Lola the College Cocktease

"Stop," I said, suddenly conscious of how the crop top jean jacket I was wearing framed my impressive cleavage. "You're so pretty."

"Oh, save it," she said, waving my compliment away as she poured me a margarita. "I'm hot enough for my age and I'm hot enough for my husband. But if I looked like you, Paul would have had to find another Filipino girl to be his wife."

At the mention of her husband, I tried to change the subject.

"Does he always dress like that?" I took a sip of the margarita. "Even at home?"

"Paul loves to keep up appearances. Always the shirt and tie, everywhere but the beach. But that's the kind of white guy that Asian parents can get behind, am I right?" She nudged me with her elbow.

"I guess."

"Have your parents met Black Superman yet?" she asked, pouring another margarita and tipping it towards Derek, who was doing overhead presses with her 9-year-old son outside.

"No, we... we're not serious."

"Good," she nodded. "Enjoy it now while you can. Asian parents have a way of sucking the fun out of young love, especially with a guy like that."

I paused, unsure what to say.

"Here," she said, handing me a pitcher. "Let's get your man a drink, too."

We walked back outside to rejoin the party on the patio, where Professor Daniels was engaging the other students in a conversation about free will and Derek was rough-housing gently with the two kids. It was weirdly arousing to see how good Derek was with these two mixed-race children. I was too young and immature to have thought about kids, but there's something hardwired into women of all ages that revs into overdrive at the sight of a potential mate displaying a nurturing instinct. I didn't want Derek to put a baby in me, but I sure wanted him to try.

Yet as I sipped my margarita and took in the scene, I couldn't help but think about what Marisol had said to me in the kitchen. Aside from fantasies about his size, I hadn't thought too much about the fact that Derek was Black, or what that meant for the two of us. And I definitely hadn't thought about what my Mom would think of him. The thought seemed wildly premature since we had barely even kissed, but the older Asian woman had planted the idea in my head. Would my Mom approve of Derek? Did that matter to me? Should it?

The party continued with drinks, barbecue, and Marisol's chicken adobo, which was as good as advertised. All the while, I kept relatively quiet, sitting by the pool and stealing glances at Derek whenever I could. Although we had arrived together, we weren't "together," so we mingled pretty independently, but I could see him stealing glances of his own back in my direction. However, he wasn't the only one.

Aside from his initial greeting, Professor Daniels hadn't said much to me. He moved between manning the grill and talking philosophy with some of the other students, something that I didn't have much appetite for with a head full of weed and a belly full of margarita. Still, anytime my gaze wandered from the pool or the skyline in his direction, I felt his eyes on me. The first few times I caught sight of him, his eyes darted away towards some other distraction. But as the sun began to set and the drinks continued to flow, I felt them linger on me for longer and longer.

Once the sun was down, Professor Daniels set up chairs on the far side of his pool and got out his projector. After a short speech about the question of what it means to be human, he put on the movie Blade Runner, which Derek was surprisingly enthusiastic about. He may have been ambivalent about coming, but between good Filipino food, Professor Daniels' adoring kids, and a classic science fiction film, he seemed to be enjoying himself more than he'd expected.

I, on the other hand, was a little too high, a little too drunk, and a little too horny to pay attention. I was ready for Derek to tell me it was time to go, but I wasn't going to look desperate by asking him to leave, especially if he was having fun (Rule #2). If he could wait on my pussy, then I could wait on his dick.

After finishing my second or third margarita, I walked around the pool to the grill, where Professor Daniels was packing up the extra food.

"Professor, where's your bathroom?"

"You know what, let me show you. It can be a little tricky to find the first time."

He took off the grilling apron he'd been wearing over his Oxford shirt and tie. Then, he gestured for me to follow him inside. We walked past the kitchen and down a hallway.

"It's this one here," he said, pointing at a door.

"Thanks," I said. Finding this door didn't seem tricky to me at all, but perhaps Professor Daniels took me for drunker than I actually was.

I went inside, peed, and checked myself in the mirror.

I know it's vain and narcissistic to be turned on by one's own reflection, but I have to say, I looked fucking incredible that night. It had been a few hours, but my hair, makeup, and lipstick were still immaculate, even after having eaten plenty of chicken adobo. My sun-kissed skin contrasted beautifully with the white bikini top, and my jean jacket flirted with modesty while still keeping my huge tits teasingly on display. The Hawaiian-print sarong was wrapped seductively around my hips, its fabric just sheer enough that the tiny triangle of my white bikini bottom could be seen faintly between my legs. The wedge heels on my feet made my calves tense up deliciously with every step, highlighting the hard-won muscle tone of my tennis legs.

As I touched up my lipstick, I thought, "Okay Derek, you try to find a hotter Asian baby girl on the streets of LA tonight. Just try."

I checked my posture in the mirror, making a mental note to arch my back so that my tits stood at full attention. Then, I walked out of the bathroom.

"Everything okay in there?"

Startled, I took a step back.

"Professor Daniels! You scared me." I tried to regain my composure. I suddenly felt embarrassed by how long I'd spent checking myself out. "Do you—need the bathroom?"

"No, I was just waiting for you. There's something I want to show you."

His words hung in the air for a moment. I could faintly hear the sound of the movie playing outside, but there didn't seem to be any other noise coming from inside the house.

"Come on, this won't take long."

He began walking farther down the hallway, which took us into the house and away from the patio. When we got to the end of the hallway, he opened a door.

"This is my study," he said, holding the door open for me to enter. "There's a book here I thought you might like."

I stepped into Professor Daniels study. It contained shelves of books on two sides with a third wall that was mostly windows looking out on LA. It had a desk, like his office at school, but also a sitting area with a sofa and a couple of chairs.

"Sit down a minute," he gestured to the sofa. "I have to find what I did with it."

As I sat down, he let go of the door, moving in the direction of one of the book shelves. As if with a mind of its open, the door swung softly shut, closing with a gentle click.

"I think you might have missed our earlier conversation about free will," he said, rummaging about one of the shelves.

"I'm afraid so, Professor," I said sheepishly. "I'm afraid margaritas and philosophy don't mix well for me."

"They might mix better than you think," he muttered, pulling a volume off his shelf and turning towards me. "Do you know what determinism is, Lola?"

"No, sir."

"Determinism is an idea in philosophy that argues against the notion of free will. According to determinism, the choices we make aren't really choices at all. Instead, all of our decisions can be understood in the context of our current circumstances, which are the product of past events, those past events themselves having been the product of even earlier events."

He sat down next to me on the couch and handed me a book. I glanced at the cover: "Elbow Room," by someone named Daniel C. Dennett.

"To a determinist, all of our actions are determined by the events and circumstances that preceded them, with each event following directly from the ones before it in a causal chain stretching back to the beginning of time."

"I'm not sure I understand, Professor."

"Let me see if I can illustrate the point by way of a question." He took the book from my hand and set it down on the table in front of us. "Why are you here right now?"

"Because you... invited me?"

"Well, yes, but do you always accept anytime anyone invites you to do something?"

"I guess not."

"And why not?"

It occurred to me that I might have been drunker than I realized, because I was having a hard time following the point of Professor Daniels' questions.

"I'm not sure, Professor. It depends."

"What does it depend on, Lola?"

"The circumstances?"

I hoped that this answer would satisfy him. I was feeling a bit fidgety and eager to re-join Derek and the rest of the party.

"Quite right," he replied. "Your decision about whether to accept or decline an invitation depends on the circumstances. But the circumstances aren't really under your control, are they? They're the result of past events, which were dictated by the events before them, and so on."

"I guess that makes sense."

Professor Daniels was facing me with one leg crossed on top of the other. His left arm was in his lap, his right arm rested casually along the back of the sofa.

"Of course, an invitation to a party is a rather silly and superficial example, but the idea itself is quite powerful. If the present is determined by the past, then the future follows from the present. Do you grasp the implications, Lola?"

"I... don't think so, sir."

"Determinism implies that we are little more than machines endowed with feelings. Like trains, we move along a path that is preordained, following the tracks wherever they take us. What we do is all we could have done because the past is immutable and the present follows in its wake. We cannot change our future any more than we can change our past."

With the door to the study closed, the sound of the movie playing outside was almost completely muffled. The room was quiet and still except for the sound of Professor Daniels' voice.

"So it means that, like... fate is real? Or destiny?"

"That's exactly what it means, Lola. We humans aren't knowledgeable enough to predict the future, but that doesn't mean it is unpredictable. Quite the contrary."

"That's a bit scary, Professor."

"Why does it frighten you, Lola?"

His voice was soft, even, and calm in a way that was both reassuring and unnerving at the same time.

"Because it means... it means we have no control."

"True," he said, scratching his chin. "But there's also something wonderful about that."

"What do you mean?"

"Without control—without free will—our concept of responsibility is meaningless. How can we be responsible for our actions if they are outside of our control? Determinism says that whatever happens next is as inevitable as the sunrise for all the agency we have to change it."

"Do you think that's really true, Professor?"

"Lola, do you ever feel burdened by guilt or regret? Do you ever feel ashamed of something you've done?"

I paused at this question. Why was he asking me all this stuff? Where was this going?

"Sometimes."

"I believe that these emotions are frailties based on a flawed understanding of the world around us. We invest in these emotions because they reinforce a false sense of control over our actions, but this is an act of self-protection by self-deception. There's just no empirical basis for any of it."

"So then, what is real, Professor?"

"Pleasure and pain are real. There's no denying that our actions can bring pleasure or cause pain, but we must divorce these physical sensations from the psychological baggage of guilt and responsibility. If you want, I can show you how."

"Shouldn't we go back outside now?"

"In a minute," he said, lowering his voice. "Close your eyes, Lola."

I wanted to go back to the party, but it felt wrong to disobey Professor Daniels, especially when I was a guest in his house. After a moment's hesitation, I let my heavy lids fall closed.

"Good," he purred. I felt him scoot a little closer to me on the sofa. "I want you to focus on my voice. Think of a time that you felt ashamed. Go to that moment in your mind."

As his words rang in my ears, my drunken mind began to flood unbidden with memories of the men who had used me. I thought of Cam, who had insisted that I was a slut even as he took my virginity. I thought of Magnus, who had demanded that I call him "Daddy" as he impaled my 18-year-old body on his huge, married cock. I thought of Grant and the small, Roman numeral II he had tattooed inside my right wrist, a forever reminder that I'd become a two-cock, double-team share-slut for him and his Marine Corps buddies.

"Do you have a moment of shame in your mind, Lola?"

"There are... too many," I whispered.

"Use them," Professor Daniels encouraged softly. "Let them wash over you."

In the silence that followed, I heard the voices of these men echo through my mind: Asian slut... Asian whore... Asian fuckmeat. A hot flush of shame coursed through my body. Why had these older white men taken so much pleasure in degrading me? I was just a teenager, a half-Asian girl without a father, naively trying to navigate the world. I had given each of them the most valuable thing I had to offer: my taut, fertile, buxom teenage body. I'd let them use my big tits and my warm mouth and my tight young pussy and still it wasn't enough. What more did they want from me? Why was I so eager to please these men who reveled in my debasement?

"You're in it now, aren't you?"

I nodded, eyes tightly shut.

"Tell me."

I felt the color rise in my face as my heart began to race, the most shameful thought of all emerging from the deepest recesses of my mind: that I liked the way these men mistreated me. I fed on the taunts and the insults and the contempt. The more they humiliated me, the wetter I got. Over and over, my own body had betrayed me to these men, revealing the defective circuitry that had hardwired me to take pleasure in being conquered. I had cum so hard for them, each orgasm an explosive chemical reaction that rewarded their rapacious demands with an urgency I couldn't contain.

"I see you wrestling with it, Lola. Unburden yourself."

"I... I can't," I whimpered.

"But don't you see?" I felt his warm, fleshy hand on the shoulder of my jean jacket. "It's not your fault. You aren't responsible for things you can't control."

Was he right? My entire life, I had tried so hard to be good, honest, and obedient, yet somehow these values had brought me to dark places. I spent hours and hours playing tennis because I enjoyed it and my parents encouraged it, yet in doing so I had unknowingly sculpted my body into a toned, tan object of sexual desire. I couldn't control how men looked at me any more than I could control the feeling that swelled inside me when I felt their gaze. I was ashamed at the way my body responded to the advances of these arrogant, entitled alpha males, but what choice did I have? My body seemed to have its own agenda, detached from any value system I could articulate.

Professor Daniels squeezed my shoulder, moving his fingers gently to the open collar of my jacket.

"Our lives are determined by forces we cannot understand, Lola. Our actions, our choices... it's all just chemistry and physics and the luck of who and where we happen to be. Whatever you're feeling right now, it's not your fault."

I felt as if I were being pulled apart from the inside, a million conflicting emotions churning about in the pit of my stomach. The effect of the margaritas was now compounded by a cocktail of shame, uncertainty, and adrenaline that flowed through my veins.

"The past has already written our future," he said. His fingers had come to rest on the flared lapel of my unbuttoned jean jacket. "We cannot help but to follow its lead."

With the tiniest of movements, I felt the lapel of my jean jacket begin to lift away from my chest. I opened my eyes and met his gaze.

"I don't know, Professor," I breathed, barely able to speak. "I don't understand."

"You will." A wry smile played across his face. "You're still so young."

I moved my hand to his, intending to remove it from its perch above the swell of my chest.

"Professor, I—"

He raised his hand from my jacket to my lips, silencing me.

"If we know our past, then we can know our future," he said in a hushed voice. "Do you know what happens next, Lola?"

I felt his finger press against my lips as his eyes stared intently into mine. For a few long, uncertain moments, neither of us moved, as if waiting to see what future the past had in store for us. As his finger rested against my full, pouty lips, I felt them part unbidden, opening as I were going to speak. But no words came out. Instead, I cast my eyes downwards, where my heart was pounding in my chest beneath my open jacket.

In flash, both of Professor Daniels' hands traveled to my chest, taking hold of my jacket by each lapel. I gasped, but before I could react, he pulled the jacket open, yanking it back over my shoulders and down to my elbows, exposing the white bikini top that cupped my large breasts.

"Professor!" I squealed. I moved my hands to cover my chest, but my arms were restricted by the jacket, which now served to pin my shoulders back. With my mobility limited, Professor Daniels easily caught my wrists in his hands.

Though he was of average build and far less physically imposing than most of the men I had been with, he was still a grown man with a man's weight and strength, and he had caught me by surprise. As I gawped at him, he used his control of my wrists to bowl me over, knocking me onto my back with my arms at my sides. Then, he yanked the jean jacket down my arms even further so it bunched below my elbows and lower back. Keeping control of my wrists, he climbed on top of me, the weight of his body pinning me to the sofa.

"W—what are you doing?"

I'd intended to scream, but the sound that left my mouth was barely audible, as if the weight of his body had pushed the air from my lungs.

"Shhh," he whispered. "Let's not spoil the movie, okay?"

"This is wrong!" My voice was weak and cracking.

He hauled himself upright so that he was straddling my stomach. He put his knees on the outside of my arms, applying inward pressure that further served to keep them immobilized. With his hands free, he began loosening his tie.

"Are you crazy?" I hissed. "If I scream, everyone will hear me."

"They won't, but it doesn't matter, because we both know you won't scream." His eyes were wild, glazed over with a singular hunger. "I'm betting my career on it."

Having loosened his tie, Professor Daniels pulled it over his head. Then, he tilted his weight back towards my legs and reached backwards, still maintaining eye contact with me. I felt the tie begin to wrap around my ankles as he began to bind my legs by feel alone.

"You shouldn't do this!" My whole body was shaking. "Please, you can't!"

Once my ankles were bound, he tilted himself forward again, lowering his body so that his full weight pressed into me. He dropped his head to whisper in my ear.

"I know who your father is, Lola. I know about what he did."

I can't imagine the shocked look of horror that must have crossed my face.

"W—what?"

"It must have been very hard on you and your family. Especially your mother."

"How do you—"

"I found your high school tennis results online," he said matter of factly, as if he were assigning the reading for our next class. "Why would she move from California to Nevada the summer before her senior year, I wondered? But it didn't take doctoral research to figure out what you were running from. Your father made quite a name for himself. The story was in the campus paper."