Felicity's Story: The A-Z of Trophy Wives, #6

By D.D. Grey

They're young, beautiful, with fast cars and luxury homes—with absentee, older husbands. Bored and lonely, each of our trophy wives has her own solution.

 

Felicity had been a dancer when Phil spotted her, and the forty-something CPA had fallen for the lithe redhead writhing on the stage in front of him, wearing only a tiny sequined thong. It took him a week of visits to the seedy club to pluck up the courage to offer her a tip, and the fact it was a c note blew her mind. The rest, they say, is history.

Four years have passed, and Phil's career has taken off—meaning he does exactly that, sometimes for weeks at a time—all over the world. Left to her own devices, Felicity is bored and lonely, not to say frustrated.

Dance is still her favorite form of exercise, and she keeps herself fit. One day, forgetting the gardeners are there, she decides to see if she's still got it—and performs a striptease just for herself in front of the mirrors in the home gym. She's embarrassed when she realizes she's being watched. Embarrassed, yes, but incredibly turned on… She can't go back to stripping on stage, but maybe the web offers a solution…

• Language: English
• Publisher: D.D. Grey
• Release date: Aug 23, 2023
• ISBN: 9798223396529

Book preview

Chapter 1

For a few a seconds after the heavy boom of the fast rock music faded away at the end of the track, I stood still, catching my breath. I guess I’d been in the mood to push the workout harder than ever today. The woman looking back at me from the mirror wall at the end of the room was drenched in sweat.

I giggled, that was why they called them sweats after all—my light grey top had a huge dark v running down the front—pure sweat where it had run down my chest between my breasts. A similar dark stain spread down my sides from my pits, and I was pretty sure the back would be a solid expanse of the darker color. The sweatpants were not as bad as the top, but I knew, without looking, my legs would shine underneath from a covering of the same liquid.

I breathed deeply for a few minutes then checked my Gear. Already my heart rate was dropping below a hundred. It had been a good workout, one of three aerobic routines I used in rotation. This one was the hardest, designed to keep me strong. The other two concentrated on flexibility rather than strength, but I didn’t look half bad for twenty-nine.

Memories of how I’d worked for a living before meeting Phil flooded through my mind, but I pushed them away—that was in the past. Now I danced to keep fit. My husband had indulged me building this home gym, complete with a mirrored wall, and although he used the treadmill on occasion, it was far more my domain than his.

Grabbing a towel, I wiped off my face and headed for the shower. Ten minutes later, wrapped in a clean towel, with another wrapped around my long red hair I headed for my bedroom to dress for the day. It was Tuesday morning, and Phil wouldn’t be back until Friday evening—another one of his long trips away. I sighed, another four lonely days of my existence.

A sigh bubbled up in my throat as I combed my hair out. Phil had always said it had been my red hair flying around as I danced, that had caught his attention, but I wasn’t sure he was telling the whole truth. I smiled at the thought and dropped the towel as I reached for the body lotion. As my hands worked over my skin, my mind flitted back to that fateful meeting...

* * * *

Aerosmith boomed out through the two tall speaker stacks on either side of the stage. I was halfway through my first song, the fake school blouse already unbuttoned to just below the line of my nipples, displaying cleavage but not a lot else, that was all to come.

It was a Friday lunchtime, and there were a couple of dozen guys in, not many, but not bad for a lunchtime show. Most of the girls didn’t like to do lunchtimes, they preferred evenings when the tips were better. I’d always preferred lunchtimes, in the evenings, it got crowded, and as you worked the crowd trying to book lap dances, you tended to get felt up a lot. The bouncers would deal with anything blatant, but often as not the punter would claim it was simply jostling because of the crowd.

The next button seemed to get stuck, so I glanced down to clear it, and when I looked up, he was there, sliding into a seat at the table at the end of the runway. He was on his own, he always was, and he was watching me intently. He wasn’t a bad looking guy, even if he was quite a bit older than me, but he had a nice, shy, smile.  I smiled at him, after all, that’s what I do, and grabbed the pole for a one arm spiral swing that made my little plaid kilt flare out to reveal the skimpy sequined underwear.

As the song came to an end, the blouse fluttered down my arms, and I tossed it toward the back of the stage and bounced back to the front edge. Of the stage. The second song, a slower, slinkier song started, and my movements became more sensual. I still had the ridiculous red lollipop in my mouth—try as I might I couldn’t get Karl to let me ditch it from the act. Karl always said The punters love it, so stop bitchin and get that couchie on stage. I didn’t even like the sickly sweet raspberry taste.

Dancing to the front of the stage I did a couple of high kicks as if rehearsing my cheerleader moves—but my sequined underwear was nothing like cheerleaders. Then I squatted down in front of my chosen mark and slowly shifted my knees apart, giving him a very good look under my skirt. As I gyrated my ass, my hands moved to the waist of my kilt and before he could react the kilt hit the floor behind me. He smiled in appreciation, but his eyes were locked on my body. Rising to my feet, I attacked the pole again, this time, twisting my legs up above my head and lowering my head and twirling around in a death spiral. I ended in a handstand against the pole and pushed myself up, my legs spreading into an upside-down splits. As the few punters around applauded my signature move, I hand walked all around the pole before flipping upright and back down into the splits.

The quick moves always had an effect on me—they got me hot. When I had my pussy close to the pole, I could rub a little, and start my body reacting. Exposing myself got me off too, so by now my nipples were hard behind the front fastening sequined bra, and I smiled seductively out into the audience. One or two of the guys had put notes on the edge of the stage, so I worked my way around the edge picking them up, tucking them into the side of my thong.

I checked the denomination as I did so, mostly singles—which was usual but there was an occasion five. The guys who dropped a single got a smile and a thrust of my pelvis toward them. The fives got a bit more of a show—and I’d pout and blow them a kiss. When I worked my way round to the guy I mentioned, I noticed he’d put a tip on the stage for the first time. He’d been coming in all week, and he’d never tipped me before. As I bent down to retrieve the note I couldn’t prevent a gasp – it was a c-note—he’d slipped me a hundred dollar tip.

I guess being the nice girl I was, I assumed he’d made a mistake, but he smiled and nodded. Nobody had ever tipped me that much before. The club had a rule too—one only the regulars would know, and until this week I’d never seen him before. A hundred dollar tip got you a free dance in a VIP room. Normally that was a fifty dollar cover. In almost a year at the club, working mainly lunchtime shifts, I’d had maybe three private VIP dances. I grinned at him, and scissor-kicked in front of him, knowing how much of me he could see.

The third song started, and it was time to lose the bra. Once more I used the pole to slide around as I worked the straps down off my shoulders and then eased them past my hands. I couldn’t concentrate on my big tipper, I had to cover the rest of the sparse crowd. I did, however, save the big reveal for him, standing in front of him, right at the edge of the stage and popping the clasp open. I didn’t try to be coy, I was proud of my C cup boobs so why would I be coy? My act was explicit, although house rules said the bottoms stayed on. Lifting the bra above my head, I waved it around in a circle and shook my chest at him. He smiled in appreciation and seemed disappointed when I moved away. I had to keep the entire crowd entertained, though, then I wrapped the bra around the pole and swung around on it. The punters didn’t know, but there was a very strong wire sewn into the strap—meaning I knew it would take my weight. Using the bra as a brace against the pole I swung my legs up off the floor, between my arms and then almost did a handstand in mid-air before controlling my slide down to the ground, my legs spreading apart once more as the song came to an end.

I collected the last few notes, then picked up the various parts of my costume and headed backstage. As soon as I was out of sight of the audience, I grabbed hold of Sandra, the woman who ran the