Lola's First Boyfriend

"Maybe we can celebrate early." He cupped one of my tits in his hand, signaling his desire for sex.

"Oh, really?" I purred, eyes closed. "And what does Tad want for his birthday?"

"Tad wants," he lowered his voice to a whisper, grazing my nipple with his fingers, "a threesome."

My eyes shot open. "Wait, what?"

Tad rolled my nipple between his fingers, pressing his hardening cock against my ass.

"You did it for your ex," he breathed. "So I was thinking you could do it for me."

"Tad, it... it's not like that."

"C'mon, Lola," he insisted, rubbing himself against my ass. "It's not fair that you gave your high school boyfriend a threesome but you won't do it for me."

"I'm telling you, it wasn't like that." I rolled over to face him.

Tad frowned.

"Okay, Lola. Then tell me what it was like."

"Tad," I pleaded.

"No, I want to know. Cause how it sounds to me is that you liked your ex-boyfriend enough to do special stuff for him, but you don't like me enough to do it for me."

"It wasn't like that at all," I paused. "He... wasn't my boyfriend."

"What?!" Tad's brow furrowed. "Hold on. Was he like, your friend's boyfriend? Were you the third person?"

"No, Tad, can we just stop talking about this?" I reached between his legs and squeezed his cock, hoping to distract him.

"Whoa... so it was just, like, a random guy?"

"Tad, just fuck me, okay?" I stroked my hand up and down his stiff shaft.

"I want to know who he was."

"I don't think you need to—"

"Yes, I fucking do! You had a threesome with some random guy, but you won't have one with me, your boyfriend, even for my birthday. So I do fucking need to know."

I continued to stroke him, slower now. I took a deep breath.

"It was... a guy I worked with, okay?"

His eyes narrowed. "Why did you do it for him?"

"I don't know," I said sheepishly, my fingers gliding over the tip of his shaft. "I was really drunk, and he... he kind of, like..."

I struggled to find the right words. How could I explain to my boyfriend that my boss had conspired with another member of the country club to manipulate me into a submissive state? How could I make him understand the way that Magnus had taken control of me when I didn't fully understand it myself?

"It just sort of happened," I concluded.

"Okay, but how?" Tad still wasn't satisfied. "What about the other girl? Who was she?"

I paused again. I thought of lying, but I'm not a good liar, and if he kept asking questions the truth was going to come out one way or another.

"There wasn't one," I sighed.

It took a second, but as Tad realized what I meant, he pushed me away, his cock slipping from my grasp.

"You had a threesome... with two guys... that worked with you?"

I looked away.

"You fucked two guys at the same time?"

"I didn't fuck them both!" I protested. "I sucked them both, but it was only for a minute. I only had sex with one of them, Tad, I swear."

"That makes me feel so much better."

I reached for his cock again. He was still hard. I began to stroke him more quickly now.

"It was one time, and it was a mistake." I could feel his cock throbbing in my hand. "Just once." He was breathing faster now.

"So you were a slut in high school," he said between breaths.

"Just once," I whispered. I could feel his precum leaking onto my fingers as I moved faster.

"My girlfriend was a high school whore," he panted. "Are you still a slut?"

"No," I whispered.

"But you were, weren't you?"

"Just once."

"Say it," he grunted. "Say you were a slut."

"Just once," I whispered.

"Say it! Say it now!"

"Baby," I slid my hand quickly upward from the base of his cock and squeezed him hard below the head. "Baby, I used to be a slut."

He turned his face into a pillow and moaned as his cock exploded, spraying ropes of cum all over my hand, my sleep shorts, and the bedspread.

...

The week after my big reveal, I didn't see much of Tad because he had a training week for ROTC. Each semester, all of the ROTC students would go to a training site off-campus for a week of intensive training and team-building. I was eager to see him when he got back on Saturday, but he told me that there was an end-of-training party off-campus that was ROTC-only. We made plans to see each other the following day, so I decided to stay home and get some work done so I'd be free on Sunday.

I was watching TV in my pajamas before bed when my phone rang. It was Tad.

"Hello?"

"Hey, are you Potter's girlfriend?" The deep voice on the other end wasn't Tad.

"Yeah. Is everything okay?"

"So, your boy had a little too much fun tonight and I need you to come collect him."

"Is he okay?"

"He's fine. He got sick and passed out like a typical freshman puke, but he'll be okay. But someone needs to take him home and I don't know where he lives."

"Can't you try his roommate?"

"Uh, I did, but that dude is more wasted than Potter. Can you come get him?" He gave me an off-campus address on the west side of campus that was walking distance from our dorm.

I slipped out of my pajamas and threw on a tennis hoodie and some yoga pants. I was glad I hadn't taken my makeup off yet. Even though I was wearing casual clothes, I was going to be seeing Tad, and I might be meeting some of his ROTC friends for the first time, so I wanted to look decent.

After a 15-minute walk, I knocked on the front door of a very nondescript off-campus house. The door opened.

Behind the door was a well-built man of medium-height but extremely broad shoulders. He had long, limp, dark hair that hung almost to his shoulders, a stubbly black beard, and a jawline that was all right angles. There was a cigarette between his lips.

"Are you the girlfriend?"

I nodded.

"I'm Grant." He held the door open. "C'mon in."

The inside of the house was strewn with beer cans, empty bottles of liquor, and half-smoked cigarettes. The decor consisted primarily of a Marine Corp flag and dozens of colorful, hand-drawn images of snakes, skulls, roses, and various scripts and calligraphy.

"It's Lola, right?"

"Yup."

We walked into a back room. Grant gestured to a filthy, stained sofa, where I saw Tad passed out in a crumpled heap.

"I buy these pukes alcohol before Training Week so that they can start building up a tolerance, but it doesn't always take." He put his hand on my waist and guided me into another room. "Let's give him a few minutes to rest before we send you two on your way."

As we walked into the kitchen, the lighting was better, and I could see that Grant's thick, bulging forearms were completely covered by an intricate array of tattoos. From the dip in his white v-neck t-shirt, I could see that they were peeking out from his chest as well.

"Can I get you a drink?"

"I'm okay," I said, looking around. "Is anyone else here?"

"Just you, me, and Sleeping Beauty." He cracked a beer. "If the rest of the pukes were still here, I'd have sent him home with one of them, but they moved on to another house half-an-hour ago while Potter was still spilling his guts in my toilet. So much for leave no man behind, right?" He sat down and invited me to do the same.

"So you're the girl Potter keeps talking about," he mused. I blushed. "If you won't drink, you want a smoke?"

"I don't smoke," I said. "I play tennis, so I've gotta keep my lungs up."

"Oh, I didn't mean these." He pulled the cigarette from between his teeth and dropped it into an empty beer can. "I meant weed."

"Oh, well, it's still smoke, right?"

"Actually," he stood up. "I've got a vaporizer. It gives the same high, but it's smokeless, so no harm to those precious lungs of yours."

"Oh, I mean, you don't have to—"

"Nonsense. I love smoking someone up for the first time, but because these ROTC pukes are always getting drug tested, they can't smoke. Of course, the irony of the whole thing is that the biggest potheads I know are all ex-military guys like me."

He disappeared into another room and came back with a little box of a machine that had a tube attached to it.

"So, I'll show you how to do it. Once I turn it on, you put the tube between your lips, and just," he inhaled, "suck it as hard as you can."

He handed the tube to me. "Ready?"

I shrugged.

"Okay, here it comes." He flipped the machine on. "Now, suck suck suck!"

I inhaled deeply, feeling a tickle of lightness fill my lungs.

"That's it," Grant nodded approvingly. "Don't stop sucking, girl."

Finally, when I ran out of breath, I spit out the tube, coughing.

"You're pretty good at that," he said, placing a hand on my shoulder. "Here, have my beer. It'll help with the cough."

Over the next several minutes, I felt myself start to sink, inch-by-inch, into the chair in which I was seated. As I sipped the beer, I felt myself staring at Grant's forearms, where the detail of his tattoos had become mesmerizing.

"You like 'em?" Grant asked, turning his forearms over in front of me. "I designed most of them myself."

"You make tattoos?"

"I've been slinging ink for a few years now." He gestured to the colorful drawings on the walls. "I got hooked on it while I was in the Marines, and now it's a good side hustle while I'm trying to get this damn degree."

"How many do you have?"

"Oh, I don't really count 'em like that. I try to build designs that blend together, so it's all one big picture instead of a bunch of individual ones." He took a pull from the vaporizer. "I'll show you."

With that, he stood up, grabbed the hem of his shirt, and pulled it over his head.

As a soccer player, Tad was very fit, but his body was still that of an athletic 18-year-old boy. Grant's torso, in contrast, was a grown man's chest, roped with densely corded muscles. Freed from beneath his shirt, his pecs and shoulders seemed to swell, and his chest and arms were almost entirely covered with colorful ink that accentuated his musculature.

"Altogether, I've spent well over 100 hours in the chair, but I can't help myself." He twisted his torso back and forth, showing me the tattoos that wrapped around his muscled frame. "When you've got an addictive personality and you find that thing that does it for you, it's almost like, what else is there, you know?"

"Doesn't it hurt?"

"Oh, it hurts so good, though. The kind of hurt that makes you feel alive." He pulled his chair closer to me and sat back down. "You ever thought about getting a tattoo?"

"No."

"Why not?"

"Asian girls don't really get tattoos."

"If you think that, you must be new to LA. Take a walk through K-Town any night and you'll see plenty of hot ass Asian chicks rocking ink." He cocked his head. "You'd fit right in."

"I dunno."

"I'll prove it. Stay there."

He disappeared back into the other room again. After feeling as if I was sinking into the chair, my head now felt as if it were floating above my body. Being high for the first time, I couldn't figure out exactly what I was feeling, but I had a sense that I was watching myself through a movie screen in real-time.

Grant re-entered the room with a table lamp and a handful of pens.

"These are henna pens," he explained. "I use these sometimes to show someone what a tattoo will look like on different parts of the body, but the ink fades after a few days, so it's super low stakes."

He sat back down at the table.

"I'll do one on your back so it's easy to hide if you want. Turn around and sit on the chair facing the other way."

I spun around on the chair.

"Now, take off your hoodie."

Through the movie screen, I saw myself lift the hoodie over my head. The t-shirt I had on underneath rose along with it, revealing my stomach and lower back as I remembered that I hadn't put on a bra before leaving the dorm.

I felt Grant gently gather the fabric of my shirt. "I'm just gonna tie this so it doesn't fall down," he said, wrapping a rubber band around the bunch of fabric behind my back. "And let me just move this out of the way" He grabbed the waist of my yoga pants and rolled it down so it sat just below my hips. "So we don't get any ink on your clothes."

The movie version of me was now facing away from a tattooed, shirtless Marine I had only just met. My arms were folded on the back of the chair, with my t-shirt tied behind my back to form a crop top just below my boobs. My yoga pants were peeled down below my waist, revealing the whale tail of the pink thong I was wearing underneath.

"Okay, just arch your back a little bit." Grant put one hand on the small of my back and the other on my shoulder, moving me into position. He turned on the light behind me. "That's perfect. Just stay like that. It might be a little cold at first."

He uncapped the henna pen and put his hand on my waist to anchor me. A shiver ran through my body as I felt the tip of the pen begin to move over the small of my back.

"So, you said 'Asian girls don't get tattoos,' but you're clearly not full-Asian, right?"

"I'm half," I replied. Between Grant's hands, the coldness of the henna pen, and its rhythmic movements, I felt the shiver move to nipples, which hardened against the thin fabric of my bunched-up t-shirt.

"Half-white, half... Korean?"

"Yup."

"Called it! I'm good, aren't I? I was deployed in Korea for awhile, so I've got a pretty good eye for Korean girls. Was your dad in the military?"

"Nope."

"I see. Civilian. Well, it was a good guess. Lots of guys I know picked up girlfriends when they were stationed over there."

"Did you?"

"Well, I'm not exactly the 'girlfriend' type. But I'm pretty good at finding girls who are open to a different kind of arrangement."

"I see."

"You know, Korean girls are different from American girls. These days, there are plenty of American chicks who are straight-up about being out for themselves, looking for a good time but not a relationship. In Korea, all the girls think they need to have a boyfriend, act like all they want is a relationship. But then once they get a boyfriend, they realize they're still not satisfied."

He repositioned the light and switched to a different henna pen.

"Korean society tells all those girls a boyfriend is the path to happiness, but in reality, different people need different things to be happy. So I look for girls who have realized that a relationship isn't scratching their itch."

"And then what?"

"And then I offer them something different. Something that society doesn't necessarily tell them they're supposed to want, but they do all the same."

"And then they're happy?"

"Well," Grant said, capping the pen. "Some are and some aren't. But they all know themselves a little better after I'm through with them than they did before, so that's something."

He stood up.

"You wanna see it?"

I nodded.

"Come on."

I followed Grant into the bathroom.

"Face away from the vanity and look here," he said, lifting a handheld mirror. "What do you think?"

It took me a second to orient myself through the double reflection before I realized what he had inked on my back.

On the small of my back, I saw two eyes and a mouth, clearly belonging to a disembodied Asian woman. Her eyes were calmly closed, almost serene, but her mouth was partly open, biting her lower lip as if to reveal a sense of inner turmoil. Above the face, on my mid-back, Grant had drawn two popsicles of the kind that come stuck together in a white plastic wrapper. The popsicles had been split apart, and now they were suspended above the woman's face, pointing down at her from an angle. On the tip of one of the popsicles, he had drawn a thick bead of melted liquid, hanging from the tip as gravity pulled it down towards the woman's face.

Once I had registered the scene, my breath caught sharply in my chest, which only serve to inflate my tits in Grant's direction. We were both standing in between the sink and the wall, as I breathed in, my rock-hard, braless nipples pressed through the fabric of my shirt and into the swell of Grant's bare, tattooed chest.

"I think it quite suits you," Grant whispered. He continued to hold the mirror aloft with one hand, but with the other, looped his index finger inside the waistband of my exposed thong. "Like I said, Potter talks about you a lot when he's drunk. Maybe too much."

Grant's finger began tracing the arc of my hipbone inwards, sliding ever so slowly inside the front of my yoga pants.

"He's pissed off about what you did in high school because he's just a kid who doesn't really know how to handle it." He leaned towards me and dropped his husky voice even lower. "But I do."

My whole body went numb as he finger landed on my clit. Through the fog of the weed, I was conscious of the fact that my pussy was freshly shaved in anticipation of Tad's return from training week, and that if Grant moved an inch lower he would feel that I had already soaked through my g-string.

Grant lowered the mirror and pushed his hips forward into mine, backing me against the sink. On the movie screen, my braless tits pressed into him, my body pinned by his much larger frame, as his right pointer finger delicately massaged my clit. His left hand reached for the door handle.

"Oh, Jesus," came a voice from the other room. "I feel like shit."

My eyes shot through the open door towards the living room. Grant paused, and in that moment, I maneuvered myself out from under him and stepped into the hallway. I walked quickly towards the kitchen, pulling up my yoga pants and pulling down my shirt, trying to straighten myself out. I grabbed my hoodie from the kitchen and walked back into the living room.

On the sofa, Tad was sitting up, his head in his hands.

"Baby!" I said, breathlessly. "You're up! Let's get you home."

"Lola?" He looked up. "What... what are you doing here?"

"Grant called me from your phone," I said, frantically gathering up what I thought were Tad's belongings. "He said he needed me to take you home."

"Fuck," Tad shook his head. "Sorry."

"It's fine, but let's go, okay?" I pulled him off the couch.

Grant appeared in the doorway.

"You did a number on my toilet, Potter."

"Shit, man. I'm sorry." With his arm around me, Tad stumbled towards the door. "I'll make it up to you, I promise."

"No worries, mate." As I tried to get Tad out the door, Grant reached out with his thumb and forefinger, grabbing the exposed whale tail of my thong and tucking it back below the hem of my yoga pants. "I know we'll be even soon enough."

...

After my narrow escape from Grant's house, my head was a mess. For one thing, I was furious at Tad for telling his ROTC friends about my high school threesome, but I couldn't really confront him about it without revealing more details about my encounter with Grant. And since I couldn't talk to anyone about it, I stewed silently, wondering what it meant for my relationship with my boyfriend.

Had I been wrong about Tad? Ever since he had asked me to be his girlfriend, I had viewed him in a different light, believing that he was interested in me for more than just my body. But now that he had broken that trust, I wasn't sure if my boyfriend was just another guy who wanted to fuck me. And if that were true, then wasn't he in some ways worse than Cam or Magnus or even Grant? At least these guys had the balls to own what they wanted and go after it without any pretense of propriety. There was something honest about the way they pursued me, and if Tad really just wanted the same thing, his approach struck me as weak by comparison.

But as mad as I was at Tad, it felt wrong to judge him too harshly given how I had behaved on Saturday night. True, I was only there because Tad couldn't hold his liquor, and yes, it seemed like Grant's pass at me was motivated in part by the slutty details Tad had told him. But even in that context, I was the one who had gotten stoned and let a man I just met tattoo my back. I was the one who had let Grant hike up my shirt, peel back my pants, and draw whatever he wanted on me with no questions asked. I was the one who had walked into the bathroom with him and stood there silently as he slipped his fingers into me while my boyfriend was passed out on a couch in the same house. It was easy to blame the weed for making me passive and pliable, but my experience with Grant was sufficiently reminiscent of those I'd had with Cam and Magnus that this seemed like a rationalization more than an explanation.