Compulsion

Chapter One-1

Chapter One

Compulsion

The, “gang of four” as they called themselves, were women on a mission; thoroughly modern women, proudly independent, and self-declared as “truly liberated.” They fought male dominance with ruthless determination, and all the zeal of dedicated crusaders. Only one man stood in their way of the sweeping changes they were demanding as their rights: a man who understood something about the power, and s*x, and the particular appeal of sweet revenge.

Paige Robbins couldn’t help fidgeting in her seat. She tried not to make her growing impatience so obvious. Smoothening back the shock of shiny black hair that angled down rakishly across her brow, she leaned over with pen in hand, ready to jot down some new entry onto the list of meaningless buzz words on the pad before her. She worked with the conscientious air of a dedicated note-taker. Her fellow panelist, Lydia Wyngate was, as usual, dominating the proceedings, holding forth interminably. The fleshy, big bosomed woman, stuffed in that awful print dress, just wouldn’t shut up. Once a bright and shining light in the Movement, she now had turned into a boring old windbag. It was embarrassing! Especially in front of Ms. Dewitt, their invited speaker.

But if Hillary DeWitt was bored she showed no sign of it. She kept her cool, unruffled air, an attentive smile on her calm blond face as she listened to the effusive old woman expounded her views on what she called “de-structured feminist thinking.” Paige gave an inner sigh of admiration for Hillary DeWitt: the short blond hair, brushed severely back, the expensive black suit with those tailored slacks and the trim jacket that smartly fitted her compact form, that smooth, practices poise. The woman had a brilliant legal mind: a practicing attorney who fought s****l harassment in the trenches, and one of the rising stars on the faculty of the law school. It had been a coup to get her as speaker for their Women’s Group meeting. Paige tried to meet their guest’s eyes, wanting to offer a little polite smile to the perfectly composed woman at the podium, who nodded politely while blathering old Wyngate rambled on.

She craned back to sneak a look at Maddie Fox over Lydia’s hunched shoulders. Maddie turned slightly and caught her eye; the two women exchanged knowing glances, looks of grim forbearance. Maddie gave her mop of russet hair just the slightest nod. Both panelists shared identical views of their middle-aged colleague; instantly recognized the same in the other.

No doubt about it: the old woman was over the hill! Still, Paige well knew that such a heretical opinion could never be spoken openly. Although she was sure hers was a pretty widely-held feeling on the faculty, it was clearly not the politically correct one. And Dr. Paige Robbins was someone who instinctively held all the right opinions. In her own modest way, she thought of herself of the very model of the modern feminist professor. So, while she had her doubts about her colleague, she publicly acknowledged the company line: Professor Wyngate was a brilliant pioneer, whose contribution to the Movement was monumental; they were privileged to have her on the faculty of their Department, etc.

With Professor Wyngate droning on, Paige let her eyes sweep the student audience. There were even a couple of males present, she noted with grim approval. Good! They were learning! But her eyes were not idly scanning the young faces of her before her, for Professor Robbins was keeping an eye out for a very special someone. And then she saw her! There, toward the back of the room in a clump of graduate students, the lithe, freshly-scrubbed blonde in the black baseball cap — Jamie McDonough.

The girl’s large brown eyes met hers, each silently acknowledging the others presence at this vitally important seminar. Jamie had a lot of potential. A bright, young woman who was always hungry for the truth. She only needed to have her eyes opened to the injustices all around her. The girl listened attentively whenever Paige spoke. Paige gave her advice, showed her what books to read. Young Jamie hung onto Paige’s every word. Jamie was the hope for the future.

They spanned the generations, the “Gang of Four” as she knew they were called: her and Lydia, Maddie and Jamie. It was a name they got for one reason, she thought with pride: they were strong women; a definite threat to the male establishment.

***

The next morning, Paige was at her computer, still basking the glow of the highly-successful seminar; remembering the rush of eager students surging around Ms. DeWitt like she was rock star, their excited faces, eyes shining with the gleam of anointed crusaders ready to venture forth into the brave new world, to take on the male foe in the holy war. These gratifying thoughts were going through her mind as Paige opened her e-mail, and began to scan the list of senders. Her smooth brow wrinkled in annoyance to see another message from Marcus Wolfe. Damnit! The man really was impossible!

A male chauvinist pig if ever there was one! It was bad enough that the old lecher (old enough to be her father) looked at her with that leering grin, practically undressing her with his eyes. But to make matters worse, the man was a hopeless Freudian! If Lydia Wyngate was past her prime, Wolfe was a dinosaur. She grimaced in disgust. But they’d deal with him once she and Maddie had managed to ram the curriculum changes they wanted through the wimpy committee. Then, the man, and his hopelessly outdated courses, would be consigned to the garbage heap of history — where they belonged!

Without thinking, she highlighted the message line, and then…she hesitated. The idea flittered through her mind to delete the offending entry, sight unseen. But instead, her little finger tapped the “Enter” button, and the blank message box popped up before her eyes. Another glancing keystroke instantly opened the attachment, and she was greeted by the softly pulsating light she recognized as one of those odd messages that Wolfe had been sending to her….how many times?

The lights took on a life of their own, throbbing like a beating heart, letters formed, hazy and indistinct before her unseeing eyes, only to dissolve into the pulsing background. The young woman sat up in her chair, wide-eyed, seemingly mesmerized by the pulsating lights. A warm and pleasant feeling came over her; the lights were friendly; their dance, curiously addictive. She liked the lights. Such pretty little lights.

Then, abruptly, the pretty light show was over. The lights faded, sucked into a black hole. As the screen went blank, the spellbound girl let out a tiny “oh” of disappointment. When the screen surged on again, the proper list of messages were there, all lined up in order, prepared to wait patiently for her attention.

Paige let out a long sigh; her rigid body slackened, shoulders sagging. She fell back in her chair. For some reason, she felt flushed, and she passed a hand over her brow to find it warm and slightly damp. There was this tingling feeling throughout her body, a quiet thrill that that rippled through her and only slowly faded, leaving a niggling tickle in her v****a. With hands on the keyboard, she straightened up, while under the desk, her thighs clenched, rubbing together through her thick, brown corduroy pants.

The youthful professor with the cropped dark hair, sat at her computer in her flannel work shirt, and for the next the next 20 minutes briskly dealt with her voluminous e-mail correspondence. She couldn’t shake the feeling of vague annoyance that had come over her, but neither could she quite pin it down. Did it have something to do with Wolfe? Glancing back over the list of e-mails didn’t help. Nothing there from the old bastard. She shrugged off the feeling, and got back to work.

But work didn’t come easily that day. Increasingly, the usually competent, efficient woman found she was having trouble concentrating, following the words of people who kept coming up to talk to her. Then it happened. One of those things that unhinged her. They seemed to be happening more frequently, these momentary pauses in her well-ordered life.

***

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; the 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 s****l 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: its 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.