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.