The Wayward Wife

Chapter Two-1

Chapter Two

In case you hadn't noticed, this memoir has a very specific purpose. My Master, whom I used to call my husband after calling him my employee for several years and then my clandestine lover until we came out of the closet, has commanded that I tell the story of my current fall from grace into my own special version of Hell. He has instructed I go as far back in my history as necessary to explain who I am and why I am in the rather painful predicament you are about to discover. He suspects that there is an audience out there who would find this sort of sordid tale interesting, perhaps even arousing. Thus, I am to meditate upon the likelihood that a certain lusty minority of consumers of erotica will get turned on by my tale of woe, and perhaps even pleasure themselves while imagining the scenes I am ordered to depict as frankly as possible.

Dev knows me so well, far better than I had ever imagined in my narcissistic reverie before he woke me up with his short, sharp shock of discovery. And so he relishes the humiliation of who knows how many unknown strangers imagining the many embarrassing incidents I am ordered to describe in the most intimate detail possible. And if I shortchange my readers by leaving a single mortifying detail undiscussed, well, you can guess what the consequences might be for a backside that is already chronically very sore.

I suppose that outside of my parents' antideluvian disciplinary practices my childhood was very typical of girls like me growing up in my slice of the 1% of 1%. In addition to very demanding private schools straight through, I was carted by my nannies to intensive after school and weekend activities designed to expand my body and mind. Thus, ballet and equitation were a weekly, and eventually daily, part of my life from earliest memory. I was also schooled in the fine art of tennis, both from weekly lessons and sojourns at a fancy kids' tennis camp in Carmel Valley for six weeks every summer. In addition, there were Spanish and Mandarin lessons, since I was being groomed for great things, and Mummy and Daddy deemed the ability to communicate more globally as a non-negotiable prerequisite.

As I recount this rather packed schedule, the fact that I rebelled a bit up to third grade is not exactly surprising to me. But after I drank their Kool-Aid, both my developing mind and body were whipped into remarkable shape for the next decade until I headed off (of course) to Stanford at age eighteen. And given the genetics of extreme good looks passed on to me from both sides, it should not come as a surprise that boys found me sizzling hot from the time I hit puberty. Here, at least, Mummy and Daddy were a good deal more modern. She took me aside when I started high school and said, “Gwen, honey, it's time we had a chat about s*x. I'm sure you've figured out that Daddy and I enjoy each other a great deal in that arena, and we expect you will figure out what a good thing s*x can be in the proper circumstances. You've shown yourself to be a very responsible and trustworthy girl for many years now, and we expect you to demonstrate the same good judgment about when and with whom to enjoy that part of life. I know I started about your age, and girls don't seem any more backwards now, so there's likely to be a good deal of pressure on a girl as pretty as you to jump into those waters. Have you started already?”

Well, I can't say that this conversation came as a total shock, since carnal matters had been discussed openly and frankly by my parents when they thought it appropriate for several years. After all, the media I and my peers were exposed to was replete with s****l material, and Mummy and Daddy used this as a springboard to get us all at least somewhat more comfortable around this topic. Indeed, I was well aware that they got it on almost every day, and that they both enjoyed being with a partner that attractive and interesting. In fact, on more than one occasion starting when I was pretty small I think I overheard the distinctive sounds of Mummy being spanked, so I guess I wasn't the only female in the house getting that sort of attention to her bare bottom. But the noises I heard after the smacking sounds stopped seemed to be those of her enjoying herself quite a bit. It seemed the outcome of her ass-warmings seemed to be quite a bit different than mine, in fact, downright pleasurable judging by her shouts of ecstasy. Though I wondered at my so-perfect Mummy being naughty enough to deserve a spanking.

When they were out of the house and I had a chance to peruse their poorly hidden collection of erotic literature, there were indeed several books describing grown women being subjected to the same sort of treatment that my own bottom had endured. To tell you the truth, I found these kind of hot...well, in fact, the hottest. By that age some girlfriends and I had discovered the wonderful sensations that could be induced by judicious stimulation of the delightful organs between our legs. Once I discovered my parents' treasure trove of naughty literature, whenever they were out I would be in their bed, hand down my panties, avidly reading 'The Story of O', or that very exciting trilogy about a rather outre take on Sleeping Beauty written under a pseudonym by a mainstream fiction writer.

As I approached teenage, I covertly bought my own copies of my favorites in their secret stash, and by now have my own version of that clandestine bookshelf that has several dozen of my favorite 'c**t lit' masterpieces. Who knows, maybe the very volume you are reading now will volunteer for that same designation for at least a few of you. But for many years, until my current circumstance hijacked my masturbatory fantasies, when I was about to come, I would picture Daddy spanking Mummy's well-toned equestrienne's buttocks (that looked an awful lot like my own in present day, come to think of it). That would get me off like gangbusters, every single time.

But I digress. Well, not actually, since this is exactly the sort of thing Dev will want to see in my memoir, and would spank the hell out of me for leaving out. These days, the things that are most deeply intimate about me, that I would least like to have displayed to the world, are what he takes the most delight in making me reveal. And the thought that all of you who are reading this once he makes me publish it (I pray under a pseudonym) will know every tiny intimate detail of my most private experiences and responses and thoughts and fantasies...well, as usual these days, it both mortifies and totally turns me on. Such is the life my sluttish ways has ensured for me, at least for the next year or so.

Where were we...Ah yes, talking about s*x, and how my own relationship to it was formed by my early experiences. Well, by high school, m**********n was a nightly affair, a sure-fire soporific that sent me off to sleep in an appropriately relaxed state of mind. Of course, it also did so with images of a grown woman's perfectly tone rider's bottom cheeks getting spanked by her handsome husband as a prelude to what sounded like very hot and satisfying s*x. I cannot but suspect that many thousands of repetitions of this annealing of spanking and erotic pleasure had a great deal to do with how my rather weird brain seems to be permanently cross-wired between pain and pleasure. And this new world my own gorgeous husband has created for me is not doing one damned thing to weaken that association, as you are soon to bear witness.

But self-pleasuring was not my only s****l experience for long. Of course, I did the requisite 'practicing' with girlfriends to see what kissing was like when I was in my tweens. I have read Kinsey like many educated adults (though most of them probably just watched the movie--God, Liam Neeson is hot!) and know that I'm somewhere a bit bi of purely heterosexual on his scale. I was able to get a moderately turned on by kissing with my best friend Emily. And when she and I shared a room at tennis camp when I was in high school, it began to look like she was a good deal more to the lesbian side of that rating system.

One night when we were practicing kissing after lights out, she started playing with my t**s (which were already the nice firm perky B-cup beauties I still sport today at 36). This got me even more turned on, and I didn't complain when her hand found my c**t through my panties. In a few minutes, she got me off just fine. In fact, a good deal more pleasurably that doing my own thing, as it were. But I was too shy and rattled to reciprocate, which hurt her feelings. So that was our first and only Saphhic makeout session, and the friendship was never quite the same afterwards. Whether it's with men or women, in my experience s*x seems to complicate friendship, no matter how cool people try to be about it.

But somehow, the fact that I had graduated into the world of getting it on seemed to broadcast some sort of pheromones to the boys at the coed camp, a lot of whom were totally cute. Pretty soon a gorgeous skater and surfer boy from Malibu was paying me serious court, and I did nothing to dissuade him. One thing led to another, and by the end of the six weeks I was not only better at tennis, I was also pretty accomplished at giving and receiving oral s*x. He introduced me to a surprisingly sophisticated array of ways to have fun with these delightful new toys we had between our legs, starting with using his fingers inside me to give me orgasms that made the one I had with poor Ems pale in comparison.

And during this delightful p***y licking paired with finger f*****g, he remarked that my equestrian career had apparently done for my hymen, so that losing my virginity was unlikely to be a bloody or painful mess. Since his small but serviceable c**k (which easily fit in my mouth and could be deep-throated without making me gag, which he really, really liked) did not daunt me, I figured what the hell. My ever thoughtful Mummy had sent me to camp with a supply of condoms just in case, as she put it, so I slipped one onto him rather deftly (we'd practiced with bananas at my very progressive private high school). He was right! From the first thrust, I absolutely loved being f****d vaginally. Still do, though as you'll see, my current state of affairs has rather complicated my access to that particular form of enjoyment.

One thing that became clear as I cupped his gorgeous firm white surfer-boy buns rather fiercely and pulled him against me, was that my c**t seemed to be positioned rather optimally to get off from missionary-position f*****g alone. There was something about where his pubic bone hit mine when he fully impaled me that caught the right nerve endings in just the right level of pressure to make me go wild. I think it kind of freaked him out, since I seemed to be rather enthusiastic in how I came (still true). I guess some girls lie there and take it, but not me. I seem to need to move a lot, especially during my orgasm, and I guess that turned him on more than he was used to. My very first climax made him shoot his load right away, which I gathered from his very sweetly sincere apologies had not been his plan.

This hardly daunted me. I mean, we had already figured out from our sixty-nines that I was one of those girls who likes to come more than once if possible, so I could see why he felt chagrined that he only got me off the one time. But he had not reckoned with my own adventurous spirit. I had that condom off him in a millisecond, and sucked him right back into full hardness while tickling his ball sac the way I knew he liked it from weeks of trading oral s*x. This time, I got another condom on him and I got on top and rode him just like my gelding at the stables near home (though he clearly still had all his equipment, unlike my castrated horse). I lost count how many times I came before he got off again, and it turned out having him play rough with my n*****s as I posted above his gorgeous sculpted abs made my orgasms even more off the charts. This was my first s****l foray into eroticizing painful attention to key areas of my body, an avenue that will be explored rather exhaustively much later in my life as persistent readers will discover.

Sadly, at least as far as I was concerned, that inaugural full-on f*****g took place on the last night of camp, and I never saw my cute surfer boy again. But back at my snooty private school, there was no shortage of horny upperclassmen more than happy to oblige my healthy libido. Flirting has never been a problem for yours truly, so once I was clearly in the market to get laid as often as I could discreetly arrange it, there was no shortage of willing energetic adolescent male candidates. I learned early on that my tennis camp surfer boy was unusually teachable as far as being willing to do what worked for me.

And then there was Stanford. Talk about the happy hunting ground! My god, a high libido girl like me who didn't seem to have any propensity to form messy attachments could get laid several times a day, and I often did. This was before the era of instantaneous smart-phone hookup apps. But if you are a very good looking five foot ten inch blonde who flirts shamelessly and skillfully, there were dozens (hell, hundreds) of good looking guys to scratch your itch whenever you liked. Most of them tended to get hurt or pissed when I wasn't interested in much more than a jolly roll in the hay, but their disappointment never seemed like my problem. I never promised them true love forever after, did I?

And if such a girl has such a narcissistically inflated self esteem that she is impervious to slut shaming by envious peers or disappointed lovers, what is there to stop her from taking her pleasure anywhere she pleased? Faculty members were particularly delicious targets. They were so inordinately pleased that a hot undergraduate like me would come on to them so straightforwardly. And I secretly exalted in their earnest efforts to please me with their Viagra-supported eager c***s. I also loved receiving their patient tongues and fingers well-practiced in pleasing women from years of getting their perimenopausal partners off. Plus, it was kind of cool to feel their almost craven worshipfulness of my perfect young body, both its appearance and its responsiveness. I let them make me come countless times while selfishly ignoring their little d***s (except to deign to allow them to deposit their pathetic spends into their condoms while inside my young blonde p***y. After all, I never claimed I wasn't an asshole, now did I?

Even though it would have been a more conventional pathway to parlay my success at Stanford as an undergrad into a Harvard MBA, I had a solid hunch from early on that Silicon Valley was where my destiny would lie. So I used every ounce of charm and seductiveness in my power to wangle summer internships all four years at high tech or venture capital firms. By judiciously sucking the right c***s (or enthusiastically welcoming them into any other orifice they wanted if their owners were important enough to my ambitions) I had letters of recommendation from three Board of Trustees members (literally, if you take my meaning) to Stanford Biz School before my senior year. And there wasn't much difference there than as an undergrad, except I was more skilled in my manipulations to get me in front of (or underneath) the right people.

A job in the coolest company in the Valley was mine months before receiving my MBA. After all, if any sense was honed to a razor's edge in me, it was knowing by instinct who and what were cool, and figuring out a way to seamlessly work my way into just the right spot to achieve my ambitions. 'Clueful' was the corporate jargon used to describe those who were deemed wicked smart (hint: it's the opposite of clueless). I took it as my goal in life not only to be universally described in that way, but to become the local arbiter about who else would be admitted to that very exclusive club. You might describe me as the souped-up high tech version of every middle school's most feared Mean Girl. And you might also start thinking, if you harbor any vengeful feelings towards such bullies, of what might be the most perfect punishment for such a person. Dev certainly did, and welcome to my current life as a b**m s*x slave...

But we are still a decade in the past. Over the next few years after arriving in my corporate heaven I steadily moved myself up the corporate ladder, mainly by talent and hard work, but not infrequently by manipulation or outright seduction. By the time I was thirty, I was COO for what was still the hottest (hence coolest) corporation in the Valley. All it took was the gentlest of nudges to the Chairman of the Board when profits fell short of expectations three quarters in a row in the midst of the worst recession since 1929, and I was moved into the office in the penthouse overlooking San Francisco Bay, the first female CEO of a Fortune 20 corporation.

Now I may have shamelessly blown and f****d my way to the top. In fact, that Chairman whose support got me over the hump had gladly been the recipient of my own version of world-class head. He and I were flying in the corporate Gulfstream on a quick trip of just the two of us were taking to Microsoft in Seattle when I introduced him to the addition of a skilled index finger massaging the male G spot (aka, prostate gland) to my expert deep-throating of his small hungry c**k. But once I moved into the penthouse office, I vowed never to employ my sexuality to accomplish anything other than my own personal pleasure.

So, in pursuit of that goal, my first thought other than purely business was to find a more permanent partner who could satisfy my rather ravenous erotic needs without further risk to my professional standing. Of course, that person would also need to be satisfied taking a subordinate role to my job, and not be inclined to pester me with his own emotional needs beyond what I was naturally inclined to give. Which, as perspicacious readers have no doubt gathered by this point, was not a whole hell of a lot.

In fact, I was actually not even inclined to be very nice by that point, perhaps because I had already sold myself down the river so totally in order to achieve my professional goals. I kept finding myself repeating under my breath: “I will never blow another pathetic little corporate c**k as long as I live!” That was meant not only literally but metaphorically, representing my vow never again to gratify anyone else in order to accomplish some purpose. You will all soon know how much I've had to eat those words (both metaphorically and literally) since entering my current bargain with Dev...

But I digress. As I settled into my coveted new role as alpha b***h, the men whom I had trained to previously expect me to be erotically gratifying to them now found me subtly declining the flirtations I had formerly welcomed. Nothing overt or unfriendly seemed necessary, as the half dozen or so high flyers whom I had used in my ascent up the ladder were gently but firmly encouraged to shift our 'friendships' over into the platonic zone. Initially, the amount of work I had to do to get things turning around in my new job was so vast that eliminating s*x was no problem.

But eventually, the girl whose libido was infamously guy-like re-emerged from her workaholic frenzy and started demanding her usual gratification. It seemed that rubbing one out every night while imagining Daddy spanking and f*****g Mummy's curvaceous ass before grabbing my few hours of sleep was no longer sufficient. It seemed that that only some c**k would do.

But the problem was, I had cashiered all of my previous lovers, who had been strategically chosen to advance my career. And those bridges were burned by my vow of never repeating that kind of s*x again in my life. So it was time for a different sort of prospecting than I had done since I started having tactical s*x sometime in graduate school.

What would be my new criteria? Previously, it hadn't even been attractiveness, since I was going to seduce whomever I needed to in order to achieve the goals I had now accomplished in spades. From here on out, I vowed it was going to be different. He would have to be GQ gorgeous, smart, secure and uncompetitive, and have an enormous c**k that he enjoyed wielding for hours in service of giving me pleasure. As it turned out, this list was not exactly easy to fulfill.

But if you imagine a girl like me would be daunted by such an apparently impossible task, think again. I set about the search for this well-endowed needle in my substantial haystack of various Silicon Valley types. The hot shot entrepreneurs were rapidly eliminated, as without exception they were even more narcissistic than I was. Then there were the local lawyers and doctors and professors, several of which I dated after seeking introductions from various confidantes with whom I was characteristically blunt about what I was looking for. I always took these candidates to bed on the first date, some of them not entirely willingly (I can be a rather forceful b***h if I want to be, if you hadn't noticed). Some of them were hung well enough, but none tickled the right chemistry in me to make them worth a second romp in the hay for the better part of a year. You see, I was keeping to my deal with myself of being scrupulously attentive to my own sense of what worked for me, rather the opposite of the purposeful use of s*x to further my ascent up the corporate ladder. Well, to be fair, I was also fond of getting off, but many of my bedmates during my business slut phase were less than scintillating lovemakers. So only the fact that my orgasms were always easy to come by (so to say) made any of them at all satisfying to this hard to please girl.