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.