Confessions of an Blonde Asian

Harvard Law, Spring Semester. Hot Asian girls never liked wasting time. This is how I went to hypersexualised Asian student to law firm brown yacht fuck slut.

From the moment I stepped onto the Harvard Law campus, I knew what I needed to be: to be the best. The top of my class, the most precise in moot court, the one who made professors nod with satisfaction and also check out when I walked away wearing tight skirts. That meant sacrifices. Not many parties, no late-night distractions—at least not during the week. Most of the girls I started with burned out halfway through 2L. Not me.

My alarm goes off at 5:00 a. m. sharp. Always. I slip into my black yoga pants and a fitted sports bra, stretch in front of the mirror just long enough to admire the faint lines forming on my stomach, and hit the street. Cambridge is cold this time of year, but I like it that way. It bites into my skin and keeps me sharp. Five miles later, I'm back in the apartment I barely decorated. I don't need clutter. Just focus.

Steam still clung to the mirror as I stepped out of the shower, the last beads of water rolling slowly down my thighs. I reached for the towel, but I paused—just for a moment—and looked at myself. The fog cleared enough to reveal what I already knew, but sometimes needed to see: I was so fucking sexy.

My face still carried the soft, delicate structure of my Chinese heritage—high cheekbones, almond-shaped eyes, and a pouty mouth that looked naturally kissed. My skin was smooth, golden-toned, flushed slightly pink from the heat of the water. I tilted my head slightly, studying the way the droplets clung to my collarbones, to the subtle curve of my breasts.

And then... my hair. Long, thick, almost white under the bright bathroom lights. Platinum blonde. I had kept it this way for years now, ever since my first campus boyfriend said he liked blondes. I thought it might look ridiculous on an Asian girl at first—but it didn't. It made me look... striking. Like someone who chose to be noticed. It framed my face like silk, soft and bright against my skin. It was a contrast, and I loved contrasts.

I tightened my core just a little, admiring the definition in my stomach. All those morning runs paid off. I wasn't curvy like some girls—my figure was more petite, compact, toned—but my hips flared just enough to make certain dresses dangerous. My waist was narrow, the kind men wanted to hold with one hand while pulling me close with the other.

I smiled softly at my reflection. Not out of vanity, but pride. I built this. The discipline, the look, the balance of sharp intellect and raw sensuality. And I knew exactly how to use it.

Two hours of studying before breakfast. Always. I work through contracts, case law, or whatever brutal reading list I'm assigned, with my blonde hair still tied in a tight ponytail. That platinum shine—yeah, I know what it does. I didn't always have it, though. That came after my first boyfriend during undergrad. One night, lying in his bed, he ran his fingers through my hair and whispered he always loved blondes. I booked the salon that same week. It made me feel... noticed. He fucked me a few more times but then we started hooking up with others. Oh well.

Breakfast is light—oatmeal, berries, protein shake. Then I get my private stash and I take out my mix of 'vitamins' Adderall to get a hyper confidence, some trace MDMA for feelings of warmth and peace, and finally Modafinil and a few other things I researched. It made my crazy super focused but also turned my already hyperactive libido into overdrive making me crazy horny all the time. It was still like prepping for court: every extra focus matters.

Classes, clerkship meetings, outlining. I grind until 9:00 p. m. most days trying my best to not masturbate too much. I don't even remember what it's like to be bored. I don't allow boredom. I live in either high performance... or indulgence.

And Fridays? Sometimes Saturdays too, if I feel like I earned it. That's when I let go. The edge softens. I pour a drink—bourbon or red wine, depending on my mood. Maybe a puff of weed, just enough to make the walls feel warmer. That's when it happens. The craving for a huge white cock inside of me, pounding me to a pulp.

It's not just loneliness. It's deeper. My libido hits hard and precise, like a court ruling: you need a man tonight. Tall. Caucasian. A little older, maybe. Someone who knows how to take charge and doesn't ask too many questions. I scroll my dating app with intention, already knowing what kind of night I need. Sometimes, it's just a voice—firm, casual. "Be ready when I get there." That alone sends a little shiver up my spine. Then I dress up like a slut for him, tiny skirts, slutty tops and either a slutty thong or no underwear at all.

I've kept it all in balance. Top of my class, body like a dancer, a secret life on the weekends that only my sheets know about. Or wherever the big guys would bend me over to fuck the shit out off. And now... now I'm about to finish my studies. One semester left before I finally step into the world I've worked so hard for. What kind of firm I'll join, though... that's where things get interesting.

I was in the library when I got the message. "Hey. Still blonde?" I froze, phone in hand, lips parting slightly. My pulse jumped, and not because of the caffeine in my second Americano. It was him. Liam.

I hadn't heard from him since that chaotic, beautiful, dangerous first month at Harward. The one where I first realized I could be brilliant by day... and utterly submissive at night. He was the first boy who ever dared to ask me for more. To test what I'd do in public, what I'd say in private. He was the first man who told me he liked blondes—and I bleached my hair within a week. He made me feel bold, dirty, and feminine all at once.

I read the message again, heart fluttering with a mix of memory and tension. I could still see his broad shoulders crowding the frame of his dorm door with a gigantic cock pointing straight at me, that cocky smile, the rough way he pulled me into corners where he knew I'd blush and bite my lip but still obey. I was so naive back then. Too naive to say no to some of his ideas.

My fingers tightened on the phone as my brain betrayed me with the most vivid image: me on my knees in just a pink thong behind the student union building, his voice whispering dirty encouragement while we rushed to beat curfew—right before we got caught by campus security. I had been humiliated. Exposed. Dripping. And terrified... but he somehow bribed them, smoothed it over, and pulled my naked body back into his arms with that same wicked grin. I remember shaking, not from fear—but from wanting more.

We hadn't spoken since he dropped out.

But here he was. Pinging me out of nowhere, as if time hadn't passed. As if he knew I'd still react like this. He must have seen my photos online—me in my heels and suits, platinum hair down to my waist, clean and polished like a future corporate lawyer. I wondered what he saw when he looked at me now. Still his little Asian plaything? A little brown fuck machine? Or something more dangerous?

I texted back, slow fingers betraying how fast my heart beat. "Still blonde. Well the hair on my head is. My pussy is still shaved and wet just as you left it. What do you want?" His response came quick. "You. Tomorrow. I've got something going on. You'd be perfect for it." I hesitated for all of five seconds. "Text me the time." Because even after all this—after all I'd become—something in me still remembered the thrill of his voice telling me what to do. Something in me still remembered how I'd tremble when he said, "Good girl." And I wanted to know what the hell he thought I'd be perfect for.

I knew tonight wasn't about just fucking the moment I said yes. Liam texted me that they'd arrive at nine. They. I spent an hour getting ready.

Not in the usual, polished way I'd do before mock trial or fuck hookups—but I wanted to humiliate myself before Liam had the chance. I stood in front of the mirror wearing nothing but a cropped, sheer Chinese restaurant apron tied at the waist—it was white with red text 'Thank you Enjoy' and a Chinese pagoda, with matching lace panties that barely covered anything. My platinum hair was freshly blown out, cascading over my shoulders like liquid silk. I wanted to feel soft. Obedient. Oriental gook slut.

I didn't ask who "they" were. I wanted to be surprised. When the knock came, my stomach flipped.

I opened the door—and there he was. Taller than I remembered, broader too, like the gym had become religion. That same smirk, that same eyes-down glance that always made me feel naked. But it wasn't just him.

Beside him stood a girl. A few inches taller than me, blonde too—but natural, I guessed. She was stunning in a West Coast, tan-and-legs kind of way, wearing along black coat that did it best to hide her curves. Her arm looped casually through his.

"Hey, princess," Liam said, stepping forward. "You look just like I hoped you would." I blushed. "This is Ava," he added. "My girlfriend." Ava smiled wide. "Oh my god, you're adorable. I've heard so much about you." She stepped forward put her hand under my chin and gave me a deep passionate kiss.

I blinked. My heart skipped—then thudded. I expected him to bring trouble, yes. Maybe games. But a girlfriend? Still... Ava didn't look jealous. Or cold. In fact, she seemed thrilled to be here.

"I brought you something," she said, reaching into her big coat, opening it like she was about to hand me a birthday gift. Dropping it to the floor she only wore black lingerie and black stockings underneath. I swallowed.

"Come with me to your bed" she said cheerfully, showing me her hand and pulling me with her finally laying down on my bed on her back with her legs spread. "Liam told me you used to be his good girl. He has just put a fresh load of cum in my pussy. I want you to be a good girl and suck it all up for us."

My knees weakened. I looked up at Liam—who just nodded slowly. He wasn't testing me. He knew what I liked. What I missed. What I'd still crave. So I bent forward pulling her thong to the side and started sucking on her cunt tasting the warm cum. "I love it," I whispered as the girlfriend started to moan. "Oh you are a good lite oriental slut, yeah keep sucking I want you to taste all the cum. Imagine you are sucking on boba yeah just like that fuck you are good."

Liam's big cock was magic. He pushed up behind me, spanking me and thrusting inside of me.

He had me face-down on the bed with my head pushed down between his girlfriend's legs, now bare except for heels on her feet. Ava lay on the bed, moaning softly while scrolling on her phone, as if watching her boyfriend fuck another girl was totally normal. Maybe, for them, it was.

His cock moved slowly, expertly—pressing into my pussy, then gliding out and in again. He knew exactly how much pressure to use, how to make me sigh without even realizing I was moaning. When he leaned over and whispered "good girl" into my ear, I shivered, aching to hear it again.

Afterward, we all curled up in the warm, dim living room smoking some weed. My cheek rested on his chest, Ava beside us, half-dozing. The world outside didn't exist for that hour—just skin, comfort, and the low thrum of possibility.

But eventually, Liam shifted, sat up, and looked down at me. "I didn't come here just to play," he said. His voice was calm, but something flickered in his eyes—something serious, and excited. "I have an opportunity. Something big. But you need to dress the part." I blinked up at him. "What kind of opportunity?" He smiled. "The kind you'll understand when you feel the room. But first—let's get you ready."

He moved through my closet like he owned it, pulling pieces I hadn't worn in years—some I'd forgotten I even owned. When he was done, the outfit laid out on my bed looked like a fantasy: A flared, pleated skirt, checkered and short. A pink top, tied high beneath my chest so my stomach stayed exposed. Stockings, thigh-high and a pair of black six-inch heels. And last—a pair of pink ribbons, which he used to tie my platinum hair into playful, girlish double ponytails.

I dressed slowly, with him watching from the edge of the bed, directing little details. "Higher." "Looser." "Softer lips." His voice made my fingers shake. By the time I looked in the mirror, I barely recognized myself—but I loved what I saw.

I looked like a fantasy. His fantasy. He came up behind me, adjusted my skirt, and whispered, "Perfect girl." Then he kissed my neck, called a cab, and told Ava to stay behind. "Girls night for you," he grinned at her. "We'll be back later." Ava just waved us off with a smile. "Take good care of her."

As the door closed behind us, and I stepped out into the night with my heels clicking against the concrete, I felt exposed. Electrified. My heart raced—not from fear, but from the thrill of not knowing where we were going, or what I was about to walk into. I didn't know what Liam had planned. But I knew I was dressed for it. And I couldn't wait.

The taxi glided through the Cambridge night, the hum of the tires and streetlights flashing like sparks against my nerves. My thighs trembled slightly from the tiny capsule Liam had coaxed me to swallow—"vitamins," he'd called them, but I knew better. My skin was flushed, my pulse quick. Everything felt sharper. More alive. I felt my cunt start gushing like I would make the taxi sofa wet.

Liam sat beside me, his arm casually draped behind my shoulders, watching me like a proud sculptor admiring his creation. I could still feel the heat of his hand from when he tied my hair into those perfect high ponytails. He turned to me with that grin. "Ever heard of Armitage & Bell?" I blinked. "The law firm?" He nodded.

Of course I'd heard of it. Armitage & Bell was the holy grail. Prestigious. Mysterious. Unapologetically caucasian elite. Whispers of their ruthlessness echoed in every corner of Harvard Law—people joked you had to sell your soul just to get an interview. But the lawyers who made it? They didn't just win cases. They shaped law.

"I just secured a position there," Liam said casually, like it wasn't the most shocking thing I'd heard all week. "Through a connection. My best friend's father is one of the managing partners." My jaw nearly dropped. He continued, voice low and smooth. "They're expanding their DEI profile. Looking for a sharp, East Asian female associate. Someone good looking. But also someone who—how do I say this—understands hierarchy. Someone who thrives on direction." I stared at him, heart pounding. "They need someone," he said, "who's always obedient without ever hesitating. Beautiful, submissive. Who knows when to speak and when to listen. I told them I knew exactly the right brown little slut." My cheeks flushed, and not from the capsule. He took my hand. "It's tonight. Right now. They don't do second chances." I hesitated—then looked down at myself. The skirt, the blouse, the ribbons, the heels. I looked nothing like the girl I usually was in courtrooms and study halls. But in a strange way, I'd never felt more ready. "Are you saying today is the interview?" I asked, breathless. He smiled. "Let's call it... a demonstration."

Ten minutes later of Liam edging me in the cab I was at the most expensive financial district of Boston. Liam turned to me in the lobby. "You will meet with Mr. Wolfe. Chief of Staff. He oversees special hires. I will leave you alone with him. Be a good girl for me" and with that Liam returned to the cab.

The elevator ride to the penthouse floor was silent except for the soft ding at every level. My legs felt weak, almost losing balance in my slutty stripper heels. The capsule was humming now in my bloodstream—my thoughts sharp but charged, like electricity dancing just beneath my skin.

The doors opened to a space more like a private lounge than a law office: leather chairs, modern art, a floor-to-ceiling skyline view. I walked past a few young pretty secretaries wearing professional suits and pencil skirts making me blush even more as they met me up and down. They got a small evil smirk at seeing the sexy blonde Asian in their office coming for an interview showing her belly button and shoulders. I tried pulling a little on my short skirt to hide my thigh-high stockings but it was entirely impossible. At the other end waiting near the window was a man I hadn't expected.

He was tall. Older—mid-60s maybe—but solid, powerfully built. His shirt stretched over broad shoulders, and even under a tailored vest, I could see the disciplined body of a caucasian man who never stopped training. Silver at the temples, clean-shaven, piercing blue eyes.

Mr. Wolfe approached, nodded politely, and studied me like one might study a racehorse. "I don't believe in resumes," he said in a deep, calm voice. "Only presence. Intelligence. Composure under pressure." I swallowed. "Yes, sir." He raised an eyebrow at the "sir." Then gestured toward the plush carpeted floor in front of his desk. "Good," he said. "Let's begin with something simple." He leaned against the desk. "Crawl to me. Slow. Eyes up." The room went still. He wasn't smiling. This wasn't some test of shame—it was control. Command. He wanted to see if I could surrender without breaking. So I did. Each inch forward felt like a ritual. My palms pressed into the soft carpet. The hem of my skirt crept higher. I met his eyes the entire time. And when I reached him, I sat back on my heels—chest high, knees apart, breath held. His gaze didn't linger on my body. Instead, he nodded slowly. "Good posture," he murmured. "Good instincts." his big warm hand reached out and stroked my chin. Mr. Wolfe circled me once, slow and measured, the way a mentor might study a prized pupil. There was no overt hunger in his eyes. Only scrutiny. Calculation. Maybe... something else. "You follow orders well," he said. "But discipline without awareness is hollow." He stepped closer. "Stand. Take off your heels." I obeyed—slowly, not because I was unsure, but because I wanted him to see that I was deliberate. In control. Obedient by choice.

Wolfe stood by the long glass window, a file folder in one hand, the city lights glowing behind him like a constellation of expectations. "Have a seat," he said, motioning toward a low chair opposite his desk. His voice was neutral again. The warmth was gone—but not forgotten. I sat down, spine straight. He flipped the file open and glanced at the first page. "Top ten percent. Harvard Law. Fluent in Mandarin and French. Four published papers before twenty-three. You must be very focused, but who are you really?" I said nothing and he smiled. "You are allowed to answer when I ask you a direct question. Say something to describe yourself that you knowing me would think that I would like to hear." I heard his question and answered instinctually. "Mi so horny. Mi love you long time sir" I said in my best fake thai accent blushing again. He looked up. A flicker of amusement touched his mouth. He nodded again, faintly approving. He tapped the folder with one finger, pulled out his chair and looked at me expectantly. "What's the worst mistake you've made—and what did you learn from it?" I took a breath. No sense in lying. We both knew what was expected of me. I got around the table got on my knees again and took out his big old cock. "My first year, I tried to impress my old professor by taking on double the caseload for a pro bono project." I started stroking Wolfe with both my small hands still keeping eye contact. "I missed a deadline. He didn't care how hard I worked—just that I failed. I learned that working smart beats working desperate."

Another nod. Wolfe didn't smile—but something in him sharpened. He leaned back with a strong hand behind my head pulling my mouth towards his dick. "Tell me something about yourself you've never put on a résumé—but should have." I opened my mouth as wide as possible trying to take his warm old cock in between my lips and met his gaze, refusing to flinch. His tip was huge making it almost impossible to get even half inside between my lips or be able to speak at the same time. "Mmmhh—I lrrghn peepuh... f-fas'er th'n they rrhhlize... whuhh they wuhh... whuhh they neeghh... whuhh they'r'frrr to aahhk frrgh..." He was very still now. He nodded again, faintly approving. "And if I told you," he said slowly, "that this firm requires more than intelligence? That we ask for loyalty... intuition... and composure under pressure—how would you prove to me you're ready?" I didn't hesitate. I stood. I walked slowly to his desk, bent forward and placed both hands gently on the edge, and held his gaze with something just shy of a smile. "Please fuck this little brown slut hard, Mr. Wolfe Sir." He nodded again, faintly approving. "Do you know how much pressure a first-year associate here is under?" he asked, walking to a sleek cabinet near the window. He retrieved a dark glass bottle and poured a small measure of oil into his palms then rubbed his dick. The scent—lavender and something richer, smoky—reached me as he returned. "Hours without breaks. Judges who treat you like a child. Partners who never forget a single slip." He stood behind me now. His voice softened. "Take a deep breath girl." Before I could answer, his hands were on my shoulders—firm, warm, professional—but unlike any touch I'd felt before. He pushed his slick cock into me with slow, knowing pressure. Not hesitant. Not greedy. Just present. My knees almost buckled. "Good posture is essential," he murmured. "But holding yourself too tightly will make you tense and you will hurt yourself." His hands moved down holding my Chinese hips. My breath slowed. My mind blurred just enough to drift but stayed tethered by the rhythm of his fucking. "You've shaped yourself into something impressive," he said near my ear. "You remind me of the rare ones—the ones who know what they want, and what they'll give to get there." As he slowly picked up the paste he took out what looked like a standard employment contract from his top drawer and put it just under me so I could see it.

I felt heat rise in my chest—not shame. Pride. His fingers traced the edge of my back, slow and reverent, then held my ponytails pulling me back as he fucked me harder with his entire cock now. The sensation sent a tremor down my spine. I closed my eyes.

It wasn't about the massage anymore. It was about trust. Power. Control shared, not taken. He slowed down a little after several long, intense minutes, handing me a pen pointing at the empty line for me to write my name. I turned slowly to face him. My blouse had slipped open now and I threw it away being naked from the waist up and started typing in my name still slowly getting fucked.

Wolfe met my eyes. "This wasn't part of your test," he said. "It was your reward. For showing restraint. Now get ready slut." He fucked me faster again and with a loud grunt I felt him cum inside of my pussy triggering my own massive orgasm.

He paused for a moment still inside of me and then pointed at the very last line of the contract. "Congratulations you can write your signature on this contract and I congratulate you on being our latest hire. You start already tomorrow." It was a surreal feeling signing my first employment contract while one of my new boss still had his big cock inside of me. Still I loved it shaking my ass a little for him as I happily signed the contract without reading it.

When I finished signing he pulled out of me and I stood slowly putting a hand between my legs so his cum wouldn't drip on his expensive carpet. Wolfe was panting and going to his private bathroom to get a towel for himself.

I found thong panties putting them on my ass and starting to look for my skirt so I could leave Mr Wolfe. He got out of the bathroom looking angry at me, making me scared for the first time. I also saw that his cock was already hard again pointing straight up which I thought was really impressive for a man of his age. "You try to get dressed before being dismissed in this building," Wolfe said, his tone clipped and cold, "and you will learn how fast a reputation can evaporate."

I stopped. Turned. His posture hadn't changed, but the stillness in him had taken on a different texture—tight, like wire pulled too far. He closed the folder, stood, and nodded toward a side door. "Come with me. I didn't plan to show you our discipline room on your very first day but I think now is appropriate."

I hesitated. Deliberately. Then followed. The side room wasn't grand like the office—smaller, darker, more private. No windows. Just a long table, a single chair, a large medieval X-shaped furniture leaning against the wall, a few framed degrees and photographs on the wall. A place for decisions, not displays.

He shut the door behind us, softly. No lock, but the message was clear: Nowhere to run.

"I need to know," Wolfe said, circling the table slowly grabbing a pair of leather objects from a box, "if you're someone who understands structure—or just performs it." getting closer to me I saw they were leather bondage cuffs. I have a similar pair in my student room as well.

I decided not to speak. He stopped walking. One brow lifted. He grabbed my thin wrists hard, locking the cuffs around them then grabbing my thong and with a strong pull ripping them from my body.

The silence between us stretched—charged, not empty. Then Wolfe exhaled, a low breath through his nose. "You're either going to rise faster than anyone else we've brought in here..." He stepped closer, his voice like velvet around steel. "Or you're going to implode."

With swift movements he emptied a small plastic bag of cocaine in my mouth then gagged me with a small wooden stick. My heart is racing. I was tied to the large St Andrew cross in the room. He demonstrated how the cross could rotate easily, turning my petite body upside down. In his hand he now had a large paddle and an electric wand that he checked had batteries.

"Do you know why these are my favorites? Don't answer, gagged girls should be quiet. I like them because they leave no marks. Twentysix hits should teach you to be a better behaved employee." He studied me for a long moment. Then—finally—he nodded. Faintly approving.

Me, I was sweating with excitement both the cocaine pulsing through my small body and the feeling of being so vulnerable to this old man started to make me orgasm, my pussy twitching as he started to paddle and electrocute me.

The walls weren't made to contain silence. Each sound bounced and magnified—flesh, breath, anticipation. She gripped the edge of the padded bench, her knuckles white, as the first sharp crack of leather against skin echoed like a firestarter in the dark.

She gasped—once. The second crack came harder. A yelp—half pain, half thrill—slipped from her lips and hung in the air like smoke.

"Again," he said, voice low and steady. She braced. The third strike landed, and her body tensed, then melted. The sound she made now wasn't a gasp—it was a growl. Rising. Almost defiant.

"More," I hissed. He gave me what I asked for. Each motion was deliberate. The air filled with rhythm, her sounds rising—not screaming, but releasing. Controlled at first. Then louder. Each exhale turned into a moan, then a cry, until the echo chamber was filled with the raw voice of someone unafraid to feel fully.

A final touch—a cold wand against warm skin, a current running not just through muscle, but memory. Her eyes fluttered. And then came the laugh. Wild. Euphoric. And finally she passed out.

Many hours later soft morning sunlight filtered through the half-drawn office curtains. The couch beneath her was plush, expensive, upholstered in deep blue velvet. She stirred, blinking awake slowly—her body heavy and aching especially her tits but she also felt rested, her mind caught between disbelief and thrill.

The scent of rich mahogany and aged books lingered in the air. She wasn't in her dorm room. She was still in Wolfe's office but now alone. Her tits really felt extra and she looked down at her small nipples and she gasped at two tiny pretty piercings that Wolfe must have clipped on when she was knocked out. Touching the cold metal she let out a loud involuntary moan and felt the touch immediately made her incredibly horny. She didn't see any obvious ways to take them out from her tits so they would have to stay in for now making her crazy horny.

The rest of her body was entirely naked smooth Asian skin with nothing to tell of the intense bondage experience last night. Reaching down between her legs she felt that Wolfe had left a final gift inside of her, another fresh load of still warm cum in her cunt. She smiled and took her sticky finger to her mouth tasting him.

A quiet knock came at the door. It opened before she answered.

A pretty secretary stepped in—mid-thirties, poised, with high cheekbones and a sharp black pencil skirt. She wore a Cartier watch, moved like silk, and smiled with the calm confidence of someone who'd seen a hundred ambitious young hires like her... but maybe none quite like this one a petite Asian blonde slut laying with freshly pierced nipples there eating cum for breakfast.

"You made an impression," the secretary said warmly. "Mr. Wolfe asked me to congratulate you again. He's made it official—you'll start Monday. But..."

She walked over and placed some new clothes for her next to her on the sofa. Looked like some yellow top and a short checkered skirt.

"He thought you might like a proper welcome. The partners are having their monthly yacht weekend. Starts today. Boston Marina, twelve sharp." Her brows lifted slightly. "It's... not a place for shyness. Summer wear, heels, confidence." A beat. The secretary added, almost playfully, "And maybe your best submissive face." She turned to go, then paused. "There'll be about six yachts out there. Fitness influencers. Models. Investors. Very little small talk. Everyone's there to be seen... or tested." She left the room, heels clicking like punctuation.

One hour to the taxi. This was everything she wanted and she felt super excited to get to an important party where she probably would have many chances to mingle with the partners and make them see how talented and hardworking she is.

Putting on the checkered short skirt and yellow top that left her shoulders naked would be a challenge to keep a professional tone but she didn't have much choice because her apartment was too far away from the marina. Her black high heels were still there but no underwear but luckily the top material was thick enough to not see her hard nipples. Panties she could do without she just would have to be careful not flash the cabdriver always keeping her legs together.

An hour later the engines hummed beneath her bare feet as the yacht eased out of the harbor, leaving Boston's skyline dissolving into sunlit haze behind them.

She stood by the railing for a moment, taking it in—salt air on her skin, wind threading through her long blonde hair. It didn't feel real yet. The boat beneath her wasn't just any yacht—it was one of the firm's prized vessels, all polished teak, chrome accents, and champagne buckets already sweating in the sun.

She'd only meant to look around the yacht and take a shower on the lower deck of the yacht. But her clothes suddenly—gone. Disappeared even though she had put them just outside the shower. Someone must have thought it was dirty clothes by mistake. In their place, a discreet blue tote, waiting on a cushioned bench. Inside: a skimpy designer string bikini in pale blue blush, crotchless barely-there strings that didn't even cover her pierced nipples, and gold-rimmed sunglasses.

At first, she hesitated. But looking on the aft deck through the small shower window, the mood was contagious—half a dozen women, all effortlessly beautiful, were laughing as they adjusted their own swimwear. Skin glowing, voices high and full of teasing joy. She spotted one Thai woman she recognized from Instagram wearing a pink string bikini with round hoops leaving her small sexy behind on full display. Another really dark busty African-American who looked like a fitness YouTuber she used to follow during study breaks was now wearing a much too small bikini really struggling to get her big tits inside the tiny pieces of triangle bikini blushing and almost looking ridiculous and embarrassed she did and no one helped her..

Walking up on deck one of the fit white guys in shorts and expensive polo shirt handed her a sparkling drink. "Hey we hooked up on the last yacht outing, right?" one of them asked, grinning, tugging her gently toward the open space where music pulsed. "Love the piercings see you later!" spanking her playfully as she walked off.

She realized no one knew who she was or that she was the firm's latest lawyer and not just a pretty model. Then she also realized that while weaning this slutty bikini she didn't look any different from the other girls and finally gave in. She changed her firm eyes into submissiveness. Straight back into leaning playing with her blonde Asian hair in the wind from the speeding yacht.

And when she started dancing out in the bikini, barefoot and golden under the early sun, she felt—shockingly—ready. Heads turned. Even the men in linen shirts and tailored shorts—fit, tanned, laughing over bourbon and stock tips—paused for a moment to look.

One of the models handed her a small white tablet. "You'll love this," she whispered. "It's one of the partner's little 'focus blends.' Boosts energy, loosens things up. Everyone takes them."

She hesitated. Then I took one feeling the rush immediately and my labido going crazy starting to stare at the guys shorts seeing if anyone had a bulge I could stroke.

By the time the yacht picked up speed and headed out toward the open sea—where five other partner yachts waited like floating kingdoms—she felt like something electric had flickered on inside her. Music. Laughter. Confidence blooming in her limbs.

It didn't feel like law school anymore. It felt like power. But she soon realized she had no power here whatsoever. She was just another pretty girl with a hot body

She smiled through it. The way the men—so effortlessly polished in their linen shorts and thousand-dollar watches—had looped arms around the girls like they were props. How the guys laughed with each other, tossing names of judges, investment funds, political donors like it was a private language.

She wasn't used to being dismissed. She was top of her class. She read Supreme Court briefs for fun. And yet, when she'd tried to add a comment about a recent antitrust ruling, one of them had chuckled and patted her on her naked leg.

"You're sweet," he'd said. "But this is far too complicated for a little cute oriental cutie like you. You just give me a little kiss here and let the big boys talk haha." It was said with a grin—but it landed like a slap.

The models around her had giggled, distracted by the music and the rosé, too caught up in the moment to notice. She slipped away after that.

Below deck, it was cool. The hum of the engine was louder here, and sunlight filtered in soft through round windows. She walked barefoot, slowly, letting her thoughts catch up with her pulse.

From behind a half-closed cabin door, she heard moaning and laughter. A girl's voice—high, breathy, happy. "Harder," the girl said, teasing. "I said pound me, not just fuck me." A man laughed back. "Don't rush me. This is a long weekend." Curious, she peeked in.

One of the influencers—tan, long hair brunette, legs spread wide—lay on her back on a large king size bed. Blonde guy, in a crisp white shirt, a younger lawyer with the longest cock she had ever seen in her whole dating life was fucking her with confident thrusts. There was a phone mounted to a tripod recording them. A speaker playing ambient music. It looked... professional, surprisingly.

"Hey," the model said when she saw her. "Come in. He gives amazing fucking." The lawyer grinned. "Yeah I could do one more." She hesitated. Then let her string bikini fall to the floor and stepped inside naked.

He offered me to get on top of the brunette model. "Your turn is next". I nodded, quietly.

As the fucking continued, she watched. Noticed the way the model relaxed under her, but also how she watched him—like she knew the real transaction wasn't about sex or touch. It was about visibility. Access.

The influencer may not have known case law, but she was playing a different kind of game. One with its own rules. A few times he pulled out letting me kiss or suck on his big cock then fucked her again with it dripping of my saliva.

I looked around the softly lit cabin. The weed and drugs. The stocked mini bar. Some simple bondage equipment like handcuffs and nipple clamps scattered about.

Then I looked at herself in the mirror across the cabin—blonde, petite, glowing from sun and vitamins, naked with her two blonde pony tails. They had mistaken her for someone else. Maybe that was her greatest advantage.

The young fit lawyer was sweating now and patted the brunette on her side to tell her that he was done with and now was going to fuck me instead. I got on my back ok the big white bed raised my torso with my elbows raised my knees up giving him a great view of the pierced petite little blonde double pigtail Asian girl with the cute horny shaved count ready for him.

His dick felt amazing inside of probably the best dick she had ever had. His large curved tip naturally rubbed her g spot inside of her. "Oh I love you big cock please don't stop".

She saw how he only could get like half of his cock inside of her in the angel but with her now warmed up he firmly took har legs by her ankles and put them over his broad shoulders. He could now get more on top of her and soon he was all the way inside of her slapping her body with his balls as he fucked her methodically.

Suddenly she heard the bedroom toilet flush and moments later another young blonde lawyer entered naked. He was grinning also naked with a bit thinner dick than he colleague dangling between his legs. "Oh we got another girl joining us? Hey, it's a blonde Asian! Let's make her blow us."

He got up on bed next to my head expecting me to blow him. To my disappointment the guy fucking me pulled out to also be on the other side of my head. "Come on girl, take us in your mouth. The faster you go the faster I can go back fucking your tight cunt."

I first took the first big cock in my mouth with some trouble and then tried guiding the other to my lips that were completely full. The brunette model now had taken off the camera from the tripod getting in a closeup of me struggling. "Hey imagine it is two big dumplings you are trying to shove in your hungry China face haha". One of the guys tried encouraging me.

Pulling out the first cock having their tips next to each other I could get them both in my mouth using my tongue to lick them like they were delicious chocolate ice cream.

He then got back fucking me putting my legs over his shoulders again and then lifting my body up like I weighed nothing at all. I wrapped my arms around his strong neck as carried me to the middle of the room. I sensed the other guy getting up behind me and the brunette recording everything.

I had tried anal many times and loved it but had never done a two guy threesome even though it was one of my fantasies. They were the same height like almost two meters tall and he had his hands on my sexy ass and finally I felt him pushing his cock slowly up inside my ass.

After pounding me between their bodies standing up they got me back on the bed fucking me good and hard.

I saw the guy, I didn't even know his name, waving to the brunette to come closer and whisper something in her ear, grinning. "Oh really? You guys are really twisted ducks haha."

She got up to me putting her cute hands around my throat. "It is time for you to pass out. Nighty nighty slut." With that she applied pressure as the guys started fucking me faster and faster. Finally the whole world turned black.

She woke slowly—eyes fluttering open to soft light and the gentle sway of the yacht. A crisp linen sheet covered her bare skin, warm from the sun streaming through the small cabin window. Her limbs felt heavy, loose... as if every ounce of tension had been wrung from her body.

She blinked, realizing she was still in the bedroom where she had her first threesome. Someone had moved her, tucked her into this guest cabin, and... she smelled faint hints of citrus and sea salt—someone had rinsed her off, maybe even showered her. But she hadn't stirred. That fucking and the brunette strangeling her had knocked her out so completely, it left her wondering what else she'd missed.

Her bikini lay folded neatly on a nearby chair. After pissing slipped it back on, a little uneasy but still humming with the deep, lingering pleasure from the double penetration. The boat rocked gently underfoot as she padded barefoot back toward the deck, blinking into the bright light of the late afternoon.

They were far from the city now. Five or six yachts, glittering white and sleek, floated around them, lashed loosely together in a private flotilla. Music played from several decks. Waiters in white polos and sunglasses carried trays of oysters, ceviche, and lobster rolls. Champagne flowed like water.

She smiled. It was stunning. She was starving. She grabbed a small plate of food—something light, impossibly good—and drifted toward a shaded seating area where several men were laughing, huddled around a phone.

She recognized one of them—a partner at the firm, maybe mid-40s, handsome in a carved-from-money way. The others were younger, likely associates. "Even Harvard doesn't teach that," one of them said, holding up the phone. They all cracked up again.

She stepped a little closer, half-curious, but their laughter got even louder when they noticed her. The man with the phone tilted the screen just out of view. Her smile turned into an evil grin. "Hey," she said casually, trying to peek. "What's so funny?" "Nah, it's just a video going around." One of them grinned, a little too wide. "You look great, like you had a tense moment and then a good, great shower. One might say you even had an amazing golden shower haha!" "Yeah," she said slowly, feeling the cold edge of something crawl up her spine. "Guess I needed it." Another one coughed, failing to stifle a laugh. She sat down but didn't speak again.

They didn't say it outright—but she knew. Someone had shared the video of her getting fucked before knocking her out. It wasn't clear how much they'd seen, or who had shared it. But the fact that they were laughing at all—not with her, but around her—hit harder than she expected. She'd let her guard down. And now, it felt like they thought they had something over her.

But she wasn't a model. She was now really just a fuck toy.

She walked the teak deck slowly, barefoot, feeling the rhythm of the ocean beneath her soles as the yacht rocked gently in the swell. The city skyline had long disappeared behind them. Out here, in international waters, everything felt... different.

Freer. Stranger. Looser. The mood had shifted.

The Instagram models were no longer just posing for bikini pictures. One latina model was topless, laughing as a shirted man in expensive sunglasses took a selfie with her with one hand on her ass. Another black African stretched naked like a cat across a lounge chair, her bikini nowhere in sight, sun high on her dark chocolate skin. The champagne still flowed, but now it was mixed with something else—a sense that there were no more rules.

She didn't feel scandalized. Not exactly. But she couldn't ignore the knot in her stomach, either.

And that was when she saw her—the other woman. The brunette from the bedroom. She was alone now, standing nude near the portside railing, arms folded tight across her tits, her long dark hair blowing in the wind.

She hesitated, then walked toward her. The woman noticed her, flinched slightly, then looked down at her feet. "Hey." Then, barely above a whisper: "I didn't mean for it to happen like that. The video. The... shower. T- the guys said it was either you or me."

There was a long pause. Wind, waves, laughter drifting from the bow. A hard silence settled between them. She waited. "They—" the woman took a breath, brushing hair from her face. "The guys in the cabin. They dared me. After fucking your body and dragging to wash it off in the shower they told me to pee on you. They thought it'd be funny. I thought... I thought better you than me and that you wouldn't even remember." "Y- you peed on me?! Oh my god...," I said quietly. "Oh you didn't know that." The woman swallowed but then got something fierce in her eyes. "You know what, you will learn that out here it's the guys that set the rules. You, me and everyone else will have a much more fun and relaxed time here the sooner you realize that.."

That, she understood. Too well. For a moment, neither of them looked at the other. After a moment, I nodded once. "You're lucky I'm not the vindictive type." That drew a faint, guilty smile. "Thank you. If it will make you feel better you can slap my tits or something."

She admired the brunette's perfect model tits but instead turned to go—and almost bumped into one of the younger lawyers leaning against the railing, watching the ocean with sunglasses pushed high into his hair. He was surprisingly down-to-earth looking, in a Henley shirt and no Rolex in sight.

"Rough day?" he asked, glancing sideways. She gave a faint smirk. "Complicated." "You get used to it. Or you don't." He gestured at the water. "Out here, there are no laws. Not really." She raised an eyebrow. "I'm a law student." He chuckled. "Yeah? So tell me—who enforces U. S. federal law in international waters?" She hesitated. "Exactly," he said. "The answer is: whoever has the most leverage. Or the biggest boat. That's what makes these trips so interesting. It's not about legal codes. It's about leverage. And power."

She looked out across the water, past the other yachts tethered to theirs, laughter, moaning and fucking echoing across the waves. "Sounds like the oldest rule in the book," she said. "The strong do what they can, and the weak suffer what they must." He looked impressed. "Thucydides. You are a law student." She smiled tightly, but her mind was elsewhere. No laws out here. No boundaries, except the ones you could enforce or erase. She had some decisions to make. I was heading below deck again, mostly to escape the heat, when I saw her.

She was Easy Asian just like me—an Instagram model I'd barely noticed before, now standing silently in the hallway outside a cabin. Not talking. Not moving. Just... waiting.

What stopped me was the way she held herself. Her wrists were behind her back, bound in polished leather cuffs, connected by a single strap that held her elbows close together. An armbinder. Decorative, maybe—at least that's what I told myself.

But the way the young associate walked past her, humiliating her, laughing at her, spitting her in her face and groping her—like she was just part of the décor—said otherwise. She had her mouth silenced with a spider gag unable to protest the abuse, even if she wanted to.

I turned away quickly and kept walking. But the image stayed with me. By the time I reached the lower lounge, I had already decided. They had a culture here. Strange, layered, elite. A hierarchy of power where rules were more about signals than statutes. Where compliance was currency, and dominance wore a smile.

I had spent three years at Harvard Law working harder than anyone. Rising at 5:00 a. m. for jogs in the dark. Studying till my eyes hurt. Skipping every distraction except the ones I couldn't control. But this wasn't about perfect GPAs or case law recitation. This was about understanding the room. The unspoken language of who gets in, who stays, and who's always kept out. If they were testing me, fine. I'd pass.

I returned topside naked now without my tiny bikini just as the yacht drifted into a wide crescent of open water, the five other boats now moored together, bobbing like a floating fortress.

A partner in mirrored sunglasses handed me a flute of champagne and a small tray of cocaine. "Feeling better?" he asked. I smiled, sipping carefully. "I think I get the vibe now." He leaned in, arm around my waist, voice low. "Good. Because tonight, it matters how well you play along." he touched my behind playfully.

The sun had begun to sink into the horizon, casting golden light over the polished deck as the yachts rocked gently, tethered together in a perfect crescent. The dinner was set across two boats—white tablecloths, glowing lanterns, crystal glasses catching the last fire of the day.

I walked slowly, heels clicking on the smooth deck. The silk wrap dress they'd given me clung to my body with every step. Transparent red silk, slit high. It was clear now it wasn't chosen at random.

I knew they were watching. But for the first time, I didn't shrink from it.

A week ago, I was buried in court summaries and mock trial transcripts. Tonight, I was playing a different game. One I hadn't studied for, but perhaps... was built for.

Across the table, the senior partner Wolfe raised his glass toward me. "To new hires who don't waste time finding their place."

Polite laughter rose around the table, and I smiled—poised, unreadable, but perfectly aware of what was happening.

It wasn't subtle. None of it had been. A few models had already crawled under the table to suck cock. The men in tailored linen laughed loudly, casually letting their hands rest on the shoulders of the girls next to them. The women—fitness models, influencers, ambitious interns—laughed with them, their eyes dancing, their posture always slightly inviting.

I took my seat between two mid-level partners, both with the glint of expensive whiskey in their eyes. One of them leaned in, hand on my exposed thigh, sliding a sleek folder beside my wine glass. On the other side of the room in full view of everyone a busty Thai woman had just straddled the guy next to her and started riding his white dick moaning loudly.

"Your contract. Just a reminder," he said casually. "Standard DEI hire terms. Last page might interest you."

I opened it slowly. Sure enough—on the final page, in the fine print that I hadn't bothered to read with Wolfe dick up my cunt—was a clause labeled: 'Cultural Integration & Immersive Representation Clause'

I read the paragraph twice. Carefully crafted, precisive, and unmistakably clear between the lines. The job wasn't legal research and billable hours. It was representation—as a present. As a story they were selling to the world. Basically I had zero monthly salary only getting compensation for following instructions at whatever parties the law firm arranged. I was more or less their prostitute.

An Asian woman, Harvard Law, platinum blonde, willing to play her part in their theater of power. I took a sip of wine. Then another. And I smiled. "Anything unclear?" one of the partners asked unbuttoning my dress. "No," I said. "Actually... I think it suits me." I stood up letting them undress me. The man beside me chuckled softly and leaned in, brushing something from my bare shoulder. "Well," he said, "you wear it well."