… But, while he waited, he drank. Bette Jean insisted on absolute cleanliness. They had to go through the ritual of a bath, before she would even consider having sex. There were a lot of things he had learned to put up with in this marriage business… too God damned frigging many!

Drinking at the kitchen counter he realized the shower had stopped and he didn't know how long ago. Then, he went into the bedroom, expectantly, and there she was with her nightgown on, covered up and asleep… or feigning sleep. Christ! She had pulled that on him too damned many times, already.

He crawled in under the covers, naked and furious. Reaching out for her, he said, "Bette Jean…?"

There was no answer.

Turning on his side, he moved up close to her supine body and reached out to cup a softly resilient breast in his hand. She stirred, turned to her side, her back to him, legs drawn up, curling herself into a ball, and settled, comfortable, into the mattress.

It had happened this way, too often! Frustrated anger rose in him, spilling over, acidly, as he growled, "God damn it… I know you're awake… and you're just trying to put me off… again! I told you, bitch!"

Roughly, he reached down, grasped the hem of her nightgown and jerked it up above her whitely glowing hips. There was a ripping sound of seams giving way. Her thighs were exposed, nakedly, his hand going in over the swell of her hips to the softly curled down of her pubic mound, worming its way down into the deep triangle of her loins.

"You don't have to tear my nightgown off!" she complained, giving up the pretense of sleep.

"Things like that wouldn't happen… if you'd just act like a normal wife!" Lester fired back. "You knew I wanted it tonight! I told you a million ways."

"But, I don't!" Bette Jean snapped, attempting to writhe her genitals away from his searching hand.