Lola the College Cocktease

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 a lot of references to some of my earlier stories. If you want know more about my falling out with my father or how I lost my virginity to my friend's older brother (Cam), check out Like Father, Like Daughter. If you want to know more about how my boss (Magnus) subsequently took advantage of me, read Lola's Summer at the Club. If you want to know how my first boyfriend lost me to an older ex-marine (Grant), read Lola's First Boyfriend.

Or if you want to learn how I became a bonafide cocktease during my freshman year of college, just keep reading.

Hugs,

Lola

—

After Grant successfully used his huge cock to drive a wedge between me and my first college boyfriend, that relationship fell apart pretty quickly. As far as I know, Tad never found out that on the night we were meant to celebrate his birthday, I ended up in an off-campus apartment getting savagely double-teamed by a pair of monster-cock ex-marines. Instead, Tad thought he was responsible for our breakup, believing he had lost me when he'd overplayed his hand in pursuit of a threesome with me and my roommate. He was half-right, of course, as his big mouth and clumsy bid for a threesome drove me into Grant's stronger, more skillful arms. And once Grant had me in his clutches, he and his friend took full advantage of their opportunity, pounding me with such shameless contempt for my boyfriend that I could never look at him the same way again.

I know Tad mourned his loss, as one rueful encounter at the campus center made painfully obvious. His face was painted with longing and his words dripped with desire as he commented on my new hair color and asked if I had a new boyfriend. I was tempted to tease him, but there was no need, as he knew from experience the kind of pleasure my body could provide. With my alluring half-Asian features, unusually big boobs, and fit, tan tennis figure, I was practically built for male sexual gratification. In our brief time together, Tad had barely scratched the surface of what my body had to offer, yet he had enjoyed the privilege just enough to know what he was missing.

Tad didn't realize it, but he could thank Grant for the new blonde look he liked so much. Many of the dominant men I've been with over the years have enjoyed marking their territory by molding my appearance in one way or another. To the alpha male, this act can serve at least three different purposes: first, it reaffirms that they have control over me, even when they aren't physically present. Second, it allows them to model me on their particular kinks, the better to act out their specific sexual fantasies. Third, it signals to other men that I am claimed, which can serve as a deterrent against potential interlopers. (Incidentally, I've found that this last purpose backfires more often than not. If a beta male perceives that I am taken, he will likely stand down, but most alpha males regard this as a worthy challenge. So when men try to brand me as their own, they may repel the minnows but attract the sharks.)

Every dominant man makes his quarry in different ways, but some forms of branding are more common than others. For example, lots of guys will buy you clothes because they want you to dress in a certain way. Some guys want me to dress slutty, wearing halters or crop tops, cutoff shorts or miniskirts that expose as much of my body as possible. These are men who want to degrade me and show me off at the same time. They like dressing me in a way that attracts attention from other men because it gives them an opportunity to put their dominance on display. After all, being dominant over a hot piece of ass is nice, but if the other men in the room all want to fuck her, you can extend your dominance by denying them what they want. The only thing alpha males like more than being dominant over a woman is using her to dominate other men.

But not every guy wants you to dress like a slut. Some guys will dress you more conservatively because it turns them on to hide your body from the rest of the world. It's like putting up a privacy fence around your mansion: it says, let them wonder about the majesty of what lies on the other side, for they will never have the chance to satisfy their curiosity. Still other guys like to dress you classy, and they'll buy you jewelry or clingy, expensive dresses that hug your curves. Lots of guys will buy you lingerie: it's a pretty obvious choice, because it's sexy and discreet, and ostensibly they are the only ones who get to enjoy you in it. Lingerie is also a good gift because it primes you for sex. On the day he finally fucked me after months of careful seduction, my former boss Magnus left a box of sexy underwear in my locker at the country club where we worked. The gift was anonymous, so I didn't know who was in pursuit, but it primed me for sex by telegraphing that someone at the club was trying to fuck me.

But even among alpha males, Grant was especially brazen in how he branded me. On the first night we met, while my boyfriend was passed out in the other room, Grant had inked a suggestive henna tattoo on my back, explicitly marking me as a target before he had any right to claim me. Then, when Tad overplayed his hand and drove me back to Grant, he inked me a second time, instructing his friend to mark me with the words 'TWO COCK SLUT' while he held me hostage, his massive cock rooted inside me.

Yet these shameful henna tattoos weren't enough for Grant. He insisted on two other forms of branding, one of which was meant for the world to see, while the other was mainly for us to enjoy.

For the former, Grant wanted me to dye my hair blonde. This may not seem like a big deal, but although I grew up in the US with mixed parents, my Korean mom was fairly conservative about things like this. I wasn't allowed to dye my hair in high school, so when I met Grant as a freshman in college, I'd never done anything like that before.

But dying me blonde was an important part of Grant's fantasy for me. When he was stationed in Korea during his time in the Marine Corps, many of the local girls who came to drink at bars near the base were dyed blonde. Among the marines, blonde hair was viewed as an unofficial invitation, a subtle signal that a girl was open to American guys. Grant and his buddies started taking this further: when they slept with a Korean girl who had natural black hair, they would send her home with a bottle of blonde hair dye and instructions to use it. Pretty soon, blonde hair became a sign on the base of Korean girls who had already been broken in by American dick, so much so that there was slang term for these girls: "bleach bunnies." Grant and his friends had an informal competition to see who could "bleach" the most bunnies during their deployment.

Of course, there weren't any "bleach bunnies" in Los Angeles, but there was still a kind of informal connotation associated with blonde Asian girls in the bars and clubs around LA's Koreatown. If you've ever spent time in LA, you're probably familiar with the concept of the Asian Baby Girl, sometimes abbreviated as ABG. You can Google it, but basically, an ABG is a young Asian girl who rejects the conservative norms associated with Asian society and embraces the more liberal ones of American youth culture. These norms often include drinking, drugs, and casual sex, especially though not exclusively with white guys. There are lots of things that can visually identify an Asian girl as an ABG, and nobody agrees on all of them, but things like heavy makeup, tattoos, piercings, fake boobs, slutty clothes, and dyed blonde hair are among the more stereotypical.

Because of all this, Grant was deeply invested in "bleaching" me. Partly, it was an inside joke for him and his fellow marines to enjoy, but he also got off on the idea that he was turning me into an ABG. He liked talking about how blonde hair would make me even more of a magnet for white guys, that combined with my Asian looks and big tits, I wouldn't be able to walk down the street in LA without attracting the male gaze. That might not appeal to everyone, but since Grant never had any intention of being my boyfriend, the idea just turned him on. While he reveled in his ability to control me, he wasn't jealous or possessive in any conventional way. To Grant, I'd become a share-slut the first night that he and his friend had double-teamed me, so why not make me the hottest share-slut I could possibly be?

Dying my hair blonde was the first step in Grant's branding process, the one that was meant to be seen and enjoyed by all. The second step—the one that was just for us—was a real tattoo. At first, I balked hard at this. Grant had inked me twice with the henna, and both times, the tattoos were large and explicit, easy-to-interpret symbols of what a slut I was. Even though the henna tattoos he'd given me were kind of hot in private, if I got a real tattoo like that, I'd never be able to wear a bikini again.

But Grant was persistent. He thought a real tattoo was necessary to further my transformation into an ABG, and he wouldn't give up the idea of marking me permanently. Finally, I agreed to let him mark me on three conditions: first, the tattoo couldn't be explicitly suggestive. Second, the tattoo had to be small and discreet, in a place I could hide during a job interview. And third, the tattoo had to be somewhere that I could easily see while he was working on it, since I didn't entirely trust him to keep his word.

This is how I came to have a small, elegant Roman numeral II on the inside of my right wrist. To a casual observer, it was completely benign, and I could explain away its significance easily enough. Only Grant and I knew what it really meant: that he had marked me, now and forever, as a branded TWO COCK SLUT.

Although converting me into an ABG was Grant's fantasy rather than my own, once my transformation began it wasn't long until I embraced it like the pliable, submissive slut that I am. Grant had insisted on dying my hair and inking me, but I decided independently to start wearing heavier, more provocative makeup, eschewing the natural look I had worn before in favor of dark, smoky cat eyes and lash extensions. I began to visit the shops around Koreatown, looking for the low-rider jeans, revealing tank tops, and skin-tight, figure-hugging bodycon dresses that I saw other ABGs wearing around LA.

Soon, as my ABG look rounded into form, Grant's prediction began coming to fruition. I don't know if all blondes have more fun, but blonde half-Asian college girls with big tits definitely get hit on constantly in Los Angeles. Because I didn't have a boyfriend anymore, I often walked around campus by myself, which made me an easy and appealing target for college boys and older men alike. But despite all the attention my new look was attracting, the only men reaping the benefits of my body were Grant and his friends.

At the same time that he was coaxing me through my ABG transformation, Grant also talked me into an "informal arrangement," which was how he referred to what we were doing without using the word "relationship."

The nature of our arrangement was this: Grant created a private group chat on WhatsApp. By default, he and I were the only people in this chat, but periodically Grant would add a new number to the group. Once a new number appeared in the chat, I would send a DM with a camera emoji to the new number. Then, the anonymous man behind the new number would send me a picture of his hard cock up against a ruler. If he met the size requirements that Grant and I had agreed on (7" minimum), I would DM a kiss emoji to Grant, and he would set up a "party" for the three of us. If a man didn't measure up, I would send Grant a sad face, and the poor guy was history.

There were a few other ground rules. For starters, Grant made the guys pass an STD screen before they could party, which made sense since none of the guys ever wore condoms. (I was on the pill.) For another thing, there was never more than one other guy involved. Grant liked to share me, but he wasn't about to be sidelined at his own party by having too many guests present. Another condition was that I never gave the men my real name, and the men also remained anonymous to me. We only ever communicated through WhatsApp, and as soon as the party was over, Grant removed the other guy from the group. In addition, Grant would never set up two parties with the same guy, no matter how big he was or how good he fucked me. And Grant always, always got to fuck me first. The other guy could have my mouth, but if he wanted my pussy, he'd have to accept Grant's sloppy seconds.

Some of these rules were about safety, but several of them were clearly about Grant safeguarding the control he had over me. If none of these guys knew my name or had my contact info, then they had to go through Grant in order to reach me. And if Grant wouldn't let any of them fuck me more than once, it reduced the chances that any of the other men would steal my sweet young pussy away from Grant.

The only other rule that I insisted on was that none of them, not even Grant, were allowed to have my ass. This was my last virgin hole and I was intent on saving its tightness for as long as I could (which didn't turn out to be that long at all). Grant grudgingly accepted this as the terms of my otherwise complete surrender to his sexual desires. Each time I walked across the threshold of his off-campus apartment, I gave wordless consent to Grant and his anonymous friends, my body a sacrificial offering to the whims of these big-dick alpha gods.

It did occur to me at one point that Grant could have been using my body to turn a profit. I never saw any money exchanged, but that didn't preclude the possibility that Grant was pimping out my 19-year-old Asian pussy to these other big-dick white men. However, I never asked him, and I didn't really care. In a strange way, the idea of him making money off my pussy was less icky than the idea of me selling my own snatch. If I were getting paid to fuck these men, that would make me a bona fide whore, which felt weirdly worse to me than being a two cock share-slut. Fucking anonymous men for money somehow struck me as cheaper than fucking them for free.

But free or not, Grant found plenty of big-dick men who wanted a share of my hot little ABG body. During the spring semester of my freshman year, Grant hosted a party every couple of weeks, and by the end of the school year I'd sucked and fucked my way through more than 20 hand-picked monster cocks.

When the school year ended, I decided to stay on campus to work on my tennis and take some classes over the summer. To my dismay, however, I found out that Grant would be gone the whole time, having taken a summer job in New Orleans.

Maybe it sounds weird that I was distraught by Grant's sudden departure given that he was most emphatically not my boyfriend. However, even though our "arrangement" had been purely sexual, I had still grown somewhat attached. In a way, this wasn't too surprising. I was still just a naive 19-year-old, and I had submitted myself to him almost completely, giving him everything I had to satisfy his dominant demands.

Remember that when I first met Grant, I had only had sex with three men: Cam, who had taken my virginity; Magnus, who had schooled me in the ways of dominance and submission; and Tad, my first real boyfriend. Then, in a matter of months, Grant not only marked my body and remade my whole appearance, but he also fucked me more times than I could count and shared me with a slew of other big-dick men. Cam and Magnus had each enjoyed calling me a slut for their own sleazy enjoyment, but in fact, I was no more sexually promiscuous than the average college freshman. But Grant's influence changed all of that. By the time he told me he was leaving LA for the summer, I'd become a proper slut with a body count that would make a stripper blush, all thanks to Grant and his parties. He had literally altered both my body and my life, so how could he not be at least a little bit special to me?

Grant, for his part, was entirely unsentimental about our parting.

"I'm gonna miss blowing my load on these," he said, fondling my tits the morning after our last party of the semester. "Not sure they make half-Asian chicks with huge tits in New Orleans."

"Are you gonna 'bleach' any girls while you're down there?" I asked.

"Why," he smirked. "Are you jealous?"

"Whatever," I rolled my eyes.

"I'm sure you'll have plenty of guys lining up to keep this pussy warm for me over the summer," he laughed, running his fingers over my slit.

"I've never had a problem finding dick."

"That's cause dick finds you."

"What can I say," I tossed my blonde hair and rolled my shoulders back, sticking my tits in the air. "Guys like blonde Asian girls with big boobs."

"Just remember our rule," he said, guiding my hand to his stiffening cock. "Big cocks only."

"Come on, Grant," I smiled, dropping to my knees. "You know you've gotta be at least 7" to ride this ride."

He moaned as I swallowed his cock. He may not have been my boyfriend, but if this was to be his summer sendoff, I was going to make it sweet for him.

...

When Grant left for New Orleans, he left me with a very tight, very wet hole to fill.

After months of parties with him and his buddies, my transformation into the busty, blonde Asian sex doll of Grant's dreams was complete. I'd grown accustom to the ecstatic release of getting railed by a pair of alpha males every couple of weeks, a steady of stream of verified big dicks always waiting at my disposal. With Grant gone, I was more than just a submissive slut who had lost a uniquely dominant man. I was also an addict who had lost my supplier.

For the first couple of weeks, I was okay, but soon I started to experience my own kind of withdrawal symptoms. Grant had rewired me to be an oversexed share-slut, and having been habituated to the overstimulation of being double-teamed by two huge cocks at the same time, I began feeling restless and impulsive when deprived of this release. I was having trouble sleeping, and my schoolwork and tennis were both suffering as a consequence. I really needed to get fucked.

But despite my claim that I would have no trouble finding dick, Grant was right: I was used to dick finding me. Grant had made everything so safe, easy, and uncomplicated. All I had to do was show up at his apartment in a tight dress or a bralette tank top and let a pair of big-dick alphas do what they wanted with me. Grant had vetted these men, and if any of them got out of line, he was there to enforce his rules.

Now, in his absence, things weren't as simple. I was still getting hit on by random guys around campus, but it felt risky to assume they could fill the void that Grant's departure had left in my life. Could they be dominant in the way I needed them to be? Would they measure up to my size requirements? It was hard to know based on a single interaction or some casual flirting.

Because of this, I started focusing on the guys in my summer classes, which afforded me repeat opportunities to observe and interact with the same men. There was one class in particular that seemed promising: Philosophy 101.

At USC, it was pretty common for varsity athletes to take classes over the summer. This gave us the flexibility to take a lighter class-load during the semester when our sport was in-season, which made it much easier to stay on top of your schoolwork without falling behind. For scholarship athletes like me, this decision was kind of a no-brainer, because the university covered the cost of our room and board if we stayed on campus.