Compulsion

by Don Julian Winslow

  “Now if you want this nasty old gag to come out, you have to promise me to be good,” he whispered.

  “Will you be my good girl, Amy?” The words were silky.

  The girl looked up at him and nodded vigorously; the look of a hopeful puppy dog in her big brown eyes.

  He returned her nod with approval, and his hands went up to find the strap behind her head, fingers working blindly to open the catch. The gag fell loose and she expelled the hated ball from her mouth with a wave of relief to be rid of the hated thing.

  For a moment she sagged forward, heaving in ragged gasps, and working her mouth and lips and tongue. Then she straightened, and a desperate rush of words came tumbling out.

  “Who are you?! What do you want?!! Listen to me, this is all some kind of mistake! My name’s not Amy! I’m…”

  A hand shot up to cup her mouth, the fingers clamping hard.

  “Uuumph,” she protested in a muted scream, trying mightily to twist out of his grasp, but his fingers tightened, holding her jaw in an iron grip, keeping her head immobilized.

  “Hush, hush, Amy. You promised to be good. I’m disappointed in you; I’m afraid you’ll be wearing the gag for some time.” His voice was calm, matter-of-fact.

  “Nnnnngh!! The muffled protest was forced with even greater vehemence, but the Collector merely took her nose between two fingers and pinched her nostrils shut, effectively shutting off her air. Barbara struggled in alarm, and though she was determined to keep her mouth defiantly shut, she had to breathe and when the squirming girl opened up to suck in a quick breath of air, the ball was instantly jammed right into her gaping mouth.

  In a flash, his deft fingers had the elastic straps secured, the ball now pressed into her mouth and held there, snugly in place.

  “UUUUUnnngh,” Barbara’s wail of despair was reduced to a strangled cry.

  “That was very bad, Amy. I can see you’re going to have to learn to be good girl. It would be best if you had some time to think about what you’ve done in disobeying me. Well, I’ll leave you to it.”

  With that, he turned away from her, walked across the room and turned off the background music, then the lights, leaving the frightened girl in total darkness. She heard him moving behind her, heard the trod of his boots ascending some stairs, strained to listen as he came to the top of the stairs where a door opened and then closed again with a heavy and definite ‘thunk’. He had left her there! Alone! Bound and gagged; a prisoner in a darkened basement! Once again the wave of sheer terror overwhelmed her. Driven by panic, she struggled. And though the pinioned girl whimpered like a hurt puppy, there was no one in the darkness to hear her plaintive moans.

  ***

  Slumped in the bonds that held her pinned against the smoothly-covered slab, the naked prisoner must have dozed off. Her frantic fear had subsided, but a vague sense of dread remained. Disengaged in the darkness, her mind floated, adrift as in some twilight zone. She came out of her dream world abruptly, dimly aware of the dull ache in her upraised arms. She worked her fists, roused herself, and raised her head to crane back against the board. Then she became aware of something else -- the dryness in her mouth and throat. It must have been her parched throat that awakened her, caused her to stir. She let herself hang in despair, her world now reduced in the dark cellar to one overpowering need, the need for water. She tried a strangled cry for help, but it came out as a weak and pitiful whimper. By now, she had lost all track of time, but as she hung in the silent darkness, with her dry mouth and now ragging thirst, she, unbelievably, heard the sound of the door opening above her.

  Wildly hopeful, she tried another cry, desperate to get the man’s attention. But this time it came out as nothing more than a tiny whimper. If he heard it at all, he paid no attention, for the booted feet never skipped a beat as they methodically descended the wooden steps behind her. But even if he wasn’t coming in response to her cries for help, the captive was elated. The main thing was he was coming back! He was coming back! A sudden snap and she was blinded by the brilliant flash of the overhead lights. In a few seconds her eyes fluttered open to find her captor sitting there, bare-chested, just as before, except that this time he held in his hand…a glass of water!

  “Well Amy, I see you’re still here.”

  The cruel joke brought a piteous moan of despair from the hanging girl.

  “Look what I’ve brought you.” He held the glass up prominently right before her eyes.

  “Of course, if you’re going to have a drink, I’ll have to remove the gag first. We tried that before, but you were bad. Remember? Well, I’m willing to try again, if you’ll promise to be good this time. Really promise.” He let that sink in. “Now tell me Amy, if I take the gag out, promise me that this time you’re going to be a good girl.”

  Barbara bobbed her head vigorously, wildly desperate to get across to him her pathetic eagerness to comply with whatever this madman said.

  Once again he reached for her, but this time instead of resisting, she docilely bowed her head, leaning forward to meet him, eager to help his hands find the binding straps that were clipped together behind her head. The sense of relief to be rid of the expelled gag was overwhelming. Greedily, she gulped at the glass he held to her lips. She took several long drinks, pausing only to breathe, draining the glass. Then she looked up at him, as if she considering saying something. But one look at the warning expression on his face made her think better of it.

  “Enough?” he asked politely.

  She nodded in silent obedience.

  “Good. You’re learning. But you must answer properly. From now on when I ask you a question you will respond with ‘Yes, Sir.’ Do you understand?”

  The girl licked her lips, dropped her eyes to the floor, and tried the words that came out in soft whisper: “Yes, Sir.”

  She glanced up to find him smiling in satisfaction. She had pleased the man, and for some strange reason she felt good about that, weirdly proud.

  “Yes, you’ll be a good girl, and I’ll be nice to you, you’ll see.” He closed in on her. “Now kiss me.”

  Her lips were pursed, but now she curled them, pressing them tight together in mute refusal. The man might take her, but he would not enjoy it!

  He simply grinned and took her small face between his hands. He drew her to him, her eyes widening in helpless alarm as his lips covered hers. He forced open her lips and sent his tongue darting into her mouth. Her eyes fluttered closed and she arched back, as his plunging tongue explored her mouth while his lips pressed against hers with terrible hunger.

  She struggled against the upwelling of lust, determined to deny herself and her captor the pleasures that threatened to overwhelm her. But the fires that the passionate kiss kindled in her healthy young body sent her jacking up on her toes, surging back against him as he ground his chest against the pliant softness of her maidenly breasts. Soon she was kissing him back, her own tongue answering his probes, slithering up against his in that lewd intimate dance that only lovers know.

  Then he pulled back, and Barbara was left breathless and panting, her delicate breasts heaving in the aftermath of their first kiss.

  ***

  Barbara scurried through the executive suite, her heels sinking into the thick carpet, head held high, ignoring the turning heads that watched her fly by their desks. She rushed into her office and slammed the door behind her with swinging one foot, such was her eagerness to get to her desk. Frantically she clutched the purse she found in the bottom drawer; rooted around in it to find her cell phone. With trembling fingers, she punched in the number.

  “Yes.” The sound of his voice sent a thrill rippling through her.

  “When can I see you?” she breathed in a labored whisper.

  5. Justine’s Pride

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  I once came across a lady writer whose fascinating stories once graced the internet. D. would bury herself in her work, writing furiously fo
r several days before emerging to present her newly-completed story to her male companion for his comments. One day, in the grip of the muse, D found herself writing about a naked girl who is made to pull a wheeled cart. Her companion read the piece and looked at her.

  “D, he asked, eyeing her up, “did you know you just wrote a ponygirl story?”

  “What’s a ponygirl story?” she replied in all innocence.

  Every writer of erotic fiction should try at least once to do a ponygirl story. Here is mine.

  ______________________________________________________________

  Justine, not her real name, but the name they had been given her, was her Lordship’s

  favorite…and she knew it. Lord Basil Edgewater instinctively knew when he first laid eyes on the girl, instantly appraising that lean, hard-muscled body, those streamlined haunches and those long leggy strides -- here was a born thoroughbred! Whenever the stable was taken to compete at the races, she was the one who could be counted on to bring home the Blue Ribbon. She quickly became his prized filly – the ponygirl to beat. When exhibitions were held at the estate, Justine was the one Lord Edgewater inevitably singled out for a dazzling solo performance.

  She knew how much he enjoyed showing her off; displaying her proud mien, her aristocratic carriage and that high-stepping prance that never failed to garner applause from her Lordship’s guests, those enthusiastic connoisseurs who held engraved, and highly-prized invitations to those very exclusive weekend events. The very thought of such solo performances before an appreciative audience made the girl flush, preening with pride.

  But pride can be a dangerous two-edged sword. And never more so than when that pride is coupled with the sort of beauty that is bound to incite the envy of other women. And if among those other women there is one who is strong-willed, equally proud, and equally beautiful, and if that woman holds high authority, then such pride should best be hidden, lest it become very dangerous indeed. And such a woman was the haughty Lady Ursula, the coldly remote mistress of Edgewater Manor.

  The lady shared her husband’s passion for that peculiar, some might even say bizarre, hobby of his. But while she enthusiastically joined him in what they had taken to call “our thing,” her manner and methods different sharply from her more tolerant and amiable mate. The tall, well-built, black-haired woman never showed the least affection towards the occupants of the stable. On the contrary, her dark eyes flashed, and her stern face tightened into a hardened scowl whenever she entered the stables, sending a shiver of fear through the huddled girls. Chiding her mate for being too easy-going, she would grimly take upon herself the role of disciplinarian, supervising the grooms and overseeing the rigorous training of the pony girls; insisting that they measure up to her most demanding standards.

  This raven haired beauty, in her white silken blouse and cream-colored jodhpurs, thoroughly relished the role of overseer. It turned her on; filled her with creamy elation to have a girl with hands clasped behind her back, kneeling naked at her feet, while the imperious Mistress looked down on that upturned face, and watched the fear growing in a young woman’s eyes as she slapped a menacing riding crop, in a slow measured beat against the side of her booted calve.

  It was the Lady who taught the girls the three classic positions. “Down,” she would command in that clipped, no-nonsense manner of hers, and woe to the girl who didn’t instantly fall to her knees. On her knees, she might be ordered to service Master or Mistress. “Forward” would bring the kneeling girl onto hands and knees there to wait on all fours for further commands. Sometimes she would be forced to wait in that humiliating pose for what seemed an intolerable period of time, while her Mistress attended to other duties. On other occasions the naked girl would be ordered to follow her Mistress, crawling around the stable, the grassy courtyard, or the thickly-carpeted floors of the Manor House for the amusement of her owners, and their privileged guests.

  The “Present” command would have the girl, still on all fours, falling forward to her elbows where she was made to assume an even more subservient position: braced on extended forearms, her head lowered and back arched so as to upraise her tempting bottom in the most provocative display. Thus she might be made to present a tight young ass for any pleasures Master or Mistress may chose to indulge in, or perhaps for an honored guest who might wish to mount her. The submissive pose was also ideal for discipline, the girl’s upraised bottom presenting a prominent target for the flicking pony whip, or the plaint blade of the short-handled paddle. Or perhaps a girl would be made to assume and hold the seductive pose simply for the amusement of the jaded partygoers at one of her Lordship’s soirees. It didn’t matter to what use she would be put. The well-trained ponygirl was taught to submit; to obey instantly, and without question.

  Perhaps it was inevitable that the sadistic mistress of discipline and the proud caramel-haired beauty with the perky pony tail should find themselves on a collision course. Lady Ursula sensed that Justine was clearly a leader among the girls of the stable, who regarded her with a mixture of envy and admiration. She was older than the others, and having come to pony girl training after a starting a promising career as a well-respected civil attorney. The young woman was intelligent, well-educated, pert and really quite pretty, as the mistress clearly observed whenever she saw her husband’s eager eyes light up at the appearance of his favorite with wrists tied behind her, being led out by a sturdy groom who loosely held the leash attached to the girl’s collar.

  Lady Ursula would stand with hands on hips, watching from the balcony overlooking the gravel courtyard, as her husband, looking trim and handsome in riding clothes, personally supervised the preparations for his morning ride. She saw how he never passed up the opportunity to check the harness, freely touching the perfectly-still girl’s naked body, feeling his way along Justine’s narrow flanks, pausing to finger the thick cap of a prominent nipple, to lavishly fondle those small, proudly out-thrust breasts. He spent some time at her hindquarters, filling his hands with her slim but nicely-rounded buttocks; he savored her firm young body as all the while the girl stood at rigid attention, booted legs held tightly together, head held high, shoulders back and thin chest out – in that classic ponygirl’s “ready” position.

  The Mistress of the Manor smirked to herself as she saw the girl respond to a soft-spoken command to widen her stance, obediently shifting her booted feet so that her Master could test the fit of the strap which, attached to the waist cincher from front to back, ran high up between her legs through the place where his hands now followed. Only when he pronounced himself satisfied with the trappings would he release her to allow the groom to back the ponygirl into place between the extended shafts of the delicately-framed Sulky.

  Final preparations were now made. Her arms brought behind her to be tied together just above the elbows, enough slack left so that she could reach forward with gloved hands to grasp the horizontal bar which crossed in front of her. Once between the traces, the head harness was placed over that mop of caramel colored hair, the chin strap pulled tight and buckled. The hard rubber bit was then inserted between the teeth; the reins attached. And the pony girl was ready – except for the final bit of adornment.

  The long pony tail with its squat butt plug was now attached by the careful groom who held Justine’s cheeks apart with one spread-open hand while he inserted the tapering, well-greased end of the butt plug into the girl’s spasoming anus. He had her shake her new tail to be sure it was securely in place; once satisfied, he turned to help his master take his seat in the Sulky, finally handing him the light pony whip.

  At a crisp word of command the well-trained ponygirl alertly raised her head. She obligingly wiggled her tail to invite the master’s whip -- as she has been taught to do. A quick flick of the wrist sent the delicate strap whipping though the air to kiss Justine’s naked rump right across the plump curve of those narrow cheeks with a tiny whap that jolted the ponygirl into action.

  As she began to pull, t
he ponygirl happened to look up, and saw her Mistress watching. Their eyes met briefly. Lady Ursula saw those big brown eyes flashing, that look of pride in the pretty face of the high-spirited pony girl, as the two of them started off on an easy jog. She saw the haughty toss Justine gave to her cropped pony tail as they turned away, and it was the impertinence of that departing toss of the pony tail that so enraged the watching woman.

  She stood watching the sulky turn start down the smooth gravel pathway, gradually picking up speed as the pony girl broke into loping a trot. An observer would have noticed the scowl that creased her Ladyship’s noble brow, the tightening of her lips, the cruel smile as she watched the sulky recede.

  What thoughts were going on behind that handsome brow an observer could only speculate, but as it happens an intriguing idea was beginning to form in the Lady’s mind. She realized that she would soon have an opportunity to attend to the matter of the prized filly in her own way, for the care and feeding of the ponygirls would be left entirely in her hands for three whole days. Lord Edgewater was about to make one of his rare business trips to the city. She would make the most of those three days, determined to humble the elegant, high-stepping beauty.

  Of course, his Lordship and his trotting favorite were blissfully unaware of what was being planned on that balcony over looking the courtyard. Had he known he would have certainly taken precautions to see that his consort’s wild enthusiasm was restrained in his absence. Basil tolerated Ursula’s perverse tastes, with amused tolerance. But he kept a wary eye on her sadistic streak, which he wouldn’t allow to go unchecked, at least not for very long, before he felt he had to take the Lady in hand. He knew how excited Ursula got once she had been given a free hand with one of the ponygirls. Her punishments were sometimes fiendishly ingenious, often bordering on the bizarre, but alas -- too often excessive.