Lola's Summer at the Club

The water had something of a soothing effect on my fraying nerves, and by the time I got out, I had resolved to enjoy myself at the gala. Connor be damned, I was receiving an award, and $1,500. That was something worth celebrating.

Wrapped in a towel, standing in the empty locker room, I contemplated the box at the bottom of my locker. After a momentary hesitation, I picked it up and reopened.

I let the towel fall and held the black-and-white bra up to my chest. Connor, or whoever has put it there, had unquestionably excellent taste. It was sexy, but also classy, almost elegant. The expensive material was soft and comfortable against my skin. The cup size was a perfect fit.

Fuck it, I thought. It was a nice gift and I liked it, even if I didn't like where it came from. I wasn't going to let that keep me from enjoying, just like I wasn't going to let Connor ruin my night.

With the lingerie on, I had to admit that it was hard to distinguish the real me from the girl in the photo. The only thing missing was a cock in each hand.

I slipped into the tight, black dress that I had bought on consignment for the occasion. It was low-cut and scarcely more modest than my normal uniform--Mr. Ericsson had made it very clear what kind of dress the members expected me to wear, and I didn't intend to disappoint him after everything he had done for me. Still, compared to my bimbo tennis clothes, the dress made me feel a little older and a bit more sophisticated.

I put on my makeup and finished getting ready. Then, I walked over to Mr. Ericsson's office.

Days earlier, he had asked me whether I wanted to bring my mother with me to the gala so that she could see me receive my award. I had politely declined, saying that she would be busy looking after my little brother. The truth, however, was that I didn't want her to see how the men at the club treated me and how I was expected to behave towards them. As far as she knew, this job was no different from the tennis camp counselor jobs I had held throughout high school, and I couldn't risk her finding out otherwise. In fact, she didn't even know I was at Meadowlark that evening. I had told her I was going to the movies with some friends after work.

When Mr. Ericsson found out that I was planning to go alone, he had insisted on escorting me.

"My wife hates these things," he explained, pointing to a photo on his desk of a strikingly beautiful blonde woman holding an infant. "Now that we have the baby, she has the perfect excuse to skip them."

"I didn't know you were married."

"A couple of years ago. I used to travel a lot for work, but after we got married, I settled down. I love my wife, but I do miss the excitement."

"She's beautiful."

"Yes," he said, nodding. "But she'd be glad to know that I am looking after you at the gala."

"Okay," I agreed.

And so I walked down the familiar hallway to Mr. Ericsson's office in my black dress, the click of my heels echoing ahead of me as if to announce my arrival.

Mr. Ericsson was tying the bowtie of his tuxedo when I walked in. He seemed so absorbes by the task that he barely noticed me.

After a few seconds of standing awkwardly in the doorway, I cleared my throat.

"Ahem."

Still he made no immediate move to acknowledge me.

"Mr. Ericsson?"

"Yes," he said, finishing the bowtie and turninf towards me. "Good evening, Lola."

Now that I had his attention, I wasn't exactly sure what to do with it.

"Do you... like my dress?"

"Let's see the back."

He motioned for me to spin. I did.

"Very nice."

There was a bottle of brown liquor on his desk. He had already poured some into a tumbler.

"Have you ever tasted 15-year-old Scotch, Lola?"

He took a sip. I shook my head, no.

He reached below his desk and pulled out another tumbler. Without asking, he poured me a glass and handed it to me.

"I'm not old enough," I said uncertainly.

"Nonsense. You're old enough to drink in almost every other country in the world."

He raised his glass.

"A toast," he said, "to Lola, my Outstanding Servant."

Reluctantly, I raised the glass to my lips. The liquor burned as it slid down my throat. My eyes began to water.

"How do you like it?" Mr. Ericsson asked.

"It's strong," I said, choking back my gag reflex.

"Strong is good, though, isn't it?" He took the glass from my hand. "A weak drink is like a weak man--no use to anyone."

Almost instantly, I felt lightheaded, and a warmth began growing in my chest and spreading through my body. A pleasant languor washed over me.

"Shall we?"

Just as he had during our first encounter, Mr. Ericsson placed his hand on the small of my back and led me out of his office.

We entered the ballroom together and Mr. Ericsson began to promenade me around the room, greeting the other members. Many of them were there with their wives, but that hardly seemed to dampen their enthusiasm for what I was wearing. One after another commented on my dress, and more than a few remarked that they would be looking for me on the dancefloor later in the evening. In general, however, their comments struck me as harmless flirtations, and I was glad to oblige them with a blush or a giggle. Perhaps it was the effects of the alcohol, but all of earlier nervousness had been flushed away, replaced by a sort of giddiness at being surrounded by such fancy people. I'd never been to a black-tie event before, and as an 18-year-old girl being led around on the arm of a handsome, older man, I felt as though I was living some kind of princess fantasy.

After we had completed a lap around the room, Mr. Ericsson guided me over to the bar, where he filled two flutes with champagne.

"Are you trying to get me drunk, Mr. Ericsson?" I chided.

"If you know of a better way to celebrate, I'm all ears," he smiled.

"I can imagine a few," said a voice behind me.

And I turned around and there was Connor, standing beside me in a black tuxedo.

"I believe the two of you know each other," Mr. Ericsson said, handing Connor a flute of champagne. "Would you like to join us in a toast, Mr. Davenport?"

"That depends," he said, taking the glass. "Is Lola going to keep her hands to herself?"

"Are you?" I shot back.

"Behave yourself, Ms. Andrews," Mr. Ericsson said, squeezing my waist. "Would you like to do the honors, Mr. Davenport?"

Connor raised his glass.

"To Lola," he said, looking me squarely in the eye. "May she get everything her heart desires and more."

The three of us clinked our glasses together and drank.

...

After the toast, I quickly excused myself to the bathroom to regroup. Between the liquor and champagne, my head was swimming, and seeing Mr. Ericsson acting so cordial towards Connor had been disorienting.

When I reentered the ballroom, I saw that people were taking their seats. Mr. Ericsson was up on the dais with President Davenport and some of the other members.

"Hey," Connor called, gesturing towards the empty seat next to him. I looked around, but the other tables seemed to be full, so after a moment's hesitation, I sat down beside him.

Immediately, he draped his arm over my shoulder and pulled my chair closer to his.

"Get off," I whispered, trying to shrug his arm away.

"Shh," he whispered. "We don't want to make a scene in front of all these nice people."

Reluctantly, I relented, allowing him to leave his arm where it was. It didn't stay there for long.

On the dais, President Davenport began to address the audience, but I barely heard a word he said. I was too busy trying to defend my dignity against his son's brazen advances.

Above the tablecloth, I was desperate to maintain my composure, but below it, Connor's hand had moved from my shoulder to my upper thigh. Before I realized his intentions, he had gathered the fabric of my dress and bunched it in a heap on my lap, exposing me from the waist down.

Reacting too late, I tried to remove his hand without causing a commotion, but he had already managed to snake it beneath my dress. As his father spoke about the wonderful members of Meadowlark, he slowly worked his hand between my legs, and although my thighs were clenched together like a vice, I felt his fingers inching higher with every passing moment.

Frantically, I looked around the ballroom to see if anyone else had noticed what was happening, but all eyes were on the dais, including Connor's. Smiling placidly up at his father, he burrowed his fingers deeper between my legs until they were pressed snugly against the warm mound of my pussy. Physically unable to uproot his hand, I labored to control my breathing as Connor began to rub me through the gauzy lace of the black-and-white thong. Despite my efforts to remain calm and not attract attention, my heart was hammering in my chest, and my ample breasts were heaving against the thin fabric of my dress.

As Connor's index finger traced an insistent path up and down my slit, a shiver shot up my spine, and an awful tingling sensation began to grow inside me. Between the numbing effects of the alcohol, my efforts to remain inconspicuous, and the tremors that were beginning to build below my waist, something was going to give. Unconsciously, the muscles in my thighs began to relax, slowly releasing their vice-like grip on Connor's hand.

Sensing my quiescence, Connor fanned out his fingers, gently spreading my legs further apart. Now, with room to maneuver, he began to probe in earnest. He deftly hooked his index finger inside my thong, moving it to the side. Then, he positioned his middle finger against the folds of my pussy and began to push it inside of me.

I folded my hands on the tabletop and closed my eyes, trying to block out the scene around. I was desperate to avoid detection and certain that if anyone so much as glanced at me I would give myself away. With my legs spread wide and my hands where he could see them, Connor pressed his advantage, burying the second knuckle of his middle finger inside my warm, velvety hole. As President Davenport continued to drone on about integrity and civic engagement, his entitled, arrogant son fingered me greedily, smiling up at his father as my pussy soaked his eager digit.

I tried to suppress the shudders that were ripping through me, but the alcohol had weakened my resolve, and neither Connor nor I could deny how wet I had become. It had been so long since anyone other than me had touched my pussy, and that hibernation had left me vulnerable to the slightest stimulation. I felt the heat rising in my face and knew I must be blushing furiously. As if moving with a mind of their own, my hips began to buck imperceptibly below the tablecloth, my own body working against me to provide Connor with deeper, easier access.

Suddenly, as if from a million miles away, I heard someone say my name.

My eyes snapped open. Everyone was looking directly at me.

"Is Lola Andrews here?" President Davenport called.

Surreptitiously, Connor's hand snaked out between my legs, returning to his own lap.

"Here," I croaked, my voice barely above a whisper.

"Lola, would you come up on the dais, please?" President Davenport said. "We have something for you."

Below the tablecloth, I smoothed out my dress. Then, unsteadily, I rose to my feet.

The walk to the dais felt like marching to my own execution. My face was bright red, my breathing was ragged, and my legs felt weak, barely able to support me. I tried desperately to avoid making eye contact with anyone. I folded my hands in front of my hips, hoping to hide the heat and moisture radiating from below my waist.

"Mr. Ericsson, would you like to say a few words?" President Davenport said.

"Thank you, Rick," he said, rising from his seat. "Lola has only been with us for a few months, but she's made a very strong impression on many of our members, myself included. If any of you have ever taken a tennis lesson with her, you know that she doesn't make things easy—you have to earn it with Lola."

A few members laughed, and I managed a weak smile, wishing for this all to be over so that I could get off the stage.

"Lola, for your outstanding service to our members, Meadowlark Country Club would like to present you with this award."

As the members clapped, he handed me an oblong trophy that looked conspicuously like a massive, oversized penis.

"Does it feel good to hold that in your hands, Lola?"

"Yes," I said, addressing the audience. "Thank you very much."

"Lola will be at the photo booth by the bar after the ceremony," Mr. Ericsson announced. "So if anyone wants to take a picture with our lovely, award-winning tennis instructor, tonight is your chance."

...

After leaving the stage, I walked over to a bench beside the photo booth instead of returning to my seat beside Connor. As the ceremony ended, Mr. Ericsson approached me.

"Do you like your award, Lola?"

"Mr. Ericsson, I think I'd like to go home," I said. "I'm not feeling so well."

"Lola, you can't leave yet," he chided. "Our members just gave you an award. Stay awhile and show them how grateful you are."

He took my hand and led me over to the photo booth. It was a box with a velvet curtain over the entrance.

"You just sit in here and relax," he said. "Some of the members would like to take some photos with you."

"What do I do?"

"Just stay here, and when they enter the photo booth, you pose with them. It's easy."

"Okay," I said, unsure what other choice I had.

I climbed inside the photo booth, and for a few, precious moments, it was quiet and I was alone, hidden from the ballroom by the velvet curtain. This was the calm before the storm.

Then, the storm came.

For the next hour, older men streamed into the photo booth to have their picture taken with me. The velvet curtain would slide open and a man old enough to be my father would nestle in beside me. Many of these were men I had never spoken to and couldn't even recognize from my summer at the club, but they were members, and members were entitled to a picture with me. Some of them were satisfied to sit next to a pretty young thing and smile for a chaste if not entirely wholesome photo. Others felt they were entitled to far more.

Each brought in a glass of champagne and expected me to toast with him despite my protests. Fueled by alcohol and the momentary secrecy afforded by the velvet curtain, the same men who had flirted harmlessly with me throughout the summer transformed into lewd, shameless lechers. More often than not, they insisted on toasting to my body, raising a glass to my "sweet lips," "tight ass," and "juicy tits." One man after another hoisted me up and plopped me on his lap, grinning for the camera as I squirmed. Some slid an arm behind my back as a pretense only to reach around and squeeze my breast freely as the shutter fired. A few had no qualms about bending me over their knee and spanking my bottom as they admonished me for being a "naughty girl." I'd like to say that I fended them off, that I stood up for myself. But they just disregarded my modest objections, and in the end, I obliged them all, toasting and posing and generally letting them have their way with me.

Finally, the curtain opened and Mr. Ericsson was standing there.

"You look like you've had quite a night," he said.

I did. My hair was mussed and my dress was all askew, having been hiked up and pawed at by one man after another. The straps of my dress were falling off my shoulders, and the lacy cups of my black-and-white bra were peeking out teasingly.

"I'm ready to go home, Mr. Ericsson."

"Not just yet," he said. "You still need to get your bonus."

Wearily, I followed him into his office.

There, spread across his desk, were dozens of images captured by the photo booth.

"The camera loves you, Lola," he said approvingly. "Though maybe not as much as you love it."

"What do you mean?"

"Look at these," he said, gesturing to the collage. "You're having the time of your life."

It was a strange thing to see myself performing so pliantly for these older men. Although I had felt scared and nervous throughout the entire ordeal, the photos didn't look that way. I was smiling, laughing, and carrying on as if the whole thing had been my idea.

"Mr. Ericsson, they took advantage of me!"

"Maybe," he said. "To me, it looks like a sexy young thing enjoying the attention of some older men. What does it look like to you, Mr. Davenport?"

There, seated in the corner of the room, was Connor.

"It looks like a slut to me, Magnus."

"What is he doing here?" I asked in shock.

"Lola, I think you owe Connor here an apology."

"What?!"

"Well, for slapping him across the face, and for lying about how he assaulted you."

As Mr. Ericsson spoke, Connor moved behind me, positioning himself between me and the door. The two men had surrounded me now.

"What's... what's happening?"

"You know, as soon as I saw you take your top off for Connor and slap him in the same breath, I could tell that you were confused about what kind of girl you are."

Mr. Ericsson walked around the desk, approaching me.

"On the one hand, you crave male attention and approval, but you haven't quite come to terms with that fact."

"It's not true."

"Isn't it, Lola?" He took off his jacket and started to loosen his tie. "Connor tells me you let him finger you under the table this evening. Is that true?"

"No," I said, shaken by Mr. Ericsson's nonchalance.

"Of course it is," he continued, removing his tie and beginning to unbutton his shirt. "But it's okay, Lola. Connor and I are going to help you."

I crossed my arms over my chest, trying vainly to cover myself and Mr. Ericsson continued to undress in front of me.

"How?"

"Tonight, you're going to become very comfortable with who you are." He untucked his shirt and unbuckled his belt. I started to back away from him but Connor wrapped his arms around me.

I gasped as Mr. Ericsson reached into his pants. What he pulled out was a long, thick, semi-erect cock that I had seen many times before.

"Y—you... it was your website?"

"Did you like it?"

I felt Connor begin to unzip my dress from the back as I stood there, speechless, watching Mr. Ericsson begin to stroke himself.

"Actually, I know you liked it. I watched the traffic to ConqueringLola quite closely, and it seems we have a spike right around bedtime. Since the website isn't searchable and only three people know the web address, it's pretty easy to figure out who has been visiting."

"It wasn't me," Connor said. I made no effort to stop him as he slide the dress off my shoulders. "I've been saving myself all summer for the real thing."

"I was checking to see if it was down," I murmured. "You said you would take it down."

"That would be easier to believe if you didn't click through all of the photos every night." Mr. Ericsson's hand slid easily up and down the shift of his rapidly rising member. "Which one is your favorite?"

I couldn't speak. Connor finished removing my dress, which lay in a crumpled heap on the floor. I stood between the two men, dressed in the lingerie they had picked out for me.

"But you're married," I said softly.

"Yes, but my wife and I have an understanding when it comes to Asian women," he smiled. "This isn't cheating—this is conquering."

Behind me, I heard Connor unzip his pants. Mr. Ericsson reached behind the desk and produce a camera on a tripod.

"I enjoyed making the photos of you for ConqueringLola," he said as he positioned the tripod. "But I'm going to enjoy making these a whole lot more."

"Please, no photos." I felt Connor's cock press against my ass. "Nobody needs to know."

"They aren't for anyone else. They are for us. And for you."

"F—for me?"

Connor sighed with pleasure as he slide his cock between the gap of my thighs.