She didn’t strip to put herself through school. She didn’t do it to raise some young child. She wasn’t there because she was lured by easy money or a taste for the party favors so prevalent.
She stripped for the power. She danced for men because she fucking loved it.
She learned young the art of the tease, the craft of manipulation. Cock puppetry. She could wrap them around her finger with a sway in her hips, a coy bite of her lip, a subtle brush against.
That absolute power was her rush, her drug, her God damned religion. Drop to your knees brothers, Sister Stripper is about to evangelize. A hallelujah whore, and more.
She always scopes her mark, depending on mood. The pity, the hustler, the big man, the husband, the boy. Every night, every dance an intentional master class in seductive annihilation. Every victim spent and broken, a lost soul forevermore.
The heels, the g-string, the limber naughty nature of the pole, the powdered perfume, the glances and grazes and the locked gazes. It’s just not fair, poor poor little darlings.
She doesn’t strip out of necessity, no…not her.
She strips for the fucking body count. She strips to own them.
She strips for the power. For the thrill.
She strips for herself.