Young Asian MILF is coerced by son’s arrogant white friend

My name is Nikki Kim. I’m Korean American, second generation, born and raised in Los Angeles. I have two children, both boys. At the time of this story, I was 34-years-old, my older son was 14, and his younger brother was 11.

As you can probably tell from those ages, I got married quite young for a girl of my generation, but not so young when you consider the community I grew up in. Like a lot of Korean immigrants, the Korean church played a major role in my upbringing. Neither of my parents were particularly religious, but they were both very culturally conservative when it came to adopting American values. As a result, church or school made up basically all of my social life growing up, and the rest of my free time was spent helping out at the little hole-in-the-wall noodle restaurant they ran in LA’s Koreatown neighborhood.

I was never very rebellious growing up, perhaps because my older sister was rebel enough for both of us. She was four years older than me, and throughout my childhood, most of my memories of her involve her fighting with my parents. She used to get into these epic screaming matches with my Mom about the way she dressed, her hair and makeup, her friends and her spending and her schoolwork. But the biggest blowouts always had to do with boys.

Technically, my sister wasn’t allowed to date at all, but my parents might have let things slide a bit if she’d been going to get patbingsu or tteokbokki after church with some nice Christian Korean boy. Instead, she was constantly sneaking out of the house and climbing into cars driven by white guys that she had met god knows where.

Once, when I was around 13, I asked my Dad why he and Mom were always so angry at her.

“Your sister is brainwashed,” he said solemnly. “White boys, they’ll say or do whatever it takes to get what they want. We try to tell her, ‘You can’t trust them,’ but she never listens.”

“But what do they want, appa?”

“Don’t ask such questions,” he grunted, turning away.

After watching my sister go to war with my parents on a daily basis, I did everything I could to be the perfect daughter. I studied hard, helped out at the restaurant, and steered clear of the white boys I sometimes saw looking at me in the hallways at school.

I guess I should say now that my sister and I are both very pretty. I know that Koreans are supposed to be very modest and all, but of the Seven Deadly Sins, I’ve always been the most susceptible to Pride, and specifically vanity. I’m aware of the way that men look at me, and I know these details are especially relevant to this particular story.

I have the kind of natural features that many women in Korea try to achieve through plastic surgery. My face is heart-shaped, tapering gracefully along my jawline to my delicate, pointed chin. My nose is with a dainty and upturned, a little button at the bottom of a narrow bridge. My lips are full and pouty, which I like to accentuate with various shades of lipstick. Pretty makeup and cute clothes are two of my biggest indulgences, but they’re easy to justify to my husband because he feels that he’s the real beneficiary.