I Only Strip for My Husband

That's the deal.

*****

As little sister Amy, I was always shy and self-conscious. I didn't really have much going for me in the looks department when I was a kid, which contributed greatly to my poor self-image. I never wanted attention drawn to me; I wore conservative clothing for all occasions, and primarily interacted with only a few female friends.

Fortunately, when I was growing up boys were never really mean to me - they primarily ignored me. They probably were never mean because they didn't want to irritate my older sister or mother - both of whom had goddess status in our community. I had only a few dates my freshman through junior years in High School, with nice but nerdy guys.

It didn't help that my older sister was not only always beautiful, but was elected "queen" anytime there was an election (Homecoming, Prom, Miss Town-that-we-grew-up-in, you name it). Nor did it help that my mother was not only as good looking as my sister but was considered "plasma hot" by all of the men - and boys - that she came into contact with. The term "MILF" could have been coined with my mother in mind.

Not possibly being able to compete with either my sister or mother I became as withdrawn as they were vivacious, and as unadventurous as they were audacious. My physical appearance ultimately changed quickly, but my outlook never really did.

According to everyone who knew me I had a real metamorphosis between my 18th and 19th birthdays, my senior year in High School. I went from being a proverbial wallflower to being constantly ogled by virtually every heterosexual male in my school. Among the many changes that occurred were: my skin cleared up completely so that my complexion changed from acne-prone to sparkling; my hair got a luster that I never had as a child, and natural auburn streaks; my boobs went from an A cup to a D cup, and my nipples seemed to get proportionately even larger; my ass got round; I lost eight to ten pounds to my present weight of 128 pounds despite the fact that I grew two inches to my present height of five feet seven; and my thighs got sculptured. Only the sculptured thigh part (and partially the weight loss) did I have anything to do with, by constant exercise; the rest was my mother's genes finally coming through.

Once I was into my full-fledged metamorphosis my mother suddenly started to take an interest in my appearance - something that she had never really done before. While Mom had always been kind to me, until my transformation she never really complimented me on my looks, or encouraged me to get the best that I could out of my appearance. I guess that she figured that I just didn't have much to work with. However, when my face cleared up and my boobs erupted she started giving me hair and makeup tips, and "poise" suggestions.

My physical evolution was apparently complete when my father seemingly honestly told me -in my mother's presence - that I was as beautiful as my mother was; and she said "more beautiful, darling," as she hugged me.

*****

Having been basically a recluse for so long, my physical makeover didn't result in a commensurate alteration of my personality or outlook on life. I continued to dress conservatively, eschewed being the center of attention, and remained shy. Even constant efforts by dozens of guys to get me to date them didn't snap me out of my condition, although I did go out on some dates, including to the senior prom where I was elected to the Court. I also actually made out with a few guys and even let one feel me up.

After High School I got a job as a secretary at an Insurance Agency and went to Junior College at night. While many women would have loved the male attention that I got both at work and at school, it was too unsettling for me. I quit my job after six months and started working for an exclusively on-line company doing order fulfillment, so that I no longer constantly got hit on. I did continue with Junior College, however, and got an associate's degree in business administration after two years and two summers, and continued with the regular exercise program that I had started my sophomore year in High School.

I did date some during this time, but it seemed like most of the guys that hit on me wanted me to be some sort of wild, hip, skip-and-go-naked Momma - and that just wasn't my nature. Therefore I had no relationship that lasted more than four dates.

Just before my twenty first birthday I met twenty three year old Derek Jones in the stands at a Junior College baseball game. He was different from most of the other guys that I had met or dated in that he didn't really come on strong, and respected my inhibitions rather than trying to change me. He was the first guy that I had intercourse with. Although sex was not the toe-curling, mind-blowing experience that I had read about - or had been told about by my sister, who does have a tendency for hyperbole - it was very nice. Derek was gentle and considerate, and I fell in love with him.

Derek and I got married after dating exclusively for about fourteen months. I went from the distinctive last name of "Bertelsen," to the fifth most common surname in the United States, "Jones."

Derek's attitude toward my inhibitions seemed to change shortly after we got married. At first it was almost imperceptible. "Hey, Amy. Did you see Kate Upton in that yellow bikini? I'll bet that you'd look even better in it that she does."

"Oh, Derek, don't be ridiculous. Of course I wouldn't. Plus, that's way too revealing for me to be seen wearing in public."

"What, afraid that you'd be responsible for too many heart attacks?" he replied, followed by a laugh, a twirl, and a kiss.

Some of our best friends had pools, and during the summer after we had been married about eight months we started attending pool parties. Looking back on it, Derek may have been partly responsible for what started to be more and more peer pressure on me to "loosen up" at the parties.

All of the other women at the pool parties went from bikinis, to string bikinis, to sometimes sunbathing topless for part of the time. I remained in a fashionable, but far from daring, one-piece suit. Typical of the ever escalating girl talk was:

"Amy; if I had your body I'll flaunt it, girl."

"Hey, Amy, that one piece just doesn't do it for you. You'd kill just in a regular bikini."

"Amy, my husband Rick has asked for only one thing for his birthday - to talk you into going topless for just one minute at the next pool party!"

Despite the best efforts of all of my friends I went through the summer conservatively dressed. However, I kept Derek from complaining too much by ensuring that we had sex as soon as we got home. By that time, having been married about a year, I was no longer particularly reserved around him, and certainly had no hang-ups about having sex in many different positions. Sex with Derek was almost always satisfying - more so after pool parties - although still never the mind-blowing experience that I had been told about by my girlfriends, all of whom I assumed were exaggerating.

Once the summer, and the associated pool parties, ended Derek seemed to begin a full-fledged campaign to get me to dress more provocatively everywhere that we went. At first I brushed it off. However, after several months it really started to get irritating.

"What is this thing of yours to get me to look like a slut?" I finally inquired after he insisted that I wear the totally skanky looking outfit he bought me a night we were supposed to go to a nightclub with friends. "My boobs would spill out of that, and anyone could see my camel toe if I bent over."

"Hey, Amy, I don't want you to look like a slut. I'm just proud of you and like to show you off - show everyone how hot my wife is. Come on, that dress cost a lot of money."

"I'm not comfortable with that, Derek. Back off - and give this whore-outfit to the Salvation Army so you can at least get a tax deduction for it. I don't care how much it cost, I'm not wearing it."

I couldn't understand why Derek couldn't be happy just having me to himself, and why he was so intent on changing me, when I had no desire to change.

Things came to a head one night when he, with the help of the wife of one of his friends, tricked me into going to a strip club - on a night when they were hosting an Amateur Contest.

I didn't enjoy the strip club - I had never been to one before and had never cared to ever go to one. I painfully endured the constant banter by Derek, his friend, and his friend's wife, trying to get me to compete, until I couldn't take it anymore. I finally burst into tears, tore out of the place, hid behind an SUV when Derek came out looking for me, and after he went back inside got a cab home.

When Derek arrived home that night I lit into him. I rarely used swear words until that point; that is one way he did get me to change that night.

"Amy, why in the hell did you take off like that and embarrass me in front of my friends," were his first words to me when he got home.

"Listen you fucking asshole, I've had it with your perversion of trying to show my body off to everyone in the world. I don't like that, never have, and never will. Tonight was the last straw you sick bastard. You try even one more time and I'm through with you. Got it fuck-stick?" I screamed.

With that I took off my engagement and wedding rings and threw them at him; the shocked look on his face was priceless. I then stormed off to our bedroom and locked the door.

Surprisingly I slept well that night, although when I got up the next morning and remembered how I had left things, my stomach got tied in knots. I quickly resolved that I was not going to back down, and would follow through on my threat - actually to me it was more of a promise - if he pulled the same shit again.

When I went into the kitchen, I saw that Derek had obviously left for work early; probably because he didn't want to face me. There was a pink piece of paper on the kitchen table, however, with a heart drawn on it and the word "SORRY" in big black print, with "Love, Derek," underneath it. Also laying on the piece of paper were my wedding and engagement rings, and a single red rose. Even though the rose had clearly been purloined from our next door neighbor's garden, my anger dissipated quickly.

I left work early to prepare Derek his favorite meal. When he sheepishly came into the kitchen at his regular time the smell of roast pork and browned potatoes seemed to put him at ease a little.

"Hi, Hon," he said with trepidation. "Did you accept my apology?"

"We'll talk about it after dinner," I said in a pleasant, not nasty or accusatory, voice. "Let's just talk about how our days went and local politics or sports until then," I continued with a smile.

That's exactly what we did talk about - interspersed with Derek's seemingly genuine compliments about how great the meal tasted. Derek cleaned up all of the dinner dishes and pots while I showered, then we sat in the living room.

"Derek; I'm provisionally accepting your apology," I started right in, holding up my left hand so that he could see that I had my rings on. "However, I want you to know something for certain. I'm never going to expose my body to your friends, or to strangers, period. If you can't live with that you've married the wrong girl and we need to call it quits now."

"Look,...Amy,..." he stuttered. "I really am sorry. It won't happen again. But there is something I really need you to do for me - I know it may sound weird to you, but it's who I am as much as you not wanting to expose your body is who you are."

"I'm listening," I said, looking him in the eye with an expression as kind and open-minded as I could muster.

"I really get turned on by your body - as you already know; but what turns me on most is the idea of you stripping..." Derek said, and then hesitated. "Let me see how to put this, because it's embarrassing."

"Go ahead - I'm not judging you," I replied with a half-smile.

"OK. I think that if you could strip for me on a regular basis, I wouldn't even have the urge anymore to have you expose yourself to others. Does that make any sense?"

He seemed so genuine and vulnerable.

"You want me to be your own personal Gypsy Rose Lee or Tila Tequila?" I asked, this time with a full smile.

"Uh...well...Yes!"

"But I don't know how to strip - I'd just be clumsy," I laughed.

"I have a solution," he chirped, as he jumped up from his chair and reached into his pocket and pulled out a brochure. "I know that you exercise four days a week anyway - why not learn something new while you do?" he asked with a Cheshire Cat grin as he handed me the brochure.

The brochure was colorful and eye catching. On the front panel was a beautiful women who looked to be in her forties with a large fan in front of her, a tiara on her head, and sparkling four inch heels; and likely nothing else, although that was unclear. The title of this little four panel attention-getter was

"Strip-Aerobics," and the byline was "The most fun way to exercise ever invented by womankind!"

It actually looked legit. There was no doubt that the exercises featured in the brochure would provide excellent cardio, and the testimonials made it seem like it was really fun. I had been doing basically the same, now boring, exercise routine for several years, and I had been thinking that it might be time for a change anyway.

Derek looked anxious as he sat across from me as I perused the brochure. When I said, "OK - I'll go visit 'Cupcake Hostess,'" the obviously made-up cheesy stage name of the women on the front panel, "tomorrow to see what it's like," he got a big smile on his face.

Despite our full stomachs, Derek picked me up, carried me to bed, did his own "strip" of me, and then fucked me. It was one of the better sex sessions we had ever had.

*****

"Cupcake Hostess," in reality June Jackson (the eighteenth most common surname in the U. S.), was vivacious, enthusiastic, and knowledgeable. She proudly proclaimed that she was fifty four years old. When she told me that I was sold as I mumbled to myself "Holy shit; I'd kill to look like that at fifty four!" I was pleasantly surprised that it was no more expensive than the health club that I belonged to.

I took ninety minute Strip Aerobics classes two nights a week, and a three hour class on Saturday. June's facility - with eight poles and two sets of "sheets" - could accommodate ten more advanced students, and fifteen for basic instruction. I took to it like a duck to water, and went from basic to advanced classes in just two weeks. While June's facility could accommodate ten students for advanced classes we rarely had more than six, so the instruction was very personal - and intense.

It was better exercise than I had ever had before in my life, and - at least for me - was as fun as the brochure had promised. Of course we never actually stripped naked during class, always just to a jog bra and exercise shorts, but everything else was realistic - much like I saw in my only sojourn to a strip club, although Cupcake Hostess and some of the more experienced students were much better and more athletic than anything that I saw at the strip club.

I especially liked the pole action. While I had to work a little on my upper body strength to do some of the maneuvers, I was limber enough - and my thighs were muscular enough - to do most of the "intriguing" pole tricks. By the seventh week of classes I could do the Cross Leg L Climb, the Russian Splits, the Up Pole Transition, the Sexy Flexy, the Bumslide to Splits, and the Splash. I was working on the Extended Frodo, the Spinning Straddle, and the One Handed Bridge, and was at least close to mastering the first and third. I was not having much luck with "split the sheets," but was from good to great for most of the non-pole standard moves including The Strut, Booty Bounce, Hoop Roll, Toe Touch, Moon Waltz, and Small Pirouette.

Derek was bugging me from about the third week to let him see my stuff. I refused, first out of shyness because I didn't know if I was good enough, and then because I had no way to show him my best moves - which required the use of a pole. June's rules did not allow men in her studio while classes were going on because most of her students would be very self-conscious. Most - like me - were taking the classes as just a fun way to stay in shape; only two actually wanted to work as strippers, and they didn't want anyone to see them without paying.

Derek was so much like a little kid asking "are we there yet?" on a road trip that I finally asked June if I could give Derek an after-hours show. She and I had really clicked, and I was taking more classes than any other student (except for the two budding professionals), so she agreed.

On a Tuesday night, after all the other students had left, June controlled the music and lights. We started out with "Sweet Emotion," by Aerosmith, and finished with an abridged version of the ultra-hot "Fuck Like An Animal" by Nine Inch Nails.

I pulled out all of the stops; I did all of the techniques that I had mastered, and didn't try those that I was still working on. My adrenaline was flowing so fast by the time that I was thirty seconds into my routine that I did my best "Sexy Flexy" and "Russian Splits" ever, and a high energy series of Booty Bounces. I "climaxed" by transitioning from a Bumslide to Splits to a wiggling ass Toe Touch, both completely naked. The total routine lasted ten minutes, and I did strip naked.

When the music stopped and the colored lights were turned off I put a robe on and then approached Derek. He was almost comatose. His eyes looked as big as baseballs and were glazed over, the hair on his neck was virtually standing up, his cock was almost popping his zipper, and he was speechless. "How did you like it, Derek?" was my obvious question.

Derek almost stuttered "Un - fucking - believably - awesome!" as he tried to reach inside my robe to grab one of my perspiring tits. I playfully slapped his hand away and whispered "later."

June came bubbling over to me and gave me a big hug. She had apparently overheard Derek. "She was un-fucking believable, wasn't she, Derek. Your little wifey is already better than two thirds of the experienced professionals, and once she masters the 'Extended Frodo' and 'the One Handed Bridge' she'll be in the top ten percent!"

"Holy shit," was all that Derek could say as he vigorously shook June's hand with a big shit-eating grin on his face and mumbled "You're a wizard Cupcake Hostess, a fucking genius!"

*****

That night Derek fucked me as well as he ever had, including eating my pussy first, something that he had only done a half dozen times before. The next day he anxiously inquired "Amy - when can you do the first strip for me at home?"

"How about Friday? You do understand though, don't you, that without a pole it won't be quite as dramatic as at the studio?" I replied with a grin.

After a pause, with a grin so diabolical he looked like Batman's arch villain The Joker, Derek said "Tell you what, Amy. You've been wanting to visit your parents. Why don't you leave Friday right after work and come back Sunday evening - and I'll take care of the 'pole problem.'"

I laughed, and simply said "OK. But don't go overboard."

He just smiled.

*****

When I got back Sunday night I couldn't believe what I saw. The first (and only) floor of our small house had been transformed. The wall between our living room and what had been a storage room was now all mirrors, the walls of the living room were newly painted and apparently newly sound insulated, and the roof in the living area had been raised into the attic. Two poles were placed in the living room, one permanently fixed, the other removable, and the furniture that hadn't been cleared out was on rollers. Speakers were placed in all four corners, a number of multicolored stage lights were in the uplifted ceiling area by the mirrored wall pointing toward the pole, and the door to the storage room had been moved so that it was now a secondary exterior back door.