The Wayward Wife

Chapter Three-1

Chapter Three

And then there was Dev. I first heard about him from one of my major secret agents in my quest to find the perfect next partner. Gillian was her name, and she was the ripped personal trainer for the executive gym that I used near my workplace. Gill was drop dead gorgeous herself, with a body in which every muscle was toned to perfection, and she was a merciless taskmaster in my own early morning workouts that kept me almost as fit as she was. But her job also gave her a unique outlook on who was both handsome and working hard to stay so, and even some good guesses about who was well endowed in the genital department. She and I had many enjoyable discussions about men during her daily tortures of my body. Both of us seemed to agree that when it came to d***s, size sure as hell did matter to us. A girl wants to be stretched in certain ways down there, to be made to really feel our guy inside us. And just as a famous basketball coach once said “You can't coach height”, the same could be said for length and girth when it comes to c***s, at least for yours truly.

Now granted, some guys are 'showers', and some are 'growers', so glimpsing the package through even tight gym trunks is no sure indicator. But Gill was a veritable goldmine of gossip regarding the actual endowment in flagrante delicto of a shockingly large number of the guys who frequented the gym. This was because she was not only a kick ass trainer but a superb masseuse, and happened to be the chatty kind rather than the deep trance variety. She claimed always to be surprised at how much a person will reveal with the right subtle persuasion while they are naked and getting all of the kinks worked out of their muscles and joints. It seemed that girls did love to kiss (or f**k) and tell, at least to their number one confidante and dating fixer. So when I was in that very state and told her of my quest, she could with confidence send me in Dev's direction. Whether or not that turned out well for me I will let faithful readers be the judge once they absorb my whole sordid tale.

For my beautiful, terrible, enigmatic angel did indeed have a reputation among Gillian's high end training and massage clientele. He was known as gorgeous, kind in a distant sort of way, mysterious, and hung like a f*****g stallion. And apparently, Gill's perplexed informants reported to a woman that they couldn't imagine enjoying the s*x with him any more. He was unselfish, scrupulously attentive to their needs and pleasure, gave great head, and could last for as long as any of them wanted with that enormous c**k sturdily erect. But they also told her uniformly that there was something missing. This inevitably evolved such that by the time he started seeming a little bit bored with them they weren't as unhappy as they should have been to allow the romance to fritter away.

Now in my arrogance, I thought that whatever had gone wrong between him and the several hot women who had provided Gillian her information was certainly not going to happen to me. I was the femme fatale who always left them wanting more as she ushered them out the door to make room for her next partner of convenience or professional target of opportunity. No way was any man going to get the better of me, and no way was he going to resist my implacable will to shape him however I needed him to be. I'd woo him and win him and then start whipping him into exactly the shape I wanted. The irony of the specific term of that intention is not lost on me (or him, I now strongly suspect).

The fact that Dev worked for me, though in a purely technical capacity never likely to cross paths with a high executive, did present at least some technical problems. He was (still is, I should say) a wicked smart doctoral level computer scientist who was expert in some realm of higher mathematics that had to do with encryption of data in a way I couldn't remotely understand, and would never need to. And like many of the people who self-select to enjoy that sort of work, emotions and human interaction were not exactly his strong suit.

I knew from my own chronic crossing of the s****l boundaries that were supposed to define proper workplace behavior just what kind of people were likely to be troublesome, and had so far deftly avoided any negative consequences of my depredations. Unemotional computer scientists were not a species I'd investigated before, focusing on the business types whose erotically curried favors were likely to advance my career. But what could possibly go wrong with seducing someone who seemed to have a hard time even recognizing a feeling, let alone having one, right? I guess I hadn't gotten the memo about still waters running deep...

So I found out when Dev worked out at the swank gym we shared, and arranged my schedule to coincide with his. He was indeed as promised: tall, well built, facially gorgeous with chiseled features and a spectacular ass both of which were a spitting image of Michelangelo's David. His hair was wavy and brown and plentiful, his enormous eyes a dreamy slate blue, and his smile in response to my not too subtle flirtation was dazzling. He kicked my ass in the hot Pilates class we were taking, which was saying something since I am one competitive b***h who has always prided herself on her conditioning. And as we were toweling off after the workout, that same killer grin emerged in response to my invitation for a drink that night. As Holmes always remarked to Watson, the game was afoot. I just didn't quite register who was doing the hunting. Perhaps that Conan Doyle quote should enter the pantheon of famous last words...

Well, we both showered and dressed, and I met him in the lobby of the health club. He was dressed a few cuts above the standard geek wardrobe of the technical workers at my company, which was a tee shirt and levis. My Dev was wearing well-fitted khakis over a light blue open-collared shirt with sleeves rolled up to show off his very sexy well-muscled forearms. I found him nothing short of scrumptious, especially since I was severely horny after months of making do with rubbing one (or two or three...I never claimed not to be a randy slut, did I...;-) out every night before sleep since my promotion. I was a woman on a mission, and that most definitely included baring that very hot hunky body I had been discreetly ogling in the Pilates class and impaling my hungry cunt on that enormous c**k Gillian had claimed resided in the promising bulge in those baggy shorts all the gym guys wore.

But first, if I was not to seem more predatory than I wished to appear, social norms needed to be observed. So Dev and I spent a good hour chatting over our drinks, me choosing a dry double Martini (I guess I was a little nervous) and him a non-alcoholic beer. It turned out that he was a vegan Buddhist, which Gill had neglected to inform me, so I wasn't going to be able to ply him with liquor or get him stoned in order to seduce him.

But it also turned out that he was more than a bit into me even without the usual chemical ice breakers. He was shy but not painfully so, and my well-honed deal-closing conversational skills were easily able to draw my handsome companion out into not-too-awkward conversation in which I learned he was unattached and perhaps even more interested when it dawned on him that I was the CEO of his place of employment. My invitation to my penthouse condo in a posh high rise was accepted within an hour of our sitting down at the bar. Within fifteen more minutes I was tearing his clothes off with a similar enthusiasm to his stripping of my extremely horny hungry body on the soft leather of my very plush living room couch.

Dev seemed to be a fairly passive lover who was enthusiastic to follow my lead but almost totally unwilling to take the controls himself. Fair enough, I thought, as I sucked his truly magnificent eight inch c**k to glistening splendor before straddling his hips and lowering my hungry cunt onto it with my usual loud coarse moan of satisfaction at being deeply skewered. I swear, there must be some kind of additional nerve plexus way deep in my vaginal vault, different from my G spot up near the front behind my pubic bone. Because only a man as well hung as my promising new conquest triggers the wild orgasms I get from being impaled on something that hard and long.

I'll give him this much: my gorgeous companion didn't seem a bit intimidated by how lively and noisy I was. He even got his hands busy with my t**s and c**t to milk God knows how many killer climaxes out of me. When I'd had enough I grabbed his own n*****s and pinched them fiercely until he came rather loudly into my ravenous front passage. I watched his handsome visage closely during his orgasm, and his eyes never left mine, letting me drink in his soul like the wicked succubus I imagined myself to be. Boy was I wrong about the polarity of that particular exchange...

Having gotten that monkey off my back, I reverted to my usual businesslike self and briskly disengaged from him to wash up and get on with my other plans for that evening. Some guys have taken offence at me treating them the way men are rather notorious for behaving with women (I believe the expression is 'wham, bam, thank you Ma'am'). I generally haven't wanted to do a bunch of post-coital cuddling unless it suited a strategic purpose. After all, every Mata Hari in history will tell you that guys will talk a lot more freely after they've been well-f****d or sucked dry. Reminds me of that classic Mae West line: “Men are like linoleum: lay them right once and you can walk on them forever!” I guess that didn't quite pan out as I had imagined with Dev. It's not exactly like there are any questions as to whose body is bearing the marks of less than pleasant contact these days...

But back then, I was the one on top, and I enjoyed every minute of it. It was refreshing to have a gorgeous well-hung guy willing to please me whenever I called. And I called quite often, wanting to celebrate my liberation from s*x as a vehicle for professional advancement to a new world of s*x as solely for my pleasure. Dev was more than happy to answer every booty call, day or night, doing me in my office at work or in my penthouse bedroom in the middle of the night if summoned. Within a month, he cheerfully acceded to my desire for him to move in with me, responding with his usual boyishly enthusiastic acquiescence to whatever I wanted from him.

And this was true in bed as well as out, his apparent cheerful submission to my domineering ways. I could dress him as I pleased, command him to escort me to any professional or private function, prescribe his workouts to fine tune his already awesome body to my exact specifications. In bed as well, he would do anything I wanted for as long as I desired it. I had never had a partner before him who was willing to indulge me in what was then my ultimate dominant s****l act, the Holy Grail of anilingus. I had never been willing to go there with any partner myself, and those whom I had asked to apply their tongues to that most clandestine of orifices had demurred. But not my Dev. He was willing to lick me there as long as I liked, fingering me to endless orgasms as he tongue-f****d my back passage, which I found incredibly sexy.

Of course, the thing I didn't tell him, couldn't tell him or anyone else, was that while moaning and screeching out my pleasure with his tongue buried to the hilt in my nether orifice, I was fantasizing that same part of my body being soundly spanked, just like Mommy and Daddy had so many times when I was small. Why didn't I just ask for what I wanted? It just seemed so damned weak and submissive to admit that the most powerful woman in Silicon Valley wanted to have her buttocks bared and bent and belabored just like any despicable little pain slut. No f*****g way was I ever going to own up to that as my deepest wish.

After about a year, I decided that Dev and I should be married. After all, I wasn't likely to find a better combination of movie star good looks, brains, and s****l capacity to meet all of the needs I was willing to admit. I picked out my own ring, though I made him pay for it even though it cost almost all of his savings (the f*****g rock was close to eight carats of top quality nearly flawless diamond, and I did leave him his condo which he was renting out at a nice profit). Of course, I never asked him about his feelings about any of this. In fact, I didn't ask him very much at all about himself. As it turned out, that was quite a big mistake.

But married we were, in an over-the-top ceremony at my favorite Napa vintner's cave, followed by a reception for which I hired my favorite rock band to play. Our honeymoon was in a spectacular over-the-lagoon bungalow in Bora-Bora, where I demanded nonstop s****l attention for many hours each day while looking down through the Plexiglas floor at the sea life while my willing male s*x slave did anything I asked just to please me. That was still pretty heady then, and it lasted for many months once we returned to our real lives. I let Dev head up our move to an estate in Woodside consistent with my exalted status, about half a mile as the crow flies from Larry Ellison's modest spread. He designed it with his usual artistic flair, and we sold the penthouse and settled in.

But sometime in that second year, the cachet of having an adorable submissive husband with an enormous c**k and impossibly skilled hands and tongue actually began to pall. I found myself sneaking around on-line, wandering into b**m chat rooms...reading and eventually participating in juicy conversations with anonymous men about how they would spank my ass just the way we both knew it needed to be.

And this led to finding a guy online who advertised himself as a professional dominant, AKA dom. He was willing to chat with me for several weeks, exchanging increasingly enjoyable fantasies about exactly what he would do to me once he had me all to himself in his dungeon. That's what he called it, the special soundproof room where he promised to bind my naked body very tightly and inflict just the kind of deliciously wicked torments I had fantasized about for thousands of orgasms since a was a little girl.

You've heard of people getting sort of addicted to this sort of cyber s*x, right? Usually nerdy guys who couldn't get a date if their life depended on it, or morbidly obese girls who wouldn't stand a prayer of attracting a guy to actually touch their bodies. Well, I am living proof that a beautiful blonde with more money and power than all but a few women in history can also be swept up in the heady exhilaration of a partner staying right with me as I wrote out my side of the dialogue of our imagined s*x. Sir (yes, that's what he made me call him) would match me word for word with his responses until I would have orgasms just as powerful as Dev could give me with his tongue up my asshole while he diddled my c**t and G spot with his expert fingers. But I was allowed to come only when Sir said I could; that was part of the turn-on: my climax was to be under his command.

Now, you're going to think it was silly of me to be as high up in the high tech world as I was, and married to a f*****g certified information science genius, that it never crossed my mind that Dev might get wise to my little cyber affair. But the truth was, I was so into my safe little fantasy world that I blundered along, vibrator firmly to c******s, having my daily on line trysts with Sir grow ever longer and more elaborate. I loved how elaborate his fantasies were, as he'd instruct me in how I was to imagine myself tied up, and what implements were to be applied to my quivering buttocks, and how my well-spanked ass was to be f****d by his gigantic c**k, even bigger than Dev's (so he claimed when Sir insisted I inform him of my husband's dimensions down there).

What I hadn't registered was that my previous overwhelming s****l demands of my quiet spouse were substantially tailing off, and that he might notice this, or even miss our naughty fun. This apparently led him to suspect my affair, which meant that software was to be infiltrated into my computer to enable him to follow my on line adventures. And then, one day when I was locked into my bathroom with my laptop, just reaching a killer orgasm at Sir's insistence, the door crashed open. My muscular husband had kicked through the lock using his Krav Maga skills, and there I was, red-handed, totally busted.

I'd never seen Dev angry before, but I was now. His handsome features were distorted into an expression of cold rage as he held up sheaves of transcripts of my on line affair that he had printed out. He yelled: “I want a divorce, you faithless b***h, and I'm going to take you for every penny I'm due, since you thought I was such a wimp that you didn't even need a prenup, you ignorant slut! Perhaps I'll even post this sexy little dialogue on the net, so everyone on the planet will know exactly who the most powerful woman in Silicon Valley really is!”