Chapter One

 

This is going to be a very difficult story to write. In fact, there is no way in hell that I would ever have committed these words to paper or any other medium if I had not been coerced. You see, I am about to give you a first person version of the rather sordid tale of an unforgivably naughty wife who got caught and agreed to pay a very exacting penalty for her wicked ways. Yes, that would be me, the faithless slut who got lost in her own narcissistic reverie that she could have it all, and now is reduced to...well, you'll see soon enough exactly how low the mighty have fallen.

As far as coercion is concerned, I made a bargain, and writing this memoir is part of keeping it. You might say I sold my soul to a certain fallen angel, and anyone who reads books or watches movies knows exactly how that sort of agreement almost always works out. In my case, the driver of the impossibly hard bargain I am astonishingly painfully keeping rather qualifies for the comparison to the devil incarnate. And to think I once thought he was just a beautiful rather shy genius who worked for me (well, he actually worked for someone who worked for someone who worked for me) and whom I could exploit to my own selfish purposes. He is even named Devlin (I shit you not), and is in fact the most handsome man I've ever been with. I mean, they say that Lucifer was the most gorgeous of the angels, and that would apply to my Dev, though when we first met this coincidence never even occurred to me

Yes, this tale of woe (at least for me; as far as I can tell, Dev is having the time of his life) is replete with my sins right from the get-go. I guess you could say I was the female version of the sexually predatory boss who cherry-picks the most attractive of their employees to provide, shall we say, 'ancillary' services. I love that word, although a good deal more ambivalently now that the tables have been so thoroughly turned on me. Ancillary comes from the Latin word root 'ancillary', which means 'handmaiden'. It signifies someone whose existence is to serve their masters or mistresses.

Back when I was the one on top, I exulted in it, in the power to use other human beings for my own gratification. Now, I am granted gratification of sorts, indeed quite regularly and, as you will see, often embarrassingly. But even my pleasures are permitted only on his terms. He now totally owns the act that used to define my greatest joy, my orgasm, and dispenses it to me only when it suits him. Even that most basic of ecstatic responses no longer belongs to me, and every bit of this circumstance is my own damned fault and he and I both know it.

So how did this nasty little predicament come to pass? Well, I suppose you could say it all started when I was a child. I was born to two gorgeous, intelligent, well brought up products of San Francisco society. Mummy and Daddy had both grown up in Pacific Heights to parents with old money, which meant that streets bore their family names from before the Great Earthquake and Fire in 1906. They attended all the right schools through Stanford Business (her) and Law (him), and ran in the same exalted social circles from kindergarten. A world of privilege and virtually guaranteed success was laid out for me from birth by both of my parents, and I was brought up to expect it, but also to be willing to work very hard to earn it. Slacking was not permitted in the house I grew up in.

That meant, from time to time, that a high spirited and strong willed child like me would have different ideas than those in charge of her about all manner of things. And while they were quite liberal in most arenas, my apparently perfect parents did not follow the dictates of Dr. Spock (the pediatric medical advisor for their generation) regarding non-violent discipline of children. So until I figured out how to manage my stubborn streak when I was in about third grade, it was not unusual for me to be taken over a grownup's lap, have my panties lowered, and my bare girlish buttocks soundly spanked by a hard adult hand. These were hardly punishments that would warrant a CPS report even today, but they made a very deep impression on me as you will soon come to see.

I was too fundamentally even tempered to continue rebelling when every attempt reliably resulted in a very sore rear end. Both Mummy and Daddy believed that the exercise of the kind of power they expected their beautiful brilliant daughter required strong self-restraint. What better way to instill it, they thought, than how it had been in them by their old school parents: children who didn't control themselves to meet adult expectations would be treated like brats. That meant the humiliation of having their backsides bared and beaten until they were broken into contrition and submission to adult authority. Well, their program worked. Something clicked into place in my brain when I was about eight and I never needed to be spanked again until several decades later.

Now Mummy and Daddy considered themselves to be enlightened parents, in spite of practicing a behavioral control method that was, well, a bit Old Testament compared to the rest of their parenting. They were not often affectionate with me when I was little, but the one exception was after I was spanked. Once a hard right palm had reduced me to complete surrender by its repeated application to my squirming bared bottom cheeks, all would be forgiven. I would of course have to do my corner time, standing with my hands atop my head so I could not rub away one iota of the corrective pain that had been inflicted to amend my rebellious ways while my blazing buttocks were on humiliating display. During this ten minute interval, always carefully timed, whomever had administered my spanking would sit peacefully, often sipping a celebratory drink, and reminisce about their own similar experiences with my Grandparents.

So as my sobs subsided and my rear end throbbed, the punishing parent would recount something like, "I know it's hard honey, just like it was for my own backside when I was your age. I was stubborn and willful too, just like you are, and needed to be spanked a lot more often than a good girl like you does. Your Grandma always used the backside of a hairbrush on my own bottom, and it hurt like fire, much more than your Grandpa's hand. But by the time I was a teenager, I had learned my lessons and never had to get spanked by them again. I'll be really glad when you learn enough self-control not to need this any more. Now, if you're ready to say you're sorry and will try really hard not to be rebellious again, you can pull up your panties and come over and get your hugs."

And then would come my favorite part, after the stories about how they were spanked just like I was. I would get a nice long snuggle in the spanker's lap, my nose blown by the tissue from the box kept next to the spanking chair, and then my hair stroked and kissed as I was told what a good girl I was and how they wished they'd never have to spank me again. And I think this was true, since neither of my parents ever punished me unfairly or even one swat past that breakdown into total surrender that they defined as the goal of the intervention. So once I grew up enough to have control of my impulses, my poor bottom's spanking days were over. That is, until the very same kind of willfulness crept back into my life many years later, leading to my current painful predicament.