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As the show progressed, the line dissolved. The dancers
split up and moved off the tiny stage, swayed through the crowd in
skimpy bras and minuscule g-strings. Maria tensed as the willowy
blonde paused, shimmied and pouted her way from table to table
to the delight of the raving throng. One and five dollar bills sprouted
from the elastic string circling her hips. She was giving everyone a
real eyeful.
She spied my wife and smiled in recognition. She skipped
two tables and moved to us. Maria was like a smiling statue at my
side while the pretty, lithe girl offered her nice breasts to me,
turned, and displayed her hard ass. I felt her heat as I slipped a
dollar onto her right hip. With a deliberate wink at Maria, she
danced away.
My wife drew a ragged breath and shuddered. Her scared
smile belied her insistence that she was okay. She slugged down
her beer and stared raptly at the various personal displays
happening all round the room.
The dancers regathered on stage as the act climaxed. After
the music ended and the hoots and applause died, the girls
vanished long enough to get dressed, then mingled with the
audience, accepting drinks, more tips and personal praise, as well
as deflecting passes. The blonde, Molly, eventually joined us.
She was friendly and sincere and drew Maria out of her stiff
shell. The unfamiliarity of her alcohol buzz no doubt helped her to
relax, but the conversation stayed casual. I *knew* my wife was
dying to ask questions about the why's and wherefor's of Molly's
job, and that her restraint was taking a toll.
After the second show, Maria nodded a fervent yes to my
suggestion that we leave. The instant we were out the door, she
pushed me into a shadow and plastered herself against me for a
wild kiss.
"God!" she gasped into my mouth, "That was fantastic,
Sean! Let's go home! I'm going to fuck your brains out!"
She couldn't wait even that long. While I was starting the
car, she was opening my zipper. While I was backing out of our
parking space, she was licking and kissing my cock. Throughout
the ten minute drive, she was deep-throating me and moaning
loudly and frenziedly fingering her pussy. It was a long, blissful
night for both of us. And I awoke the next afternoon to feel her
again slick pussy gripping my prick. We spent more time fucking
than we did anything else, all day long. Sunday was much the
same. I was almost grateful for classes to resume so I could get
some rest. Half afraid that my overheated wife would be waiting
for me just inside the front door, I made my way home.
She wasn't home yet. In fact, she was nearly an hour late.
She didn't head straight for the bedroom to change into something
sexy. Sheepishly, she explained that she and Molly had gone out
for coffee after lab. Her voice was low, her words fast.
Her friend had been full of information about her job, and
happy to talk about it. The blonde worked four nights a week and
took home between two and three hundred in tips and her fiance
didn't mind as long as she behaved herself, in fact her brought his
friends to watch sometimes and helped her practice her act and -
I interrupted her with a chuckle. "So when are you going to
apply for the job, honey?"
Her chocolate eyes were huge and intense. They searched
my face, seeking anger or reluctance. "You wouldn't care?
Really? It'd be so much better than work-study! We could pay all
those old bills and save some, too! And you'd always get in free
and could watch me and -"
I clamped a hand over her full lips. "When, Maria?"
She sucked my finger into her mouth like it was a small
prick. She gave it up long enough to say, "Tomorrow at four. If
you're sure it's okay."
I rubbed her between her legs. "It's fine. Perfect. You
know we both love fantasizing about people staring at your hot
body."
"Oh, Sean! Thank you! You'll never regret this." Then she
bolted away to change into her normal evening wear. She stayed
near me all night, keeping me hard, as if for reassurance. We took
three fuck-breaks. No matter how much we got, we were always
ready for more. The idea of her actually stripping before a crowd,
really parading her fantastic body for all to see, made it almost
impossible to study anyway.
Tuesday dragged by. Visions of my baby doing her thing
plagued me. I couldn't wait for the day to pass, and paid her a
surprise visit at work. I knew instantly that, under the desk, her cunt
was full of dildo.
"Sit over there," she whispered. "Watch me fuck myself.
Watch me come, honey."
I sat beside her desk, listened to the liquid sounds of the
fake cock sliding in and out of her in accompaniment to her low
groans, watched her heavy eyelids waver and her lush lips hang
loosely open.
"I'm going to really do it," she breathed jerkily. "This
afternoon I'm going to take my clothes off for the manager. He's
going to see my tits, honey. He's going to get hard watching me
dance."
"And he's going to hire you, lover. You're going to be the
best stripper he's ever seen."
She convulsed then. I'd never seen her come so intensely.
She looked almost like she was in terrible pain as her face twisted
and her body bounced helplessly in her chair. She lost her grip on
the dildo. I heard it thud to the floor.
"Fuck me. Please. Dear God, Sean, fuck me hard."
We used her boss's desk again. This time, I bent her over it
so I could finger her ass while I rammed her loose, wet cunt as
hard as I could. She had to bite her forearm to stifle her raw
screams.
She wailed hopelessly before I was finished and collapsed
face-down on the desk. I thought she'd fainted, but her hips kept
pushing, and her vaginal lips kept squeezing me spasmodically.
Her voice was hollow. "I'm going to take off early and go
home. I want everything to be perfect, honey. Can you skip class
and be there to help me?"
"You know I'm not supposed to -"
"Not to the rehearsal. Just to help me get ready. Please? I
need you, Sean." Her pussy kept clamping around my swollen
dick.
"I want to come on your face, honey. Not now," I hurried to
add before she could pull free and face me. "Later. After you put
on your makeup."
She groaned and slowly began thrusting again. "Umm. I
want that, baby. I want you to fuck me just like this while I paint
myself, then blow your rocks all over it. After I start stripping, that's
what everybody will wish they could do to me, isn't it? They'll go
home dreaming it's me they're fucking instead of their wives or
girlfriends. Oh, do it, honey. Do me again. I can't stand it."
I eased out. She looked alarmed.
"Not now, Maria. Let's go home."
She wobbled to her feet, still flushed, still ready. I obeyed a
wild impulse.
"But first, put on your lipstick and heels."
She left her skirt pulled above her waist while she sat on the
desk and made a production of lasciviously complying with my
wishes.
"Take off your panties," I suggested next. "Your bra,
too."
The split crotch panties I'd fucked her through came down
past her garters and hose. She seductively opened her blouse and
shed the matching blue bra.
"Leave it part way open."
She did, her breasts jiggling, her still erect nipples tenting the
fabric.
Her voice was thick. "You want them to see me like this?"
"Does it bother you?"
She shook her head like a lost child. "No. I like it. I want
to."
We walked out, arm in arm, after I reminded her to leave the
professor a note. She held my arm as we strolled across campus.
I told her to relax and enjoy it.
She gave me a grateful look and let her hips assume the
natural sway imparted by the towering heels. Her tits leapt and
bounced with each clicking stride.
"Is your pussy wet?" I asked her.
She nodded vaguely. Her words had a distant sound.
"When they stare at my nipples, it's like they're touching them.
They want to kiss me and smear my lipstick. I feel like they can tell
I'm dripping cunt juice down my legs, like they know exactly how
hot I am. They can see through my clothes." She staggered, and
I
had to support her. "Can I come, honey. Please. Just a little."
"No, baby. Save it. Make the feeling last. Remember?"
"It's never been like this, Sean. It's too much. It's making
me feel crazy."
"It's okay, love. Let it make you high. Let it take you - but
don't come. Don't give in."
She whined, a low forlorn sound, but with tremendous effort
kept herself from collapsing on the sidewalk. In the car, she
begged me to let her use her dildo. Watching her ease the rubber
cock into her steamy hole in broad daylight in the front seat of the
car was astonishing. She wanted my living one in her passion
heavy red mouth, too, but I wanted to save it.
The rest of the afternoon went pretty much as we'd scripted
it in the office on campus. I sat on her vanity chair. She sat on me
and created a meticulously made up visage, complete in every
detail. She squatted before me, latex lover back in place, and I
jacked off, slowly, holding back as long as humanly possible before
erupting all over her upper body. She came then, accompanied by
wracking sobs of release.
Both of us were moved toward sanity by a quick nap. Then,
it was time to watch her, support her as she got ready to interview
for her new job.
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She got it, of course. Neither of us had any doubt that she
would. That's when the troubles began.
For the first month, they weren't apparent. In fact, we'd
never been happier. At least two of the three nights she worked, I
went and gave her my support. It was stunning to watch my Maria
writhe and wriggle her way out of her costumes and prance, nude
except for her g-string, hose and heels to the immeasurable joy of
the patrons. She made fantastic money, too - more than any of her
fellow strippers. I didn't approve of the amount of alcohol she put
away, but it was rude to refuse when the customers offered to buy.
I *did* enjoy watching her sit at tables with them, teasing them free
of yet more of their cash. Obviously, she was a natural.
But, on the nights when I wasn't there, her mood seemed
different when she got home. The smell of bar-smoke and liquor
seemed especially intense since I hadn't been immersed in it for
hours, as she had, and she acted surly and more than a little crude.
I trusted her implicitly. I knew that she'd never cheat on me.
There were rumors that Molly and one other girl sometimes did
private, one-on-one dances on dicks for special members of the
crowd, but Maria wasn't capable of whoring. For her, stripping was
foreplay. She was an exhibitionist, not a hooker. Still, I wondered
and worried about her increasing coarseness. She cursed more,
and seemed to nurse a perpetual low-grade anger.
Other changes I *did* approve of. Maria started working out
on a regular basis, tightening her already superb body. Instead of
trimming her thick black pubic hair, she shaved her pussy bald so
she could wear smaller g-strings. Item by item, we retired her
demure wardrobe in favor of more showy clothes. Her street look
became, not blatantly sexy, but highly alluring. She never went
anywhere without beautiful lipstick, tall heels, and an inviting dress.
She became shameless in her unending need for my cock.
We fucked in ladies' and mens' bathrooms all over town. She
jacked me off in theaters, and I returned the favor. She adored
sucking my cock while I drove and, on occasional weekends, we'd
cruise down I-70, laughing uproariously as she flashed her
gorgeous tits at passing cars. I helped her select her costumes
from various catalogues and choreograph her routines.
But, during her second or third month of work at Club
Vogue, my curiosity - and my own voyeurism - got the better of me.
I decided to sneak into the bar one Friday I was supposed to be
cramming for an exam. It was a night I'd never forget.
I knew Maria's patterns. There was one distant corner of the
room she virtually never worked when she was off-stage. For
some reason it was where the dirty old men who seldom tipped
hung out. Donning a forgotten Halloween mustache and clamping
a battered cowboy hat on my head - and feeling both ridiculous and
excited - I journeyed to the already packed bar.
The doorman, Roger, didn't give me a second glance as he
took my cover charge. The second show was just starting, and a
vacant table seemed to be waiting for me, exactly where I wanted it
to be. I slouched into the chair, ignoring the complaints about my
hat blocking the view of the people behind me.
Maria was her normal wanton self, incredibly sexy and
beautiful, definitely both a better dancer and a better stripper than
any of the other girls. It was obvious that she adored what she was
doing. I was proud. The fact that she had no idea I was watching
added another large charge of arousal. Seeing her cup her tits with
mandarin nailed hands and dangle her swollen nipples in other
men's faces, seeing her scarlet lips shape pouty smiles and blow
her admirers' sweet kisses, seeing her grind her hips as guys
lingered over her flesh and they slipped her bills was almost more
turn-on than I could tolerate.
But, after the show ended, my pleasure began to turn to
shock. When she sat at her first table, she accepted a cigarette as
well as a drink from some guy she seemed to know really well.
When she bent forward for him to light it, her tit pressed solidly
against his arm. She breathed smoke like she'd been doing it all
her life. I had a clear view as he draped a hand high on her thigh
under the table, and watched her part her legs slightly and rub her
knee against his. I almost leapt from my chair as she kissed him
lightly on the lips before leaving to sit with her next adorer.
She sat squarely on that one's lap, wriggling her hard little
ass slightly as they whispered intimately. The arm he had wrapped
around her waist was in contact with the underside of her tits as
often as not. Maria was obviously in heaven. She sipped her drink
and smoked while she did her best to get him off in his jeans, right
there in the bar.
The pattern was repeated time and again until the break
was over and it was time for her third set. Each one of her
favorites had tipped her hugely for her special favors. It was a side
of my wife I'd never suspected. She'd gone a step beyond
stripping. She was, in essence, whoring herself. I could tell, even
from twenty feet away, that she wasn't doing it for the money. She
was having a great time. I was almost certain I'd seen her have an
orgasm as one older man had rocked her ass against his cock.
She'd disguised it as a long laugh, but her departing kiss had been
lingering and deep-tongued, and she'd arched into the hand openly
squeezing her tit.
My sweet wife had become a slut. I snuck out, too hurt to
be angry.
By the time she got home, right on time, as always, I was
mad as hell. I looked at her sensuous, slick red lips and wondered
if her lipstick was fresh because she'd just sucked somebody off in
the parking lot. The smell of smoke on her, despite her too-fresh
breath, reminded me of the three cigarettes I'd watched her inhale.
The wetness of her cunt as it gripped and squeezed my engorged
pole mad me doubt that it was still mine alone.
A vision filled me as we fucked - Maria on her back, her
perfect legs wrapped around another man's waist while he
slammed into her ripe, lusty body. Her wails and shrieks and dirty
talk to me could be for anyone. Her explosive orgasm could be her
fourth or fifth of the night. And, as she spooned against me in
peaceful sleep, who was she dreaming of?
I said nothing, but couldn't help seeing everything she said
and did in a different light. Every time we had sex - still three or
four times a day - I was filled with more lust and rage than love. I
wanted her to confess. I wanted her to tell me every one of the vile
things she was doing behind my back. I even encouraged her to by
introducing more of her sluttish behaviors into our lifestyle.
One Saturday we'd set aside as a night for pure raw sex, I
asked her to smoke a cigarette for me. I told her it'd be a turn-on
to watch her stain it with her lips, suck it like it was a little cock.
I
fucked her from behind while she did it, telling her what a hot piece
of ass she was, how I didn't understand how anybody could keep
their hands off her. She came like a cannon, told me how great it'd
been for me to talk dirty back to her. I replied by saying I'd liked
it,
too - and that I thought smoking was sexy. She was obviously
already thoroughly hooked on tobacco and relieved to have her
addiction out in the open. She asked me if I wanted her to keep
doing it. I shrugged and said why not.
And, I told her the next day, why not really strut her stuff on
the street, as well? Why not come all the way out of the closet and
act like she wanted wherever she went? Why not wear full makeup
and really sexy clothes all the time? Again, she was relieved.
Again, she demonstrated her gratitude by vowing to be the hottest
cock-teaser Columbia had ever seen.
So that's the way it went. My formerly demure Maria
dressed like a slut every morning and danced like one at night. I
voiced no objection when she wanted to go to work full time at the
Club. All I said was that she should do what she needed to do.
She dropped out of school and stripped five nights a week.
Her homecoming's got later and later. She'd gone out with
the girls one night. Another, the manager had asked her to help
close up. Always some excuse. I knew exactly what she was
really doing because, although I no longer openly went to watch her
perform, I still spied once a week or so.
I'd seen her take fifty dollars and sneak into the dressing
room. I'd been hidden as she crept out the back door and
passionately embraced the money-giver. I'd seen him back her
against the brick wall and slide his prick into her gaping, naked little
pussy for a quickie. I'd watched her shakily light a cigarette and
redo her face after he zipped up and left in his truck.
I'd been there when she went to an apartment after her last
set. I'd seen the shadows of more than one guy through the drawn
curtains and knew in my heart that she'd fucked them all, let them
use her mouth and ass as well as her greedy cunt, maybe all at the
same time.
And, when she carefully asked me one morning, over a
cigarette and coffee, if I'd be horribly upset if she went on tour for
a
month, I held my tongue. A thousand a week, she hurried to say.
We could pay off all our loans and get totally out of debt. Maybe
buy a new car.
I let her go. Maybe metaphorically as well as literally. I
knew I was partially responsible for what she'd become. I
remembered the innocent yet lusty virgin, too shy to even wear
stiletto heels in public, and compared her to the brazen slut getting
ready to buy groceries by repairing her blazing scarlet lipstick,
automatically tugging her tight dress down to better display her
fabulous tits, reflexively making sure the seams in her hose were
straight. I mourned.
I'd helped her become this. I'd encouraged her, even
pushed her at times. She smiled wetly, squeezed my balls, lit a
cigarette, and strutted out the door. I peered through the window,
wondering if she'd come back with a load of come between her
legs as well as bags of groceries.
She spent her month on the circuit of strip joints her new
manager booked her in. In the college library, I saw her picture
featured in a few sleazy ads. She called me at least every other
day, saying how much she missed me, how grateful she was for
her dildo, because living without my cock was killing her. I let the
lies pass.
She came home changed, although she tried hard to hide it.
I'm sure she wasn't aware of all the differences. To her, they were
just part of her daily life. Her cunt was looser, and so was her ass.
She'd picked up new tricks on how to use all three of her holes that
she showed me without realizing she was betraying herself. Her
eyes, when she looked at men, held a new calculating expression,
and she unconsciously struck almost lewd poses everywhere we
went.
She was dancing as a feature attraction at Club Vogue, not
with the rest of the girls. I watched her between her numbers,
going off with at least three men a night, barely even trying to hide
her activities. I saw her fuck two men at once in their car, at the
curb outside our little house.
It was during her third tour that I caught the little notice in the
arrest column of a Detroit paper. She'd been busted for
solicitation. I didn't get any phone calls for the three days she spent
in jail. She'd come down with the flu, she explained.
By the time she got home, I knew it was no use pretending
anymore. I confronted her with what I knew, what I'd seen. She
cried hopelessly, but at least didn't try to tell me more lies. She
couldn't help herself, she said. Something had happened to her
that she couldn't control. One man's cock, even mine, wasn't
enough to keep her satisfied. Love wasn't enough, either. She
couldn't stop. She didn't *want* to stop.
The divorce was amicable and happened two weeks after
she'd moved out. She was in Atlanta when I signed the papers.
I followed her career as best I could for almost a year
afterwards. It made me crazy. It hurt more than I have words to
express. But I was a hooked on her as she was on cock and
tobacco. She was a headliner. She posed nude in several
magazines. The last I heard, she was fucking happily in hard-core
porn films. I didn't even try to find them. That was the last straw.
That was five years ago. I've remarried, graduated, sired a
son, and am living a wonderful life. My wife knows about Maria,
and we play occasional sex games, too. She has a mild
exhibitionistic streak that meshes perfectly with my voyeurism, but
neither of us feel any urge to go beyond normal, healthy fantasies.
I still feel sick when I think about the beautiful person my first wife
was and how horribly wrong we went. But now I know the
difference between love and sex, between intimacy and eroticism.
Some mistakes you just can't afford to repeat.
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