My Wife Becomes A Stripper

My wife is an engineer. She did everything right — went to college, got a STEM degree. She was even at the top of her class. But three nights a week, she strips down to lingerie and dances for men at a club.

Whenever college got hard, and I found her crying over her homework, she always said the same thing — “I’m going to fail and then I’ll end up as a stripper!” The thought horrified her. I’d calm her down, and remind her how smart she was, how everyone in class copied her work. She just had a tendency to catastrophize. One of her classmates stripped on the weekends — a girl she only referred to as “that slut” — and my wife knew that she made a lot of money every night she danced. But being a stripper was always her idea of rock-bottom. That started to change when she graduated and got her first job as an engineer.

She couldn’t believe how little she was getting paid. It was barely enough to pay the bills.

One night, we went to a strip club for some fun. It wasn’t the first time, but we weren’t regulars by any means. After we were both pretty drunk, I told her she should apply. She was way hotter than the girls on stage, and I just knew she’d make so much money off private dances. Every man would want to take her to the back room. She laughed. But I could tell she was really thinking about it, mulling the idea over in her head. The money was tempting her. How bad could it be?

The idea never fully left her head. Over the next few weeks, we had a couple half-joking conversations. She doubted her ability to dance, but she’d found out there were classes specifically for pole dancing. She also wondered if she was hot enough, which made me smile. She was gorgeous. Besides, part of her appeal at a strip club would be that she didn’t look like a stereotypical stripper — she looked like a cute good girl, completely out of place. But she had a slutty side. Oh my God, did she have a slutty side.

I could hardly believe the depraved things she let me do to her. Our relationship began with BDSM fairly early, and it escalated from there. It started with tying her up, facefucking her, beating her ass red, and quickly went to degradation and humiliation. I wrote all over her body. I made her go out in public half-nude and put on an exhibitionist show for strangers. I slapped her face until she cried. I filmed everything. She was my little fuckdoll.

Eventually, I even shared her with another man. It was my idea, but she went along with it like a good girl. She found a guy on Tinder and invited him over. I watched him fuck her brains out. We spitroasted her, double-penetrated her, and passed her back and forth until she couldn’t take any more. I loved every second of it.

So, really, becoming a stripper wasn’t that much of a leap. She knew I’d be okay with it, as long as I was aware of everything that went on in the club. The only obstacle was her — did she really want to work as a stripper?

As you may have surmised, I wasn’t just okay with it — I was into it. I’d wanted to push her into stripping ever since I found out she hated the idea. Not because I wanted to **** her, not exactly. It was about controlling her. Her body was my property. She was my little plaything. My fuckdoll. And she would do whatever I wanted her to do.

Still, I couldn’t **** her to do it under duress. Besides, I wanted her to like it. The fantasy, for me, was that my wife would be a stripper and get off on it, on being showcased for men and grinding her ass on their stiff cocks for money. So I had to ease her into the idea, little by little.

One night, after a few glasses of wine, I brought it up, a little more bluntly than usual.

“Have you thought any more about joining the strip club?” I asked.

“Oh…was that, like, a serious idea? I thought we were just messing around,” she said, avoiding eye-contact. Yeah, right.

“Well, we could really use the money. And it sounds, actually, kinda fun,” I said, sipping my wine. “I would love seeing you up on stage.”

This is what I wanted. I was finally starting to make that clear to her.

“You don’t need to worry about me,” I said, reaching out and touching her hand. “I think this would be a really good thing.”

“Well…you’re right that it would be fun…” she said. “I don’t know.” I didn’t push farther.

The next day, I checked her search history on her computer. She’d been reading a lot about what it’s like to be a stripper, the pros and cons, YouTube videos on how to dance, and so on. Damn, she was really going to do it.

It continued on like that for a couple months. She’d go back and forth, and I always made it clear to her that I’d support her whatever she decided to do. We also started to visit the strip club a lot more frequently. It was getting expensive, too — I needed it to pay off soon.

Finally, I got my wish when she came home late one night with black shopping bags.

“What’s that?” I asked.

“Lingerie, sexy outfits, high heels…you know, the stuff you need to be a stripper,” she said with a huge smile.

“You’re going to do it?” I beamed.

She squealed and hugged me, pulling back for a moment. “Thank you for being so supportive, honey. Are you sure — like absolutely sure — you’re okay with this?”

I gave her a kiss. “If you’re happy, I’m happy.”

My cock was bulging out of my pants and I guided her hand to it.

“Mmm,” she moaned. “You do like the idea of seeing me on stage…”

She unbuttoned her shirt. “I need to practice my lap dances, love.”