TG October: Day 5 – Stripper

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This is me, the woman who dances like a whore on a pole to please lustful men. My name is Kendra, but I wasn’t always this.

I used to be Kevin.

I inherited my father’s business when he died. A parts and tools store that had stayed afloat for thirty years. I believed I could do better. I believed that with a couple of modern changes and some advertising I was going to multiply the profits.

I was wrong.

In less than two years the debts ate me alive. Suppliers, rent, taxes… everything piled up. I asked the bank for loans. They denied them. Then I resorted to what I swore I would never do: a loan shark.

His name was Rivas. A calm man with a soft voice and a cold smile. He lent me the money I needed to keep the business afloat. I signed. I believed that with that breathing room I could straighten the course.

I was wrong again. I couldn’t.

I kept spending poorly. I kept making stupid decisions. In six months the debt had tripled. Rivas called me to his office on a Tuesday afternoon. He didn’t shout. He didn’t threaten. He just looked at me over his glasses and spoke calmly.

“Kevin, I’m no longer interested in chasing after you. Over the years we understand that there are people who simply weren’t born to be in charge, like you. It would be a lost cause to play cat and mouse for the rest of your life, so I’m offering you a deal.”

He explained the conditions:

He would forgive the entire debt.

He would leave the business alone.

In exchange, I would start working for them and would hand over the management to someone else.

“Work doing what?” I asked.

Rivas smiled for the first time.

“You’ll see that when you accept. You have until tomorrow to decide. If you say no… I’ll start collecting another way. And trust me, you’re not going to like it.”

I left that office with my stomach in knots.

That night I looked at my oldest son, the one who had been helping me in the store since he was sixteen. I thought about my wife. About the little we had left. I approached them that night, telling them that a job offer had come from outside the country. The business would be left in their charge and whenever I could I would send money to help with the payments. My son looked at me with pride when I handed him the keys. My wife cried, but she hugged me and wished me luck.

The next day I returned to Rivas’s office and signed.

I had no idea what I was really signing.

That same night they took me to a basement. They injected me with something. The world became blurry and the pain came afterward. I felt like I was burning under the skin, as if my bones and internal organs were moving. I couldn’t take it anymore and passed out. When I woke up, I was no longer Kevin.

I had breasts.

Wide hips.

A high voice.

And between my legs… nothing of what I remembered.

They gave me a new name: Kendra.

They gave me heels, a sequined micro-bikini and pushed me onto a stage.

Since then I work as a full-time stripper in one of Rivas’s clubs.

Every night I climb the pole. I take off my clothes little by little while men who could be my neighbors, my former customers or even friends of my son look at me with hunger. I dance. I rub myself. I kneel. I let them stuff bills into the elastic of my thong. I smile even though inside I’m dying of humiliation.

The money I earn is divided: one part pays what I “still owe,” another part is sent to my family as if it came from my job abroad. They believe I’m doing well. My son sends me messages saying the store is growing. My wife tells me she misses me.

I answer them with Kendra’s voice, faking accents and excuses, and then I look at myself in the dressing-room mirror with my breasts out and my makeup smeared.

I can’t go back anymore.

The change is permanent.

And every time a client grabs me by the hair and forces me to open my mouth in the VIP lounge, I feel the last remnant of Kevin dissolve a little more.

I’ve been like this for a year.

A year dancing half-naked, moaning when they touch me, pretending I like it.

And tonight… tonight is the worst.

Right now I’m on my knees in the VIP lounge, tits out. The club music thumps through the walls. In front of me, sitting in the central armchair with his legs spread, is my son.

He doesn’t recognize me.

He arrived half an hour ago with four friends. One of them is his lifelong best friend, the same one who used to come to the house when they were teenagers. Rivas, my boss, saw them come in, smiled in that cold way that still makes my hair stand on end, and had me called.

“Free special service for table eight,” he told me in my ear. “And do it well. I want the guy in the center to remember this night.”

He gave me no choice.

Right now I’m between the legs of my son’s best friend, with my mouth full of his cock, sucking like the whore I’m supposed to be. My son is sitting right next to him, laughing, with a beer in his hand, watching me give his friend a blowjob without having the slightest idea that the woman on her knees in front of them is me.

“Fuck, this one’s really good,” one of them says.

My son nods, smiling.

“The owner said it was on the house. What a welcome.”

I feel my son’s friend’s hand grab my hair and push me deeper. I choke a little. A string of saliva runs down my chin. I moan around his cock because that’s what’s expected of me.

My son looks me straight in the eyes.

There’s no recognition. Only lust and amusement.

Rivas is at the VIP door, arms crossed, enjoying the show. When our eyes meet, he winks at me.

I keep sucking.

I keep moaning.

I keep swaying my half-naked ass while my son’s best friend cums in my mouth and joins the action by placing his cock in my hand so I can stroke it.

And the only thing I can think, while I swallow and smile like the professional whore I now am, is:

I hope he never finds out it’s me, and that he never ends up like me.

The End.