Lola the College Cocktease

Some athletes used the summer to concentrate on their hardest classes with fewer distractions, but a lot of us saw it as an opportunity to relax, knock off a few distribution requirements, and train for the fall season. I fell into the latter camp: Philosophy 101 had a reputation as a fairly easy class, and since it filled a humanities requirement, it was a popular choice among athletes who wanted to keep things simple over the summer.

On the first day of class, I decided to make an impression, so I showed up to the lecture hall a couple of minutes late. This ensured that most of the class would already be seated, so everyone's eyes would be on me when I walked in. To make the most of my entrance, I made sure that my ABG charms were turned all the way up: I was in full makeup, with my long, freshly bleached blonde hair cascading down past my shoulders. I wore a sheer white tank top that hugged my big, generous tits, which were cupped by a black push-up bra that was clearly visible through my shirt. Below, I wore cut-off jean shorts that were frayed just below the curve of my ass, so short that the front pockets peeked out from below the hem. I topped off the look with large hoop earrings and a pair of wedge heels, making sure to carry my team-issued USC Tennis backpack so that everyone could identify me as an athlete.

As I entered the room and walked towards an empty seat in the front row, I heard someone wolf whistle, confirming that my entrance had had the intended effect. Glancing around the room, I made note of several guys wearing USC team-issued sweats sitting in the rear of the lecture hall.

"You're late," a heavy voice said from the front of the room.

"Oh, sorry," I said, sitting down.

"This may be a philosophy class, but that doesn't mean time is an abstract concept."

Setting my things down, I looked up at the man who was speaking.

Professor Daniels, as it said on the chalkboard behind him, was a tall, reedy man who appeared to be in his late-40s. I had figured a philosophy professor would have unkempt white hair and a huge, billowing Socrates beard, but Professor Daniels cut a much neater profile. He had blue eyes, close-cropped salt-and-pepper hair, and sharp facial features shadowed by the faintest hint of five o'clock shadow. He was actually kind of handsome in a severe, academic sort of way.

"What is your name, my dear?"

"Lola Andrews."

"And why are you late to my class, Ms. Andrews?"

"I had to clean up after tennis practice," I said meekly. "I'm sorry, Professor."

"Tennis, eh," he nodded, his eyes flitting from my face to my chest ever so briefly. "Well, it looks like you cleaned up very nicely indeed."

Then, he turned back to the class and continued going over the syllabus.

...

As I had hoped, a few of the guys from the back row approached me after class. There were a couple of fall sports represented, including an extremely thirsty guy from the soccer team who apparently knew Tad, my ex-boyfriend. I was aware that Tad had told Grant and some of his other ROTC friends about me, so I wondered if his soccer mates had also heard rumors about Lola the busty half-Asian slut.

But the guy who made the biggest impression on me was actually a football player named Derek. In some ways, this wasn't a surprise, since Derek's physical stature was very on-brand for me: he was tall with thick arms, huge hands, and broad shoulders densely knotted with cords of muscle. In this way, he fit right in alongside Cam, the hulking college baseball star who had taken my virginity during a recruiting trip when I was a senior in high school. In one key way, however, Derek stood out from the other guys I'd been with.

He was Black.

Now, I'll be the first to say that I grew up with some very problematic ideas about Black people. Although I was raised by mixed-race parents in the liberal bastion that is the San Francisco Bay Area, my exposure to Black people throughout childhood was woefully limited. Only a handful of Black students attended the same schools that I did, and the few that did tended to keep largely to themselves. My friend group consisted mostly of the Asian-American girls I had known since childhood and the mostly white girls I met playing tennis. There weren't really any Black girls in my social circles and certainly no Black guys. My parents had some Black colleagues, of course, but my interactions with them were almost non-existent.

As a result, most of my notions about Black people came from portrayals in teenage pop culture: rap songs, music videos, movies, video games, and the like. Along with a lot of my white and Asian girlfriends, my image of Black people was mostly cobbled together from stupid, superficial stereotypes around "hood" culture.

My worldview started to expand bit by bit during my freshman year at USC, where I had more opportunities to interact with Black students and other Black people. Still, I'm embarrassed to admit that I'd never really considered Black guys as potential romantic partners. As the child of an interracial couple, you might think that I would have fewer hangups about dating someone of a different race, but that wasn't really my experience. My Dad was white, so I think subconsciously I assumed that I would end up with a white guy, too. Of course, my Mom would've been thrilled to see me with an Asian guy, especially after my Dad's cheating had destroyed their marriage. But since she had married a white man, it always felt like she couldn't get too upset if I brought home a white guy. Whether I realized it or not, I think I saw white and Asian guys as pre-approved romantic options, whereas Black guys fell into a sort of a gray area.

But when Derek chatted me up after our first Philosophy 101 class, it became abundantly clear that he wasn't anything like the stereotype of a Black guy I'd fashioned from pop culture. Okay, yes, he was a football player and clearly a gifted athlete, but he also came across as nerdy, tech-obsessed, and outdoorsy, all of which were qualities that I had grown up associating with white or Asian people. In addition to being physically my type, he seemed charming and an easy talker, and by the time our conversation ended my interest was piqued.

And yeah, okay, I'll admit that I was also curious about his body. Now that I had adopted an informal size requirement for my partners, the stereotype about Black guys being well-endowed was somewhat more intriguing. And of course, Derek wasn't just any Black guy: he was a 6'3, 195-lb wide receiver on USC's legendary football team. It seemed to me that if any guy could be assumed to have a big dick, it was someone like Derek. After having spent the spring semester fucking my way through an all-white platoon of monster-cock marines, giving a handsome Black college athlete a shot hardly seemed like an unbridgeable taboo.

Of course, I also realized that in this case, Derek might be the one in higher demand. I know just how hot I am, but LA is full of hot chicks, and there are only so many spots on the USC football team. On reputation alone, most of those guys would be up to their eyeballs in good pussy, and I figured someone like Derek would be even more sought-after than many of his teammates. It was fair to wonder whether a blonde, half-Asian tennis player with big boobs was even on his radar, but the fact that he had chatted me up after class seemed to count for something. Was Derek into Asian girls? Could he be tempted by my ample charms? I wasn't sure, but I was intent on finding out.

...

Generally speaking, jersey chasers trying to attract a high-profile athlete have to follow three uncomplicated and uncompromising rules.

Rule #1: Be very, very hot. This is so self-evident that I hardly need to mention it, but if he isn't thinking with his dick the moment he looks at you, then none of the other rules come into play. This rule is pretty universal, but at a school like USC in a city like Los Angeles, you basically have to be a 9 or above to even get in the game.

Rule #2: Be fun. Like it or not, there are lots of hot girls out there, so just being a great piece of ass usually isn't enough. You also need to be a good time. If he wants to get faded at home and watch TV, then that's what you want, too. If he's playing video games with his boys, then you're gonna sit off to the side and watch with a smile on your face. If he wants to go to a strip club, then you'd better be dressed to the nines and ready to stuff some singles in a g-string.

Rule #3: Be available. Guys on a team like USC football have time for one priority and one priority only: football. I was a college athlete myself, so I might like to think I know about devoting yourself to your sport, but comparing tennis to football is honestly naive. Between practice, film study, weight training, stretching and recovery, media requests, and traveling to away games, the guys who play Division I football at a Top 25 school barely have time to go to class, much less go through the motions of dating. If you try to compete with football for his attention, you will always lose, so you need to make yourself available around his schedule. If you're not available when he wants you, rest assured that there plenty of other hot chicks in his phone who will gladly take your place.

Beyond these basic rules, athletes aren't that different from other alpha males. Even though there's plenty of easy pussy out there, most of them enjoy the challenging of having to work for it at least a little, so it's good to play a bit of hard-to-get. Coy and flirtatious can work so long as you don't overplay your hand. As with all things, alphas tend to enjoy pussy more if they've had to earn it, so the subtle art of jersey chasing is to hold his interest for as long as you can before you let him fuck you. And then, when he finally does fuck you, you better make sure it was worth the trouble.

I didn't have these rules written down when I met Derek, but having lost my virginity to another star athlete, I had an intuitive grasp of how to play the game. And I knew that before I could get to Rule #2 or Rule #3, I had to lean into Rule #1, which meant passing Derek's dick test with top marks.

As part of my ABG transformation, I'd already stepped up the daily maintenance of my appearance a lot. Gone were the days of rushing to class in a sweatshirt and some light foundation with my hair in a bun. Even so, I started preparing for Philosophy 101 like it was a Friday night: hair blown out, nails painted, makeup on point, even a splash of perfume. My clothes were as sexy and revealing as I could get away with wearing to a class that met on Tuesdays and Thursdays at 11AM. It would look too thirsty to wear the bodycon dresses that ABGs wore out clubbing in Los Angeles, but I made sure that my midriff, my legs, and my shoulders were bare every time I walked into class. Summer in southern California, right? The weather was hot and so was I. All I was doing was taking classes and playing tennis, so my body was in peak form: taut, toned, and tanned to a deep, sun-drunk honey-gold that brought out my Asian genetics even more. I topped off every outfit with a choker necklace around my neck, a pair of wedge heels that accentuated my legs and ass, and a push-up bra that showed off my big, soft tits, which I knew separated me from the majority of Asian girls.

In addition, despite the scolding I'd received from Professor Daniels on the first day, I made it a point to arrive consistently late to his class. I wanted all eyes to be on me, including Derek's. I wanted his dick to stir every time he sat down for class in anticipation of the hot, busty Asian cocktease who was about to walk in and put on a show. And I wanted him to wonder whether that show was for him.

Of course, when you put on a show as public as the one I was putting on for Derek, you're going to attract the attention of more than one man. Lots of guys began approaching me after class, including Tad's thirsty friend from the soccer team, who practically begged me to come with him to a bonfire party on the beach one night. I enjoyed the attention, but I let him down gently. I had my sights set on what I believed to be a much "bigger" target.

But it wasn't just the other guys in the class who took notice. Just as I had gotten into the habit of showing up late to class, Professor Daniels had gotten into the habit of commenting on my tardy arrivals. This seemed harmless enough, except that his comments often focused on the way I looked or how I was dressed.

"Might I suggest a little less time on your makeup and a little more time in my classroom, Ms. Andrews?"

"Are your heels slowing you down, Ms. Andrews? Perhaps a different choice of footwear and you might actually make it to class on time for once."

"Painted nails will not help you pass this class, Ms. Andrews, but classroom participation will, so I suggest you take that into consideration."

Based on his comments, it was clear that my little show was making an impression on Professor Daniels as well, albeit not a particularly positive one. Although his remarks always seemed more disdainful than suggestive, it struck me as a bit inappropriate that he would comment on his student's appearance in front of the whole class.

Still, it was all worth it, because it was clear that my efforts were having the desired effect on Derek. Within a week, I noticed that he was no longer sitting in the back row of the lecture hall and had instead chosen a seat in the middle of the second row. This was a far better vantage from which to drink me in when I made my customary entrance, and at such a close distance, it was easy for me to catch his eyes roaming up and down my body. Since I was always late to class, I inevitably found an empty seat in the front row, ostensibly to sit down quickly and avoid further disrupting the class. But now that Derek was posted up in the second row, I had an ulterior motive. The lecture hall had tiered, stadium-style seating, so if I sat in the front row directly ahead of Derek, that gave him a clear view down my shirt. With the pushup bras and low-cut tank tops I was wearing to class, I knew that this view of the deep cleavage between my large, firm, golden tits must have been a sight to behold. I wanted Derek to smell my perfume and imagine sliding his huge Black cock into the soft, inviting valley that lay before him.

It seemed to be working. Since we both had afternoon training sessions, Derek and I got into the routine of walking together across campus after class, and I started to get to know him better. For a big-shot football star, Derek was surprisingly humble, a devoted son and brother who talked a lot about his family. I tried to avoid talking about my family too much. I told Derek that my parents were divorced, but he had the good sense and social graces not to pry much beyond that. Instead, we found that we had some unexpected things in common. We grew up watching some of the same anime TV shows, and Derek was hip to some of the K-pop music that I was into. The fact that these things surprised me just shows you how embarrassingly shallow my ideas about Black people really were: I knew lots of Asians and plenty of white people who were into Asian pop culture, but I never thought a popular Black football player like Derek would be interested in that kind of stuff.

While my attraction to Derek was originally of a physical nature, the more I got to know him, the more I started to see him in a different light. Since my breakup with Tad, I hadn't really been open to dating anyone, in part because the "informal arrangement" I had fallen into with Grant more or less preempted any possibility of a boyfriend. With Grant out of the picture, however, the idea of a relationship began to seem more plausible as long as it was with the right guy. With every walk across campus, it seemed more and more like that could be Derek.

One day after class, I was idling by my desk waiting for Derek when I heard Professor Daniels call my name.

"Lola, could I speak to you for a few minutes in my office?"

I felt a flush of disappointment. Did it have to be right now? These opportunities to walk and chat with Derek were precious, and I was loath to give one up for Professor Daniels.

"Professor, I have to be across campus for tennis soon," I mumbled.

"This will only take a few minutes," he insisted.

"Okay," I said, resigned. As I left the lecture hall with Professor Daniels, I tried to make eye contact with Derek, but he was busy talking to one of the other athletes in the class.

I followed Professor Daniels down a long, empty hallway, the sound of each footfall echoing through the corridor as my wedge heels struck the cold linoleum. The air conditioning was turned up higher in the hallway than it was in the lecture hall, and as the cold air kissed my body, goosebumps spread across the exposed skin of my arms, legs, midriff, and chest. I felt my nipples shiver into hard little bullets and began to wish that the cups of my pushup bra had more padding.

Finally, we came to a door adorned with Professor Daniels name. He unlocked the door and held it open, beckoning me inside. I walked into the room and took a seat. Professor Daniels followed me in, the door swinging shut behind him.

His office was quintessentially professorial: shelves piled high with books, a couple of framed diplomas hanging on the wall, a small potted plant on a windowsill, an electric kettle on a side table with a box of tea bags, a few New Yorker cartoons thumbtacked into a cork board beside a schedule calendar. Like Professor Daniels himself, the room was neatly kept and had a tweedy quality that was kind of appealing. It reminded me of my father's office back when he had been a university professor and we were still a family.

"I'm glad we have a chance to talk like this one-on-one, Lola." He crossed behind his desk and sat down. "I need to let you know that your behavior in my class has become a problem."

"What?"

"I may be old-fashioned, but showing up on time to class is a matter of respect, and I've never had a student so consistently disrespect me, my class, and the other students by arriving late."

"Professor, I—I'm sorry," I mewled anxiously. I'd thought that my antics were nothing more than a mild nuisance, but there was a hardness in Professor Daniels' voice that seemed more than annoyed.

"Showing up late would be bad enough, but the nature of your entrances..." He paused, grasping for the right words. "Your entrances are very disruptive to our class."

"I don't know what you mean," I murmured, looking down.

"You are a... distraction, Lola, and you make it very hard for me to stand up in front of the class and teach."

"I'm sorry," I sniffled.

"Look," he said, his tone softening. "I might not look it, but I actually know something about teenage girls. I have a daughter, you know."

He picked up a framed photo on his desk and turned it towards me. It was Professor Daniels on a beach, posing next to a pretty, petite Asian woman and two smiling children. Based on her dark complexion and the cross around her neck, I guessed that his wife was Filipino, so his children must be mixed, just like me.

"Is this your family?" I asked.

"No, it's someone else's family," he chuckled. "I'm kidding."

This dad joke was ridiculously corny, but I smiled anyway, glad that his mood was starting to lighten.

"How old are your kids?"

"Technically, my daughter isn't a teenager yet, but don't tell her that. She's 12. My son just turned nine."

"They're adorable!" I cooed, picking up the photo.

His kids were pretty cute, all lanky legs and gap-toothed smiles, not yet in the throws of puberty. As I placed the photo back on his desk, I couldn't help but notice that Professor Daniels looked pretty good, too. I'd never seen him without a sports jacket and a tie on, but he was shirtless in the photo. He wasn't particularly ripped or muscular, but he was lean and trim, quite fit for a dad in his late-40s.