Note: This story is a continuation of an earlier story ("Like Father, Like Daughter") that I published with my old account (Sneaky_Lola). However, I forgot my old Literotica password, so I had to create a new account. Hence, sneaky_lola2. This story takes place after the events of "Like Father, Like Daughter," as is intended to be read afterwards, as there are many relevant details from that story that are referenced in this one. (Specifically, references to Cam, Caleb, and Lola's father.) You can read that story (which is broken into five sections) by visiting my old account page:
https://www.literotica.com/stories/memberpage.php?uid=3696092&page=submissions
However, if you prefer to read this as a standalone installment, I hope you'll still find it enjoyable. Like my previous story, you have to wait awhile to get to the sex, but I think there's a lot of pretty sexy stuff that happens during the build-up. Anyway, thanks for reading!
*****
Although my night with Cam foreshadowed many of my future encounters with men, in the weeks and months that followed, my life remained more or less as it was. Despite his prediction that I would run back to my high school and start hunting for big dicks, the fact of the matter is that one fuck--no matter how debased or degrading--doesn't suddenly turn an ordinary girl into a cock-worshipping slut overnight. That kind of transformation takes time.
However, that isn't to say that nothing had changed. Like a lot of girls after they lose their virginity, I briefly became infatuated with Cam. Although his actions had made it abundantly clear that I was little more than a hot lay at his brother's expense, I couldn't help imagining that something more had happened between us.
I started following the Stanford baseball team online, reading about Cam's exploits on the field and his professional prospects. I checked with Coach Matthews to see when he would be coming home for the weekend. I prayed that I would be accepted to Stanford so that I could make another trip to the campus where seemed to rule like a Greek god.
More than anything else, though, I texted him. After my trip to Stanford, I waited for days to hear from him, but he was radio silent. Finally, in spite of my better judgment, I messaged him. At first, it was something innocuous, but it wasn't long before it became obvious that innocent texts about my day would go unanswered. Without ever actually saying so, Cam made it clear that dirty texts and pictures of my body were all that would elicit a response.
Night after night, he passively pushed my boundaries with his indifference, compelling me through his silence to step further and further outside my comfort zone in exchange for the barest morsels of his attention and approval. Sexy messages were quickly replaced by lewd photos: me, shirt off, cupping my bra-covered tits to accentuate the deep valley between them; me, down on all fours in front of a mirror, holding the phone between my legs so that he could see the tiny thong that hid so very little; and eventually, of course, fully-nude photos of me squeezing my long, hard nipples and playing with my wet, no-longer-virginal pussy.
Even as I was sending him naked picture after naked picture, it was easy to rationalize this behavior. After all, I had already had sex with Cam, and without a condom no less. What was a photo or two after letting him fuck me raw? It might have been a little slutty, but it wasn't like I was sending nude pics to some random guy, I reasoned. I wasn't a slut--I was just a slut for Cam. Somehow, that didn't seem as bad.
Of course, after a couple of weeks, not even topless photos of me masturbating seemed to interest him. If I had been there on campus to suck his cock and service his every whim with my body, I'm sure I could have held his attention much longer, but even that would have run its course in due time. This was my first bitter taste of a very basic lesson that I have since learned the hard way on multiple occasions: no matter how hot you are; no matter how much you cater to their desires; no matter how well or how often you fuck them; most hyper-dominant men will eventually get bored with you. The fact that I happen to fuck almost exclusively the type of men who inevitably get tired of me has been a great source of exquisite ecstasy and cruel irony in my life thus far.
After Cam stopped texting me back altogether, it took awhile before I was willing to consider the advances of other guys. Despite his insistence to the contrary, I couldn't help but feel as though I belonged to Cam. He must be special, I thought, to be able to control me like this. I wouldn't give any random guy this much power over me.
Desperate though they were to fuck me, the boys at my high school simply didn't stack up. Cam was older, bigger, and better looking, as well as more famous and more successful. Compared to a Stanford celebrity like him, even the most popular guys at my school seemed like little boys playing at manhood. Traumatic as my experience with Cam had been at the time, I had seen what sex with a dominant man was like, and I couldn't stomach the idea of some fumbling teenage boy following in his footsteps. Eventually, I did hook up with a guy in my class, but after giving his unremarkable cock a half-hearted blowjob in the backseat of a car, I concluded that no sex at all would be less disappointing than expecting dominance from insecure boys who simply weren't equipped to deliver.
It wasn't until the summer after graduation that circumstances conspired to help me get over Cam for good. That spring, I had gotten scholarship offers from a few schools in California, albeit not from Stanford. After some deliberation, I chose USC, which made my Mom very happy. LA has a huge Korean community and I knew she was relieved that I would be somewhere that could nourish both sides of my racial identity. I think she was secretly hoping that I would meet a nice Korean guy, too, but I think you already know how that turned out.
My USC tennis scholarship opened up opportunities for me even before I arrived on campus. After years of working as a tennis camp counselor for mediocre pay, I was suddenly able to land a plum job as a private instructor at Meadowlark, a fancy country club in the Las Vegas suburbs. I would make an entire summer's worth of camp wages in my first month giving private lessons to bored housewives and their spoiled little brats.
Of course, even if my D1 bona fides helped me get my application noticed, it became evident during the interview process that Meadowlark was interested in me for more than just my baseline backhand.
Since the job was for a tennis instructor, I had planned to come in my playing clothes, expecting that the club's athletic director would want to see me on the court. The day before my interview, however, I was told to show up in cocktail attire, as this was the clubhouse dining room dress code for female members. This seemed curious to me--was the interview going to happen in the dining room?--but I wasn't about to start asking off-putting questions, so I laid out the strappy coral dress that my Mom had given me as a gift for winning the singles state title a year before. If it got as much attention from the athletic director as it did from the Matthews men the night I wore it to their house, I figured it wouldn't hurt my chances.
The following day, as I drove through the gates that separated the Meadowlark grounds from the surrounding community, I felt as if I was auditioning for admittance into a secret society. The grounds were breathtakingly green and immaculately maintained, an unreal oasis on the edge of the desert. Inside the clubhouse, dark wood paneling and black and white photographs lined the walls, and your feet practically sank into the thick, lush carpeting that blanketed the floors like a fairway.
At the front desk, I was greeted by a bubbly young blonde woman in a blindingly white blouse and skirt combination that bore the Meadowlark insignia. She walk me down a long hallway decorated with the portraits of smartly-dressed, middle-aged white men. Even from the inanimate confines of the canvas, these men seemed to exude the sense of effortless authority that comes from dictating the rules of society for decades. At the end of the hallway, the blonde deposited me in a waiting area outside the athletic director's office.
Moments later, the heavy wooden door swung open and a tall, gorgeous man with a granite jawline and glass-blown cheekbones emerged as if from the pages of GQ.
"Good afternoon, Lola," he said, extending a hand. "Magnus Ericsson."
I reached for his hand and he pulled me to my feet.
"Nice to meet you, Mr. Ericsson."
He wore a dark blue blazer over a white collared shirt open at the neck. Although his attire was as I had expected, he looked to be in his early 30s, which was considerably younger than the stodgy, paunchy 50-something I had imagined.
"Charming dress," he said, his blue eyes tracing the swell of my chest as he held the door open. "Come inside."
His office was not so different in character from the rest of the clubhouse. Photos of elegant sportsmen engaged in patrician pursuits like tennis, golf, cricket, crew, and polo covered the walls. The room had lush chairs and thickly-upholstered sofas ringing its edges, but the center was dominated by a leather swivel chair behind a large, ornately-carved desk. Wordlessly, Mr. Ericsson walked behind the desk and sank into the chair with languid grace that belied his athletic prowess. From his chair, he waved me forward, indicating that he intended me to stand before him.
"Lola Andrews," he said, lifting a piece of paper from his desk. "It says here you were the state champion in girls' singles this year, correct?"
"Yes, sir," I said, folding my hands behind my back for lack of a better place to put them.
"Congratulations. That's quite an accomplishment." He spoke without any discernible accent, but his deliberate cadence and intonation suggested something other than a native speaker. "And off to play for USC this fall?"
"Go Trojans," I offered, sheepishly pumping my fists just to have something to do with my arms. He smiled wryly at the gesture, appearing to enjoy the awkwardness I felt standing before him.
"Your tennis resume is impressive, Lola." He placed the paper back on his desk. "I've no doubt that our members could learn a thing or two from you."
"Thank you, Mr. Ericsson."
"But," he added, the smile disappearing from his face, "It takes more than just tennis skills to succeed at Meadowlark."
