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
***
There are hundreds of thousands of words in the English language, perhaps as many as a million. Nobody really knows the exact number because it changes all the time. In my experience, however, the most powerful word in the English language is easy to identify.
"Slut."
Contained within those four little letters is a kind of dark magic that has the power to shift perceptions, alter destinies, and warp the reality in which we live. You may think I'm exaggerating, but let me explain.
I've written elsewhere in my stories that no girl is born a slut. It takes a man, and usually more than one, to make a slut. There's a pattern to this process.
First, men treat you like a slut, because that's what they want you to be. Then, you start to believe that you're a slut, because why else would they treat you like one? Finally, you begin acting like a slut, because that's what you think you are. And once you start acting slutty, those same men feel completely justified in treating you like one.
It's a perfect cycle that functions as a self-propagating machine for male gratification.
And the reason that "slut" is such a potent word is that it has the power to kickstart this machine. Then, once this cycle gets going, it can feel almost impossible to stop.
You see, the thing about the word "slut" is that it implies more than just a girl who has sex regularly with different partners. A slut is promiscuous, but she isn't just promiscuous. No, no, no.
A slut is promiscuous... and everybody knows it.
You don't become a slut just by fucking a bunch of guys. You become a slut when people find out about it. To really be a slut, you need to have a reputation as a slut.
And therein lies the insidious power of this word.
Once people start to call you a slut, that's what you are to them. Calling someone a slut is often all it takes to establish their reputation as a slut, which in turn fulfills the most important qualification for actually being a slut.
Then, the dark machinery of this cycle begins its work, because if you have a reputation as a slut (whether justified or not), then men will invariably begin to treat you like one.
And then—unless you are blessed with incredible willpower, endurance, and self-control—it is only a matter of time until you live up to your reputation. Few among us have the capacity to defy the world's expectations indefinitely. Eventually, most people will embrace those expectations, or succumb to them in a moment of weakness. I know I have. More than once.
As such, I have a complicated relationship with the word "slut." I've felt the sting of its searing, shameful bite. I've come to fear and respect its formidable power. But in recent years, I have to admit that I've also become kind of attached to it, even protective of it in a weird sort of way.
When my girlfriends call each other "sluts" amid playful banter, there's a part of me that roils quietly with indignation. When I overhear a girl at the bar tell her friend approvingly that she's "being such a slut" for grinding with a random guy on the dance floor, I can't help but seethe inwardly at such casual posturing.
These are girls who can try this word on like a cute skirt or a flirty top. They can pose with it, snap a selfie, then toss it aside like so many discarded outfits.
But for some girls, this word cannot be cast off so lightly. For some of us, it weighs heavy on our shoulders, our minds, and our hearts. For some of us, it is not a garment at all, but a brand that has been burned into our very identities.
Those girls I see giggling at the bar have no right to the word "slut." They don't deserve it. It's not their word.
It's mine. Because I've earned it.
***
"Ohh goddd... ohhh, Rick, ohhh fuck..."
"That's it," he grunted, his hips pounding against my firm, well-toned ass. "You like this dick?"
"Fuck, Rick, don't stop," I moaned.
"Let go," he spat hungrily. "I wanna see you lose control for me..."
"Ohgod, ohgod, ohgod," I panted, teetering on the brink of an orgasm.
"You don't control this dick," he cried, plunging deeper into the tight, velvety well of my pussy. "This dick controls you..."
"Mmmmmm," I whined, my eyes shut tightly as I focused on the pleasure building inside me.
"You don't own this cock," he crowed, the pace of his hips quickening. "But this cock owns you..."
"Fuck—fuck me hard," I whispered, desperate for him to push me over the edge.
Rick's hands moved from my hips to my shoulders, his fingers digging into my smooth, supple flesh. With all his strength, he pulled me backwards as hips began to buck wildly, slamming into me with reckless abandon, forcing his huge cock into the deepest parts of my trembling pussy.
"CUM! CUM LIKE I OWN YOU!"
"HNNNNNNNNNNNNGGG!" I moaned as the pleasure overwhelmed me.
"WHO OWNS THIS PUSSY?!"
"Own me!" I screamed, lost among the tremors rippling through me. "Own me, Rick!"
"WHO OWNS THIS PUSSY?!" he yelled again.
