Being a trophy wife wasn’t what Jenna had expected… not that she had expected to be a trophy wife.

Even so, she suspected that every woman at some point fantasized about it, or thought about it, or railed against it, and in so doing had givin at least some thought as to what it would be like.

She had done so in the past, back when she had met many trophy wives in her role as the CEO of an up and coming tech startup. She’d had to mingle with “old” money to find financing, and those old men invariably had young blonde trophy wives on their arms.

She’d thought of them as nothing more than empty headed gold diggers, trying to get an easy ride through life. How wrong she had been.

A trophy wife had to know when to stay silent, or when to giggle, or when to laugh at the jokes being told at their expense. They had to know just the right dress to wear for the right occasion, the right makeup to apply, the right accessories to add, the right shoes to go with the outfits.

Not to mention the time and effort at the gym, and salon, and a dozen other specialists she’d never considered before.

And then there was the sex. In her old life she’d been able to lay back and enjoy the fumblings of her lovers, direct them when they hadn’t been able to perform to her standards, and kick them to the curb if it still couldn’t bring her to orgasm often enough.

A trophy wife had no such luxuries. She had to actively engage in the sex, even and especially if, her husband just wanted to lie there like a dead fish. She had to pay attention to the little cues that he gave off, making sure to attend to his every want and desire. To top it off, she feared every time that he might kick her to the curb if she didn’t perform well enough.

Her pleasure was not even in the top three most important things during sex, and she seldom felt any pleasure from the act, let along an orgasm. In fact it was only on the rare occasion that her husband gave her permission, usually when he was fucking her ass, that she ever orgasmed any more.

That was just as a programmed action as was the swaying of her hips as she walked down the street to her salon appointment. Just as would be the words from her lips to “go another shade lighter” for her hair colour, or “a few more cc’s” for her lip fillers.

The chip in the back of her head would make her do all these things and more before the day was through and she returned home to her husband, and one time partner in the company she had founded on her own hard work.

Hard work that had made breakthrough after breakthrough in neural implants and behaviour modification, that would change the world for the better.

Or, as it had turned out, had changed her and not for the better, after her partner had betrayed her and stolen everything from her.

Well, not everything, she still had her mind, even if it was under the control of the chip. There were things that the chip just couldn’t do, like take away her drive to be the best at everything she did.

And that included her drive to be the best trophy wife she could be, no matter how much time at the gym, trips to the salon or visits to the plastic surgeon that entailed.