Lola Takes Flight

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'm in my late-20s now, but this story takes place the summer after I graduated from college.

Hugs,

Lola

...

"Ladies and gentlemen, this is your captain speaking. We've begun our descent into San Francisco and should you on the ground in about 20 minutes."

I shifted in my seat, looking out the window at the California coastline below. Although it was a short flight from LAX, I was beyond antsy to touch down. That's because two things were waiting for me on the ground at SFO: my best friend, Marcy, and my boyfriend, Chase.

Almost three months had passed since I'd graduated from USC. I was still living in LA, and while I hadn't found a permanent job yet, I was teaching private tennis lessons during the day and hostessing at a nightclub on the weekends. The money wasn't great, especially by LA standards, but it was enough to cover my rent at the little sublet I'd found near the USC campus. Fortunately, I didn't have many expenses other than rent and groceries because Chase had paid for almost everything else.

I'd been with Chase ever since our explosive hookup at the end of the school year. Unlike me, Chase wasn't a recent college grad struggling to pay the bills. He was in his 30s, a high-powered software salesmen for a successful startup. The downside of his job was that he traveled a lot for work, so I rarely got to see him during the week. But the upside was that he made a shitload of money, which he used to make sure that I was taken care of even when he wasn't around. If I texted him that I was hungry, he would have sushi delivered to my apartment for lunch. If I said that I was bored, he would Venmo me $200 and tell me go out and buy something sexy. When I complained that I couldn't use the USC fitness center to work out now that I had graduated, he got me a membership to Equinox.

To a mostly-broke 22-year-old girl, this felt almost like magic: I wished for something, and within minutes--poof! There it was. But for a girl who had been without a father since she turned 18, it was even more intoxicating than magic. Because for the first time in my adult life, it felt like I had someone who could take care of me.

Don't get me wrong: I love my mom, and I know she will always have my back. But she's a single mother with two kids, one of whom is still in high school and lives at home with her. She's also a Korean immigrant who--despite being fluent in English and having lived in this country for more than 20 years--still struggles to navigate many aspects of American society. I'm thankful for everything she did to raise me, but you have to understand that when I left for college, I promised myself that I would never be a burden to her. When it comes to taking care of me, she's the last person I would ask for help.

And why would I ever ask her for help when I had a handsome, older guy with a big dick delivering chirashi to my apartment on GrubHub?

After spoiling me gifts all week long, Chase would return to LA on Friday nights, and then it was my turn to spoil him.

He knew from our first hookup that I liked to tease, so he made a habit of showing up at the nightclub where I worked on the weekends. He would enter quietly and pretend not to know me, watching from the bar as other men would approach me at the hostess stand. They would flirt with me, trying to get my number or coax me out onto the dance floor with them. I would smile demurely as these men ran game on me, gently removing their hands from my waist or lower back when they tried to get frisky. All the while, I could feel Chase's eyes on me, watching me perform for him as other men vied for my body. And then, just as my shift ended, Chase would walk up to the hostess stand, drape his arm around my waist without saying a word, and escort me to a car waiting outside.

As the car drove us towards whichever expensive hotel he had booked for that night, Chase would lift me onto his lap, my legs straddling his waist. He would begin pawing at my black contour dress, pulling the shoulders down, trying to expose my big, soft tits.

"Chase, baby, the driver," I would whisper, protesting even as my body betrayed me. "We're not alone..."

But he wouldn't stop, and I wouldn't dream of stopping him. Within moments, my full, round tits would be out, both nipples engorged and slick with Chase's saliva.

"Oh, godddddd," I would moan softly, bucking my hips uncontrollably, grinding myself against him as he licked and sucked my nipples luridly in the backseat. "Ohhhhhh Chase..."

Between moans, I would glance over my shoulder, making eye contact with the driver as he stole long, lascivious glances at me. I could see in his eyes how badly he wanted to see my bare tits instead of my bare back.

"Baby, he's watching us," I would whisper, turning back towards Chase. "He's watching what you're doing to me..." But this never deterred him.

Soon, we would arrive at the hotel, and I would tuck my tits back into my dress before dismounting Chase. Then, avoiding eye contact with the driver, I would climb out of the car, and Chase would usher me through the lobby and into an elevator. By the time we reached the hotel room, I would be in some state of partial undress, Chase's hands barely disengaging from my body long enough to unlock the door. Then, once it clicked shut behind us, the very last vestiges of his decorum would disappear. Every weekend, he would push me onto a different hotel bed and fuck me like it was his last night as a free man. And every weekend, I would give him absolutely everything that my taut, tanned, tennis-toned body had to offer.

My thoughts lingered on Chase as I disembarked the plane, my nipples hardening visibly against my top as memories of torrid, sex-drunk nights mixed with the cold, sterile air recirculating through SFO.

Sex with Chase was beyond anything I'd experienced before, but I still couldn't put my finger on exactly what made it so intense. If you've read my previous stories, then you know that I've had plenty of wild nights, some of which involved more than one man. I've been with older guys and younger guys, white guys and Black guys, athletes and Marines and college professors. I've cum so many times for so many different men, yet there something undeniably different about the way it felt when Chase pushed my over the edge. But why?

My therapist says that I feed on male validation, and because of this, I often lose myself inside the fantasies of aggressive men. It's almost as if their lust is a contagion that infects me, a parasite that invades the reward systems inside my brain and rewires my drives to align with its own. Even with my submissive tendencies, I sometimes feel that my body is just a host for male desire, and that I am just a fuck puppet being remotely operated by a dominant man.

With other dominant men, my submission felt somehow inevitable, as if I were being compelled by some dark force to give them what they wanted. From the very first time I had sex, these men had conditioned me to enjoy being conquered, to revel in my own ravishment as they claimed me. But being with Chase didn't feel like that. He fucked me with the same aggressive, big dick dominance that I had come to crave, for perhaps the first time, I felt complete agency over my submission, like it was a gift I was giving to him rather than something he was taking from me. There was a freedom in submitting to him because, despite how violently he fucked me, I trusted him with my body.

And yet, despite that trust, I still felt a gnawing sense of insecurity about him. Because even though we were having sweaty, urgent, mind-blowing sex every weekend, we hadn't actually talked about what our relationship was. I'd been extremely hesitant to have "the talk" with him, and there were a variety of reasons for that.

Some of this was just down to normal male-female power dynamics. As the man in our relationship, I thought Chase should be the one to initiate this conversation, especially since he was more than 10 years older than me.

In addition, I was nervous about appearing needy or clingy, which was something I'd never had to deal with before. In the past, I was always the one being pursued, so I'd never had to worry about liking a guy more than he liked me. But the thing was, I actually did like Chase. In a lot of ways, he seemed like just the guy I'd been waiting for.

He was a catch in all of the obvious ways: tall, handsome, and athletic, plus well-educated, professionally accomplished, and a very high earner. But he was exactly my type in all of the less obvious ways: a dominant and charismatic, sexually aggressive, and exceptionally well-hung. Chase was the closest thing I'd found to my ideal alpha male, the rightful heir to my body, deserving of all the exquisite pleasure I could give him.

But while I had no doubt that Chase was worthy of me, I wasn't sure if I was worthy of him. And much of my anxiety was a direct consequence of how we'd hooked up in the first place.

If you've read my previous stories, then you know that I was dating a guy named Jesse when I first met Chase. Actually, we met because of Jesse: he and Chase were both working at tech startups that shared the same co-working space.

Jesse was a shy and unassuming, a nice guy but not at all my type. However, for reasons that are admittedly very selfish, I'd gone out of my way to give him a shot. I'd encourage you to read the story if you want all the details, but what you really need to know is that once I met Chase, I knew that I would eventually submit to him. It was only a matter of how and when.

What I should have done was just break up with Jesse then and there. What I did instead was convince Jesse to go along with things, to let me tease Chase right in front of him, all while reassuring him that I was just flirting, and that the whole thing was nothing more than harmless thrill-seeking.

Except that was never all it was. But by the time Jesse realized that, there was nothing he could do but watch as a more dominant man took possession of his beautiful, half-Asian girlfriend. Nothing he could do but stand aside as an older alpha male assumed control of my fertile, big-breasted, 22-year-old body.

Actually, in the end, Jesse did more than just watch. He gave Chase permission to fuck me. And as Chase pounded my tight, wet, college girl cunt with his huge, pussy-conquering pipe, Jesse stood on the other side of a sliding glass door, jerking off through the shame, staining the glass with his wasted, worthless seed.

After that first time, I knew that my body belonged to Chase. The way he had claimed me--savagely, right in front of my boyfriend, without remorse or hesitation--left no doubt about our sexual chemistry. But with what I'd done to Jesse, I worried that Chase would never see me as more than the hot Asian slut who gave him the ride of his life at her boyfriend's expense.

Yet as the summer wore on, Chase didn't seem to tire of me. In fact, when we were together, he couldn't keep his hands off of me. Like so many girls, I knew that I was trading on the currency I had: fuck first, feelings later. I thought that if I could make Chase feel better than anyone else, he'd forget how things had started.

And it seemed to be working. On weekends when we were together, Chase couldn't seem to get enough of me. We'd fuck two, sometimes three times in a single night, and in the morning, then he'd take me out to breakfast. On weekdays when he was traveling, we would mostly text, but he'd send me food or gifts or money, and I would send him photos of myself in various states of undress.

If all I wanted was a sugar daddy, then it would have been perfect. But what I wanted was a boyfriend. And this seemed like the weekend to make it happen.

I was in town for my best friend Marcy's wedding. Not only was I in the wedding party as her maid of honor, but I had worked up the courage to ask Chase if he would come with me, and he had said yes. It felt like a huge opportunity: Chase and I hadn't done much together aside from fuck, so the fact that he was willing to be my date to a wedding seemed like major progress.

Of course, I kind of had to make major progress, since I'd already told Marcy that he was my boyfriend. I don't know why I did that, since Chase and I hadn't had that talk yet, but I just didn't feel comfortable asking Marcy if I could bring some random guy to her wedding. Maybe I figured that I could manifest it if I started telling people it was true. I dunno... I was 22.

In reality, however, not only was Chase not technically my boyfriend, I hadn't even seen him in two weeks.

Chase traveled often for business, but his trips that summer had all been domestic until two weeks ago. His startup was trying to use the VC money they'd raised to open up new markets in Asia, and as the company's top sales exec, he was the lynchpin of the whole initiative. So for the last two weeks, Chase had been on a business trip across Asia, starting in Taiwan and then onto Hong Kong.

I'd be lying if I said the whole thing hadn't made me a little crazy. When your relationship isn't well-defined, a lot can change in two weeks, and I knew very well from personal experience that Chase had a taste for Asian girls. Still, I'd been texting with him the whole time, and today he was finally coming home, flying into SFO a few hours from now. I was going to see him soon, and I fully intended to remind him just what he'd been missing.

I'd taken an early flight from LA, and as I looked around at my fellow travelers--comfortably dressed in baggy sweatshirts and loose-fitting track pants--I knew I stood out.

In preparation for Marcy's wedding and Chase's return from Asia, I'd treated myself to some new clothes and a mini-makeover, all paid for with the spending money Chase had given me when I'd pouted about him going away for so long. I'd spent damn near every dollar on my appearance because I wanted to make sure that Chase got his money's worth when he came home.

My fingernails were freshly manicured and painted a girlish shade of pink. My toes were done to match, although they couldn't be seen beneath the new pair of bright, white Keds on my feet. I'd had my hair cut, permed, and blown out, so it cascaded down past my shoulders in graceful, silken waves. I'd also had it colored, adding a single streak of pink above the left side of my face, framing my honey-colored skin and standing out against my naturally-black hair. I'd bought new, expensive makeup from Sephora, adding dark, smoky eyeshadow to accentuate the allure of my Asian eyes. My full lips were painted a glossy pink that matched the streak through my hair and color of my nails. (Chase liked me in pink lingerie, so I thought why not go all in?)

On top, I was wearing an oversized, hunter green flannel shirt, but I'd cut off the bottom half to show off my flat, toned midriff. I'd left just enough fabric on either side so that I could knot it at the bottom above my belly button, pulling the flannel so that it wrapped tightly around my bust. I left the shirt unbuttoned, allowing my ample cleavage to spill out, framed on either side by the flannel. Beneath the flannel, I wore a low-cut pink top that was somewhere between a bralette and a crop top. Below the tan expanse of my midsection, I had on a pair of casual, low-rise jeans that were torn at the knees.

To accent the look, I'd spent some of Chase's money on a set of thinly-braided gold chains: one dangled from my neck, resting lightly against my collarbones above the v-cut of my crop top. The other was slung suggestively around my waist, sitting snugly atop my hips and encircling my torso. Hanging from the neck chain was a tiny golden charm in the shape of a key. A tiny golden lock hung on the waist chain, resting seductively just below my belly button. Finally, I wore a pair of thin, oversized golden hoop earrings in each ear.

It was a daring outfit for a morning flight, one that I knew would attract attention. But there was a possibility that I wouldn't have time to change, and I damn sure wasn't going to let Chase see me in airport sweats after two weeks abroad.

As I moved through the airport with my earbuds in, I saw men turning their heads, their eyes tracking me as they tried to be surreptitious. Guys always think they can check you out without being seen, but girls who are used to the attention develop an almost preternatural ability to detect the male gaze. I don't mind when men try to steal a glance at my body, but I don't respect it, either. To me, that's a dead giveaway of beta male behavior. If you're going to check me out, then be an alpha and have the guts to own it.

Passing by a Starbucks, I paused briefly, considering whether I had time for a coffee. Seated alone at one of the cafe tables was a middle-aged white man wearing a pilot's uniform. He had to be in his late-40s, maybe 50, with close-cropped, salt and pepper hair. Below the bill of his pilot's cap, he had a pair of piercing blue eyes, and they were staring right at me.

I stood there for a few seconds, pretending to contemplate the menu but really waiting to see whether the man would look away. When he didn't, I let my smoky brown eyes drift in his direction until i was meeting his gaze head on.

For most guys, this moment is when they lose their nerve, embarrassed by the fact that they've been caught checking me out. But what guys ought to realize is that there are few things sexier than extended, unbroken eye contact. Of course, if the girl makes eye contact with you and then looks away, that isn't an invitation to keep staring at her. That can feel threatening. But if she's looking at you, then she usually wants you to look at her.

I was looking straight at the pilot now, challenging him with my eyes. My face remained impassive, but when two people are looking directly at each other, the eyes alone can be very expressive. With my eyes, I said:

You like what you see, old man? You think you can still keep up with a girl like me?

His eyes narrowed, but his blue-eyed gaze remained unflinching. I could feel my heart beating faster in my chest. Okay, I thought to myself. Why the hell not?

Slowly, I began to bend down, maintaining eye contact with the older pilot as I lowered myself onto one knee. Then, I dropped my gaze, temporarily breaking the eye contact between us but knowing full well that he was still watching, looking down at me from his seat at the cafe.

As I looked down at my white Keds, a lock of my long, glossy hair slipped from behind my ear, falling across my chest. Casually, I slipped a thin, black hair-tie off my wrist, gathering the errant strands in my hand and reaching behind my head to tie them back into a ponytail.

I was still staring down at my Keds, but I knew that a few paces away, a smug, approving smile had found its way to the pilot's face. From his privileged vantage point above me, he now had a beautiful view down my shirt, the deep ravine of my cleavage directly in his line of sight. And if that weren't generous enough, I was making things even sweeter for him, pulling my hair back to grant him an unobstructed view of my soft, supple curves.