The neon of the "The Flamingo" strip club cast a tawdry glow on the rain-damp sidewalk of downtown. Inside, the air was thick with the smell of stale beer and sweat, the thump of the music humming a stubborn rhythm through the walls. Mariaan danced on the stage, her body a fluid, commanding thing, in stark contrast to the grim harshness of her surroundings. The light colored her skin with warm hues, ethereal on stage. The men at the bar gazed longingly and detachedly, their eyes anesthetized by the promise of a temporary escape.
Mariaan had called herself "Shadow" here, a name selected for its beauty and for the way it hinted at the secretes of her life that she so carefully kept hidden from the world outside these walls. She was married to Andrew, a union that had started out in love but had since been eroded by the ravages of time and the constant strain of money. It was not the life she dreamed of, but it paid the bills and provided the fodder for her daydreams of a more wonderful life for herself and Andrew. The patrons of the "The Flamingo" were an assorted crew. There were some regulars, their faces etched with the lines of hard living and despair, coming to seek comfort in the illusion of beauty and companionship that she offered. Others were tourists, their faces aglow with the excitement of the forbidden, the thrill of the taboo. None of them knew anything about her past, and she liked it that way. It was easier to be Shadow, to spin beneath the neon lights, than to be Mariaan, a drowning wife.
Her husband, Andrew, worked a double shift, blind to the world that existed when he wasn't with her. He was always such a good man, but the pressure of their financial woes had twisted him, made him look older than he should have before his time. He never inquired about the source of the additional money, never queried the late nights, or the melancholic, yearning gaze in her eyes. He had his own demons to fight, his own secrets to hide. The silence between them grew thicker with every bill paid, every secret hidden.
The night of Andrew's birthday, the rain had stopped, but the chill remained, suspended in the air like a mournful ghost. The neon of "The Flamingo" splashed off the puddles, shadows rippling down the sidewalk. Inside, the air throbbed. It was Friday night, and the club was crowded with men who would pay for the illusion of closeness. Andrew's coworkers had brought about this night, a break from his extended workday and lonely evenings alone in his home. They'd presented him with a gaudy plastic crown with "Birthday Boy" emblazoned in glittery letters, and he was sporting it with a melancholy grin. The music was louder than usual, the lights flashier, and the dancers more risqué.
Mariaan, as Shadow breathed soft promises of night and secrets into her ear, a counterpoint to the light and truth she had shared with Andrew. The spotlight was her refuge and prison, where she could shed her worries and be someone else, for minutes at a time.
The third act of the evening was approaching, and the stage manager summoned Shadow. The crowd grew rowdy, drunkenness and expectation leading their whoops. She drew a deep breath and moved into the blinding light, the music swirling around her like a living thing. The bass throbbed through her bloodstream, pushing her. The club has a no-touching policy, but the men crowded in closer, with their eyes, their wallets, and their desire. To try and get the men to give her more tips, she danced always with a bit of extra flair, each move intended to tease. She'd exit stage, touch and tease them with the hope of more money. Then, have the men rub her bare skin with baby oil. The bills were raining down on her, as usual.
Andrew recognized her immediately, his heart skipping a beat at a glimpse of his wife on stage. Her stride was unmistakable, something they had rehearsed in the privacy of their apartment before the world had come between them. He could sense a knot in his stomach, a mix of anger, betrayal, and heartache. She was unaware in the glow of the spotlight. He had thought the extra cash was from a second job, waitressing maybe, or something less humiliating. He hadn't even thought about this. He just got up and left the club.
Andrew ordered an Uber and waited outside "The Flamingo", the cold night air biting at him. The rain had left an oily film on everything, and the neon lights reflected off of it, putting a sickly sheen on the sidewalks and the few passing people. The sound of the club thumped in his ears, a discordant counterpoint to the calm he was trying to find. He had to get away from it, had to process what he had seen. The woman he had promised to support and care for, the woman who had promised to stand by him through good times and bad, was on stage stripping for an audience of men she did not know. He was sick.
Andrew sat in the darkness in the house, the only light being the burst of the television, its volume reduced to a whisper. He downed a beer, trying to suffocate the ache within his heart, but without success. The silence was suffocating. A far cry from the noise of "The Flamingo", where he had watched his wife become a stranger. The walls of their apartment were closing in on him, each one of them quietly witnessing his inability to provide her with what she deserved. He eventually climbed into bed, making a promise to himself in the morning he would attend to Mariaan when his anger had cooled down.
In bed, the world bore down on him. Andrew's mind turned to Mariaan, her foreign-sounding name a searing reminder of the shadows that had crept into their marriage. The clock on the bedside table marked the hours, second by muted scream that echoed in the room. At the first whisper of daylight seeping through the blinds. Mariaan lay asleep beside him, the only sound that disturbed the suffocating silence the bubble of her breath. Her lovely body beside him, a shock to the harsh lights of the stage where he had last seen her.
He studied her face, trying to reconcile the woman he knew and loved with the woman he'd seen flirting with other men. Her face was smooth and delicate in sleep, unlined by the heavy makeup she'd had on at the club. The light settled into her skin, catching on the freckles that danced along the bridge of her nose, a feature she was always self-aware of. He bent forward, brushing a loose hair out of her face, his fingers feather-light. She stirred but didn't awaken.
The events of the night before flashed in Andrew's mind like a tawdry movie he couldn't stop. A quiver within his cock as he remembered the sexy dance his wife had performed. His cock became rock hard imagining men gazing at her, desiring her. He knew it was wrong but couldn't suppress the strange mix of sensations coursing through his body. It was as if he was re-meeting her, but in the most complex manner. Mariaan shifted and woke, smiling sleepily up at Andrew. She had no idea what storm she had just subjected him to, of secrets she had inadvertently exposed. She swept her arms over her head, the breasts elevating with it, and Andrew's eyes roamed to them though he was seething from within.
"Happy Birthday," she breathed against him, nose to nose in a kiss. Andrew kissed her in turn intensely, savoring the nightclub on her lips. It was one of bitter taste that he had not heretofore sensed, of desperation and secrecy. He pulled back, his mind filled with things he was afraid to ask. His fingers grazed against her cunt and she gasped on a breath. He could feel the heat and moisture of her desire and his own combined. He ran a finger between her legs and she sighed low. It was one he was used to, but now tainted with the chance of other men listening. He did not care, he had to screw her, take her.
Their screwing was raw and demanding, a waltz of lust and agony. Andrew screwed her hard, thrusting into her with an appetite both delicious and painful. Mariaan tightened her legs around him, hanging on to him, as though she feared he would escape from her. She had never felt nearer to him, and yet never further from him. Each thrust a silent scream of ownership, a war cry against the men who had stared at her on stage. Her dripping wet cunt encased him in a vice, her orgasms echoing off walls like the shrieks of the damned. He came deep in her, filling her with passion and fury, claiming her.
Mariaan could feel Andrew's weight on top of her, his breathing short, harsh gasps. He pulled back and rolled onto his back. She remained there with no idea what had occurred. The raw hunger had taken her over, but it was laced with something she hadn't felt from him in years: anger. She reached out tentatively, her fingers tracing the tense line of his shoulder. "Andrew? What's the matter?" she whispered, the air still thick with the scent of their lovemaking. "You've never been so rough before."
