Lola the Coachella Slut

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. 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.

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

Hugs,

Lola

***

I've often wondered how my relationships with men, and particularly white men, would be different if I were just Asian or just white rather than a mixed race hapa.

There are two sides to this question, of course: first, there's the issue of whether I would act differently around white men if I weren't mixed, but there's also the matter of whether white men would treat me differently as a white girl or an Asian girl.

I think the second dimension of this question is easier to answer based on my observations of how white guys treat other girls. While there are certainly some white guys who specifically pursue Asian women, I think a lot of white guys tend to view Asian girls as unfamiliar, not very relatable, and maybe even a little bit weird. Even the most assimilated, native-born Asian Americans have to contend with stereotypes of the "perpetual foreigner" and the "inscrutable Oriental."

So while most Asian girls in America are fetishized, sexualized, and assumed to be submissive in ways that definitely appeal to some white men, this is sometimes accompanied by the perception that Asian women are unknowable or unapproachable, which creates something of a culture barrier between white guys and Asian girls. In addition, while the white male-Asian female dyad is certainly among the most common mixed-race pairings in the U.S., the reality is that most Asian women end up with Asian guys. What this means is that a lot of white guys tend to assume (quite correctly) that the average Asian girl probably isn't interested in them.

As a result, several of my Asian American girlfriends have actually found that they have to go out of their way to attract attention from white guys, because otherwise they tend to get ignored or overlooked.

But in my experience, being half-Asian changes this calculus completely, because white guys make a different set of assumptions about mixed race girls. Unlike my Asian girlfriends, white guys often see me as approachable, relatable, and familiar, which eliminates the culture barrier between us. Moreover, these guys seem to intuit that because I have a white parent, I must be open to the idea of mixed race coupling and having sex with non-Asian guys. Consequently, white guys tend to be seen as a much more natural and likely romantic partner than most of my Asian girlfriends.

But that doesn't mean that they treat me the same way they would an ordinary white girl. Because although I am white enough to be relatable, my obviously Asian features also set me apart as exotic and mysterious. In this way, I occupy an in-between space, familiar enough to pursue yet different enough to stir the imagination. When white men look at me, they see something they recognize, but it's not their mother, or their sister, or their daughter. Instead, they see an approachable vessel for their fantasies, a submissive Asian girl with an affinity for whiteness already bred into her bloodline.

Such is the double-bind of the half-white, half-Asian girl. If I were white, these men might see me as a true romantic partner. If I were Asian, they might be inclined to leave me alone. But instead, I am neither and both, a plaything caught halfway between love and neglect, an object of pure fantasy and disposable lust.

And yet there is still the other side of this coin left to ponder. Would I act differently around white men if I weren't half-Asian? I've ask myself this question many times.

Would I feel such kinship with white men if I didn't have a white father? Would I be so drawn in by their attention?

And would I have such strong submissive tendencies if I didn't have a Korean mother? Would I still be so eager to please these men?

Did I become a slut because that's what men see when they look at me? Or was it always my fate to feed their fantasies, an accident of birth and biology that bestowed upon me a body of sinful proportions and a brain that lights up under the influence of a dominant man?

I can never know the answers to these questions. I can only tell my stories and let you judge for yourself.

...

At the beginning of the first story I ever posted on this site, I wrote that most of my friends are aware of the way I am with men. Yet if you've read my subsequent stories, then you'll know that in the beginning, I was mostly able to keep my slutty side a secret from the people in my life.

Yes, I fucked my boss at the country club job I worked at the summer after my senior year, an older married man named Magnus who lured me into a vulnerable position and exploited my submissive nature. I even let him photograph our encounter. But as far as I know, the only person who knew about this was another member of the country club who had conspired with my boss to manipulate me, only to be humiliated himself in his moment of triumph when Magnus claimed me all for his own. (See: Lola's Summer at the Club.)

Yes, I became a share-slut for an ex-marine named Grant during my freshman year of college, letting him double-team with various friends at "parties" he hosted at his apartment. I even let him brand me with a tattoo, a small Roman numeral II on the inside of my wrist that signified my status as a two-cock slut. But Grant did a good job of protecting my identity from his friends, largely as a way to keep them from trying to fuck me without his permission. So while I developed quite the reputation within this group, I don't think the details ever leaked beyond Grant's tight circle of marine corps mates. (See: Lola's First Boyfriend.)

Yes, my married college professor fucked me after a barbecue at his house, even though his wife and kids were at home. But Professor Daniels took me by force, so it wasn't like he could tell anyone what had happened without risking his family, his career, and the likelihood of being charged with a crime. (See: Lola the College Cocktease.)

Yes, I let my boyfriend's younger brother Jack fuck me in his brother's bed, all while my boyfriend Justin was asleep in the other room. But my desire to keep our tryst a secret was what gave Jack the leverage he needed to get me into bed in the first place, so he knew that as soon as our secret got out, his hold on me would disappear. And even if Jack told his older brother about us, I knew Justin's devout Mormon faith would keep him from taking revenge or shaming me publicly. (See: Lola and the Locked Door.)

So by the time I entered the spring of my junior year at USC, I had already built up quite the track record of falling prey to dominant, aggressive men. But despite years of being exploited by one alpha male after another, I'd managed to keep this side of me separate from the rest of my life. If you had asked my friends to describe me at that point, they would probably have talked about me as a strong tennis player and a good student, competitive and ambitious but still fun and easygoing. I doubt that any of them would have described me "slutty" or "promiscuous" or "a party girl."

This story is when all that started to change.

...

Soon after I succumb to Jack's coercive advances and spent a long, dark night letting my boyfriend's 19-year-old brother use my body over and over again, it became painfully clear that Justin and I had no future together. As much as it turned me on in the moment to cheat on my boyfriend in such a taboo manner, the guilt I felt when the dust had settled was overwhelming, and I knew I couldn't go on as his girlfriend knowing what I had done. Moreover, I knew that as long as Justin and I continued dating, his brother Jack would be able to leverage the secret of my betrayal to fuck me whenever and however he wanted. The fantasy of cuckolding Justin and becoming a breeder slut-wife for his dominant younger brother may have made me cum during sex, but in the light of day, the reality of letting a sadistic, evil bastard like Jack control me at the expense of his gentle, caring older brother made my stomach turn.

Still, it took several weeks for me to work up the courage to break it off with Justin. I knew things weren't going to work out between us, but he was the first serious boyfriend I'd ever had, the first guy who had seen me as more than just a hot piece of ass. Even without Jack's lecherous interventions, we really weren't a good fit, as I don't think a conversion to Mormonism was ever really in the cards for me. Nevertheless, I cried when I finally told him that I couldn't date him anymore, overcome by the sense that I was losing a great guy as well as the shame of what I'd done to doom our chances.

After we broke up, it took me a couple of months before I could begin thinking about guys again. This might seem like a long time for a relationship that lasted less than a year, but I was still just 21-years-old and grieving the loss of my first real boyfriend. And the manner in which I'd lost him didn't help.

During this period of mourning, I began to wonder again whether I really was the slut that so many guys seemed to think I was. The evidence in favor of this conclusion seemed to be mounting. In the three years since losing my virginity as an 18-year-old, I'd had sex with something like 20 different guys, more than half of whom were friends of Grant's that I'd taken two at a time. I'd fucked ex-marines, college guys, and guys with wives and children. I'd fucked guys my own age, older men, and now one who was younger than me. I'd fucked a lot of white guys and one Black guy. I'd taken facials, been tag-teamed, and given up my ass. I'd had two boyfriends and had cheated on them both.

That last part really stuck out in my mind. Tad had been an asshole and Justin had been a saint, but what they both had in common was the fact that I'd had sex with another man before breaking up with either of them. This really made me question whether I was even cut out for romantic relationships. It was one thing to be a slut, but did I have to hurt the people I cared about in the process? My dad had been a serial cheater and it had destroyed our family. Now I had become a serial cheater, and even if I hadn't hurt anyone yet, it was only a matter of time.

So many of the alpha males I had fucked had encouraged me to just embrace becoming a slut. They'd acted like it was my destiny, written in the curves of my body and etched across the perversions of my mind. They acted as if the need to be used by men was buried deep inside me, and that they were merely excavating my own hidden desires with their huge, hard cocks.

Were they right? Did they know something about me that I didn't? Was it futile for me to fight my urges? Was it pointless to deny the desires that bubbled up unbidden when a dominant man asserted control over me? I had cum countless times as these men conquered my body. Their depraved demands had driven me to orgasm over and over. They had broken dark, sacred taboos, and in doing so, shattered my resolve.

Maybe some girls are meant to have relationships, I thought, looking around at my girlfriends with their sweet, ordinary boyfriends. And perhaps other girls are built to serve a darker purpose.

These thoughts were swirling around in my brain as a much-anticipated date approached: Coachella.

Coachella is pretty famous, but for those that don't know, it's an annual music festival held in California in April. It takes place in a desert valley about two-and-half hours east of Los Angeles. Every year, tens of thousands of young people from around the world descend on Coachella to see their favorite musical acts, do drugs, and try to get laid, not necessarily in that order.

Tickets to Coachella are insanely hard to get unless you are super in the know, which pretty much describes my friend Elsie. If you've read all of my earlier stories, you might remember that Elsie was my freshman year roommate, a cute, petite, bubbly blonde girl from nearby Calabasas who was a coxswain on the USC crew team. Elsie and I got along pretty well, but we were both pretty competitive, so we developed something of a sibling rivalry pretty early in our friendship. This rivalry got a little heated when Tad, the guy Elsie was crushing on, asked me out instead of her. And it got a little more heated when Tad tried to rope me into a threesome with Elsie, who was a lot more into it than I was. In the end, Tad managed to get a drunken blowjob from Elsie, but it cost him our relationship, as his actions drove me into the waiting arms of Grant and his band of monster-cock marines.

Still, even after all that, my friendship with Elsie more or less recovered when we both agreed to blame Tad for what had happened. We never roomed together again after freshman year, but we remained friends, part of a larger group of girls who all lived in the same dorm that year.

Elsie had a great personality, so there were lots of reasons to be friends with her, but it didn't hurt that her family was very wealthy and well-connected. She was always going off to do one fancy thing or another, and if you were in with her, she'd often find a way to bring you along for the ride. And that year, she'd somehow managed to score five general admission tickets to Coachella, which meant four of her friends would be along for a helluva ride.

I was honestly a little surprised that I got the invite. We'd always been good friends but never best friends. But I think it might have had something to do with how things had gone down with Tad during our freshman year. Ever since then, I think Elsie had felt kind of guilty towards me, because all she knew was that after she sucked Tad off, the two of us broke up. It wasn't really her fault: Tad had led her to believe that I was into the idea, and by the time it turned out that I wasn't, she was way to drunk realize. But she never found out about where I'd gone after leaving her alone with Tad, so I think she always assumed that she had betrayed me and ruined my relationship with Tad. The fact that I'd forgiven her so easily, having never really held her responsible in the first place, meant that she was always looking for ways to make it up to me.

When Elsie invited me to come with her to Coachella, it almost felt like serendipity. I'd been broken up with Justin for a couple of months and was finally ready to start enjoying what it meant to be single again. And for a newly-single, 21-year-old college girl who wants to start making up for lost time, there might not be a more perfect place in the entire world than Coachella.

In so many ways, Coachella creates an almost ideal environment for encouraging slutty behavior. For one thing, it brings together thousands of mostly young, mostly rich, mostly anonymous people, all of whom are there to have a good time and make wild memories. It also takes place in the desert, so it's hot and dry and people tend to wear as little clothing as they possibly can. The entire thing takes place on a single massive site, so nobody has to drive anywhere, which means that everyone is constantly drinking or getting high. And the festival lasts for three days and two nights, which is plenty of time to get into trouble but not enough time to catch feelings.

The whole thing more or less feels like Halloween, spring break, and senior week all rolled into one sun-drunk weekend.

In addition to me, Elsie had also invited her current roommate, a fellow crew girl named Willa; her boyfriend, Rick; and his best friend, Felix. I knew Willa a little bit from hanging out at Elsie's off-campus apartment, but I hadn't actually met either of the guys. That didn't really bother me, though, since I was looking forward to spending the weekend surrounded by thousands of total strangers.

And so, on a sunny Friday morning in April, we all cut class, piled into two cars, and set out from Los Angeles for Coachella. The boys drove together in Rick's car while Willa and I rode with Elsie.

Elsie and Willa were both very attractive, but physically, they couldn't have been more different. While Elsie was tiny, blonde, and conventionally cute, Willa was a tall and strapping brunette, with the broad shoulders and lean frame of a rower. She seemed like the kind of girl who might intimidate certain guys, because although she had pretty face, nice teeth, flawless skin, and shiny, healthy brown hair, her body was kind of imposing and a bit masculine. Whereas playing tennis had toned my body to accentuate my soft, sensuous curves, crew had given Willa an Amazonian quality, her smallish breasts blending in with her surrounding musculature.

Almost as soon as we hit the city limits and started rolling on I-10, Willa reached into the glovebox and pulled out a little Altoids container.

"You ladies care for a mint?" she asked.

"I could probably freshen up," Elsie said as she drove.

"Sure," I added.

"Excellent," Willa said, opening the tin. "Oh dear, I seem to have taken the wrong tin."

Inside were two neatly-stacked rows of compact, tightly rolled joints.

"I guess it'll have to do," Elsie laughed. She rolled down the windows as Willa pulled a joint from the tin and lit the end.

She exhaled smoke out the window and passed the joint to Elsie, who coolly took a drag with one hand on the wheel before passing it back to me.

"Coach-elllllllllllla!" Willa yelled exuberantly as I pulled on the joint and handed it back to her.

As we cruised past the outskirts of LA, the joint moved in a circle between the front and back seats, and Willa started playing "Best I Ever Had" by Drake through the stereo.

"Yessssss," I said, letting my head bob to the music as the high began to rise in my chest. "I love this song!"

"Okay babes, female bonding time," Willa smiled, flicking the spent roach out the window. "Let's go. The best you've ever had."

"Wils, you're such a perv," Elsie laughed.

"Then I guess I'll go first," Willa chuckled. "So, you know, I was in Barcelona last semester..."

"Here we go," Elsie said, rolling her eyes.

"European guys are just different," Willa swooned. "I met this guy Marcos at a club, and from the moment he put his hands on my hips and we started dancing, I knew I was going to fuck him."

"Mediterranean guys are too hairy," Elsie said, sticking her tongue out.

"That's cause they're real men, not like the manscaped frat boys you go for," Willa shot back.

"Rick isn't in a frat," Elsie corrected.

"Okay, whatever," Willa said, reclining her seat back. "Doesn't matter how hairy his chest is when he's eating your pussy." She threw her head back and put her hands between her legs, pretending to run her hands through a guy's hair.

"Ewww, Wils!" Elsie shrieked in delight. "You're so nasty!"

"Marcos had a nice dick, but he had a tongue that could read braille."

"Wow," I laughed. "He sounds pretty hot."

"This girl gets it," Willa said, gesturing at me then turning to Elsie. "Why can't you be that sex positive?"