She swung around the pole, hiked her knee and then paused. Wearing nothing but a leather miniskirt and black high heels, she noticed with pleasure that all of the men in the room were watching, enraptured. The normal club patrons were up front hooting and hollering while the more well-to-do men were sitting in the reclining chairs in the back. She could barely see through the thick cigarette smoke, but she could tell that none of the chairs were reclined; every man, be they in business suit or dirty t-shirt, was watching the beautiful woman with the long dark brown hair, toned legs and arms, slim waist, and large perfect breasts which were heaving from her exertions. She had chosen a long routine, being last, hoping to impress the rich men that may have been more interested in the teenagers that came before her.
She kicked her leg as high as she could, exposing her bare ass and shaved vagina, an action which still made her blush. This was not the Marie her mother raised. This was not the mother of the two year old son which she knew she would never again see. This 22 year old woman was sultry, lithe, and alive as she had never been. She put her leg down, her twenty minute long routine at an end. With sweat dripping off of her nose, hands, and legs, she walked wearily but confidently from the stage. Many of the men were clapping and yelling while a few wrote something down or made voice notes into tape recorders and cell phones. She hoped they were writing good things. She prayed that a rich man would purchase her; not one of these animals that were yelling and screaming and would probably love nothing more than to do horrible things to her. She wanted an owner that would love her. A part of her mind screamed at her to run for the exit, but she knew she wouldn't get far. After all, she didn't exist; at least not in the way a normal American woman would.
As she entered the back room, she removed her skirt and heels and threw them in the pile against the wall. That was her costume, and it most likely would not travel with her to her new home. It would be washed and given to the next set of girls that came through this place.
She stepped into the shower, vowing to herself that she would scrub clean every last part of her body so that she would look her best for the coming auction. Once she had locked herself into her cage, there would be no opportunity to do anything but sleep. As she began scrubbing, she thought back to how she had ended up here. Marie, a good Christian woman with a strong familial upbringing, in a strip club washing up after a performance and about to be auctioned to the highest bidder.
Marie was on her way home from work. It was volunteer work at a local politician's office, as her husband would not allow her to hold a true job so soon after giving birth to their two year old. He had said that she should be with him at least until he was in school. In truth, he probably didn't trust her to hold a job. After all, she was just a woman. He was not the man she married and although she still thought she loved him, she was getting sick of fearing for her health every time he came home at night, drunk and belligerent.
As soon as she opened the door, she felt something was wrong. None of the lights were on in the house except for the kitchen, which was very much not the norm for her husband. She gasped as she came around the corner. Her husband was lying on the floor, face down in a puddle of his own blood, a male police officer standing over him. The officer was holding a gun. He looked at Marie and told her to stay back. Shocked, she did as she was told. The officer, wearing gloves, approached her and handed her the gun. He asked her to turn the gun over, looking for any marks that would identify it as her husband's. He told her he suspected suicide. She didn't realize until too late what she was doing. By then, the officer was grinning at her.
"Marie Dubois, you are under arrest for the murder of Frank Dubois," he said, to a completely aghast Marie. He finished reading her the Miranda rights as he handcuffed her and escorted her out of her own back door into the alley where a patrol car waited. He threw her violently into the backseat, causing her to hit her head on the opposite window.
She shook her head to try to clear it. She tried to use her hands to move the hair out of her eyes but they were locked uncomfortably tight behind her.
"There must be a mistake...you know I didn't kill him, you were there," she stammered. She knew she sounded like a fool and that they were obviously framing her, but she couldn't think why.
"Lady, we saw you holding the gun. We have a letter that you wrote to your friend in Arkansas saying you were tired of him and wanted him dead so that you could collect on the life insurance policy that you bought behind his back," the officer responded. "Actually we forged your signature on the policy and we don't know if you have a friend in Arkansas or not, but all of that put together will be more than enough to indict you and give you the death penalty. Your son will be taken to an orphanage where a loving family will adopt him and raise him themselves. Your life will be far more interesting, though. Don't bother fighting; the judge, the cops, even your family attorney have a vested interest in seeing you get the death penalty. Don't worry though; you won't die at the hands of the state. Whatever happens to you after you disappear is not my concern. I'm getting a cut of your selling price regardless."
She sat in stunned silence. Not only was she being framed; she was being abducted. She realized quickly that there was no escape. How could she, Marie, housewife, escape the police?
Before she had time to think about it, they were arriving at the precinct. As they were booking her, the woman behind the counter looked her over doubtfully. She didn't look like the type that would normally be arrested, wearing blue jeans and a t-shirt. She saw a glimmer of hope and began pleading with the woman.
"Please, I've been framed and these officers want to make me disappear so they can sell me on some sort of auction! You've got to believe me! You've got to help!" she begged.
"Oh, the crazy husband murderer you were telling me about," the woman said. "You're right, she is pretty. Too bad. The women where she's going do mean things to the pretty ones."
She booked Marie and the male officers led her to a holding cell. The cell was empty except for her. Having never been in jail before, Marie wasn't sure what to do next. She felt cliché holding onto the bars as if she were in a movie, but couldn't think of anything else. Besides, it gave her something to brace herself against. Everything had happened so fast.
She remembered once attending jury duty. She remembered a man with far less evidence stacked against him being indicted for arson. She herself had been one of the jurors pushing for the guilty vote. Now that she was on the other side of the fence, she wondered if she really stood a chance in court. Her fingerprints on her husband's gun in her own house with a recent life insurance policy and a letter, even if forged, to someone saying she wanted to kill him? Add to that the only witnesses being a pair of corrupt police officers that were going to say they walked in with her holding the gun? It didn't look good for her.
She put her head against the cell and moaned as she realized she would most likely never again be free. At least, she thought, her son would never again be hit by her husband.
The trial was quick. She was allowed representation but it was chosen for her. The man was obvious in his attempts to make her story look fake; not that she had much of a defense.
