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Compulsion – ebook



Compulsion by Don Julian Winslow

Psychologists tell us that Obsession and Compulsion are two sides of the same coin. And so it is understandable that people are compelled to think about, and perhaps even to perform, the most outrageous sexual acts. Caught up in their unique dramas, they find themselves helpless, their lives swept up before the awesome power of Eros.

COMPULSION: Webster defines compulsion as: “A feeling of being irresistibly driven to perform some irrational act.” Compulsion delves into the sexual perversities of lovers and strangers, ordinary men and women who are driven to the most extreme lengths by sexual fantasies whose terrible power they can neither understand nor control.

Includes Masters and Mistresses, discipline, punishment, spanking, examination, humiliation, exhibitionism, anal and graphically, erotically detailed sex.

About the author: Don Winslow is an internationally recognized master of erotic ficton. Hollis Compton, critic for New Age Publications, has called Don Winslow “the Maxfield Parrish of erotic fiction.”

Artist Credit

Cover Art Kiselev Andrey Valerevich –

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Paige was passing the row of secretaries’ desks on her way back to her office when she noticed Josie Veranick who, intent on her typing with eyes glued firmly to her computer screen, casually stretched out an attractive, nyloned leg to send her toes hunting for a discarded pump that lay on its side next to her desk. Paige stopped in her tracks, suddenly fascinated by the sight of those smooth feminine contours in the honeyed pantyhose, as the stockinged toes blindly groped for the footloose shoe. Paige felt a slight shiver run through her. The word ‘sensual’ flashed through her mind. ‘How odd,’ she thought.

It occurred to her that, unlike most of the women at the college, Josie never wore slacks. The sunny, outgoing blonde was always in skirts and blouses, or the occasional dress. The girl had a nice pair of legs, Paige had to admit, and she didn’t mind showing them off. And although the secretary wore running shoes to work, she quickly changed into low heeled pumps once she made it to her desk. Paige looked down on her own baggy corduroys and sturdy, thick, crepe-soled walking shoes. She absently plucked at the sagging flannel shirt, one of three she predictably wore with the sleeves rolled back on her straight, white arms. Her comfortable clothes had become her signature piece, almost a uniform, she now realized with a smile – a proud badge of defiance that flaunted all male expectations, of dedication to the cause. Comfortable clothes suited her. Still…? For some reason, the image of that shapely leg, extended to its full, sinuous length into the aisle, pointed toes dipping into the sleek pump, was something she couldn’t shake.

It was the second disturbing image that stuck in her mind, disturbing her thoughts at odd moments. The first one came to her a few days ago. She had been walking across the Quad towards the administrative building when she noticed a male student fixing something on his bike. The tousle-headed boy, lightly clad in a T-shirt and pair of khaki shorts, had his back to her; and, as he bent down over the front wheel assembly, he abruptly presented her with a compact, squarish butt. The seat of the thin shorts tightened over the jutting curves of the boy’s firm, young buttocks. The watching professor was stopped in her tracks. She bit her lower lip, as she stared, captivated, by the bent-over guy’s ass. The shorts had ridden up his hairy legs, straight and sinewy, with the kind of lean muscles that resulted from long hours of bike pedaling. Paige felt herself go all mushy inside. The words ‘cute butt’ came from somewhere – drifted through her mind. A shiver passed through her; she recognized it instantly for what it was – a jolt of sexual electricity. The wave of randiness passed over her, leaving her warm. She licked her lips, shook herself, and quickly lowered her head to stride on, beating a hasty retreat, with her eyes on the ground.

The revealing images held some sort of power for her. They came to her again and again with startling regularity: the sensuous lines of the feminine leg; that hard muscled, masculine butt placed so appealingly before her eyes. The very next day, after her unexpected glimpse of the secretary’s leg, young Professor Robbins felt the urge to do something she had never done before. Her students were amazed to see their professor show up for class wearing a skirt!

The floppy, checkered shirt had been replaced by a trim blouse, neatly tucked into her thin-belted waist of a black skirt. The blouse was pale violet; and, while tailored in a mannish cut, it was still quite definitely a woman’s blouse: it’s soft shade flattering to the brunette’s crisp, good looks. She had found a pair of low-heeled, black leather pumps and had changed into those once in her office, just as the secretaries did.

Now, she paused in the ladies’ room to study her slender, small-breasted figure in the full length mirror, noting with pleasure the way the above-the-knee length of her narrow skirt and the skin-tone pantyhose exhibited her long and shapely legs to their best advantage. She decided she looked pretty good – damned good!

If anyone noticed the startling transformation in the young professor’s attire, you’d never be able to tell. The women on the faculty would studiously avoid commenting on what someone wore; though she knew they noticed. And if any of the campus males turned their heads to look twice at the tall, pretty brunette striding by with those attractive legs, they were much too cowed by politically correct thought to stare, let alone offer even the most modest compliment. Still, Paige couldn’t help feeling pleased with herself as she pulled her chair up closer to the computer, eager to get to the morning’s e-mails.


Paige Robbins spent a restless night, tossing and turning. The bedroom seemed insufferably close. It was hot and stuffy in the room; the tangled sheets were unbearably confining. She threw off the sheets, sat up abruptly to tear off her thin pajamas, freeing herself to sprawl out nude on top of the bed. She couldn’t resist touching herself, her breasts, moving a hand down her naked body to that place between her legs. Soon she was rocking, humping the hand jammed between her thighs, masturbating furiously. The orgasm exploded over her, intense and long, and deeply satisfying. In the blissful aftermath, she fell asleep, but the sexual fury was not done with her. That night she had the most intense wet dream she had ever had in her life! The next morning, the erotic dream stayed with her, continued to haunt her; a vivid memory that wouldn’t leave her alone.

In the dream, she was in her office. She was naked, or very nearly so, wearing nothing but pantyhose and heels. But it didn’t seem unusual for her to be naked; she was simply sitting there before her computer, her back to the door, when she heard a knock. Someone had entered, but she continued working as the unseen figure stepped up behind her. Dream-like, she rose to her feet, leaned over her desk, lowered herself to rest on her forearms, thrusting back her pantyhose-encased rear-end at the intruder. She remembered the feeling of hands on her hips, hands that slid around to lower her pantyhose, peeling them down over her jutting bottom, exposing her bottom to his eyes. She turned to look over her shoulder at the mysterious figure. It was then she saw the full face of the figure, smiling back at her with a wicked grin on his bearded face: Marcus Wolfe! His curled fingers had slipped into her pantyhose at each hip and were tugging the stretchy nylon down her thighs while she arched her back, presenting her naked buttocks to him, wagging her butt in lewd invitation. She shuddered at the thought of it; but a ripple of randiness slammed through her, obliterating her feelings of revulsion in its wake.


In another bedroom, several miles away, Maddie Fox had also tossed about in troubled sleep. She seldom had vivid dreams, the kind that stay with you, and she couldn’t remember when she had last had an erotic one. But, now, as she sat up in bed and took a deep breath, she tried to shake off the persistent memories from the night that seemed so real.

She had been in the arms of a mysterious stranger. He stood behind her with his lowered head buried in the crook of her neck. His strong arms enfolded her, and his slow warm hands were moving up and down her hungry, writhing body. She was wearing a shiny silk top, and her lover was taking his time, languidly exploring her body. His hands were slowly moving the slippery material that slid over her naked breasts while she squirmed in the intolerable heat of burgeoning arousal. Then, his lips moved, his tongue touched her and drew a wet line up her craning neck. A bold hand plunged down the front of her blouse to find and cup a small, bare breast, and fondle it in a most pleasant, dreamy caress. Her nipples were alive, tingling, the sensate tips excited, stiffening out to press into his cupping palm.

She arched back, surrendering to her masterful lover, as he felt her up and nibbled his way up her ear. Then he turned her in his arms, and she looked up for the first time to watch, in wonder, as Marcus Wolfe undid the buttons down the front of her blouse, one by one, quite deliberately exposing her body to his lustful gaze. It seemed impossible; incredible. Of all people to invade her dreams! She shivered at the memory, shook herself, ran her fingers through her hair, then got up to stagger towards the bathroom.


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