"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.