Lola's Summer at the Club

It is hard to read the teenage mind, but looking back from the vantage point of the present day, I think I saw that summer as an opportunity and a challenge. The opportunity was obvious: I would make more money than I ever had and rub elbows with powerful, influential people. At such a young age, this seemed like a golden chance for me to enter into rarified air.

There was also an element of challenge that appealed to me. When Mr. Ericsson had warned me that there were men at the club who might seek to take advantage of me, he had imbued it with an alluring sense of danger. To navigate through a summer at Meadowlark, I would need to be quick on my feet and keep my wits about me. Did I have the skills to escape unscathed, or would I fall prey to one of the club's apex predators? Naïve as I was, both outcomes seemed thrilling to me in their own way. With this mindset, the lamb coaxed herself into the lion's den.

It's important to realize that, at that time, I still believed with conviction that I had the power to control my sexuality, blissfully unaware that it had a life of its own. Although I had been helpless to resist Cam, I took this as evidence that he was uniquely dominant, never considering the possibility that perhaps I was especially prone to submission. My defective self-control--my father's shameful legacy--had only been exposed by one man, but others were not far behind. There were barbarians at the gates, probing for weaknesses, eager to break down the doors and pillage my body for all it was worth.

...

Based on how my interview went, you may be under the impression that the membership rolls of Meadowlark were filled exclusively with crass, coarse, would-be casanovas. This is misleading. In fact, most of the members were decent, upstanding, god-fearing family men who were no more likely to grope an 18-year-old girl than they were to sprout wings and fly away. They might have appreciated the view as I bounced around the courts outside the dining room in my too-tight tennis whites, but they were harmless. These men, their wives, and their children made up the silent majority of members at the club. As in many areas of our society, however, the norms of the club catered not to the silent majority but to the vocal minority. These were the men I had met during my interview.

I have already mentioned my club-issued tennis whites, which testified to the influence of this vocal minority. At the end of my interview, Mr. Ericsson had asked me to fill out a uniform procurement form with my body measurements: 35-24-35. When I showed up for my first day, however, the uniform waiting in my locker was almost laughably undersized. It was a struggle just to get the top on, and when I did, it looked more like I was wearing a Halloween costume than an actual uniform. For one thing, the shirt was too short, leaving 2-3 inches of my taut, tanned midriff exposed. Even more brazen was the collar, which flared widely at the neck and plunged downward, exhibiting a wildly generous amount of cleavage. Although the collar ostensibly be buttoned up to look more modest, in practice this was impossible, as the skin-hugging fabric simply would not stretch across the swell of my chest. The tennis skirt they gave me wasn't much better. Sitting snugly above my waist, it barely managed to hide the full curve of my ass, covering perhaps 1-2 inches of my upper thighs at most. The rest of my long, smooth legs were on display for all to see.

Seeing myself in this uniform for the first time, I almost got cold feet. As I think you know, my body hardly needs to be accentuated, as my curves tend to attract attention even when I try to hide them. This uniform, however, was designed to draw attention to my body. Staring at myself in the locker room mirror, I looked every inch a male fantasy, more Playboy pin-up than tennis pro. I would never be able to bring my uniform home—my Mom could never see the skimpy outfit I wore at the club.

When I asked Mr. Ericsson if he could order a larger size for me, he insisted that I model the uniform for him so that he could see whether it was necessary. So there I was, 20 minutes into my first day at the club, doing runway walks and twirls in Mr. Ericsson's office, giving him a private show in my pornographic uniform, all in the hopes that he might order me something more modest. Naturally, my modeling had the opposite effect on him.

"The uniform looks fantastic, Lola," he said, his bright blue eyes burning a hole in me. "I wouldn't change a thing."

"But Mr. Ericsson," I pleaded, "I won't be able to play my best in this."

He dismissed my objections with a flick of his wrist.

"Try it out for a week or two and see how it feels. If you still want a different size, we can revisit the question then." Then he cocked an eyebrow. "But you might change your mind when you hear all of the compliments you're going get."

Of course, we never revisited the subject of my uniform. I wore it all summer long, just as the vocal minority intended. Mr. Ericsson wanted me to look and feel like a sex object, so I gave him what he wanted—not for the last time.

...

One unintended side effect of the choices I have made since Cam broke me in shortly after my 18th birthday is that my sexual life has become something of an amateur study of male dominance. After coming to grips with the painful realization that arrogant, entitled, hyper-aggressive men seemed to be my "type," I began to wonder where these men came from and how they developed these traits. Now 26, I have fucked and sucked more than two dozen men that match this description, enough to be something of an authority on the matter.

I used to wonder whether dominant men were born or raised. Was their ability to control me some innate part of their biological endowment? Or—more frightening—was it something they had learned?

It may come as little surprise that, in my opinion, both nature and nurture play a role in creating an alpha male. Take the case of Cam, the womanizing stud who branded me as a slut when he took my virginity, and his brother Caleb, so meek and unassuming that he could barely look me in the eye. To me, this is a clear case of nature running its course. Both brothers were raised in the same household by the same parents and attended the same schools, but one of them was genetically hardwired for dominance and the other simply wasn't. It took Cam a matter of hours to bend me over his weight bench, but even with a lifetime to study his older brother's way with women, Caleb could never have fucked me like that—he just didn't have it in him.

Despite the heartache it has caused me, nothing turns me on more than natural male dominance. It is an awesome, beautiful, terrifying thing to behold, the genetic echo of an earlier age in human history when the cold calculus of our environment selected for traits like size, speed, and stamina above all others, thereby enabling--even encouraging--men in possession of these traits to spread their seed far and wide through the conquest and colonization of countless female bodies, concubines claimed and held captive by strength and strength alone.

Fuck, I'm getting wet just thinking about it.

The point is that dominance comes so naturally to some guys that they move in it as comfortably as a second skin. In other cases, however, male dominance is very much a learned skill, and this is where country clubs, fraternity houses, and locker rooms come into play. The country club where I spent the summer between high school and college could accurately be described as a breeding ground for male dominance. This was true metaphorically, but as I discovered, it was also literally the case: at least half-a-dozen members had trophy wives whom they had plucked from the ranks of receptionists, lifeguards, and yes, tennis instructors at the club.

The country club was a perfect incubator for arrogant and sexually aggressive behavior. The members were mostly high-powered, middle-aged men, while many of the rank-and-file staff were attractive, inexperienced girls who, like me, felt flattered just to be there. Moreover, the club created a sporting environment among the men. Why should the competition stop after the 18th green when there were sweeter holes to play waiting inside the clubhouse? Victorious men left the golf course or the tennis court looking for more worlds to conquer. Defeated men returned from battle determined to prove their worth at the sport of seduction.

Most aggressive of all were the adult sons of lifetime members. They had spent their entire upbringing internalizing the sense of entitlement that the club created and scarcely knew of any other way to treat women. However, unlike natural dominance, learned dominance is sometimes an awkward fit. Certain guys can pull it off, but others come off as canned or counterfeit, impostors masquerading as alpha males.

If he were to approach me today, I would easily identify Connor Davenport as a pretender to the throne, more pawn than a king. Connor's father was the president of Meadowlark, but although he carried himself like club royalty, dominance didn't suit him--he wore it more like a hand-me-down than a second skin. But that summer I was still 18, and I had only one brush with dominance under my belt. With Mr. Ericsson's warning fresh in my mind, I was hyper-sensitive to the presence of predators in my midst, primed to see every flirtation as a threat to my vanquished virtue. This, it turns out, was an act of misdirection that exposed me—literally and figuratively—to the fact that sleight of hand is another hallmark of a true alpha male. Although I was to be the prize in a game I did not yet understand, Connor was equally unaware that he had been cast as the patsy. Ironically, we chose these roles for ourselves, albeit unwittingly.

Although most of the male members shamelessly feasted their eyes on my 18-year-old body, the summer did not start out as a feeding frenzy. During my first two weeks, the men were generally more restrained than I had anticipated.

The most blatant advance came in the form of an invitation to join a crowded table of middle-aged members for lunch. Without thinking, I accepted graciously, only to realize that the table could not accommodate another chair. When I pointed this out, the man who had extended the invitation spread his legs, off me a seat on his lap. Too embarrassed to renege, I agreed, much to the enjoyment of the entire table. I tried to sit lightly on the edge of the chair, but as soon as I lowered myself, the man's hands were on my waist, repositioning me to his liking. Even as I tried to eat and engage in conversation with the other men at the table, I could feel the man's fingers running along the waistband of my uniform skirt as he treated himself to as much of my body as dining room decency would allow. In between mouthfuls of gem salad, I felt him stiffen beneath me, and by the time I had finished, his hardness was at full mast, nestled snuggly between my legs below the white linen tablecloth. When I finally excused myself and ducked into the women's locker room to regroup, I was confused by the wetness that had spread between my legs. Part of me was disgusted by the man's lecherous behavior, but I was undeniably aroused by exhibitionist thrill of being openly fondled in front of all those onlookers. It was strangely exciting to experience my first taste of the attention Mr. Ericsson had promised me.

Then, during my third week, Connor Davenport made it his mission to fuck me.

On the day we met, he was idling by the tennis courts as I finished my last private lesson of the day. He approached me as I was packing up my things.

"So you're the new club bunny everyone's been talking about."

"Hi," I said, looking up at him. "I'm Lola Andrews."

He looked to be in his early 20s, probably in college, certainly much younger than most of the members. He was about 6 feet tall, and although he was clearly growing into a beer-drinkers body, but he was still handsome in a boyish way. He was wearing a golf shirt, slacks, and a cap that sat atop a thick mop of wavy brown hair.

"Connor Davenport." He tipped his cap in a show of mock chivalry. "Thought it was about time I gave you a proper welcome."

"Oh, everyone has been very welcoming." I zipped up my duffel bag and slung it over my shoulder.

"Still, on behalf of the first family of Meadowlark, I'd like to toast your arrival. How about you clean yourself up and we have a cocktail upstairs on the President's tab?"

"They won't serve me," I said, blushing slightly. "I'm only 18."

"Ah," he said, draping an arm around me. "You know, that is my favorite number. There's no feeling in the world like playing a fresh 18..."

His fingers began to inch along the collar of my uniform top as it plunged down between my breasts.

"Meet me in the parking lot in 20 minutes and I'll take you for a ride," he whispered in my ear.

"Uhh, I can't tonight," stepping away from him. "My Mom is expecting me home."

"She'll understand," he insisted, grabbing my wrist and moving my hand between his legs. "Just tell her you needed to stay late and work on your stroke."

He pressed my hand against the fly of his pants, but I yanked it away before he had a chance to stimulate himself.

"If you want me to help you with your stroke, book a lesson," I said, trying to temper my tone towards feisty rather than bitchy. He was the president's son, after all.

"Oh, so that's how it is?" He smiled wickedly. "Okay, Lola. I'll book a lesson."

As I walked towards the clubhouse, he called out after me.

"You're going to be working on my stroke all summer long."

...

When I checked the schedule the next week to see who had signed up for private lessons, I saw that Connor hadn't been kidding. He had booked me for weekly lessons on Friday evenings from 6pm to 7pm, the last time-slot of the week.

All week, I wondered what my session with Connor would be like, a mix of curiosity, apprehension, and excitement. He was kind of cute in a crass, elitist sort of way, even if he lacked Cam's magnetic charisma and masculine sex appeal. Moreover, Connor had made no secret of his desire to fuck me, which stroked my ego and stirred my instincts as a budding cock-tease. Toying with Caleb had been fun, but as Cam had rightly pointed out, there was never any chance that he would act on his urges, no matter how ruthlessly I flaunted myself. Teasing is about control—of yourself and of another person—and the risk of losing control is part of the thrill. By Friday morning, I was eager to see Connor's game, both tennis and otherwise.

I didn't have to wait long to find out. When I walked into the locker room on Friday morning, I saw a folded piece of paper sticking out of my locker.

As I unfolded it, I saw that it was a printout of an image on a website. It was a photo of a pretty, big-breasted Asian girl taken from above. She was kneeling on the floor, topless, her nipples long and erect, glistening and wet. I was so taken aback by the image that at first I didn't even notice the massive, swollen white cock that was pointed directly at her smiling face.

I folded the picture quickly and turned around to see if anyone had noticed it, but the locker room was empty. Realizing I was alone, I slowly unfolded it again, still unsure whether what I had seen was real.

Looking at the photo again, I was struck by how pretty the girl was. She had large, brown eyes with long, thick lashes set above high cheekbones. Her lips were full and pouty, her hair and makeup immaculate, though perhaps not for long, judging by the thick, veiny invader she was preparing to receive. Her expression spoke of curiosity, apprehension, and arousal, and it was eerily familiar to me: immediately, I was transported back to Cam's dorm room, where I saw my own face reflected in the mirror as he position himself to enter me. I knew instinctively the thoughts going through her mind: "Is this really happening? How did I get myself into this? Why am I acting like this for him?" And I could tell from her face exactly what happened next.

In the corner of the photo was a small watermark that said ConqueringAsia.com. Without thinking, I pulled out my phone and typed in the web address.

It was a Tumblr photoblog. The header showed a picture another beautiful, naked Asian woman. She was lewdly splayed out on a bed, eyes closed, both hands cupping her large breasts, hiding her nipples from the camera. Just above her hands, scrawled crudely across her cleavage in permanent marker, was the name of the site: Conquering Asia.

Next to the header was a link: About the conqueror. I clicked it.

The page showed a picture of a well-toned white man standing naked in front of a large window that looked out over a cityscape. He wasn't fully erect, which left something to the imagination, but the size of the cock hanging between his legs was unmistakably huge. Unlike the photos of the girls, this picture was cropped at the neck, allowing the man to remain anonymous.

Next to the picture was a block of text:

"The conqueror is a white man with a big dick who travels to Asia regularly for business. His conquests are ordinary Asian girls with a healthy curiosity about white cock. If this describes you, send a photo of yourself to the address below. Sluts only: porn stars and prostitutes need not apply. All photos taken and posted with consent."

I navigated back to the main page and saw that the most recent post was more than 2 years old. It seemed like the site wasn't being maintained anymore, which made it even stranger that someone had left an image from it in my locker.

At that moment, the door to the locker room swung open and a few other girls walked in. I quickly stuffed my phone and the photo into my gym bag and began changing into my uniform.

All day, my mind kept drifting back to the image and the website it had come from. Who had put it there? I assumed it had to be Connor. It couldn't be a coincidence that I had found it on the morning of my first lesson with him. And he was the president's son, so maybe he had a way to get into the locker room after hours. That thought sent a little shiver down my spine.

I tried to go about my day, but it was hard to stay focused. By the time my lesson with Connor rolled around, I was a anxious and jittery, not at all the confident, self-possessed young woman I wanted to project.

I was already off-balance when Connor strolled leisurely onto the court without his racquet, carrying instead a tripod under one arm and a camera in the other.

"Where's your racquet?"

"Well, isn't that a lovely greeting? And here I thought Asian girls were supposed to be so well-mannered."

"Hi, Connor," I said, demurring with a forced smile. "Did you forget your racquet?"

"Actually, no." He set the tripod down and began to mount the camera.

"Wait, what are you doing?"

"You know, my elbow has been acting up, so swinging a racquet is a little out of the question right now. But I did pay for a lesson, and I'm a very visual learner, so I thought I'd record you hitting off the ball machine." He snapped the camera into place and switched it on. "That way, I can study your stroke at home and use it to hone my game."

"What? No way," I said, waving my arms. "Turn that thing off."

"You've already been paid for the lesson, Lola," he said firmly. "That ass belongs to me for the next hour."

"That doesn't mean you get to film me!"

"Sure it does," he smiled. "This camera belongs to the club for exactly this purpose. I just borrowed it for the occasion. Members record themselves hitting golf balls or playing tennis all the time."

"They record themselves," I protested, "not the instructor."

"And that's what I would be doing if I were healthy enough to play, but I'm not, so I have to get my money's worth somehow."