Compulsion

by Don Julian Winslow

  The incredible thing was that she had come upon the men’s shower room! She knew this was so, because as she stood in the doorway, she saw an unmistakably male figure with his back turned to her, soaping up the front of his body. She stood to watch the naked man with the heavy shoulders, thick waist, and hard-coiled male buttocks that moved as he bent forward. Now he straightened; stood with his hairy, muscular legs spread in a bold, widened stance. Between the arch of his legs, she could see a pair of wet-furred balls dangling down.

  She saw herself standing in the doorway. She watched fascinated as the nude man slowly turned around to confront her. It was Professor Wolfe! His left hand was on his hip, and loosely cupped in his right hand was his drooping penis, thickening as he idly fingered it. He simply stood there, letting the girl look. Her eyes were captivated by the male organ. She found herself walking towards the naked man, helplessly drawn to him like a programmed robot. Everything was happening silently and in the slow motion of the dream. His eyes stayed on hers hers, as he held his cock in his hand, and she moved forward to stand before him. He smiled down at her, and slowly nodded his big, half-bald head.

  Jamie obediently got to her knees, to kneel before the grinning professor who gave up his stiffening cock, so that he might lay his large, cupped hand on top of her head. The swollen penis, semi-hard now, swayed only inches from her hungry eyes; the man’s balls hung heavily before her -- large, and hanging heavily in their hairy sack. She leaned forward, lightly placing a hand on his wet hairy thigh, as the other hand came up to cup those big balls, and roll them in her small, fleshy palm. The swollen penis surged with lust, instantly engorging at the electrifying touch of feminine fingers, lengthening and thickening, and raising its drooping head till it stood upright, wet and gleaming, before her wondering eyes. She knelt in adoration, awe-struck before that fully erected phallus.

  She looked up at him as though looking for a sign of affirmation. But he only stood there, smiling down at her, his balding head slowly nodding up and down. Clasping the base of his erect manhood in loosely curled fingers, she lowered her head, to bring her lips to his upright penis. She planted a kiss on that tautly-drawn prick then extended her tongue, to swirl all over the thick, swollen head, using lips and mouth and slithering tongue in her obsequious devotion to the phallus. Then she took that throbbing, lust-hardened manhood into her mouth, slowly ducking her head in that evocative act of sweet feminine submission.

  As the blond girl bobbed up and down on the iron-hard prick, she used her tongue to pleasure the grinning man, starting at the tip and then running her lively tongue down underneath the length of his cock until she reached the base and then back up again in lavish liquid swirls. The possessive hand that cradled her head, drew her in closer, moving her head in a smooth bobbing rhythm. A lustful urgency drove Jamie on, spurring her on to even greater heights, till she was drawing on him, her cheeks hollowing as she sucked deeply, her head pumping up and down on her professor’s cock in long, even, methodical strokes.

  She felt the shiver that ran through his rigid body, and looked up to find a blissful smile creased his lips, as he closed his eyes to savor the delicious moment -- the girl’s pursed lips engulfing the swollen head of his penis; the heavenly feel of that velvety tongue, even as her other hand cupped his tight hairy scrotum and she enveloped him in her warm, receptive mouth.

  His hands fell on her shoulders. He closed his eyes, swallowing down the abrupt upsurge of pleasure, and swayed back on his heels. Tightening his grip on her shoulders, he prepared to surrender to the myriad sensations of the lips and mouth and tongue of the pony-tailed girl who was assiduously working him over with such single-minded determination.

  Jamie thrilled to the sense of power that came over her -- the sudden realization that she held this mature, older man in her hands, brought him to a helpless state, her captor begging for the continued pleasure of her sucking mouth, the exquisite feel of her lips as she dragged them along his hard throbbing prick. It drove her on, to suck even deeper, more enthusiastically, till the ponytail was flopping up and down, the small blond head pumping in a rhythmic blur.

  He ran curved fingers through soft blond hair; guided her bobbing head. Then, as he teetered on the edge of orgasm, he reached out to clasp her small face and hold it between his large hands, as he abruptly yanked back, freeing his pulsating prick just at the moment of climax. He came in a mighty eruption of lust, splattering the girl’s face with thick wads of dripping cum that decorated her neat, blond features like a sticky spiderweb.

  ***

  Lydia Wyngate approached the computer with a deep suspicion tinged with disdain. For her, the machine had that vague aura of some piece of equipment deposited on her desk by an alien spacecraft. The thing was so obviously the product of a “linear male thinking,” she sniffed. Still, she had to grudgingly admit, it was useful in keeping her in touch with the right people, the sort of people who really mattered, anywhere around the world. And, as a leading scholar and researcher, one was expected to be conversant with things like e-mail, although she always seemed to have some sort of problem getting the damned thing to work.

  Today, things went smoothly enough; the list of messages lined up – obediently waiting for her attention. But one caught her attention. With deepening suspicions, she saw there was one from Marcus Wolfe, one without a “Subject.” That disgusting man, with his cave man mentality had no business even sweeping the floors in the Department. Paige’s proposal to the curriculum committee would put him in his place! He’d probably heard about it by this time, and was contacting her in some desperate scheme to squirm out of it. Well, he’d soon find out it was too late!

  The big woman couldn’t suppress the smug smile that twisted her bloodless lips as she raised her right index finger over the “Enter” key, and quite deliberately pressed it down.

  ***

  Lydia was sweating under her suit, and she had to stand up to remove her jacket. Was she coming down with something? Feeling light-headed, and flushed with the intolerable heat, she resumed her seat at the conference table, but soon found she was having trouble following the conversation. She had to pull herself together! She made an effort, straightening in her chair, adopting a more attentive posture, her dark eyes sweeping around the table, forcing a broad smile for her colleagues on the committee.

  Jonathon Alda, bald, be-speckled, and mild mannered, was sitting opposite her that day, and he thought Brunhilda (his personal, and very private, name for her) was acting rather odd. He was startled to see Lydia show up for the meeting with her dark hair swept up in a neat chignon. She was also wearing pearls, lipstick, high heels, and a pair of impressive earrings. The dramatic shift in her appearance would have been startling in itself, had she not been upstaged by Paige Robbins who had attracted even more attention by showing up off those long sleek legs of hers in a pair of black tights worn with a shockingly brief miniskirt. But Paige had taken a seat across from him on the other side of the table, while Lydia sat directly opposite the man, so he couldn’t help studying her heavily made-up features.

  Two buttons at the top of her blouse seemed to have become undone, and he was given an inadvertent (he was sure) view of the woman’s generous cleavage. As she sat across from him in that sleeveless white blouse, her hands folded on the table, he couldn’t help letting his gaze settle on the full swells of Lydia’s Wyngate’s sumptuous bosom, her breasts heavy and rounded, cradled in a lacy brassiere that was dimly visible under the thin white blouse. Lydia was a plump woman, but not overly so, and he had noticed how well she filled out the midnight blue skirt that tightened over the prominent curve of her rounded rump. For some reason, at that moment, and for the very first time, he actually thought of her as a woman, and not as some overbearing Amazon braying out her constant demands for rights.

  Lydia saw where the male gaze had settled, and she secretly preened. The vague thought crossed her mind that she should be indignant, but she didn’t feel indignation. If anything,
she felt pleased; inanely, crazily, delightfully pleased. Suddenly, their eyes met; held for just a second. Lydia was the first to look away, lowering her lashes prettily, and to Jonathon’s astonishment, blushing like a schoolgirl. She shifted slightly in her chair, pulling back her shoulders and thrusting her uplifted chest forward over the table. The movement drew her blouse tight, giving the man a detailed look at those fulsome breasts of hers, lightly compressed by the lacy tit-holster.

  Jonathon, feeling guilty, quickly looked away. But Lydia didn’t see that. She wasn’t watching his face. Her eyes had fallen to the tabletop, where they seemed captivated by Jonathon’s hands -- big, masculine hands, well manicured. There was strength in those hands, she noted appreciatively, even though they were folded now. She watched them rubbing together slowly, as though the man were anxious to get hold of something substantial. Another rush of heat flooded up from her loins, and to her surprise, a wild and crazy fantasy forced its way into her mind: She pictured herself, laid out like a naughty child across Jonathon Alda’s lap, her skirt bunched up around her waist. The light blue panty briefs he had revealed in raising her skirt, now strained to contain her plump, wobbly cheeks while one of those big hands slammed down with authority, as her colleague merrily spanked the ample bulges of her barely-pantied bottom!

  She licked her lips in eager anticipation. Her left hand slipped under the table to plunge into the valley the skirt made between her thighs. Her substantial legs slid further apart, as she sat there, stroking her thighs through her skirt, rubbing the slippery material over the smooth pantyhose in a slow, delicious caress.

  Lydia let herself drift, barely aware of old Musgrove muttering about the complex issues involved, and his recognition of the need for diversity, so that they might hear all points of view. She slipped her hand up her dress, closed her thighs tightly on that hand, trapping it between her legs, squeezing, rubbing her nyloned thighs together in squirming excitement. Jonathon saw her lean back, her lashes fluttering down; a slow smile came to her painted lips.

  Suddenly aware of what she was doing, Lydia yanked her hand back as if it had been burned, and, flustered, tried to shake off the warm languid feeling. She made another effort to pull herself together, politely looking around at the other committee members.

  Paige seemed to be making some sort of point, but Lydia had a hard time following it. Page looked so pretty, so inexpressively lovely today: those crisp, good looks, so cool and perfect and confident, those large, clear blue eyes, that determined chin, those perky little breasts. Lydia gave an inward sigh.

  At that precise moment a sharp pang of lust cut knifed though her, and the lewd image -- being pinned over Jonathon Alda’s knee -- flashed into her mind. She was burning up with heat, and brought a hand up to her face, managing what was meant to be a reassuring smile for her colleague across the table who sat regarding her with growing concern.

  The distraught woman experienced a second abrupt surge of arousal that jarred her to the core. She knew she should get up, make some excuse, get to the ladies room to relieve the burning itch in the privacy of a stall. But she couldn’t move; couldn’t trust her legs to stand. Woozy with passion, she patted back a loose tress of hair that had escaped her tightly wrapped hairdo, closed her eyes and took a deep breath. The hand that rested on her thigh now moved, slipping up under her skirt for another surreptitious foray. Her knees eased apart as the burrowing hand, its path still hidden under the table, made its way to her pantied crotch, there to press two fingers just to the front of her panties. She was wet, and hot, unbelievably hot, burning up. Her fingertips sampled the inner heat of her damp sex through the damp layers of nylon.

  Now the dark-haired woman’s eyelids fluttered down; then her eyes clenched tight as she experienced the fluttery feeling of excitement in her belly that left her insides feeling like mush. Her thighs spasomed, clenched convulsively on her imprisoned hand. She arched her back, and it was only through half-lidded eyes that she noticed Jonathon across the table was looking at her, a look of growing alarm spreading across those composed features. Next to him, perky little Maddie Fox was also leaning forward, a solicitous look creeping over her cute puzzled face. Abruptly, Lydia pushed back from the table, and while they all turned to regard her sudden departure with curiosity, the matronly woman staggered to her feet and lunged for the door.

  ****

  That night Lydia dreamt that she was back in high school, dressed in her old school uniform, complete with stiff cotton blouse, plaid skirt and crested blazer, knee socks and patent leather flats. She was alone, walking down a long corridor, with a growing sense of dread at each step she took. She was on her way to the principal’s office. And when she opened the door, she found, sitting behind the principal’s desk in a handsome, three-piece suit, none other than -- Marcus Wolfe! The man just sat there, glaring at her, his bearded lips drawn in a stern, tight line. Lydia knew instantly she was in trouble.

  A high stool had been placed just to one side of the desk, and now, without a word, Mr. Wolfe rose to his feet and took his place on the elevated stool. Looking down at her from his commanding height, he silently beckoned the girl to him. It was then the full force of the realization hit her: she was about to be spanked!

  She started to protest in dismay, explaining that it was all a mistake. She was, after all, a fully grown woman! But Wolfe pointed out, with the logic of the dream, that if she was a mature woman, what was she doing in the school wearing a school girl’s uniform, and one with such a shockingly short skirt at that? She looked down at herself, embarrassed to find it was true. The hem of the kilt-like skirt rode halfway up her robust thighs. She had been caught; she felt the shame of guilt. For parading around so shamelessly, she would certainly have to be punished!

  Again, he beckoned her to him, this time with an impatient scowl creasing his high brow. The full-figured, dark-haired woman moved forward to present herself to her disapproving principal, hands clasped behind her back, her head hung low, eyes on the floor, awaiting his judgment. He spoke an order, and she knew what to do: the routine, a familiar ritual -- to prepare oneself for spanking. She removed her navy blue jacket, carefully folded it; set it aside. And then her fingers went to her hair to undo the tight chignon, and let the mass of soft dark hair, tinged with gray, fall to her shoulders with a shake of her head. Looking down at her feet, she watched her patent leather shoes take the final two steps that brought her to the seated man.

  He urged her up; the big woman came to him, and then obediently lowered herself down over his expensively trousered thighs, wiggling into place till she lay fully extended across the man’s lap. And there she waited tensely, head hanging down one side, hair fallen down around her face, her loins slightly elevated, so that her bottom was raised over his knees, while her stockinged legs angled down the other side; the tips of her shoes barely touching the floor.

  The full realization of her position now slammed into Lydia, bringing a flush of deep humiliation: she, a grown woman, was now stretched out over the lap of a man, offering up her bottom to him like a naughty schoolgirl, for a severe spanking. The wicked thought thrilled her to the core!

  Electrified by a deliciously wicked thrill, she couldn’t help wiggling her hips, squirming with impatience.

  The seated man gazed down on that skirted feminine bottom, smiled to see that girlish wiggle, and the way the brief skirt barely covered that substantial rearend, leaving bare the back of her knees and the plump fleshy thighs. He placed a hand on the small of her back and ran it slowly up the rounded contour to give her a light pat on her upturned rump. Lydia tensed at the first touch of his hand on her butt. She felt him open his thighs a bit more, shifting her dead weight. Then, her skirt being raised up the back of her legs!

  She was shifted again. He reached under her so that the little skirt could be rucked up all the way, and he left it bunched up around her waist, uncovering a pair of thin, white, tightly-packed panties, that couldn’t quite contain the twin bulges o
f that stalwart, womanly ass. He noted the way the smiling undercurves had escaped the elastic legbands. He took a moment to savor the magnificent sight: The woman’s hips were wide, her bottom was high and rounded, the thin seat of the panties had been pulled taut over the twin contours so that the crack was dimly visible though the sheer fabric. He couldn’t help smiling down at Lydia Wyngate’s substantial bottom, served up so nicely for his pleasure. And he was fully prepared to take his pleasure there, to savor the thrill of punishing that big ass of her, for all transgressions, real and imagined.

  He brought up a hand to lay it gently on her pantied bottom, splaying his fingers, pressing to test the resiliency of those chubby cheeks through the silky panties. The woman’s cheeks clenched in instinctive reaction, and their involuntary spasm made his smile widened. Principal Wolfe spent a moment rubbing the slippery nylon all over the cringing cheeks till she let herself relax and he was able to move the wobbly mounds with his fingertips. He thoroughly enjoyed himself, fondling and squeezing, playing with Lydia’s well-made, bounteous ass. Then, when she started responding to this shameless masculine caress, squirming in sensual delight, he abruptly stopped what he was doing, and reached for her underpants. Clasping her sturdy hips with both hands, he curled his fingers into the elastic waistband and tugged down her briefs.

  His stern voice sent a shiver licking through her: "Now let’s get those panties down, young lady.”

  She felt her panties being taken down, her naked bottom being exposed to the man’s hungry gaze.

  Wolfe seemed in no hurry now. He left the displaced underpants twisted around her legs, just above the knees and he sat back to study what he had uncovered: that plump, meaty ass, the darkly-furred vulva peeking out from between stout, fleshy thighs. Now, he let his hand rest lightly on Lydia’s newly-bared rump with a proprietary air of unquestioned ownership. Her relished the feel of her: the silken smoothness of those lush curves. He affectionately patted that upturned bottom, and when the chubby cheeks clenched defensively at the slightest pat, he couldn't help smiling to himself. She was afraid, fearful of what was to come. That was good. He would let her apprehension build while he enjoyed himself, playing with Lydia Wyngate’s abundant bottom.