The Transformation of Betty Ch. 06

Although the place was not a dirty dingy hole in the wall, the absence of people and the wholly relaxed almost non-sexual atmosphere (relative to my expectations) was somewhat of a letdown. Nevertheless, Bill returned to our table and said that my wife should go to the back room and be prepared to be called on-stage after one more girl performed ... which should take no more than 15 or 20 minutes. With the manager standing nearby, Bill told my wife "go to him and he'll tell you what to do."

Without a word, but still wearing her coat, she did as she was told. The manager must have said something like 'follow me' as he led her backstage until she disappeared from view. In the meantime the girl who had been performing finished her routine and was quickly replaced by someone whose ostensible name has long disappeared from memory. But this much was clear: As long as my wife danced in a half decent way, she was going to be far sexier than either of the two women I'd seen thus far. Its not that they weren't attractive or sexy ... it was simply that they performed without emotion or any recognition that someone was watching.

It was with a degree of apprehension, then, that my wife was announced as a 'new talent' -- one he was 'certain everyone would enjoy.' Which, of course, was not something he had any way of knowing at the time.

To be honest, my wife's performance at that point was not simply erotic but verged on the pornographic, although I suppose it wasn't much different that what other strippers might do before an appreciative audience. There didn't seem to be a scintilla of hesitancy or modesty on her part ... it seemed almost as if she had been doing this for years. Walking out onto the stage she immediately began a routine that she must have practiced for hours at home. Watching her prancing about and massaging her tits thru her dress was erotic enough, but after 3 or so minutes she reached up behind her neck and untied the halter top to uncover those tits. Now topless, I glanced around the room and, whether it was the quality of her performance, her attire, or simply because she was a new 'piece of meat', she now had the attention of everyone there. Paying virtually no attention to Bill or I, she made eye contact instead with the other men there as she approached them on the stage and, in effect, acted to offer them her tits. Stepping back to slide the dress onto the floor took no effort at all, so that soon enough I was afforded the view of my wife strutting about before an audience of a half dozen men or so wearing only her fuck me heels and thong.

Clearly she had been briefed in the back room as to what was legal and illegal. Thus, while she salaciously played with her cunt while sitting on the floor or kneeling and backing her ass up to the few customers there, she did so only thru her thong. I was told later that letting a finger into her cunt on-stage violated one ordinance or another and was strictly forbidden. What I was unable to tell from my vantage point, however, was whether what I was seeing was all mere performance or a slut in heat getting hotter.

My own reaction at the time was less erotic arousal than a sense of relief that my wife was performing as well as she was. No question that she looked and acted totally wanton and slutty, but at the time I was more concerned that she'd freeze up or simply look foolish. She was, after all, a middle class college educated housewife, and far be it for me to guarantee that she'd be able to perform as a professional stripper her first time on-stage.

Finally, her music ended and it was time for her to pick up her dress and return behind the curtains ... but not before getting a good round of applause and a few catcalls to boot. One thing she didn't do, however, was move close enough to the edge of the stage so that men could give her money. I was told later, however, that on weekdays the tips would be minuscule ... the real money came on the weekends. In any event, immediately after she finished the club's manager came to our table and said simply "she's good ... does she want a job?"

"I don't think we're ready for anything on a full time or part time basis, but I wouldn't be opposed to her appearing here occasionally" I replied, not at all sure what I meant by 'occasionally'.

At about this time my wife rejoined us, now in her gown but absent her coat. Sitting silently next to me, the manager continued with his inquiries and offers: "Tonight of course was a mere audition as I told your friend here," motioning to Bill, "but if she wants to work here for a full night, the pay is $15 per hour plus whatever tips she earns. Just give me a few days notice to see if I have room for her the night you want her to appear."

Still wholly noncommital, I answered simply "that sounds good to me."

To this point our conversation seemed almost antiseptic as if my wife were auditioning to be a clerk in a grocery store. But it was then that the conversation became more interesting and suggestive: "Would she be available for after hours shows? We officially close at midnight five nights a week and 1:00AM Friday and Saturdays because of local ordinances. However, on the weekends we do have after-hours activities" he added, without any elaboration.

'What would be those 'activities'" I asked, feigning innocence.

"Private one-on-one showings and select group performances such as an occasional business or bachelor party."

Turning to my wife I said "why don't you go to the lady's room and freshen up" since I suspected that I didn't want her there for the remainder of the conversation. Once she was gone, I bluntly asked "would she be whored?"

There was no way for him to know at that point whether we were what we seemed to be or, possibly a sting intending to close him down: "I don't encourage such things. I'm simply renting out rooms after hours and what happens in them is a private matter."

I was confident, of course, that he 'facilitated' a lot more after hours than he was willing to admit. It was then that he interjected "by the way, if your girlfriend ...or is she your wife? ... want's to perform again, she's free to do so. Just sent her backstage and the girls there will schedule her. They'll be happy to assist since the more she performs, the less work they have to do ... and Thursday's are a poor night for tips."

When my wife returned and the manager had walked away I told her bluntly "return backstage ... you're not done for the night."

With her gone Bill and I then discussed what 'after hours' might mean, and we both agreed to play it by ear with no commitments. Neither of us was yet prepared to make her a true whore who worked for money with men we knew nothing about. But at the same time, we weren't about to preclude the possibility of having her occasionally work a back room. Of course, it wasn't the money we wanted, but the opportunity to make her more of a slut than she was.

Soon enough my wife reappeared on the stage and by this time her audience had grown by 5 or 6 to now equal a solid dozen. I still was amazed at how comfortable she seemed – no hesitancy, no embarrassment and a complete willingness to make eye contact with her admirers as she stripped, as before, to her thong and heels. I noticed, moreover, that she must have been advised to dance closer to the stage's edge, for unlike before one and then a second leering patron stuffed money into her thong. And with that she sat then kneeled on the stage's edge to give a performance that was purely pornographic – rubbing her cunt, massaging her tits, and pinching her nipples. That, however, was only the beginning. Standing up, she walked to the pole that occupied center stage and, looking to her audience, began sliding her thong covered cunt up and down it.

This time it seemed to me that she was getting hot and Bill in fact leaned over and whispered "I wonder if the slut's actually going to cum?" I wondered myself. Hanging onto the pole with both hands, eyes closed as she continued to move against the pole, it soon became evident this was no longer a pantomime or act .... she was in fact fucking it. I had seen strippers before use the pole for all sorts of things, including what she was doing now. And perhaps that's how it began for her. But now with her mouth open, head hanging back and deep breathing she was bringing herself to the edge. When she began this performance she'd occasionally pause to rub a tit or kiss the pole, but now she just hung there unashamedly fucking herself to orgasm. "Fuck it hard ... make yourself cum" one of the men yelled. And fuck it she did until suddenly she stopped, and with tremble and a deep outtake of breath, she came.

Whether that was a first for the club I couldn't say. But I sat there adjusting to the fact that I had just watched my wife be an unashamed slut while fucking herself to orgasm against a pole. She clung there, silent, cunt still pressed against her brass 'lover' for a good 30 seconds catching her breath and regaining her composure before gathering up her dress and exiting backstage. And judging by the applause she received, everyone knew precisely what they'd seen.

I had no idea at the time what had come into her head to perform as she had. Only hours earlier I feared she'd chicken out or freeze. 'Was this the consequence of having whored her to the owner of that dress shop?' I asked myself. But whatever the answer, I sat there with an erection no less hard than any other man in the room ... if I wanted a wife who was a total slut, I was certainly getting what I'd asked for.

Before Bill and I had a chance to say anything the manager came to our table. "That was some performance ... the slut actually came. If she worked here she'd earn a loyal following and some great tips. You need to think seriously about letting me hire her and also allowing some after-hours time for her here"-- a clear invitation to have her as a part time whore. However, despite what I had just witnessed, I still was more than a little skeptical about an proposal to have her work at the club after hours. I was evident that she was a natural insofar as being a stripper and that Bill and I had succeeded in eroding most of her inhibitions. If we directed her to be an after-hours whore she almost certainly would have acceded to our directives. But even if we set aside the usual issues, there remained one critical inherent danger: If she worked the club on anything approaching a regular basis it was going to be virtually impossible to avoid having someone we knew eventually see her. And that was a chance I couldn't take.

There were also a number of practical issues, foremost among them being that the club was a good hour and a half from our home. That meant that if she worked nights she most likely wouldn't get home before 2AM on weekdays, 3AM on weekends. When I noted my concerns the manager offered some simple solutions. First, the club opened around noon and secured a lunch crowd for clients. If she wanted, she could work the afternoon shift. But second, as for the matter of her anonymity, she could perform wearing a mask much like the ones you see at Mardi Gras parades that covered only her eyes: "I'd suggest a leather mask that made her a cat. It would match perfectly the dress she's wearing tonight," adding "and she could wear her mask even when mingling with the audience since everyone knows you're not allowed to touch the girls without my permission."

Suddenly, whatever objections I might have had to her becoming a stripper on at least a part-time basis went up in smoke. Even Bill saw this as a solution: "That's perfect ... and to be honest the cat motif surely matches her personality on stage tonight."

The manager wasn't about to push us to where we didn't want to go. My wife might be a potential attraction – 'the secret married slut who cums on-stage' – but his business wouldn't die without her: "Think it over and let me know," he said as he left our table.

My wife still hadn't returned from backstage and this time Bill offered his advice. "If you want her to do it, don't ask for her opinion or consent. If you're going to train her as a sub slut, simply tell her what she must do. I think we should arrange for the little whore to perform at least once a week or every other week here, and not merely weekdays but occasionally weekends as well. By the way, I won't push for too many weekends. That's when you and I get to use her to best advantage, and I also have a business trip coming up in two weeks and want to take her with me as my slut. But an occasional performance before a packed room might be interesting to watch."

Bill's advice gave me a mountain of things to think about. Among them was the fact that this was the first time he'd mentioned a specific date for taking my wife out of town with him. It was discussed before, of course, but more as an abstract proposition rather than a planned thing. However, I tried to set that issue aside in my mind for the time being and to focus instead on the idea of having her be a stripper not merely as an amateur but as a quasi-professional. And then there's the issue of the after hours 'activities' that she'd almost certainly be pressured into. Instead of simply fucking occasionally for a dress, we were coming perilously close to making her a whore who fucked for money. Moral, ethical, and safety issues aside, I simply didn't want my wife arrested with her name making the papers.

I also hdd to decide whether we were progressing too far too fast. And so I posed the matter to Bill with the statement "Im not sure I want my wife to be a real whore."

"Same here," he replied. "I enjoy sharing a slut, but making her a whore is altogether different. There is, a certain loss of control as to how she is used. Among other things then, we can't simply send her here on her own at night. Either you or I need to be with her whenever she performs so we can keep control of the situation. But we also need to control her a little better. Her performance on-stage was quite erotic, but I don't like the idea that she did it on her own without our permission."

Once again, Bill brought me back into the mode of being a Dom as opposed to simply a voyeur enjoying a wanton wife. "I assume, then, that she needs to be punished?"

"Definitely, but not in a way that dulls the shedding of her inhibitions. She merely needs to know that we control her, period!"

"What do you suggest?"

"I suggest making her fuck the club's manager ... but doing it in a way where its linked to her performance and she's given no choice."

"Whew, quite a punishment," I said half jokingly.

Bill suggested that he handle it, and with no evident reason to object I agreed. He then left the table for a brief conversation with the manager and it was evident even from a distance that he readily accepted the offer.

My wife finally reappeared and sat next to me at about the same time Bill rejoined us. His first words to her were "that was quite a performance, slut ... but did we tell you that you could cum onstage?"

"No Sir," she replied, seemingly taken aback by the unexpected reprimand.

. "Why did you do it?"

"I ... I don't know. I guess I got so turned on dancing and once I started I really needed to cum."

"You cum when we want you to cum, slut" Bill told her harshly, although I knew he was simply working up to imposing his 'punishment'. "Your husband and I agree that you need to be punished."

"Yes Sir, I understand," she replied, still seemingly somewhat surprised as our reaction.

"What punishment do you think would be appropriate," he asked, not expecting a definitive answer.

"I don't know Sir ... whatever you wish."

"Well, your husband and I have decided what it should be ... we're giving you to the club's manager for 20 minutes for him to fuck."

"Oh god," was her immediate reaction, followed soon thereafter with a wholly submissive "Yes Sir."

I could see Bill's method now. If left on my own at that stage of my wife's training, I could too easily make her a slut, but not necessarily submissive. Bill, on the other hand, was interested not merely in stripping her of her inhibitions, but in making her a slut of a specific sort ... one who knew who controlled her and who wouldn't fuck other men unless given specific permission to do so. If her training at that point had been left solely to me, she'd more than likely let men fuck her if she didn't think I'd object, but she would not have felt any need to secure my permission. With Bill's training, she'd resist submitting until and unless we specifically required or allowed it.

By that time the manager had gone into his office, doubtlessly awaiting a knock on his door. And that knock was soon coming as Bill then directed my wife "now go to the office."

Without a word, she got up and did precisely as told, disappearing into the room in less than a minute. On the short walk from our table to the door marked 'office' there was more than one knowing smile from the club's employees. And I have to confess, my cock got hard knowing that others there knew my wife was being sent there for the sole purpose of getting fucked.

If there was any noise coming from that room they were drowned out by the club's music and the conversations around us. But now for the second time in as many days, I knew that my wife was in a back room getting banged by a complete stranger. If she wasn't a whore before then, she certainly was one now.

Twenty minutes later she emerged from the office along with the manager who, with a wave of his hand, sent her to our table. "Did he fuck you good, whore," I asked, deliberately taking control of the conversation to make sure she knew that it was Bill and I together who controlled her.

"Yes he did, Sir"

I rather liked the 'Sir' in that context even though I didn't require it when we were alone. "Where did he fuck you?"

"In my cunt and ass, Sir."

"And did you cum for him when he fucked you?"

"Yes Sir, I did"

Making my questions as explicit as possible, I then asked "Did you cum more than once for him with his cock in you?"

"Yes Sir" she answered without a hint of embarrassment. I had to assume then that she had herself slipped into the mode of sub slut as opposed to slut wife.

"And did he cum in you?" I asked, recalling that I had not suggested condoms to anyone.

"Yes Sir he did ... in my ass."

At that point I felt a touch of regret since it seemed I had too easily allowed an important line to be crossed ... getting fucked by a stranger without a condom. 'Water under the bridge,' I thought to myself and not wanting to end a conversation I found extremely arousing, I continued: "Is his cum still in your ass?"

"Yes Sir, it is"

"You understand that he's going to fuck you again and use you as he would a whore, most likely the next time we bring you here to strip?"

"Yes Sir ... that's what I assumed."

Raising the ante of our conversation I then commanded "now put a finger in your cunt, whore."

Once again she did precisely as she was told. I told her to leave it there until we were ready to leave and to keep herself wet ... that Bill and I intended to fuck her when we got her outside in the parking lot. It was in fact time to go and quite honestly I had to fuck her myself. After her performance and use as a whore I had a full load of cum that desperately needed somewhere to go. Calling for the check, the manager waved us off ... all was gratis ... at which point one of the girls rushed out to return my wife's coat. "No need to put that on, whore, since your about to get fucked."

Once outside I told Bill "you take her mouth, I want the whore's cunt" whereupon I told my wife to get on her hands and knees in the car's backseat. I honestly hadn't figured out the logistics of double fucking her in the car beforehand, but I quickly discovered that is was an easy thing to do ... fortunate also that the car was parked in the back of the building away from the road and lights. With both doors open, me kneeling on the seat behind her ass and Bill at standing at the opposite door, together we skewered her. Bill came first, calling her a dirty little whore, but then congratulated her for swallowing his cum. I continued to plow into her cunt for another 30 seconds or so until I too exploded in her.