Steve's Seven Strippings
by Zappedfan
Copyright© 2026 by Zappedfan
Comedy Story: Wonder Woman is ALWAYS rescuing Steve Trevor. She finally decides that she is entitled to a REWARD. She doesn't ask for much, just his clothes (all of them).
Tags: Romantic Heterosexual Fiction Fan Fiction Humor Military Superhero War Workplace FemaleDom Humiliation
The First Time
The invisible jet sliced through the velvet night sky, stars glittering like scattered diamonds above the endless Atlantic. Diana guided the craft with one hand, her posture relaxed, a faint, mischievous smile playing on her lips as she stole another glance at the passenger seat behind her.
Captain Steve Trevor lay there, still deep under the effects of the knockout gas—peaceful, vulnerable, and gloriously bare. She’d peeled away his uniform herself once they were safely airborne: jacket, shirt, trousers, everything folded neatly beside him. Partly for safety—the fabric had absorbed traces of the gas—but mostly because she could. And because she wanted to. His body was a masterpiece of mortal male strength and symmetry, and Diana saw no reason to deny herself the view.
She reached for the smelling salts, leaned over him, and let the sharp scent drift beneath his nose. Her fingers lingered a moment longer than necessary, tracing lightly along his jaw.
Steve’s eyes fluttered open. He drew in a ragged breath, blinked up at her, and managed a crooked half-smile. “Diana ... you came for me.”
“Always,” she murmured, her voice low and warm. “You’re free, Steve. We’ll be landing in Washington soon.” Her gaze traveled deliberately down the length of him, then back up to meet his eyes. “I thought you might want to put some clothes on before we touch down.”
The words took a second to register. Then his eyes widened. He shot upright, hands flying to cover himself as heat flooded his face.
“What—? They stripped me?”
Diana’s smile deepened, slow and unrepentant. She leaned back in her seat, arms crossed, enjoying the show. “No, darling. I did that after I carried you aboard.” She let her eyes roam over him again, openly appreciative. “I like looking at you, Steve. Every inch. Consider it my ... finder’s fee for pulling you out of that Nazi trap.”
Steve fumbled for his trousers, nearly tangling his legs in his haste. “You—Diana, you can’t just undress a man while he’s unconscious!”
“Oh, I would never do it to another man. I did it to you because you attract me.” She arched a perfect brow, voice velvet and teasing. “And I’d do it again in a heartbeat. You’re far too beautiful to stay wrapped up when I’m the one doing the rescuing.”
He yanked on his shirt, cheeks still burning, but a reluctant grin tugged at the corner of his mouth. “So, what happens next time I get in trouble? Wake up naked every time you save my skin?”
Diana turned in her seat to face him fully, blue eyes sparkling with challenge. “Only when you’re unconscious, handsome. If you manage to stay awake when I come for you...” She leaned closer, voice dropping to a sultry whisper. “ ... I’ll expect you to undress yourself for me. Slowly.”
Steve froze with one arm halfway through his jacket sleeve, staring at her. “You’re serious.”
“Deadly,” she purred. “I’m an Amazonian, Steve. We take what we want. And right now, I very much want to watch you blush like that again.”
He finished dressing in record time, but the flush stayed high on his cheeks. After a long moment, he leaned forward, elbows on his knees, meeting her gaze head-on.
“You know, Princess,” he said, voice husky, “one of these days I’m going to stay conscious just long enough to turn the tables on you.”
Diana laughed, rich and delighted, the sound wrapping around them like silk. “Oh, I’m counting on it, Captain. The chase is half the fun.”
She turned back to the controls as the lights of Washington glimmered on the horizon, but the air between them crackled with promise—hot, playful, and utterly unhurried.
The jet descended toward home, carrying a fully clothed pilot and a goddess who already couldn’t wait for his next mission to go wrong.
THE SECOND TIME
The invisible jet hummed to life on the hidden airstrip deep in occupied Europe, engines whispering as Diana guided it smoothly into the night sky. Steve Trevor sat in the copilot seat this time—wide awake, a little battered from the firefight, but very much conscious as he buckled the harness across his chest.
Diana glanced sideways at him, lips curving into that familiar, dangerous smile.
“Strap in until after we take off and reach cruising altitude,” she said, voice calm and commanding. “Then you can unstrap ... and undress.”
Steve’s head snapped toward her. “Undress?”
She didn’t look at him, just adjusted the controls as the jet climbed steeply into the clouds. “My reward for rescuing you, of course.” Her tone was perfectly matter-of-fact, as if she were asking him to pass the flight log. “What don’t you understand?”
Steve opened his mouth, closed it again, then stared straight ahead at the star-filled windshield. A long silence stretched between them, broken only by the soft thrum of the engines.
Diana let it hang just long enough.
Finally, she heard the click of his harness releasing. Fabric rustled. A boot hit the floor, then another. The sound of a zipper. She kept her eyes forward, but the corner of her mouth lifted higher.
When the rustling stopped, she turned her head.
Steve sat completely nude in the copilot seat, arms resting casually on the armrests, chin lifted in quiet defiance. His uniform lay in a neat pile at his feet. The cabin lights painted soft gold across his bare skin, and though his expression was carefully neutral, the faint flush riding high on his cheekbones gave him away.
Diana let her gaze travel over him—slow, deliberate, appreciative—before meeting his eyes again.
“I was kidding, Steve Trevor,” she said softly, voice laced with warm amusement. “But I’m so glad you didn’t realize that.”
Steve exhaled, a half-laugh escaping despite himself. “You’re enjoying this far too much, Princess.”
“Immensely,” she admitted without shame.
He shifted slightly in the seat, glancing down at his discarded clothes, then back at her. “May I put my clothes back on, then?”
Diana turned back to the controls, guiding the jet into a gentle banking turn toward the Atlantic. Her answer came light and merciless.
“Absolutely,” she said. “As soon as we reach Washington.”
Steve groaned, dropping his head back against the seat. “That’s hours from now.”
“Four hours and twenty-three minutes, to be precise,” she replied, glancing at the navigation display. “Plenty of time for me to enjoy the view.”
He looked at her profile—the proud line of her jaw, the satisfied curve of her lips—and shook his head, a reluctant grin breaking through.
“You know,” he said quietly, “one of these days you’re going to run out of ways to surprise me.”
Diana finally turned to him again, blue eyes dark and promising.
“I sincerely doubt that, Captain.”
She reached over and dimmed the cabin lights just a fraction—enough to make the stars outside brighter, enough to make the warm glow on his skin even more inviting.
“Relax,” she murmured. “You’re safe now. And you look perfect exactly like that.”
Steve let out a long breath, settled back into the seat, and—for the rest of the flight across the ocean—didn’t ask again about his clothes.
He didn’t really want them back anyway.
THE THIRD TIME
The abandoned warehouse on the outskirts of Berlin reeked of rust and old oil, the only light coming from the red digital countdown glowing on the bomb lashed to Steve’s chair: 00:02:17... 00:02:16...
Steve tested the ropes again—tight, professional knots—and resigned himself to the fact that this might actually be how it ended.
Then the roof exploded inward in a shower of moonlight and debris.
Wonder Woman landed in a crouch between him and the bomb, cape settling around her like liquid night. One gauntlet clamped over the timer; the other deftly severed the detonator wire with a flick of her bracelet. The red numbers froze at 00:00:43.
She straightened, turned to him, and smiled—that slow, dangerous smile that always made his pulse stutter.
“Miss me, Captain?”
Before he could answer, she snapped the ropes like thread and hauled him to his feet. Thirty seconds later they were outside in the cold night air, the warehouse silent behind them.
Steve’s staff car—an unmarked black sedan—was parked half a block away where he’d left it. Diana walked him to it briskly, heels clicking on the pavement. At the rear of the car she stopped, palm up.
“Keys.”
Steve fished them from his pocket and dropped them into her hand, eyebrows raised. “You want to drive?”
“No.” She unlocked thee empty trunk and opened it wide. “I want my reward. Put your clothes in here.”
Steve blinked, the chill night air suddenly feeling a lot colder. “I thought that was only when we were on the plane.”
“You’re mistaken.” Her tone was calm, absolute. “And you’re taking too long to undress.”
He glanced up and down the deserted street—nothing but shadows and distant searchlights sweeping the sky. His fingers went to the buttons of his greatcoat, popped the first two, then froze.
“Wait.” He looked at her suspiciously. “Are you kidding?”
Diana leaned against the car, arms folded, starlight glinting off her tiara. “Last time, yes. This time, no.” She tilted her head. “Now do you want to drive us home in the dark ... or in the daylight?”
Steve exhaled a cloud of frost, glanced at the open trunk again, then back at her face—beautiful, unyielding, and unmistakably serious.
He shrugged out of the coat and laid it neatly in the trunk. Jacket next. Shirt. Boots and socks balanced on one foot at a time. Trousers. Finally, reluctantly, his boxers.
The night air hit him like ice water, raising goosebumps across every inch of exposed skin. He stood there bare under the Berlin sky, arms loose at his sides, refusing to cover himself even as the chill bit deep.
Diana’s gaze traveled over him—slow, possessive, appreciative—then she closed the trunk with a soft thunk and tossed him the keys.
“Get in, Captain. You’re driving.”
Steve walked around to the driver’s side, every step a reminder of exactly how naked he was. He slid behind the wheel, the cold leather seat shocking against his skin. Diana settled gracefully into the passenger seat, cape draped around her like a queen’s robe, watching him with quiet amusement.
He started the engine, pulled away from the curb, and pointed the car west—toward the Allied lines, toward safety, toward hours of dark country roads.
The headlights cut twin tunnels through the blackness. Steve kept both hands tight on the wheel, very aware of the woman beside him, of the way her eyes occasionally drifted from the road to him and lingered.
After ten silent miles he finally spoke, voice low.
“You’re really not going to give those clothes back until we’re home.”
“No,” she said simply. “I earned this tonight. I intend to enjoy it.”
He huffed a small laugh, shaking his head. “You’re impossible.”
“And you,” she replied, reaching over to rest a warm hand high on his bare thigh, “Are magnificent.”
Steve’s breath caught. He didn’t say anything else for a long while—just drove through the night, naked and unashamed, the heat of her palm the only thing keeping the December cold at bay.
By the time the first gray hint of dawn touched the horizon, they were across the border and safe. Only then did Diana reach into the back seat, retrieve his folded clothes from where she’d moved them, and drop them in his lap.
“You can dress when we stop for fuel,” she said, voice soft with satisfaction.
Steve glanced at her—goddess, rescuer, tormentor, everything—and smiled despite himself.
“Yes, ma’am.”
He already knew he’d risk getting captured again tomorrow if it meant another night like this.
THE FOURTH TIME
The fourth time, it was supposed to be simple: a quick infiltration of a remote Axis listening post on a fog-shrouded cliff in northern France. Steve was meant to plant charges, grab the codebooks, and extract by submarine at dawn.
Nothing went according to plan.
A silent alarm tripped. Guards swarmed. In the chaos, Steve took a grazing bullet to the shoulder and ended up cornered in the radio room, back to the wall, pistol empty. The last thing he remembered was the butt of a rifle coming at his temple.
He woke hours later in a stone cellar beneath the post, wrists chained above his head to an iron ring set in the ceiling, ankles shackled to the floor. His uniform shirt was gone—torn away during a rough interrogation that had left bruises across his ribs but yielded nothing. The wound on his shoulder had been crudely bandaged. Cold damp air bit at his bare torso. A single weak bulb swung overhead.
The heavy door creaked open just after midnight.
Diana stepped through like a storm given form: boots silent on the stone, star-spangled skirt catching the faint light, eyes blazing. Two guards followed her in, moving docilely, almost sleepwalking. She touched each on the temple with a gentle finger; they slumped peacefully to the floor.
She crossed the cellar in three strides, snapped the chains with her bare hands, and caught Steve as his arms fell numbly to his sides.
“Easy,” she murmured, steadying him. “I’ve got you.”
He managed a pained grin. “Took you long enough, Princess.”
“I was fashionably late.” She brushed dried blood from his cheek with her thumb, expression softening for only a heartbeat before turning practical. “Can you walk?”
“Yeah. Just get me out of here.”
She supported him up narrow stairs, past more unconscious guards, and out into the thick coastal fog. Half a mile down a muddy track waited a stolen Kübelwagen—German military jeep, top down, engine already warm. Diana eased Steve into the passenger seat, then slid behind the wheel.
As she put the vehicle in gear and pulled away from the cliff, the fog swallowed the listening post behind them.
Steve leaned back, ribs throbbing, and watched her drive: profile sharp against the moonlight that occasionally pierced the mist, hands sure on the wheel.
After ten minutes of silence, she reached across without looking, fingers brushing his bare chest just above the bandage.
“You’re half undressed already,” she observed, voice low and amused. “That’s considerate of you.”
Steve huffed a laugh that turned into a wince. “Not exactly voluntary.”
“Mm.” She pulled the jeep onto a narrow dirt lane bordered by hedgerows, cut the headlights, and let momentum carry them into a small clearing hidden from the road. Only then did she stop, set the brake, and turn to face him fully.
“Reward time, Captain.”
He arched a brow. “I’m already missing a shirt. You want the rest while I’m bleeding?”
“You’re not bleeding anymore.” She reached into the back seat, produced a small field kit, and began efficiently re-dressing his shoulder with proper bandages. “And yes. I want the rest.”
Steve glanced out at the fog, then back at her. “Here? Now? In an open jeep on an occupied coast?”
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