Author's note: This story follows the events of several other stories I've written. It can be read as a standalone installment but makes some references to a few of my earlier stories.
If you don't want to read any of my previous stories (boo), then here's what you need to know in order to enjoy this one:
My name is Lola, and I'm a half-Asian girl with big tits and serious daddy issues. My dad is white, and we've been estranged since I was 18, so I mostly fuck older white guys as a way to fill the void he left in my life (or so my therapist says). I have major submissive tendencies that are triggered by aggressive, big-dick alpha males who act like they own me. I have a bad habit of putting myself in situations where these guys have the upper hand, and when that happens, I almost always end up with a huge cock (or two) buried inside me.
I'm in my late-20s now, but this story takes place during my senior year of college.
Hugs,
Lola
***
After Coach Brett drove me home from the hotel and dropped me off at my apartment near campus, I crawled into bed and slept for several hours. When I awoke, the sun had already set, and I felt the strange, upside-down sensation of an inverted world.
Had it all been a dream? The images that filled my mind were jumbled and out of order, different men and their enormous bodies, in front and in back of me, Black and white, a moving mosaic of grunting and moaning. It was all too real to be a dream, but even so, I couldn't fathom that I'd let them all fuck me in the same night.
Yes, I'd been with two men at the same time, but that was more than two years ago. I wasn't the same naive, 19-year-old girl anymore. I'd grown up, made peace with the mistakes I'd made during my freshman year. I'd forgiven myself for letting Grant share me with his marine corps buddies. It had all made sense as part of my journey towards self-discovery and self-improvement.
But how, then, could I make sense of what had just happened? I could make out at least three different men from the fragments in my mind, all of them huge and Black, plus Coach Brett himself.
Had I actually fucked them all? There was no way, I thought to myself. My days of taking two men at the same time were behind me. That chapter of my life was supposed to be over and done. There was no place now for a gang bang like that in my narrative of personal growth.
And yet the vividness of the images in my mind seemed to match the aches inside my body. Lying in bed, I ran my fingers over the folds of my pussy, which were sore and tender and puffy with inflammation. As the images began to weave together, I began piecing together snippets from the night, a carnival of hedonism and excess at which I was the only attraction.
My body filled with shame and guilt. How could I have let this kind of thing happen again?
The truth, as I eventually came to accept it, is that no one follows a linear journey through life. We make mistakes as we grow. We backslide into old habits that we assumed we had outgrown. And for those of us who are susceptible to compulsive or addictive behavior, the reality is that we'll never completely outgrow our impulses. We can strive for growth and learn to cope, but we must always stay vigilant, knowing that our triggers may be lying in wait for us around every turn. And we must learn to forgive ourselves when we regress into old patterns of behavior.
An alcoholic never ceases to be an alcoholic. He can get sober and stay sober, but the conditions that made him an alcoholic in the first place are incurable. If he drinks, then it doesn't matter how long it's been or how far he's come. His addiction will never disappear--it is only ever dormant, just waiting for the right (or wrong) trigger to activate it.
Being a slut isn't so different. We can work to understand our tendencies and our triggers, to strengthen our resolve through self-discipline and self-restraint. And yet, we can never fully outgrow our urges. At best, we learn to live with them, to control our impulses rather than being controlled by them.
But being a slut is different from other addictions in one important way. You see, liquor has no will of its own. We imagine that the bottle calls to us, but it wants nothing from us and wishes nothing for us. Dominant men, on the other hand, are a special form of addiction, the kind that literally has a mind of its own, like a bottle that aggressively, relentlessly demands that you drink it.
And for a big cock addict like me, the real danger is that once the first taste hits your lips, you won't be able stop at just one.
...
The next day, I went to student health services to get a full STD workup. It's embarrassing to admit, but this was a drill that was all too familiar to me. I hadn't had to do it in awhile, but it had been a staple of my schedule as a freshman, when I'd had unprotected sex with more than 20 different men over the course of the year, all of them Grant's Marine corps buddies and total strangers to me.
So far, I'd been pretty lucky: aside from a UTI, I'd never contracted any kind of sexually-transmitted disease, and I'd never had a pregnancy scare. Still, I knew my behavior qualified as high risk, so I always made sure to get myself checked regularly.
The nurse who came to administer the tests was a small, pretty Asian woman who couldn't have been more than 5 years older than I was. We chatted a little bit, she took a blood sample and performed a pelvic exam, and then she left the room.
When she re-entered the room sometime later, she was holding my chart.
"Well, Lola," she said. "The good news is that your HIV rapid screen came back negative. The other test results will be emailed to you in the next few days."
"Thanks," I said, sitting up to go.
"But there is something else I wanted to talk to you about," she said.
"What?"
"On the intake questionnaire, you said that you hadn't been with multiple partners."
"I haven't," I said, beginning to blush.
The nurse sat down next to me, as if she were my girlfriend rather than a medical professional who had just had her hands inside my vagina.
"You know this is a totally judgement-free space, Lola."
"What are you saying?" I murmured.
"You have some bruising... around your pelvis," she said, her tone walking the line between clinician and confidante. "It's consistent with what we often see in cases of sexual assault."
"I--I wasn't assaulted," I said, protesting immediately. "It was just sex..."
"Because of the bruising, I ran the swab I took from you through a kit," she continued softly. "There was semen from at least two different partners present."
"That's--that's impossible," I said, shaking my head. "There must be something wrong with your test."
"Maybe," she said, nodding. "But I wanted to ask you about your partner."
"It's not possible," I said again. "I--I didn't come here to talk about this."
"You don't have to talk to me," she said, standing up. "But if you ever do want to talk to someone, there are people out there who will listen."
She reached into a rack mounted on the wall of the office and pulled out a pamphlet. Then, she handed it to me. "Resources for Women's Sexual and Reproductive Health," it said on the top.
"I don't need this," I said, pushing it back into her hand.
"You don't have to read it," she said, pushing it back. "You can throw it out when you get home if you want to. But just take it, okay?"
"Fine," I said, rolling my eyes. I crumpled the pamphlet up and stuffed it into my backpack.
...
Later that night, I was fishing around in my backpack for my water bottle when my hand landed on the crumpled up piece of paper. I pulled it out, thinking that I would throw it in the trash, but something stopped me.
Beneath all of the sexual assault hotline numbers and survivor's counseling groups, a name written in bold-face print caught my eye: Sex Addicts Anonymous. Next to the web address, it said, "Anonymous counseling and support services for women struggling with sexual impulse control." I paused for a moment, and then crumpled the pamphlet back up, tossing it in the trash just as I had intended.
But as I tried to study that evening, my mind kept wandering back to that website. I'd never thought of myself as a sex addict before. To be honest, I didn't even know the term existed. And if it did, then wouldn't it be a male affliction, the kind of thing that drives middle-aged perverts to ride the subway in a trench coat or pay for sex? I didn't see how a young, beautiful college girl could qualify for something like this.
And really, could sex even be an addiction, I wondered? Surely enjoying sex wasn't the same as being an alcoholic or a pill-popper. I'd never known anyone who considered themselves to be addicted to anything, so the only point of reference I had in mind was the D.A.R.E. program caricatures that I remembered from my middle school days. What could that possibly have to do with the intense attraction I felt towards certain kinds of dominant men?
These questions kept gnawing at me until, finally, I opened up a private browsing window on my laptop and punched in the URL. Within a few seconds, I had joined a forum using a guest account name. It all felt very much like the early days of the internet, when someone might open up a conversation by asking "A / S / L."
As I skimmed the chatroom logs, a moderator named "Yasminx" sent me an automated hello message. There was some boilerplate language there, as well as a link to another post, which she describe as "introductory reading for first timer visitors." I clicked on it and began to read:
"The Story of Yasminx
I am not the kind of woman you would expect to find here. I am Persian, so you must forgive me if I seem blunt or arrogant. False modesty and mincing words are not valued in my culture the way that they are in America.
If you were to see me on the street, you would assume that I have the world at my fingers. Wealth, influence, beauty--these things have come easily to me. And yet I mention them only to dispel the notion that there is a certain type of woman who can suffer from addiction. I speak of my blessings only to show you that the trappings of success are no safeguard against the darkness of desire.
I grew up in Tehran after the fall of the Shah, when the fundamentalists took over. Although the revolution happened before I was born, you could still feel the tension between the old liberal elites and the new theocracy. My parents encouraged me to believe that I could have a life outside the home, but every aspect of society told me that this was impossible.
When I was 18, they finally got me out of the country, sending me to the U.S. to enroll in university. I was supposed to live with my cousin, whose family had left during the Revolution and established themselves here in Los Angeles.
When I arrived in LA, it was the first time I had ever set foot outside of Iran, and I was woefully unprepared for the culture shock that awaited me. To that point in my life, I'd known nothing but the veil and all of the restrictions that come with it. As a teenage girl, I was rarely permitted to move about the city on my own, and I had very little experience interacting with men outside my own family.
