Chapter 15

The following weekend, your wife suggests going out. She has found a restaurant she wants to try, and afterward she would like to visit a small music venue where a local band is performing. You agree enthusiastically, grateful for the prospect of an evening spent somewhere ordinary, surrounded by people whose pleasures require no explanation. The restaurant is pleasant, and your wife seems delighted to escape the familiar routines of home.

You enjoy watching her across the table, remembering the early years of your marriage when almost every outing felt like an occasion. She is beautiful in the warm light, relaxed and affectionate, entirely unaware of the grotesque fantasies that have begun to intrude upon your thoughts. You feel a sudden pang of tenderness, followed almost immediately by guilt. There is something obscene about carrying those secret images into an evening she believes is simply another happy occasion in your life together.

Later, at the music venue, you stand near the back of the room while the band performs beneath shifting colored lights. The crowd is friendly and unremarkable, until you notice a man at the bar wearing a black leather coat. He is not particularly large, and there is nothing threatening about him. He is laughing with two friends, apparently enjoying himself. Nevertheless, the sight of him sends your imagination hurtling back into the underground world you have been exploring.

You picture the man exchanging his coat for a thick butcher's apron, pulling the mask over his face, and swelling into the immense, rubber-clad figure whose photographs have occupied so many of your evenings. You imagine the music changing, the lights deepening into a bloody crimson, and the ordinary people around you becoming the silent spectators of something far more sinister.

Then you look at your wife. She is watching the band, one hand resting lightly against your arm, and for an instant you imagine Mangler Max standing directly before her. You picture the way she might recoil at his size, the way her eyes would search for yours, and the terrible authority conveyed by a face that reveals nothing human.

The thought produces a rush of excitement so immediate that you feel ashamed of it. Your cock stiffens in your pants, rubbing against her ass, and she playfully swats it away and tells you to behave. You realize that you have begun measuring the imagined experience not by what Max might do, but by how far your own fascination might carry you.

Your wife notices that your attention has wandered and asks whether you are enjoying the music. You smile, tell her that you are, and squeeze her hand. The gesture feels almost like an apology, although she has no reason to understand it that way. You consider telling her about Mangler Max, perhaps presenting him as a bizarre urban legend or an amusing example of underground horror theatrics.

But the thought of explaining your interest fills you with dread. How could you tell the woman you love that you have spent hours imagining her frightened and helpless before a masked stranger? How could you admit that the uncertainty surrounding her imagined ordeal has become part of its attraction? You remain silent, and she turns back toward the stage, trusting you without reservation.

A few minutes later, the band launches into a familiar song, and your wife turns toward you with a bright, expectant smile. She takes your hand and asks you to dance, giving it a playful tug when you hesitate. Ordinarily, you might have indulged her, if only to enjoy the pleasure of holding her close, but tonight you feel strangely reluctant to leave the shadows at the back of the room for the dance floor.

You tell her that you would rather watch, promising that you might join her later. Her smile falters, and she gives you a look of mild irritation. She reminds you that the entire point of coming out was to enjoy yourselves together, not to spend the evening standing against a wall. When you decline again, she releases your hand with an irritated little sigh.

"Fine. I'll find somebody who wants to dance." You laugh, assuming she is teasing, but she turns away and makes her way toward the crowded dance floor without looking back. You watch her disappear among the moving bodies, feeling a momentary pang of regret that quickly gives way to something less comfortable. She begins dancing alone, swaying to the music with the easy confidence you have always admired.