Chapter 16

Before long, a man approaches her, says something that makes her laugh, and joins her. He is handsome in an ordinary, unremarkable way, with a broad smile and the self-assurance of someone accustomed to approaching strangers. Your wife seems amused by his attention, and you remind yourself that there is nothing unusual about people dancing together in a crowded club.

Then another man joins them, followed by a third, and the little group becomes increasingly animated. You watch one of the men lean close to speak into her ear while another offers his hand and spins her beneath the colored lights. She laughs again, and you recognize the delighted expression she had worn when she first asked you to dance. You realize with an unpleasant twinge that these strangers are giving her the attention you refused.

As the music grows louder and the crowd presses closer, the men's familiarity becomes more pronounced. One rests a hand on her hip while guiding her through a turn, and another moves behind her, dancing close enough that you wonder whether she can feel his cock between the cheeks of her ass. She appears to be enjoying herself, and their attention.

You could walk over and join her. You could offer your hand, draw her back into your arms, and turn the evening into the pleasant romantic outing she had originally imagined. Instead, you remain where you are, watching with a peculiar mixture of jealousy, desire, and shame. You are surprised by the intensity of your reaction, and even more surprised that you do not immediately want the scene to end.

The resemblance to your fantasies of Mangler Max is impossible to ignore. Here is your wife, surrounded by unfamiliar men, enjoying their attention while you stand apart and observe. There is no monstrous figure in black rubber, no leather apron or hideous gas mask, and certainly no suggestion that she is helpless. She has chosen to dance, and she can leave whenever she wishes.

Yet you find yourself imagining how easily the scene might change if one of those men were larger, more intimidating, or less inclined to respect the distance she occasionally tries to maintain. You picture the colored lights turning crimson, the music becoming a low industrial throb, and the smiling strangers transforming into silent spectators.

In your imagination, the man holding her waist becomes Mangler Max, his enormous gloved hand closing around her throat as he turns his featureless mask toward you. You feel the familiar, shameful excitement of watching from a distance, followed almost immediately by the dreadful realization that your wife has no idea what is passing through your mind.

A sudden movement on the dance floor draws your attention back to your wife, who is laughing rather more freely than she was earlier in the evening. The wine at dinner and the drinks she has enjoyed since arriving have left her pleasantly tipsy, her cheeks flushed and her usual reserve softened by the music and the attention of her admirers.

One of the men has moved in front of her, resting his hands upon her ass as they sway together, while another leans close enough to whisper something into her ear, his lips brushing her neck. She throws back her head and laughs, apparently delighted by whatever he has said. When the man behind her draws her a little closer, she makes no attempt to pull away.

You cannot tell whether she has even noticed the increasing familiarity of his touch or whether she is simply enjoying the attention. The uncertainty sends an uncomfortable thrill through you. You watch another man's hand settle against the side of her breast, guiding her through the crowded dancers, and find yourself wondering how much of this she will remember tomorrow.

She looks happy, beautiful, and entirely at ease, unaware of the dark significance you have begun attaching to the scene. You recognize that she is perfectly entitled to enjoy herself, yet the sight of these strangers touching your wife awakens the same shameful fascination that has haunted your thoughts of Mangler Max.

You imagine how different the scene would become if those casual, confident hands belonged to the enormous masked figure, if the playful familiarity were replaced by something she could neither dismiss nor escape. The thought fills you with dread, but you remain motionless, watching your wife dance beneath the colored lights and wondering whether the most disturbing part of the spectacle is her apparent enjoyment or your own reluctance to look away.