasn't alone, reminded of the huge man standing behind me by a tingling sensation growing from deep inside my body.

Tearing my eyes off the screen, I looked past the phone at the mirror on my vanity and saw my reflection. There in the mirror, I saw Coach Brett's frame looming over me, and I realized that his hand was no longer on the drawstring of my pajama shorts. Now, it had disappeared inside the shorts themselves, and it was buried wrist deep below the waist band, moving nimbly between my legs.

"Ohhh god," I moaned, my real voice mingling with the recorded version moaning on screen.

As I continued to watch my reflection, I was shocked to see what had become of my hands, which I thought I'd been using to restrain Coach Brett's brazen advances. At some point, however, these hands of mine had betrayed me, disregarding my orders as if taking their cues from another master.

Far from restraining Coach Brett, my left hand was now delicately draped across his wrist, moving in tandem with him as he fingered my bare, freshly-washed pussy. And my right hand, which I had been using to hide my nipples from Coach Brett's wandering eyes, had abandoned its duty in favor of groping my own breasts, pulling lewdly at my nipples through the flimsy pajama top like some kind of feral, sex-crazed animal.