Lola’s Graduation Day

I turned my eyes from the mirror to face Coach Brett, and I let out a gasp. There, above his smug, smirking face, I could almost see two tiny horns protruding from either side of his huge, bald head. Then I blinked, and they were gone.

"Wear it to the hotel this weekend," Coach Brett said, pulling me out of my reverie. "I want you to look classy while they fuck you."

...

That night, after I'd showered again, I logged back online to chat with Yasminx.

During our initial conversation, I had told her bits and pieces of my story, a mixture of truths and half-truths that I was still making sense of. Remember that back then, I'd never tried to tell my story before, never shared with anyone the lurid details about my relationships with men. I didn't know where to start or how to stitch the episodes together, so it came out as jumbled mishmash of sexual misadventures, the stories of a college girl coming of age one cock at a time.

Yasminx, for her part, mostly just listened. When she responded, it was generally not with pearls of sisterly wisdom, but some kind of confirmation that she was still there, reading along on the other side of the screen. Still, even if all she did was read what I had written, it felt like a big step that I was sharing this side of myself with someone else and doing it on my terms. That alone had been enough.

But that night, after what had happened with Coach Brett in my bedroom, I knew that I was in urgent need of something more than just a listening ear.

Before he'd left that afternoon, Coach Brett had given me his phone, allowing me to delete the video just as he had promised. Still, he knew as well as I did that this was barely more than an empty gesture, a token of good faith that meant nothing in the aftermath of what I'd let him do.

I knew that I'd let Coach Brett establish a dangerous precedent that afternoon. It was one thing for him to lure me into a compromising situation like the one I had found myself in at the hotel. There, I had been alone and intoxicated in an unfamiliar setting, surrounded by four large, muscular men, each of whom could have easily overpowered me on his own. I could rationalize the fact that Coach Brett had brought me there under false pretenses and trapped me in a situation where submission was perhaps the safest possible option. I could hold onto the notion that I'd been deceived and exploited by a bad man, that what had happened at the hotel was something that Coach Brett had done to me rather than something I'd let him do. I could write the whole night off as a one-time lapse in judgment that had spiraled wildly out of my control.

But those rationalizations and justifications began to unravel in the harsh light of what had happened in my bedroom. This time, I was in my own apartment, and I wasn't alone. Two of my roommates were home, so if anything, I had Coach Brett outnumbered. Moreover, I wasn't drunk or high, so I couldn't use impairment as an excuse for my actions.

But the most significant difference was the fact that, this time, I couldn't claim to be naive about who Coach Brett was and what he really wanted. That night at the hotel, he was practically Prince Charming, right up until the moment he revealed that three high school boys were going to gang bang me. But after something like that, I should've known that he couldn't be trusted, that his intentions for me were anything but pure.

Yet despite being sober, I had let him inside my apartment. Despite being surrounded by friends, I had let him get me alone. Despite being in my own bedroom, I had let him make himself at home. And despite knowing all about his bad intentions, I had let him fuck me without a condom in my own bed. I had let him empty his deceitful, devious seed deep inside of me, and I had thanked him for the privilege with a rolling cascade of bone-shaking, slut-making orgasms, my treasonous pussy spasming around his huge cock over and over with no regard for my shame or dignity.

I'd told myself that I was going to stay away from Coach Brett, but instead of keeping my distance, I'd just given him another reason to believe that my body was his for the taking. Now I had shown him that he didn't have to coax me into his car or convince me to go to a hotel with him in order to get what he wanted. Now he knew that he could simply to come to my apartment and demand sex whenever he felt like it. He knew that he could ignore my roommates, dismiss my protests, and bully me into giving him what he wanted. And he knew that even if he did all of that, I still couldn't stop myself from cumming all over his huge, plundering cock as if the whole thing had been my fantasy in the first place.

How did dominant men like Coach Brett know that they could get away with treating me this way? It was almost like they had a sort of sixth sense, a preternatural precognition that let them see my submission with stunning clarity. Somehow, these big-dick alphas had learned to use their massive, magnificent tools like some kind of fleshy divining rod, endowing them with the ability to perceive the latent wetness hidden beneath the folds of my young Asian pussy.

Guided by their diabolical tools, these men seemed to know exactly where to begin digging into me. If I resisted their advances, they took no mind, brushing aside reluctant murmurs of "can't" and "won't" and "shouldn't" like a thin layer of topsoil, unable to conceal the treasures buried below. Then, they kept digging through layer after layer of emotional strata, drilling past girlish insecurities and daddy issues and racial confusion until they finally found what they were looking for: a huge subterranean lake, fathoms deep and filled with the forbidden waters of unspeakable urges, lapping gently against the bedrock shores of my submissive nature.

And then, these men seemed to know that if they could tap those forbidden waters--if they could coax that dark, sacred liquid to the surface--then my will to please them would surge forth and erupt like a geyser, unstoppable and unrestrained, showering them with the abundant bounties of my body. They seemed to know that if they could release the internal pressure that existed inside me--if they could unlock the psychological safety valves that kept my repressed desires contained and at bay--then the deep, dark waters of submission would flood my system and overwhelm me, drowning my will to resist, unmooring me from my dignity and my values, and setting me adrift in a vast ocean of alpha dominance. Lost among the waves, I could only beg for salvation, praying to the big-cock gods for deliverance, exalting them with every inch of my big-breasted, half-Asian body.

It was shocking how quickly Coach Brett had established dominance over me. Not since my freshman year had a man demanded so much of me so quickly. Back then, an older marine named Grant had nimbly outmaneuvered my then-boyfriend, luring me into a compromising situation before literally doubling down, manipulating me into taking two cocks at the same time. Grant had preyed skillfully on my youth and naivety, convincing me that he was helping me explore my sexuality and discover myself even as he used my 19-year-old body for his own personal pleasure. He understood intuitively how to bring me to heel, sharing me with his friends as a way to assert his control, exploiting me as a way to exercise and affirm the power he had over me. For much of my freshman year, I was his share-slut, letting him and his big-dick friends ravage my body two at a time.

When I finally freed myself from Grant's clutches, I swore that I would learn from the experience, that I would not allow myself to be taken advantage of so easily again. Yet here I was, less than three years later, quickly becoming in thrall to a man with an even greater appetite for exploitation.

I found myself comparing my past experience with Grant to my current situation with Coach Brett. Both men had several things in common: demographically, they were several years older, white, and professionally involved in hyper-masculine, male-dominated pursuits, with Grant being an ex-Marine and Coach Brett being the strength coach for a Division I football team. Physically, each was imposing, tall and muscular and very well-endowed. In terms of personality, both were confident to the point of arrogance, persuasive talkers who could turn on the charm whenever it suited them. Sexually, both were aggressive and experienced, and both were naturally dominant.

Curiously, both men also had possessive and territorial impulses towards me, yet both also seemed to get off on sharing me with other men, even when I begged them not to. At first, this seemed odd to me, since possessive men generally tend to be jealous guardians, quick to defend their claim against potential rivals.

This is how Rick had behaved towards me. Even though he had a girlfriend and I was never more than just his sidepiece, Rick insisted on maintaining exclusive rights to my body, and he would fly into a jealous, petulant rage if he knew I was going to be around other men.

But as I thought about it more, I began to see how men like Grant and Coach Brett could be fiercely possessive even as they coerced me to share my body with other men. It occurred to me that for them, possession wasn't about exclusivity--it was about control. It was one thing to be the only man who got to fuck me, but it was another thing entirely to dictate exactly which men would get to have me, to be able to loan me out to other men as they saw fit.

I realized then that possessing me wasn't enough for Grant or Coach Brett. They weren't satisfied with simply having me. These men demanded absolute control over me, including how I looked, what I wore, and who I fucked. And unlike other men, they wouldn't settle for anything less. That's what made them both so dominant over me. And it's what made me so submissive towards both of them.

This realization terrified me, in part because for all of their similarities, there were some key differences about Coach Brett that made him even more dangerous than Grant.

For one thing, Grant had always framed his control over me in terms of my own freedom, exploration, and self-discovery. He maintained that he was just helping me free myself from the shackles of societal expectations, that he was merely giving me license to explore my own taboo desires without judgment or reproach. This rhetoric may just have been part of his manipulation, but there was at least the pretense that our arrangement was more complex than an older white Marine having his way with a young, big-breasted, half-Asian college girl.

For another thing, Grant seemed to respect some of the basic boundaries between our arrangement and the rest of my life. He never came to my dorm to see me--instead, he always waited for me to come to him at his off-campus apartment. He was careful about keeping our arrangement a secret, even going so far as to protect my identity from the other Marines who he invited over to double-team me. Grant never threatened to blackmail me or make the details of our arrangement public. And, to my knowledge, he never filmed me during sex.

Coach Brett, on the other hand, had made no secret of the fact that he was interested only in extracting as much pleasure as he could from my body. He had no respect for the boundaries between what we were doing and the rest of my life. He had already come to my apartment, while my roommates were home, and bullied me into having sex with him, implicitly threatening to expose me if I didn't satisfy his demands. On our very first night together, he had coerced me into having sex with three 18-year-old boys, and had filmed me doing so without my consent. And he had made it abundantly clear that this was just the beginning of what he intended to do with me.

Another crucial difference between the two men was what they knew about me when they began to assert their dominance over me. When Grant engineered our first meeting, all he knew about me was courtesy of my drunken, idiot boyfriend, who had let slip the fact that I'd had a threesome with two men back while I was still in high school. Based on this one piece of hearsay, Grant had been able to build a profile of my emergent sexuality, identifying, exposing, and exploiting my submissive nature with remarkable speed and skill.

But unlike Grant, who was practically starting from scratch with me, Coach Brett had been all but handed a full dossier on my sexual proclivities. He had learned about me first from the slut-shaming screed that Rick and Elsie had posted about me online, which described me as "USC's #1 Hottest Big Cock Slut" and claimed that I would do "literally ANYTHING for a big cock." Then, he had gotten independent confirmation from Derek Williams--a Black guy I had slept with on the football team--that this post was more than just a rumor, discovering several key details in the process:

First, that I really was into big dicks, just like the post had said.

Second, that I had fucked at least one Black guy, which suggested that I might be willing to fuck a few more.

Third, that I had begged Derek to take my ass during our one and only night together, validating my burgeoning reputation as a slut.

And lastly, that I was depraved enough to enjoy taking 9" of Black dick up my ass, as evidenced by the fact that I had cum for Derek even as he destroyed my virgin asshole.

Armed with all of this information, is it any wonder that Coach Brett felt confident that he could lure me into a hotel room with three Black high school boys and expect me to fuck them all? And is it really shocking that he was already boasting to me about how many big dicks he was going to run through my tight, half-Asian holes?

Because unlike Grant, who had discovered and subsequently nurtured my submissive nature, Coach Brett had scouted me. He had done his homework. He had pursued me expressly because he had good reason to believe that I was a slut. He had recruited me with the expectation that I would let him control me. And so far, I had done exactly that.

But there was one last difference between the two men, and it had to do with me. Because when I'd become in thrall to Grant, it had happened without me even realizing it.

Gradually, over the course of weeks and then months of my freshman year, I'd become aware of the fact that I'd somehow forsaken boyfriends and dating altogether, and that my college sexual experience had come to consist entirely of going to Grant's off-campus apartment so that he and his friends could double-team me, taking turns spilling their cum inside and all over my 19-year-old body.

And by the time I'd realized what had happened, I was in too deep, having become shamefully hooked on the thrill of being taken by two men at once, addicted to the adrenaline rush of having two huge, monster-cock marines splitting me open from both ends. Finding myself in such a state of absolute submission, it had taken me months to escape from Grant's sphere of dominance.

Now, as Coach Brett began to assert his own dominance over me, my one advantage was a hard-won self-awareness, the sour fruit born of my past life as Grant's share-slut. Because this time, I knew what Coach Brett was doing, and I knew what was happening to me.

I knew that, despite my best efforts, I was in the process of losing myself to him. I could feel the heavy burden of his dominance weighing on my shoulders, the gravity of his desire pulling me down. I could hear the sweet, seductive siren song of submission, my own nature turning against me, beckoning me to give in to the demands of this older, established alpha male. I could my sense my resolve slipping away, ground down by his relentless assault, wavering like a candle in the wind. I knew that if I didn't act fast--if I didn't do something now--then Coach Brett would move to extinguish that dying flame, snuffing out my independence and casting me into the darkness of total, utter submission.

I couldn't deny the fact that, despite the shame and guilt, part of me just wanted to please him. To deny this would be to deny my true nature. On some primal, biological level, my body seemed to crave his control, to recognize him as an alpha worthy of my submission.

But even if I couldn't deny this impulse, I also couldn't bear to let it ruin the rest of my life. Because it was perfectly clear that Coach Brett would not respect my boundaries, my goals, or my wishes. He had his own plans for me, and if I wanted to escape the fate he had in store, I needed to get out now.

Because I knew that if I let him take me to the hotel that weekend... if I let him walk into another room, this time knowing full well that it would be filled with 18-year-old boys... if I let him tell them about me... then he would well and truly own me, now and perhaps for a long time to come. And there would be many, many more hotel rooms in my future.

I poured all of this--the fear, the guilt, the shame--into the chat box, messaging Yasminx over and over again, my desperation growing with every keystroke.

And then, Yasminx responded.

"Better that we discuss this in person," she wrote.

This gave me pause. The whole point of this thing was about being anonymous, wasn't it? I could share these stories freely because no one knew it was me. But meeting up with Yasminx... I had told her some of my darkest secrets, but I didn't even really know her.

"idk," I wrote back.

"You are in crisis," she replied. "A crisis cannot be managed through a chatroom."

I didn't respond. Was she right?

"If you go to him this weekend, you will lose yourself," she wrote. "You know this."

"I know," I wrote back. "I know!"

"Are you strong enough to resist him on your own?" she wrote. "If he films you again, are you able to stop him?"

"I don't know..."

"Meet me for coffee tomorrow," she wrote. "I can help you get through this, if you trust me."

I was torn. On the one hand, meeting up this quickly with some I'd met anonymously online seemed like a risky thing to do. On the other hand, trying to stand my ground alone against Coach Brett didn't seem any safer.

And no matter who Yasminx turned out to be in real life, she probably wasn't going to lure me into the center of a teenage gang bang. So what did I really have to lose?

"What time?" I wrote back.

...

The next afternoon, I arrived at a coffee shop on Wilshire not really knowing what to expect. We were both going to wear a white ribbon in our hair so that we could recognize each other. I would say that it felt like a blind date, except that I've never been on a blind date.

As I was standing in line to get coffee, I heard a voice behind me speak in lilting, Middle Eastern accent.

"You must be Lola."

I turned around to see an absolutely gorgeous woman standing behind me with a thin, white headband holding back a mane of long, lustrous hair, rich sable waves cascading past her shoulders. Her skin was fairer than I'd expected, almost the color of milk tea, and she had large, almond-colored eyes with long, curving lashes. But her most striking feature was her lips, full and pouty and soft, lightly glossed to a rosy glow.

"Are you... Yasmin?"

She smiled lightly and nodded her head.

"Let me get us something to drink," she said, her accent soft against my ears, almost like a song. "What would you like?"

"A matcha latte," I said. "Thanks."

"Why don't you find us somewhere private to sit?" she said.

As Yasmin ordered the drinks, I wandered out onto the garden patio in the back of coffeehouse and found an empty table in a quiet, secluded corner.

Watching Yasmin walk over with our drinks, I couldn't help but admire how impeccably put together she was. She had on a silky, expensive-looking blouse, open at the top to reveal delicate, sculptural collarbones. The blouse was tucked into a long, flowing skirt that tapered nicely around her silhouette, with a long, daring slit up one side. She had several gold bracelets on one wrist, and on the other, a stylish, oversized rose-gold watch. She was wearing pearls to match her white headband, and on her feet, she wore the pièce de résistance: an $800 pair of black Louboutin heels, the signature red soles peeking out slyly from below. Including the jewelry, the whole outfit had to cost at least $10,000, if not more.