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.