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.