The Stripper Wife Pt. 01

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."

He lay motionless, gaze fixed on the wall. The silence stretched between them, opening into a chasm that absorbed the light. Finally he spoke, voice dry and rough. "You never told me," he muttered, words tumbling out like shattered glass. "You never said you were dancing."

Mariaan's heart sank. She didn't want him to ever know, to be able to forever keep the two worlds of hers in secret. But she knew secrets burrowed themselves up to the surface, no matter where they were laid. "I'm sorry," she whispered, the words not enough against the force of his unspoken accusation. "I didn't want to bother you."

Andrew's shoulders curled forward, the muscles quivering under his flesh like thunder about to strike. "What did you think would happen?" he asked, his tone suave and menacing. "What did you think would happen if I found out?"

Mariaan took a deep breath, her chest rising and falling under the weight of her words. "I didn't know," she said. "I just. needed the money. And it's not like we could talk about it, not the way things are."

The bed groaned as Andrew leaned back to sit, turning his back on her. He pressed a hand against his face, as if trying to wipe away the vision of his wife on that stage. "Things have been bad," he acknowledged. "But this. this isn't us." He got up and headed into the kitchen. "Talk about it after breakfast. I need some fresh air."

Mariaan sat in the darkness, her heart pounding with terror. She saw the conversation that was waiting for them as the one she'd been delaying for much too long. The instant the door shut with a click, she turned over, leaning against the vacant space he'd left behind. The warmth of his shape lingered in the air, the burning in contrast to the icy heartlessness of their existence. She lay there for some time, her mind reeling in vortex of regret and fear. Lastly, she crawled out of bed, the cold of the floor a grim reminder of what lay outside of the bubble that they created around themselves. She quickly washed up, the shower rinsing off the club odor and the sweat of their sizzling sex. She dried and stared at her reflection in the mirror. The woman she saw looking back at her was Shadow and Mariaan, a hazy line of identity that became clearer with each passing day that she danced upon that stage.

Dressed in her plain attire, she entered the kitchen, her pace slow and measured. She knew Andrew had been injured, that the bond between them had been broken. But she had done it for them, to stay afloat. The apartment was cramped and cluttered, testament to the struggle they had endured collectively. The kitchen was no different, with a pile of dirty dishes stacked in the sink and a refrigerator barely full enough to make it to the end of the week. She made coffee, the aroma of the coffee suffocating the air, trying to dispel the oppressive silence. She waited for the coffee to drip, and she gazed at the wall clock. It was not yet evening, but the day felt endless.

Andrew returned with the scent of rain clinging to him. He dripped rain, his shirt sticking to his torso. He didn't make a sound, just sat down at the table and waited for her to put a cup in front of him. The silence was suffocating, a stifling blanket that smothered all possibility of words. She put the steaming mug in front of him, her hands shaking slightly. He understood without looking at her, his eyes instead focused on the whirling patterns in the wood.

They remained sitting there sipping coffee and not at each other.

"Tell me the whole of it, right from the start," Andrew commanded, his tone a hard knot of rage and suffering. "All of it! Detail for detail!" Mariaan breathed in, her shaking hand reaching out to find her cup of coffee. The heat was powerless to drive out the chill that had worked its way into her marrow. ""

I walked into "The Flamingo" one day," she began, her voice barely above a whisper. "It was raining, just like it is today. I'd just lost my job at the diner, and the rent due date had just arrived." She swallowed hard, took a breath, and continued. "I had no idea what to do. I read something in the paper, something about dance auditions. I thought to myself, 'How bad could it be?

I just always loved to dance, didn't I?" She smiled weakly.

Andrew nodded, never once looking away from her. The temperature of the coffee failed to dispel the shiver that had entered the room.

"The manager was called Larry," Mariaan continued, becoming bolder with each word. "He grinned short of his eyes. He said I had 'potential'. I didn't know what he'd said, but when he offered me the job, I'd have to take it for us." He introduced me to Destiny, Candy, and Diamond. They showed me the ways, how to dance, how to taunt without going too far. Gave me my act together."

Andrew nodded, not looking away from her. The heat of the coffee was not to the cold that had invaded the room. "What are the rules?

Mariaan breathed deeply, her heart racing. "No touching," she said to him. "Not on stage, not except for an off-stage dance." She hesitated, seeking some glimmer of understanding in his eyes. "They're merely clients, Andrew. They pay to look, to fantasize. It's not real."

Andrew nodded once more, his expression blank. "What about the private dances?"

Mariaan's stomach clenched, but she forced the words through her lips. "They're just dances, Andrew. In another room, where a bouncer stands at the door, only regulars is one of my rules, and I never do anything more than dance. It's all show, a way of earning extra tips." She paused, speaking half-whispered. "I never meant to hurt you."

Andrew's eyes searched hers for truth. He could see she was keeping something from him, but he wasn't sure he wanted to know it. "Did your regulars touch you?

"Yes, they touched me," Mariaan admitted in a barely audible whisper. "But in ways in which I allowed. It's all a performance, baby. An act. Nothing more." She leaned over the table, her trembling hand reaching out to touch him.

Andrew felt a familiar constriction in his pants when he thought about his wife being handled by other guys. It was a twisted sensation, half rage and half excitement that he could not escape. "I need to know, Mariaan," he said, his voice tense. "What goes on during those intimate dances? Get on your work uniform and show me."

Mariaan nodded, looking away. She disappeared into the bedroom and returned a few minutes later wearing a Victoria's Secret lingerie set. "I don't have any of my work clothes here," she said with an apology. "But I can show you how it's done."

Andrew nodded, his jaw clenched. He had never seen her like this before, so sexual and submissive. It was thrilling and frightening all at once. Mariaan strummed the guitar, a slow sensual tune that filled the room with an enticing rhythm. She was pressed against him, her hips moving with an unspoken promise. She sat in his lap, her thighs warm and firm over his. The undergarments she wore were far more ornate than her normal T-shirt and shorts she wore at home.

Her fingers roamed across his skin, tracing the definition of his chest and stomach with a knowing hand. She leaned in close, her breath searing against his ear. "This is what they pay for," she spoke softly, her tone loaded with something he couldn't quite define. "But this is just for you."

Andrew's hands went to her breasts, the fabric of the lingerie unable to hide their hardness. She slapped his hand. "No touching," she said firmly. "You can take your own clothes off if you want to do that, though."

Andrew swallowed, his mouth dry. He had never felt more naked than at that moment, sitting there with his wife who was now a stranger. He rose, his own attire a costume he had been wearing for much too long. He shrugged out of his shirt, his muscles tensed by the cold and the sensual tension in the room. Mariaan's eyes wandered over his chest, the same chest upon which her head had rested a thousand nights. She began to dance to the music, her dancing steps calculated to inflame. She resisted, her breasts straining out, and began to slowly remove her bra. The fabric moved down her body, revealing inch by inch of her bare skin. She never once looked away from him, a challenge, warning him not to do so. Andrew's dick stiffened, a traitor to the hurt in his heart. He should have been repulsed, but he was captivated. Watching his wife, his Mariaan, undress for him at home was tormenting and exhilarating. The air lingered in the room, thick with unspoken things. Andrew found himself staring at her breasts, full and luscious, with nipples that had tightened up from the cold air and heat of passion.

He had gazed at them so many times in the past, caressed them in his hands, and kissed them, but now they were for sale, something being peddled to strangers in an alehouse. The idea was a blade turning in his stomach, and he could not help but watch. Mariaan took his gaze for agreement. She got up and stood before him, her gaze frozen on his as she pulled down her panties over the curve of her legs. She kicked them away, the fabric falling to her ankles like a broken vow. She moved closer, her bare skin against his, the music a sensual counterpoint thudding with the rhythm of his heart. He stood transfixed as she began to dance, a silent story of craving and necessity.

The moistness between her legs was evident. Her gaze locked with his, a silent challenge that flowed through every fiber of his being. The room spun around him, the walls closing in on him as he felt the brunt of his own insufficiency to give. He should have been repelled, but he wasn't. He was drawn to her, to the control she had over men there. He removed his cargo pants and boxers in a single motion. His rigid cock stood out, a quiet statement of his own desires. "Oh my, oh my, it seems someone enjoyed my little performance," she taunted, her eyes flashing with a mix of rebellion and lust. Mariaan crept closer, her nude body undulating to the rhythm of the music. She trailed her hand along his chest, tracing the path of his abs before she struck his cock. She wrapped her fingers around him, her grip taut and determined. "Is that for me?" she breathed, her hot lips on his skin. Andrew remained still in mute response. The world was spinning, the air thick with the scent of desire and betrayal. He was stiffening in her hold, his body giving away his turmoil. "You like watching me, don't you?" she purred, her voice barely audible. "You like knowing that other men want what's yours?"

Her words sliced into him like a blade, but he could not lie. He had never felt so alive as in that instant, his cock in her hand, her naked body twisting in front of him. "Yeah," he growled, his voice full of fury and desire. "I do. Forget the No-touch rule!" He lashed out and took her, his hand roughly covering her breasts. His other hand was across her cunt, caressing the wetness that had built up there.

Mariaan's eyes snapped open, but she didn't move back. She pressed into his touch instead, her body craving what he so clearly wanted. "Andrew," she gasped, her voice half threat, half pleasure. "Fuck me!" Andrew hoisted her onto the kitchen table with a growl, the cold, hard surface an ironic counterpoint to the softness of her body. She reclined back, her thighs spread wide apart, and he stepped between her legs. He was a man on the edge, trapped between love and fury, lust and betrayal. He edged closer, his gaze hungry on every inch of her. Her gasps grew more strangled as his thumb stroked circles around her clit, her body arching into his contact. "You're so wet," he gasped, the words a bitter rasp. "Do you feel like that dancing for them?"

She had one word for him, a moan, her hips arching to meet his hand. He inserted one finger into her, the moisture enveloping his finger as he slid deeper into her body. She was tight, as tight as a virgin, and he couldn't help but speculate whether she'd ever been with anyone at all. The thought made his dick throb with possessiveness. He leaned forward and sucked one of her nipples into his mouth, sucking hard. She screamed, her hands clutched around the edge of the table. "Please, fuck me!" Andrew didn't need to have it asked twice. He pushed deep in, his cock pushed deep inside of her. She was wet through and slid right in, her cunt clasped around him tightly like a dampened fist. The sound of their bodies crashing shook the air, a savage music that appeared to mirror the chaos of their existence. He battered her hard, his strokes punctuated by snarls of fury and desire. She encountered him blow for blow, her claws in his shoulders, her wails an anguished grief that he was glad of and horrified by. Mariaan could feel the maelstrom of emotion in her, the love she had for Andrew warped with the guilt of her deceit. How he took her now was healing and pain, a bitter reminder of the distance that had grown between them. And yet, she couldn't help but feel the fire that burned in her belly, the need to be taken, to be his. Her body flared for him, her hips swaying to a beat that whispered of all the words unspoken.

Andrew's thrusts grew more frantic as he felt his orgasm rising. He pulled out, not yet ready to bring this dance of domination to its end. "Turn over," he instructed her, his voice rough and raspy. Mariaan complied, bottom up, cheeks hard and bulging. He slapped it, the crack echoing in the kitchen. She gasped, the pain causing a rush of arousal. He adjusted back in and thrust inside her, filling her from behind. The new position was so overwhelming that she bit her lip to keep from crying out. The angle struck her g-spot, and stars twinkled in her eyes. She pressed against him, drove him deeper, her pussy closing around him like a vice. The kitchen table creaked under the urgency of it, the wobbly legs groaning in protest. The music continued to play, a melancholy tune that somehow served to underscore the urgency in their rhythm. Andrew believed that he was giving back to her, reclaiming something that was his own, but demanding only made the fissures between them wider. Push: ask; grunt: answer that he would not desire. Pushed firmly into her back over her hips and drew her onto him hard enough that she gasped openly. Her breasts trembled with the motion, their presence stiffening him further.

Tension was building in Mariaan, her body crying out for release. Her hand slipped between her legs and strafed over her clit. The added sensation sent her over, her orgasm slamming through her like a storm. She came hard, her body convulsing at the ferocity of it. Andrew glared into the mirror, his own face a twisted grimace of rage and hunger as he fucked her doggy-style. He was almost there, his own orgasm within a breath away. "I'm going to cum inside you," he growled, his voice more animal than man. "You're mine, always will be." Mariaan nodded, her eyes blinded by desire. She knew that it was a lie, a Band-Aid on a rot that had become too rank. But then she did. Needed to believe that their passion could conquer anything. That the lies and the deception would be burned away by the passion of their bodies.

Andrew pushed his dick out and spun her to face her again. He probed her eyes for truth, a flicker that she still loved him. That she hadn't been duped by the glamour and glitz of "The Flamingo". That he had glimpsed the tempest of emotion swirling within her, the love and fear and regret. A reflection of his own tortured heart. He moved forward and kissed her, deep and hard, tasting the saltiness of tears on her lips. The kiss grew more frantic, more desperate, as if through merging their lips, they might somehow erase the past. The kitchen table groaned beneath them, a mute observer to their passion. They moved frantically, each touch a silent apology, each kiss a promise that things would be different.

Mariaan was wrapped in the embrace of Andrew's arms, the warmth of his body against hers so different from the cold of the kitchen floor. Their hearts pounded in unison, the only sound that shattered the stillness of the room other than their panting breaths. The dinner table was a battle ground of desire, a reflection of the unspoken truths that had torn them asunder. She embraced him with all her might, her legs still trembling from the intensity of her orgasm. Andrew felt like there was something he should say to her, but words were caught in his throat, dazed by the enormity of the moment.

His dick glistening with her juices. She remained there, her gaze locked on his as he leaned in and wrapped her hand around his. "Go to the bedroom," he gasped, his voice husky with passion and unshed tears. They made their way to the bedroom, their bodies dripping with sweat and passion. The bed was a rumpled mess of sheets, a silent observer to their passion. He lay her down on the bed, his hands trembling with the need to touch her, to claim her once more. He slid into her, the eyes clashing, and began moving. The anger had worn away, giving way to a desperate need to connect, to find sanctuary in the woman he felt like he knew so well. The room was quiet, with the only noise from abrasion fabric and skin meeting skin.

To proceed in Part 2