Compulsion

by Don Julian Winslow

  His Lordship, while recognizing the value of an occasional whip on the rump, or the satisfying smack of a paddle meeting a well-made bottom, just to keep a spirited ponygirl in line, disapproved of the more heavy-handed methods, the kind that could easily drive his cruel consort into an exited frenzy.

  But such thoughts were far from his mind as Lord Edgewater, from his vantage point, was treated to the cheery sight of his favorite filly, her caramel colored hair drawn back in that short-cropped pony tail bobbing in a perky bounce, as she jogged along, He was captivated by the liquid churning of that taut buttocks of hers -- delightful little cheeks that so neatly filled his greedy cupping hands. He smiled to see the way Justine’s juddering behind kept her newly-acquired tail swishing from side to side with a certain spunky impudence that caused him to smile.

  A shouted command, punctuated a with another crack of the slender whip, sent the running girl straining harder, forcing her even further over the bar she held before her, so as to acquire the faster pace her Master ordered. She broke into a loping trot. This was what the Lord of the Manor most admired: a well-trained young woman who held her head up and her upper body erect, straining shoulders pulled back, and chest arched and breasts raised in proud display. A talented girl could hold the demanding pose even while prancing; the salacious sight never failed to generate a tingle of excitement in him. He especially enjoyed the way Justine’s hard naked body pulled against the restraining harness, the flex and pull of smooth leg muscles as the long-legged filly pounded down the beaten track.

  ***

  On Friday the news swept swiftly through the stable. The sight of the big silver Rolls pulling up to the front of the house, and left to idle there, its engine purring, while the uniformed chauffer took up his position to wait by the open door, was further evidence: the rumor was true – the Master was going off on one of his business trips. The sense of dread hung over the stable for all knew how much their cruel Mistress relished the chance to get her hands on the ponygirls. Justine watched and waited, her feelings a mixture of excitement and dread.

  And she didn’t have long to wait, for the car had not been gone an hour before the groom came for her. Her wrists were banded with wide leather cuffs, padded, and lined with silk to avoid chafing. Lady Ursula was careful to see that none of the girls would bear any marks of abuse which might come to the attention of the Lord of the Manor once he returned. A leash was snapped to the high leather collar she wore. The ponygirl’s hands were then drawn back behind her, the cuffs clipped together, and she was led off to the exercise yard, walking tall, with head up and hands behind her back, wearing nothing but her sleek black boots.

  This would not be the first time her Ladyship had selected Justine to put through her paces, for the beauty of the stable was often singled out for special treatment, sometimes in private, sometimes before the other girls, as when the imperious Mistress made the kneeling girl bend down to the ground to kiss a proffered boot while the others watched in awed and perfect silence. Lady Ursula got a wicked thrill from the abasement of the proud beauty, wildly elated to see the young beauty lowering her head in complete and total subservience to her Mistress’ iron will.

  But although Justine was shamelessly used while in the harness, she bore the mild discomforts well. It was the humiliating way that her mistress used her as her personal love slave that Justine most dreaded. For there were times when she was required to do service as a ponygirl during the day, and to provide services of a personal, more intimate kind at night -- in the Lady’s bedchamber.

  ***

  The groom began to put her through her paces. The daily routine always started with 40 laps around the tall metal pole erected in the exact center of the exercise yard. The short leash was replaced by a long lead that hung loosely from her neck while the other end was attached to a freely-pivoting ring set near the top of the pole.

  The first lap began at a brisk walk. The groom set the pace, the girl taking wide strides in her high-heeled boots while her wrists remained tied behind her. At the second lap, the overseer ordered a prance. He called out his command and with a flick of the wrist slapped her straight across her tight-cheeked young bottom. Lifting her knees ever higher in the stylized manner of a show pony, Justine was dutifully making her rounds when the single word “Stop!” rang out. Instantly, the girl stood stock still. Keeping her gaze fixed forward, she was unable to see the figure coming up behind her, but the ominous crunch of booted feet stomping on the crushed gravel made it clear to her. She knew that tread! And the realization sent a shiver of fear through her. Lady Ursula was about to take charge!

  It was well known that Lady Ursula thoroughly enjoyed wielding the pony whip at the daily exercises, gleefully urging the prancing ponygirls to step lively with each crack of the lash, but today the fiendishly inventive sadist had something quite novel in mind for her husband’s favorite, for in watching the naked girl parade around, her attention had been drawn to Justine’s vulnerable, high-riding breasts.

  Now Ursula stepped right up to Justine. Both women were tall, and both wore high-heeled boots, but the full-figured older woman in the riding outfit was a few inches taller than the slim youthful nude. Justine stood with eyes forward, not daring to look up, while Ursula looked down on the arched chest before her, pointedly studying the small, up-thrust breasts with their brash oversized nipples.

  The Lady wore short riding gloves and now, without a word, she raised both gloved hands and began to fondle the flattened mounds of those pancake breasts, laying splayed fingers on them, pressing them together, and palming the large puffy nipples that Justine sported.

  “Such pretty things,” she murmured, pressing the soft flesh of Justine’s thickened disks into slow circular motion. “Superb! Ah, but those nipples of yours are far too large; quite excessive for such delicate pendants, don’t you think so George?” She flicked a nipple with the tip of her finger, while delivering this aside to the groom who stood there nodding with grinning enthusiasm. But Ursula ignored the man who stood fascinated to see the interplay between the two beautiful women. For Ursula, the groom did not exist; nothing existed but the two of them -- and the world which they were about to enter.

  “Look at me!” she hissed. And while she was looking deep into Justine’s big brown eyes she delicately plucked a prominent nipple between thumb and forefinger and gradually tightened her grip, all the while searching the girl’s eyes for the first glint of rising pain. She smiled to see it, as tears welled up and the girl sucked in a shivering breath of air through clenched teeth and jacked upward. Lady Ursula held on, pulled, testing its elasticity by stretching the little breast into a tightened peak, while her victim arched her back and clenched her jaws to endure the pain. It took only a bit of this rough treatment before Justine was breathing deeply, her tortured breasts throbbing, undulating in ragged heaves. Ursula now had the girl’s excited nipples now protruding out, dark and swollen with arousal.

  “You see what I mean, George? All together too brazen! We can’t have her walking around with those big things sticking out like a sluttish whore’s! Such impudence!

  Here she paused to consider. “I think,” she teased, rolling the hardened bud between thumb and forefinger, “that these will have to punished for showing off like this.”

  She turned to her wide-grinning assistant, who obligingly held out a set of nipple clamps. These were spring clips with smooth blunted jaws designed to insure that the tender flesh was not cut, but instead constantly squeezed and thus subjected to a dull throbbing pain that would persist while the devilish clamps were in place, and for sometime after they were removed. And they would not be removed until the Mistress of Discipline deemed that it be so. Justine knew of girls who were made to the wear the hateful clips all day long and even in stable at night, where they were free to remove them, but did not dare to do so.

  Now she held the nipple clamps, squeezing one to demonstrate the opening of the little jaws for Justine to see. The pair we
re joined together with a short chain. Curiously, the length of light chain between the clamps had been threaded through a hard rubber dowel rod.

  Ursula plucked each breast and very precisely attached the clamps to Justine’s jutting nipples, while the girl fought to stand still, biting down on her curled lower lip with each twinge of hurt. The ache settled into a dull throb; she would learn to tolerate the pain. For a moment the little rod swung down between her captive breasts like some sort of bizarre necklace. Moving closer, Ursula gave her victim the sort of smile the cat reserves for the canary, and lifting up the dowel rod purred in a silky whisper: “Open wide.”

  The obedient ponygirl opened her mouth to accept the bit that was jammed between her small white teeth.

  With the thick rubber rod distorting her mouth, she looked up at her Mistress, confusion in her wide wondering eyes. Ursula smiled benevolently, placed two joined fingers under the girl’s chin and lifted it high, higher, till Justine stood with collared neck stretched upward, her head thrown well back. With her chin held high her breasts were pulled taut and uplifted, the pliant flesh stretched up and out. Her Ladyship dryly declared this as a distinct improvement in posture!

  She now confided to her silent assistant that she considered bouncy tits unseemly on a ponygirl (although quite obviously in Justine’s case, her taut, small mounded tits hardly merited such restraint). Nevertheless, this was the posture the unfortunate girl was forced to maintain as she was ordered back into her routine, once more around the familiar ring.

  "Trot, Bitch!” The obedient ponygirl, her little tits stretched tight, her wrists held behind her back, broke into the mandated trot.

  “Faster! Keep your chin up; head high! Now Prance! Prance!”

  THWACK! The sharp sting of the flickering whip punctuated the shouted command, biting into that pert rump. Justine pranced.

  “Shake that skinny arse of yours, you saucy bitch. Show us just what a little whore you are!”

  The lines of distress that creased the pretty ponygirl’s face brought a low, throaty laugh from her sadistic tormentor. And in this manner the bizarre performance went on and on, the ponygirl high-stepping in endless circles. And with each circuit made the prancing girl’s burning humiliation melted away, even a she knew it would, to be drowned in a surge of strange and totally perverse pride.

  6. A-10

  _________________________________________________________________________________

  The A-10 project was developed at a top secret government lab somewhere in New Mexico. Only a handful of people at the highest levels in Washington knew of its potent promise. They also knew that power is an aphrodisiac; A-10 -- the ultimate power trip.

  ____________________________________________________________________

  They call the stuff A-10. Dr. O’Connor was in charge of the project, some sort of top secret government program – the kind they do around here all the time. I still don’t exactly what A-10 is, but then I’m no scientist. Just a lowly computer guy—“Computer Technician III” at Wildfire Labs.

  It’s not a bad job; loads of spare time; mostly manning the help desk, waiting for the phone to ring. Usually pretty quiet. So quiet in fact, I used to be able to kick back and do a little porn surfing on a boring afternoon. At least I could do that till they put in the usage tracking software to spy on how the peons spent their time. Actually, I was the one who installed that particular piece of shit!

  Anyhow, now I sit in my cubicle and spend my free time browsing through the inter-office e-mail. That’s how I found out about A-10. It ends up that they’re developing this stuff for the CIA to use when they interrogate some terrorists they’re holding in one of those detention camps. I found out that they’ve been experimenting – trying it out on the ones they caught to see if they can make them more “cooperative.” Now I really got interested!

  It’s no big thing for me to get access to lab notes on any of the projects, even though they think they’re supposed to be so secure. I can get in there anytime I want. So I started reading up on A-10. It turns out that it’s designed to make the subject feel helpless, totally dependent on the interrogator. A few drops in the morning’s orange juice, and in an hour or so a guy’s paralyzed. He can’t move a muscle. Then he goes into a kinda trance. He can see and hear okay, but he can’t move or speak. While they’re under like that they become supersensitive to their emotions, mood swings, that sort of thing. They don’t seem to be sure of the long term effects of the drugs, but most of their test subjects would fall into a deep sleep afterwards, and when they woke up – they wouldn’t remember a thing!

  I was scrolling through the weekly summary on A-10, when Dr. O’Connor herself stuck her head into my cubicle to pester me about the new security system we were installing. She was wearing sneakers, and I was so engrossed in what I was reading, I never heard her coming. She scared the shit out of me! I quickly closed the file and spun around to face her, praying she hadn’t seen what was on my screen.

  Dr. O’Connor, “Meghan,” she says we’re supposed to call her, is a first class pain-in-the-ass; but she’s one hot babe -- with a set of long legs that just won’t quit. In fact, the guys call her “Legs” O’Connor because one Saturday afternoon last summer, when she was off duty, she showed up at the lab in a pair of tight denim shorts with those tall and shapely legs on display from her toes all the way up to her crotch. A mouth-watering sight! After that you couldn’t help thinking of those gorgeous legs of hers, even though they were almost always hidden by the baggy pants she often wore under her lab coat. Yeah, Legs O’Connor is a real piece all right; she is also an arrogant, stuck up bitch who treats the staff like dirt. A pretty, but nasty piece, that Dr. O’Connor.

  Right away she started giving me hell about not having the damned testing done. I tried to explain that we had some real interface problems here, but she didn’t want to hear it. That bitch could sure be unreasonable, especially with the technical staff. Finally, she said something about how if I couldn’t get the job done, they’d find someone who could. Then she stormed out.

  ***

  Driving home from work that night I got to thinking about A-10 and about Dr. Meghan O’Connor.

  I planned it all very carefully. One thing I knew about Legs O’Connor was that she was a workaholic. I knew from the times on her e-mail that she sometimes worked long into the night after the lab was closed and everyone else was gone. I knew she would take a break to eat a lunch at her desk, and I also knew she liked using the watercooler just outside of her office – kept it filled with some kind of fancy purified water that she liked. I needed to hang around after work till I saw she was staying late. Then I’d make my move.

  I knew it wouldn’t be a problem to get my hands on some A-10. I know this place is all top secret, and the public thinks that it’s like CIA headquarters or something. They’d be surprised. Sure, it’s damn near impossible to get in the front door, but once you’re in, and with the right clearances, you can go anywhere, do anything, and nobody’s going to say a word to you. I had an “Orange Badge,” which meant that I had unrestricted access. I waited for my chance, ducked into lab number 5, poured some of the clear liquid into a plastic coke bottle, screwed on the cap, and placed the bottle inside a lunch bag which went right into the bottom drawer of my desk. It took less than a minute. Phase one accomplished!

  Now I began staying late myself, waiting for the day when she would stay, pretending to be busy at my computer as people started to leave. Tying my webcam into the building’s video system had been a stroke of genius on my part! I could now watch the lobby while, one by one, the staff signed out at the front security desk.

  I had to wait almost two weeks, before I got my chance. It was a Wednesday night, and I was sure she hadn’t left her office. The door was closed, but I hadn’t seen her leave, and her office lights were still on. A quick check of her computer showed she was on the intranet. I raced on tiptoes down to the watercooler and back in record time. Then w
ith heart still pounding, wildly excited, I sat down to wait, scared, hoping and praying that she’d take the bait. I sat in the darkened cubicle for what seemed to be forever.

  It was just after 6:30 when I heard her door open. I switched the video feed to the secretary’s office right outside her door, and there I saw Dr. O’Connor go over to the watercooler. She seemed to hesitate, but then filled up her cup and turned back towards her office.

  I forced myself to count slowly, 1 to 60, then I crept down the hall to her office door. I knocked. No answer.

  I knocked again, louder this time. Again, no answer. I knew she was in there. Cautiously, I cracked open the door to peek inside. I saw her standing there beside her desk. Her back was to me, and she seemed to be looking out the picture window behind her desk. The coffecup sat on the desk at her side.

  Very quietly I whispered: “Dr O’Connor?”

  The woman didn’t move.

  I tried it again, louder now. Again there was no response. She stood perfectly still. I fought down the surge of wild elation. I had done it. Legs O’Connor was mine!

  ***

  Stepping quickly into the room, I eased the door closed behind me. Reached back and locked it. The woman stood erect, her hands at her sides. She didn’t move as I came up behind her, close enough to touch her. Standing inches away, I realized she actually was smaller than me, a slightly-built girl with fawn-colored hair that hung in a gentle curve to kiss the collar of the white lab coat she wore. Her narrow shoulders were softly rounded, inviting a protective caress. I touched a shoulder. No response. I tapped on her shoulder, again, harder, but the rigid woman stayed in place, still as a statue.