I'm sorry.
That's what he had said. Those were his last words, at least as far as Melissa Mason was concerned. If her father had said anything else to anyone else, like to one of the doctors or nurses, Melissa didn't know about it.
I'm sorry.
He had then slipped off into a coma; and, less than three hours later, William James Davenport, pillar of his community, president of Davenport Electronic International, was dead at sixty-nine, his soul shoveling coal in the furnaces of hell.
Now, why did Melissa have to think that? It wasn't like her to think such vindictive things, was it? Her father probably was in heaven right that minute. If there was a heaven.
And, of course, there was a heaven. Melissa didn't like the way her mind was working. No, she didn't like it one damn bit. Of course her father's soul was now off somewhere in paradise playing a harp! Because if William Davenport had told his daughter he was sorry, there was little doubt but that he had told the church the same thing, given a couple hundred thousand dollars to the papal coffers, and been given forgiveness.
Well, Melissa wasn't all that sure she forgave her father as easily as God might have done. After all, a few mumbled words on his deathbed, when he knew he was shortly going off to meet his maker, certainly didn't make up for fifteen years of being an absolute bastard, did it?
Bastard? Was that how she had visualized her father? What's more, was that how she STILL visualized him, even though he was dead and buried?
Nonsense! She had to get hold of herself. She was simply in an emotional state, what with the death, and the funeral, and the people, and the countless amenities – and with seeing Creagon again.
Creagon Davenport, Melissa's brother, older by three years; tall, blond, blue-eyed, exceptionally handsome. Every time Melissa saw Creagon, she marveled at how he never seemed to change, never seemed to grow older. And, considering Melissa had only seen Creagon twice in the last fifteen years (twice since that one long-ago night William Davenport had eventually come to mutter "I'm sorry" for), she was surprised at how Creagon could manage to appear so ageless. Especially since it had obviously been no lark making it on his own out in the big wide world with neither his father's money nor name to back him.
The last time Melissa had seen Creagon was at her brother's wedding to Marne.
Marne Davenport nee Marne Mason: the wife of Melissa's brother; the sister of Melissa's husband.
And before Creagon and Marne's wedding, the only other time had been when her brother had attended Melissa's wedding to John. And, some time during those festivities, Creagon Davenport had met Marne Mason; and, love had blossomed.
At Melissa and John's wedding there had also been a fight between Creagon and his father. The first time those men had seen each other in ten years, and they'd been at each other's throat. Thank God William hadn't been invited to Creagon's marriage. Melissa had sneaked away to attend it – one of the few things she had ever done in her life to flaunt her father. And, William Davenport had been furious. He had raved on for days, dredging up old, best-forgotten skeletons and rattling them in front of Melissa's eyes until Melissa had collapsed and been under a doctor's care for four whole weeks.
And, so her father had died sorry. But, sorry for what? Maybe that was what was bothering Melissa. Because William Davenport had been so seemingly firm in his righteous indignation that he had, for the most part finally convinced Melissa that she wag the one who should have been sorry.
So, why hadn't Melissa been able to tell the dying man that she was sorry?
It had been Melissa's fault, hadn't it? What Melissa had done was wicked… wicked… wicked. If she could accept that now, then why hadn't she been able to tell her father she was sorry?
Yes, by God, she had been sinful… depraved… degenerate. She had done a forbidden thing; and, her father had had every reason to be angry because of it. He'd had every reason to send her away to those church schools where she could repent at leisure, contemplate her sins, promise herself she would never sin again.
Creagon now, he had been the lucky one! He had simply run away, not turning up again until he was past twenty-one and could thumb his nose in the old bastard's face.
Lucky? Melissa realized that was hardly the right adjective to use. She was obviously in such an emotional state that she was constantly putting wrong words in the wrong places. Because, how could Creagon be lucky? He'd had no good holy sisters, dressed in their starched black and white uniforms like penguins, telling him what was right and what was wrong, thereby insinuating that what Melissa and Creagon had done was certainly an abomination in the eyes of man and God.
And, had William Davenport told his son he was sorry; or, had he assumed he'd done enough in leaving his wayward son half of the estate?
"Melissa?"
It was her husband, calling from the bedroom. Melissa had hoped he was asleep. Why in the hell wasn't he?
"What is it, John?"
"What's taking you so fucking long?"
Melissa shuddered at her husband's vulgarity. God, but he had changed since he'd gotten back from the war – or, was Vietnam called a conflict? Whatever, John Mason had changed. Oh, God, had he changed!
"I'm brushing my hair, John," Melissa said, reaching for the brush on the dresser so as to make her statement only half a lie. "Why don't you just try and get some sleep while you're waiting?"
"Try hurrying, will you?" John said in reply.
And, what exactly did that imply? Melissa suspected she knew; and, that knowledge did nothing more than send goose bumps up and down her spine.
Just where had her husband disappeared to? Just what kind of black magic had sent a docile, mild, well-mannered college graduate off to some distant pest hole to be metamorphosed into a rutting animal?
Or, had Vietnam had anything at all to do with it? Had the beast always been there, beneath the surface, waiting to jump out at the first opportunity? That was certainly possible when considering how that "other" John Mason had been so opposite his sister Marne. How could any one as meek and mild as John had seemed at the time of his marriage have popped from the same womb as Marne?
Not that Melissa didn't like Marne. Because she did. Actually, when Melissa was up to admitting it to herself, she even envied Marne, to a certain extent. On the other hand, there was too much of everything about Marne which made Melissa a little uneasy.
Marne was simply too beautiful. Her breasts were a trifle too large. Her figure was a bit too sensuous. Her walk was a mite too sexy. Her voice was too sultry. Her eyes were too seductive. Her lips were too inviting.
Marne, in short, reeked a kind of sexuality that Melissa found disturbing. Why she found it disturbing, she couldn't quite say.
"Melissa!" John called again, bringing his wife back once again to the reality.
Surely, surely, John wasn't thinking of doing any of his disgusting sexual gymnastics tonight! Sweet Jesus, but they hadn't gotten back from the graveyard but a few short hours before. But, then, that would hardly matter to John, would it? He had lived with death in Nam, hadn't he? He had seen death all around him every day of the week. So, what did it matter to John Mason that William Davenport was dead?
"Melissa, for Christ's sake, you brush your hair so much, it's a fucking wonder it doesn't all fall out by its roots!" John yelled loudly from the bedroom where he would be naked and probably lying on top of the bed, his huge penis hard and laid out along his belly like some Army missile ready for launching.
Disgusting! Her husband was disgusting! Far too disgusting to be endured. Did John know that as soon as the estate was settled, Melissa was planning on divorcing him?
Yes, she would divorce him. He wasn't, after all, the man she had originally married, was he? He had gone off to war (to conflict? to whatever?), to fight for his country like his daddy, and granddaddy, and great-granddaddy, ad infinitum, had done. He had gone off and changed from a man to an animal.
Well, by God, Melissa was having very little of it! And if John wouldn't grant her a divorce under some civilized guise like incompatibility or irreconcilable differences, then Melissa was quite prepared to label John an adulterer and name the correspondents. Oh, yes, Melissa was quite aware that her husband had been out fucking on the side. And, she was glad of it, too. Let someone else go through the horror of John's pants, and grunts, and groans, and gasps, and… oh, but it was disgusting!
Melissa drew the brush through her long mane of tawny blonde hair, enjoying the pull against her scalp and the resulting tingle.
Reflected back from the vanity table mirror, although Melissa wouldn't have been likely to admit it, was a very beautiful young woman. Her hair, of course, was her best feature. It was honey-colored, lush, and had been cut to give a tousled, fly-away look that was exceptionally attractive. Her eyes were blue, set a trifle too far apart. Her eyelashes were long, almost brown now that they'd been cleared of blackening mascara. Her eyebrows were fine, evenly plucked lines. She had a good but quite ordinary nose; full, cupid's-bow mouth. She had high cheekbones.
Her long neck curved downward, opening up into the deep cleavage displayed by her robe-covered breasts.
Yes, Melissa was quite attractive. However, she had so long been made to look ugly in stiff unattractive school uniforms, in short-cropped hair, in ungainly shoes. And in virtually no makeup that she couldn't quite imagine she had blossomed into quite the woman she had.
As a matter of fact, it was very seldom that Melissa ever consciously paid attention to what was reflected back to her in any mirror. Mirrors at the convent school were an anathema – spawners of sinful vanity. And, old habits were had to die.
Even now, Melissa wasn't much concerned with whether or not she was pretty, or any had new wrinkles, or was getting bags under her eyes, or was losing her peaches-and-cream complexion. Her constant stroking of her hair with the silver-handled pig-bristle bush had become an unconscious rhythm honed by constant routine.
Melissa's mind had first wandered back to that day in this very house when she and Creagon had been caught "playing with each other" (actually having long since progressed beyond that minor stage of the relationship, not that Melissa blamed Creagon, having long since put all of the blame on her own shapely shoulders). Then, finding those thoughts as disturbing as she had always found them (why had that silly bastard of a father told her he was sorry?), she let her mind drift elsewhere.
Back to John. Back to dear, sweet John, as he had once been. Back to John, the vulgarity he had become.
Melissa knew what John was doing out there in the bedroom at that moment. Oh, yes, she knew. He would have his large hand wrapped around his big, huge cock, and he would be pumping his prick languidly, just waiting for Melissa to step from the dressing room and see him. John would want to shock her, as if his own pleasure was somehow fed by his wife's continual embarrassment at his perverted antics.
To describe Melissa's feelings that first night in bed after John had returned home from Vietnam would have made a book-size volume of horror stories. To describe her feelings these years later, when John still refused to revert to his civilized state, would have been to describe frustrations, humiliations, and mortifications in the extreme.
John obviously had, somewhere along the line, forgotten the difference between a civilized woman and one of those primitive gook women he had balled while in Nam. While some Oriental women, used to nothing better than rape and ravagement, might eventually find enjoyment in the vile sexual techniques John had brought back to Melissa's bedroom, Melissa had been nothing but disgusted to the point of nausea. Thank God, he had since decided that prostitutes were more accepting of his animalistic behavior than his wife was. At least, John spent a lot of time with several call girls. And, he'd fucked several women at the club, some of whom had actually come back for seconds, which just went to show how degraded some civilized women were becoming.
"Melissa!"
"In… a… minute, John! In… a… minute!"
John had been rather on display these last few days, hadn't he? He hadn't been able to get away for as much on-the-side rutting as he was used to. He obviously was expecting to try his wife once again. Well, he would find Melissa no more receptive this time than she had been the last time. In truth, Melissa even found the idea of a plain, old-fashion, missionary-style fuck beneath her husband physically revolting. She wondered if it were too late to dissolve the facade of happily married couple and get separate rooms. That's what they had at home, anyway. And, it was far… far… far more convenient.
"Melissa!"
Melissa heard her husband's feet hit the floor. She kept on brushing her hair. She heard her husband stomping in her direction. She kept on brushing. She saw his revolting naked reflection in the mirror. She kept on brushing. John stepped up behind her, his grotesquely huge and hard cock almost touching Melissa's creamy neck.
"If you so much as lay a hand on me, I'll let out a scream that will bring every servant and relative in this house right down on our doorstep," Melissa threatened, not missing a brush stroke.
"What in the fuck has gotten into you?" John asked.
Goddamn, she was beautiful! Did she know how fucking hot he was for her body? She knew! Sure, damn right she did! So, why was she always colder than an iceberg? She'd been that way ever since he'd been discharged.
"Nothing has gotten into me lately," Melissa said, "And you're not getting into me tonight. So, I suggest you either beat that thing off, or go take a cold shower. The choice is yours."
"You are my Goddamn wife!" John said angrily, clamping his right hand into Melissa's right shoulder.
John's claw-like fingers were hurting her, but Melissa refused to make a grimace. She did not stop brushing her hair, however. She then gave John a look in the mirror that she hoped displayed just a touch of the utter revulsion she was feeling as a direct result of his hand on her body.
"You have one second to turn loose before I bring this house down," Melissa said. She knew she had the advantage here; and, she refused to surrender it.
"Goddamn frigid bitch!" John spat. He turned on his heels and went back to the bedroom. He flopped down on his bed. Twin beds for shit's sake! How in the hell had she managed that? She had undoubtedly called ahead. Not separate rooms. Hell, no, since that would have caused talk. But, twin beds. She could have whispered something to her father's housekeeper about how "it was her time of the month", and there would have been no questions asked not that there would have ever been any overt questions from the servants in any case.
John hesitated in fisting his meat and jerking it off. Why in the hell should he beat off his own cock? Hell, he was a married man, wasn't he? He had a wife. A husband was supposed to screw his wife, not his hand.
John was confused as ever by Melissa's coolness. She had changed. Or had she? Melissa had never been all that excited over sex, had she? John had thought it was merely his fault, mainly his ineptitude. Now, he wondered it had been his fault, ever. He'd, after all, learned a lot in Nam, sexual things not being the least of his acquired knowledge. He had come back confident that Melissa would be pleased to find her husband miraculously converted from bumbling kid to experienced lover. He had thought she'd been hoping he would improve when she had written a reply to his first guilty confession of infidelity.
"Don't worry about it, John. War makes strange bedfellows, after all; and, I certainly never expected you to remain celibate during your whole term of service. You've gone off to battle, not to a monastery. Do anything you think necessary to relieve the tensions of that mess over there, knowing that I'm not going to be here, ready to stamp a scarlet 'A' on your chest the minute you step off your plane…"
But, as time progressed, it became more and more apparent that Melissa didn't want a competent lover or a humbling one. She obviously didn't want any lover at all.
John had thought there was someone else. He had laid traps, listened in on Melissa's phone conversations, interrupted his schedule to drop in unexpectedly on Melissa's tennis lessons at the club, on her lunches with Geraldine Pinkton or one of the other girls, on her visits to see her ailing father. John had never found his wife anywhere but where she had said she would be. He had found no studs, waiting off in secluded nooks, waiting to service his wife while he didn't. He had found no women, with closets full of dildos, waiting to eat his wife's cunt or bump pussies.
John looked up as Melissa entered the bedroom and switched off the lights in the dressing room behind her.
Damn it, John wished Melissa didn't affect him the way she did. He would have done anything to be able to shrug his shoulders and care less that his wife was more happy with John out of her bed than in it.
So, what happened the minute Melissa made her entrance, gliding by amid a flutter of gossamer negligee? John's damned cock jerked so heartily that the slap of John's cock meat striking against John's belly muscles was readily audible in the room.
And if Melissa heard, she gave no notice. Without even giving John a glance, she skirted his bed, preparing to enter her own from a spot the furthest from John as she could possibly get.
As Melissa prepared to enter the sheets, her unbound breasts jiggled seductively. Could John actually see her dollar-size nipples beneath the clinging material?
Melissa's tawny mane of hair flowed down and over her shoulders. John caught a peek of his wife's milky white leg as she crawled in bed and quickly pulled the blankets over her.
"Do you want me to turn out the light, or will you?" Melissa asked, her hands crossed over her breasts like some queen laid out on a regal funeral pyre.
"Leave it on," John said. "I'm going to be using it for awhile."
"Suit yourself," Melissa said. Her eyes were shut, her lashes looked like brown butterflies against her checks.
Shit, shit, shit! John couldn't believe it. He simply couldn't believe it. If he had been an ugly sonofabitch, he might have understood. But, Goddamn it, John wasn't ugly. He wasn't so stunning that his looks sent every girl he met into convulsions of faster heartbeats; but, he was no dog by a long ways. Granted, he'd been a late bloomer, a bit ungainly through his early adolescence before his torso grew into proportion with his head, arms, and legs. In fact, his early awkwardness had given him the shyness which he'd retained up and beyond his marriage with Melissa.
However, by the time John had married Melissa, all outward awkwardness was long gone. Physically, his body had looked in great shape and, in fact, was in good shape. His complexion, once plagued by the biggest zits John had thought imaginable, had cleared with no noticeable scarring. His brown hair, brown eyes, full lips, dimpled cheeks, and cleft chin had all come together in a pleasantly attractive combination.
And since then, John's looks had improved, if anything. His military training had solidified a physique which had never had any excess fat. His pectorals, covered with a fine matting of brown hair, were rectangular etchings on his chest. His belly was a washboarding design of rippled abdominals.
His cock was big without being too big. It certainly could hold its own in any comparison in any locker room; but, it certainly wasn't one of those monstrous cocks that had women squealing protest that it was too big – and really meaning that it was.
In fact, John, who could see his body reflected to him by the mirrored doors of the clothes closet by the side of his bed, saw nothing whatsoever about him that should turn off his wife.
So, what did turn Melissa off about him? And, there as little doubt in John's mind that Melissa was turned off. Melissa wasn't faking her present disinterest. Any minute, John expected Melissa to start snoring.
Hell, John had tried to do everything he could to please her. He had even gotten within licking distance of her blonde-haired cunt on occasion, having learned that no woman could resist getting herself off on a guy's tongue. But Melissa would have none of that! Christ no! You would have thought John's tongue was acid the way Melissa had crawled out from under him. And, she hadn't been putting up any token struggle just to increase her own enjoyment. She had been dead serious!
"You disgusting pervert!" That was just what she had called him. Disgusting. Pervert. John had been dumbfounded.
Actually, John had been more than just dumbfounded. He had been made just a little insecure. His ego had been definitely deflated. For almost a year he had wondered if maybe he hadn't known as much about fucking as be had come to think he knew. Melissa had made him so fucking paranoid, John had resisted all come-ons from the women at the club for fear he'd get the same negative reaction from them that he had gotten from Melissa.
Thank God, though, that John had been too attractive for some of those women to give up without a battle. Finally – albeit reluctantly – he had succumbed to Margaret Riley, Jim Riley's wife, in a linen closet off the club dining area. There, amid tablecloths, napkins, dish towels, and aprons, John had finally discovered that it just wasn't Oriental women who liked to get their cunts tongued, or their asses fucked. And he'd since learned, on more than one occasion, that it just wasn't Oriental women who got a charge out of swinging on John's big cock.
John had plenty of women ready to take him on, anyway he wanted to ride them. However, his own wife was not one of them. And, for some perverse reason John couldn't explain, the fact that Melissa so obviously didn't want him only seemed to make John want her all the more.
She was a bitch! That's what she was: a bitch! And, it wouldn't have been so fucking bad if John hadn't loved her now even more than he had ever loved her.
John gathered up his pillows and propped them between his back and the headboard of the bed. He then bent his legs at his knees, putting the flats of his feet on the blanket top. He then fanned open his thighs, butterflying his legs on the bed.
He dropped his left hand down to his crotch, bypassing his cock and cupping his balls. He rolled the gristled orbs of cum-bulged gonads and glanced in Melissa's direction. Melissa's eyes were still shut.
"I'm going to beat my cock off, baby," John said, hoping against hope that some miracle would bring Melissa around. "All you have to do is say the word, and I'll give all this luscious hardness to you instead of to my hand."
Melissa kept her eyes shut, willing herself not to shudder in utter revulsion. The man was an animal.
"Come on, Melissa, let me stick it in," John persisted. His cock was so Goddamned hard, he was going to have to do something with it pretty damned quickly, or he wouldn't be able to stand it.
What if he raped her? What if he took her against her will, right then and there? What if he just forced open the bitch's legs and stuck his blood-hardened cock up her juicy cunt against all of her protests?
Oh, shit, he'd gone that route before, hadn't he? Melissa had just suddenly stopped all protests, gone all slack as a rag. Then when John had finished fucking her, Melissa had asked him if he was through, as if she hadn't even felt the gallons of rich, warm cream he had fed her pussy.
Besides, fucking his hand gave him about as much pleasure as he got from fucking Melissa when she was going through one of her okay-fuck-me-but-get-it-over-with-fast-will-you bits.
"Okay, bitch!" John said, frustrated beyond belief. "Suit yourself. My Goddamn hand is probably a better fuck than you are anyway, if my memory serves me correctly."
John fisted his cock with his right hand, grabbing down at the base of his erection. He pulled his fingers upward, dragging loose outer skin upward along the hard inner cock core. The movement milked an oozing of pre-seminal juices into the deep penile eye cleaved dead-center of John's cock head. John, his fingers still holding to his cock belly, used his thumb to smear his natural lubricant over the pulpy dome-like mass of his cock glans. His drooling juices were warm and slippery.
"You don't know what your frigid cunt is missing, baby," John told Melissa, wondering if the bitch were really asleep or if she were hearing every word he said.
Melissa heard all right. Oh, yes, she heard. But, she couldn't believe it. If John wanted to masturbate, why didn't he go into the bathroom and do it behind closed doors like any normal man would have done? Why make a big production number out of it, performing like some horny monkey in the zoo?
John continued to work his balls with his left hand while his right hand took up a rhythmic cadence, up and down, along the length of his cock.
"You know how many women out there would be crying their eyes out if they knew I was going to be wasting my cum in my hand?" John asked.
Melissa almost – ALMOST – responded to that. She almost told him to go get one of those degenerate whores and quit bothering her. But she didn't, knowing that any comment from her would more than likely only encourage John's disgustingly lewd display.
John fucked his hand, his fingers gliding from his knotted cock roots to his bulky cock crown. John's hips began responding on their own, giving instinctive fucking bounces. Simultaneously, John's left hand was continuing to massage his balls, squeezing his tender gonads until the dull aching fanned through his lower belly.
"A Miss Chi in Nam used to love this cock of mine," John said, continuing to beat, continuing to fondle his cum-ripened testicles. "She'd take this cock each and every way I wanted to give it to her. She didn't care, just as long as she got it."
Melissa decided it would be a hot day in hell before she allowed herself to endure another night of such wretched obscenity. Did the shit-head actually think he was giving her some kind of charge by letting her hear about him and some poor gook whore who would have probably stood on her head and fucked an elephant for a few Yankee dollars?
"She used to fill her mouth with warm noodles and then gobble up my cock to its balls," John said, enjoying the telling of the tale, even if Melissa wasn't enjoying the hearing. "Miss Chi would suck and suck and suck, until all of the noodles were in her belly. Then she would suck some more for a gallon of my cum to go down to salt them."
Melissa thought she might actually be sick. She could feel the bile rising in her throat. What's more, she could just picture how that wretched Nam whore had looked with her face buried in John's hairy groin.
John pumped. His hand moved up toward his cock head, dragging along the folds of loose flesh that still draped his circumcised cock. The loose skin almost but not quite – formed a pseudo foreskin to snout John's pulpy corona. More liquid beaded in John's cock eye and was stolen by the man's fingers to be smeared over his total cock bulk.
"Miss Chi used to shove a string of beads up my ass while she sucked on my cock," John continued, running his left hand down beneath his balls and into the crease of his buttocks. He lifted his ass slightly to give his middle finger an easier access to his pucker. His fingertip nudged his anal eye. "Then when I started to pop my load, Miss Chi would pull on the string, slowly dragging those beads out one… at… a… time."
Melissa could well believe it. It sounded like something that would be just perverted enough to give John a few lurid thrills.
What in the hell had happened to the other John Melissa had married? That John would have never been naked on that bed, playing with himself, and giving his wife a running commentary.
"Ohhhhhh, suck my cock, Miss Chi," John moaned gutturally. His swelling pleasure gave his voice a definitely throaty character. "Ram those pop beads way… way… way… up my ass hole."
John, not missing a beat of his right hand over his blood-engorged cock, pulled his left hand out from between his legs, moving his middle finger to his mouth. John ovaled his lips, sucking in his finger. Getting his finger soaked with spit, John returned it to his ass pucker.
"Suck it, Miss Chi!" John commanded. He was no longer paying much attention to Melissa. In fact, he shut his eyes to more clearly recall Miss Chi's small Oriental face swinging… swinging… swinging on his priming cock. "Push… in… those… aaaaggghhhhhrrrr."
John had pushed his finger up his anus, twisting to give it an even deeper penetration. He began pumping his cock harder… faster… harder… faster.
John lifted his ass higher, pushing in more of his finger; and, then he sat down on his hand. His fingertip struck his walnut-size prostate, torquing against the sensitive gland. A pleasant dull paining sensation oozed from his molested prostate and spread into his lower belly.
"Oh… baby… oh… baby," John moaned, his finger twisting, his hand pumping, his hips bouncing.
Melissa could not believe this was happening. She simply could not… believe… this was happening. The way John was going on about Miss Chi and that whore's pop beads, anyone within hearing would have thought for sure the Nam bitch was right there in the room. And what if any of the servants were walking by outside in the hallway? What if they heard? What would they make of John's grunts for and about some Oriental woman? Thank God, the doors were thick. Thank God, the house was built so solid as to be virtually soundproof.
"Faster… faster… faster!" John chanted. His frantic masturbatory strokes were now causing the bedsprings to squeak in protest.
Melissa decided she had had quite enough. She opened her eyes, turning a disgusted gaze in John's direction. Her voice caught in her throat. She felt physically assaulted by the sight that confronted her.
Oh, God, it was lewd… lewd… obscenely degenerate! There her husband sat, his legs pretzeled into some weirdly yoga-like position, his right hand whipping on his cock which had gone beet red with its beating. The finger of John's left hand was obviously jabbed all the way to its knuckle up his rectum. And, John's head was dropped back on his neck, his eyes shut, his mouth gaping open like a baby bird waiting for the delivery of a long overdue worm.
Melissa watched, transfixed by the spectacle. Her mouth went dry. Her eyes burned as if the picture of her husband's muscled, violated body was being etched with acid on her eyeballs.
"Oh… harder… cunt… suck… harder!" John commanded his phantom lover. He was almost there. He… was… almost… there.
Melissa wanted to scream. She couldn't. Something had frozen her vocal cords. She wanted to get up and flee. She was paralyzed. She wanted to turn away. She couldn't.
"Yessssssssss," John hissed. "Ride my cock, baby. Ride it… hard! Ride it… fast!"
Melissa felt a sudden gushing of wet, warm moisture from between the lips of her vagina. What in the hell did that mean?
"Oh, take it, bitch!" John bellowed with such exuberance that it somehow snapped Melissa out of her stupor. "Take it… take it…Jesus… fucking… Christ… take it!"
Melissa shuddered uncontrollably as the first giant wad of her husband's sperm was lobbed from his pulsing cock eye. The comet-like mass arched upward and outward, eventually landing in a gluey glob on the bed. That first shot was followed by another… and another… and another… and another. Thereafter, a thick paste oozed from the mouth of John's cock but didn't blast free. This latter was caught in the suction of John's still-beating hand, and was smeared over John's cum-glossed cock shaft.
Melissa turned her face back toward the ceiling. She shut her eyes. She swallowed, finding it hard to get her saliva to move through her constricted throat.
She told herself to quit breathing so hard. She didn't want John to even suspect she had seen him. She had to pretend as if she had slept through it all.
Why were the insides of her thighs wet?
Melissa heard the sounds of her reviving husband on his bed. Shortly, she heard John leave his bed and go into the bathroom. Melissa waited for the sound of running water. She then opened her eyes, glancing to make sure that John was indeed out of the room.
Melissa ran her right hand down over her breasts. Jesus, her nipples were hard! She glided her fingers further, down over her belly. Her palm cupped over her pussy, her fingers curving downward between her legs.
"Ugghhhhhh!" Melissa groaned in surprise, her eyes popping wide with the unexpected shock that shot through her.
Oh, Jesus, she thought, feeling the dampness of her nightie between her legs, she was cumming. She was cummming. Oh… Jesus… Jesus… Jesus… she… was… cummmmmmmming!
In the bathroom, John finished wiping off his cock and hung the wet washrag back on the towel rack. As he did so, he was hoping his wife would use that particular washrag to clean off her face in the morning.