Melting Away Slowly Pt 02

Copyright 2009, All Rights Reserved

Instead of putting the last page of the previous chapter at the beginning of the next part, I've selected a few scenes from Chapter's 1. & 2. that should give a feel for some major plot elements.

PS

***

"You know how I feel about sex. We've had our children, and there's no reason that I should have to accommodate your animal desires anymore. We're not that young anymore, you know," Martha was now walking away from me, back towards the bedrooms. "If that's what you think, you can take your pendent and get your money back," she told me loudly so that I could hear her even though she was facing away from me.

"Honey, we're not even sixty yet; it's not like we're on death's door. Most people our age..." I stopped trying to talk to her, because it was clear that she wasn't listening.

Then in a quieter voice, from her bedroom, I could hear her talking to herself.

"If he can't control his urges, then I wish he'd go find someone else to take care of it, and not expect me..." came her angry voice until I heard the bathroom door in the bedroom close.

I sat there, my face in my hands, ready to ... to ...oh who cares, I'd had it.

Once again, I had begged my wife, her royal highness it seems, for what should have been a natural and necessary part of our married life. Instead of her acquiescing or at least listening to me, I'm sitting here, humiliated, angry, and most of all, sad. Sad with that feeling of loss, that once I had a marriage, and now I have some sort of pale, phony imitation of the real thing.

I'm not sure how long I sat like that, leaning over, my elbows on my legs, my hands supporting my face, but I decided then and there that I would not accept it again. I would not allow her to hurt me this way. I had given up. I would never ask or expect Martha to make love, or 'have sex' as she phrased it, again.

I had to face the facts: my wife simply didn't want to share my bed, if at all possible.

***

I was dressed and ready to gird my loins and face the crowds at the grocery store. As I walked over to the counter where I had left my list, I saw that Martha had put a list of her shopping needs on top of mine. Shampoo, bath soap, her favored face cream, and perhaps a dozen other items for me to pick up at the store.

I can't really say why I did it, it was just a visceral response, but I picked my list up from beneath hers, and in the process, her list fell, face down and slid under the kitchen table.

I looked at it, but I didn't pick it up. I just left it there on the floor. For the first time that I could remember in our married life, Martha made a request of me, and I simply, intentionally ignored it.

***

My philosophizing was suddenly interrupted by a woman's voice.

"Mark McDonald, is that you?" came the lilting soprano voice.

I looked up, only to see an old family friend, Stephanie Michaels, standing next to the table. I jerked myself to my feet.

"Stephanie! What a pleasure to see you," I said with complete sincerity.

Stephanie took a step closer to me, and gave me a firm hug. She held me for a moment, putting her head on my chest, before standing back a step and looking up at me. Stephanie was 5-feet tall if she wasn't wearing heels, so she was looking up about eleven or twelve inches when I was standing.

***

"I surrender! Do with me what you will!" I joked.

Stephanie got a big smile on her face at that, and leaned in close, so she could whisper to me across the table,

"Listen handsome, don't make offers like THAT to an old broad who hasn't had any for twenty-months."

I think that I blushed like a teenage boy. I hadn't had a woman call me 'handsome' since, well, to tell the truth, I couldn't actually remember. And honestly? I almost instantaneously started getting a hard-on.

***

"The sink in my bathroom is draining very slowly. Could you take a look at it?" she asked, and then turned and walked away without even waiting for an answer.

Still a creature of habit, I got up from my chair, and wandered into the bathroom in my son's old room (AKA 'her' room). I turned on the hot water full force, and very quickly saw that it was indeed backing up. I could guess at what the problem was: women's hair in the sink, combined with the soap residue and toothpaste; all of the wonderful gunky substances that we put down a sink, that inevitably form clogs in drains. So I could either do a quick, short-term fix on it, putting one of the drain cleaners down the sink to chemically clean it, or I could do the job properly and take apart the gas trap plumbing below the sink, and clean it out by hand.

I turned to go and get my tools, when a thought struck me. This wasn't a plumbing problem that affected either me, my bathroom or the whole house. It was just Martha's problem. I walked back out of the bathroom, headed out towards the hall, and my office.

***

Chapter 3.

I 'slept in' the following morning since Santa had already come. Heck, I was on semester break.

Martha had already left for work by the time I wandered out to the kitchen to get my first diet soda of the day.

There, held on the refrigerator door by a magnet disguised as a cupcake, was a note reminding me to look at the sink in Martha's room. I took it off, crumpled it and tossed it into the trash. Then I fixed some breakfast, ate and started my day. Maybe it was petty of me to just ignore Martha's request, but it made me feel better.

I was actually feeling pretty good as I showered and dressed.

You know, one of the things that happens when your wife seems to find you undesirable is you ask yourself, why? As I prepared, I wondered again, for the, I don't know, maybe thousandth time, what was wrong with me?

I hadn't changed in my hygiene practices. I showered every morning, and shaved most days. I used deodorant, and kept my nails (both hands and feet) clean and trimmed. I brushed my teeth twice a day, and went regularly to the dentist for cleanings, and to the doctor for check-ups.

I took a few medications, but just the normal things for cholesterol and mild high-blood pressure that almost everyone our age was taking. Nothing with side-effects like B.O. or bad breath.

My dressing habits were still what they had been when I worked.

Jeans just weren't my thing; too casual, so I wore slacks, usually with a collared shirt. When I was teaching, I would throw on a tie, as well. That made me one of the minority of teachers at the J.C., but I was also older than most of them. I had a couple of nice suits for more formal occasions.

As far as my overall condition, I didn't weigh five pounds more today than the 165 pounds that I weighed the day that Martha and I were married. Most days I walked a couple of miles.

My hair was fairly short, not a crew cut or anything, but I hit the barber every three weeks or so. And kept my body hair, in all of its intrusive incarnations, trimmed.

Not to sound too self-satisfied, but I thought that I was at least as well groomed and physically attractive or more so than the majority of men my age.

I just shook my head. It was a mystery.

At 10:10 A.M., I drove up to Tom's Gold & Jewelry, and pushed the buzzer at the door. When I heard the click of the electronic lock releasing, I opened the door and entered.

I wasn't sure how much jewelry I had purchase for Martha from Tom Martin over the years, but it probably totaled up to a tidy amount. Tom, knowing that as well, smiled at me as I came over and sat in one of the stools facing his glass showcases, filled with trinkets, gold, jewelry, watches and all of the other accouterments of his trade.

"Mark, what can I do for you today?" Tom asked with a smile.

"Tom, I'm afraid that I'm going to have to take advantage of your 30-day money-back return policy this time," I replied, as I put down the diamond pendant and took the original receipt out of my wallet.

"No problem, Mark. But may I ask why? Didn't Martha like it? It's a beautiful diamond," he queried, as he picked up the pendent and started examining it with his 10X monocle, as if he was expecting to find some sort of defect.

"No, no, Tom. There wasn't anything wrong with it, other than it turns out that Martha didn't really want another piece of jewelry for Christmas this year," I told him, somewhat stretching the truth.

"Well, that's no problem. That happens sometimes. What is it — she wants to do a cruise or something instead?" he was talking as he started doing the paperwork for the return.

"Something like that. You know women; I'll tell you what she wants when I figure that out myself," I communicated my confusion with him with a shrug of my shoulders and my tone of voice.

Tom actually looked up and smiled at me, when I said that,

"When YOU'VE figured out what women want, you just let me know too!" He laughed at that. He reminded me of the punch line of the old joke about understanding a woman's mind, "How many lanes wide did you want that highway to be?"

I mentioned that I should probably, for insurance purposes, bring in the more valuable pieces of jewelry that I'd purchased over the years, and have Tom update the appraisal. He told me, 'sure, anytime.'

So we joked some more and laughed a little, until he handed me a check for the purchase price, and I left.

My next stop was the bank, where, again, out of character for me, I cashed the check instead of re-depositing it in the checking account. I wasn't sure of what I wanted to do with the money, but I had been thinking about getting a new shotgun, either a Ruger Over-and-Under, or maybe a new semi-auto Benelli in 12 Ga. I would think about it.

I went back to the house briefly, to put most of the money from returning the diamond into my gun safe at home. In addition to my firearms, I kept other valuables in the safe — important papers, like passports, birth certificates, and the documents on the house. I also kept a box containing most of Martha's more valuable jewelry in there, and I had a cash box, which I used when for one reason or another, I had more than a comfortable amount of cash around the house.

What I was doing next was a plunge into the unknown, at least for me, and I didn't want to have $2,500 in cash on my person.

It was almost 11:30 on the dot when I pulled into the back parking lot, behind the single-story, rather non-descript building that said "Oriental Massage" on the sign in front. I was relieved that there was a back entrance, so that I could enter the building discreetly.

Oh, don't be surprised — haven't we all thought the same thing, that a 'massage parlor' was just a front for prostitution? I know that's what I thought, and I'd overheard a couple of guys at the trap-and-skeet club suggesting the same about this particular place.

That I was even there was a sign of my desperation, my anger and my depression.

I walked in from the back, but the service desk was still at the front, so I walked down a long hallway with numbered doors on either side. There was incense burning that gave the whole place a sandalwood smell. I actually kind of like that, it relaxed me for some reason.

At the desk was a bored looking Asian lady, in, I would estimate, her mid-forties. A little overweight for the tight-fitting dress she was wearing. I suppose it was Chinese — it had a shiny look to the fabric, with little wooden buttons that went into loops, rather than button holes, and it had a high slit up the side. She looked up as I got close to the desk, and gave one of those automatic, but entirely meaningless smiles to greet me.

We went quickly through the initial process: No, I'd never been here before, A massage was $40 for 45 minutes, $50 for an hour, yes, and she could fit me in now. I paid the $40 (which didn't include tip for girl, I was rather emphatically told) and was sent to room number 6 (very lucky number, she mentioned) close to the back of the building.

"You go, see Pearl. Pearl very good massage. You like very much," she informed me, as I was sent down the hall. I wasn't entirely sure whether she meant that I would like 'Pearl', or the massage, or both.

I knocked lightly on the door, and a voice asked me to come in.

As I closed the door behind me, I looked around at the room. The walls were painted in a pink or salmon shade (like most men, I've never been good about colors), there were various cheap 'Asian' or at least, Asian-style prints hanging on the wall.

A couple of wall charts showed an outline of a human body, with various places pin-pointed, accompanied with Chinese calligraphy. Or I should say, what I assumed was Chinese calligraphy. How the hell would I know?

There were a couple of tables along the walls, with bottles sitting there, and racks with white towels, looking similar to the ones you would find in hotels. There was a cubicle that looked like a changing room in one corner, with a fabric drape that could be pulled closed to provide a modicum of privacy.

The lighting was subdued, and in the middle of the room was a massage table, covered with a clean sheet. And standing at the far end of the room was an Asian woman, who I assumed was 'Pearl.'

Pearl came over, and we introduced ourselves, she as Pearl, and me as 'Mark', which somehow became 'Mr. Mark.'

"Ok, Mr. Mark, you hang up clothes here," she said pointing to a hanger on a hook in a small dressing room. "You take off clothes, and lie down on table. You put towel over you middle. Then I come back." Then she turned and left the room.

Sure enough, when I had undressed, and was lying on the massage table with the towel over my mid-section, she silently walked back in.

Pearl was, I would guess, in her mid-thirties. She was fairly short, maybe 5' 4", and while not heavy, she was pretty well muscled and strong looking. I wasn't sure what nationality she was.

Pearl started by getting a bottle of some almond scented oil that she put on her hands. She first worked my back over, starting with my toes, and working her way up. When she arrive at my butt, she moved the towel up a little, but she didn't uncover me, and then she put it back down again, and started again from above. It was a hell of a good massage, and if nothing else, I was going to be relaxed when she was done.

She actually massaged my scalp and head, before asking me to turn over.

Now on my back, Pearl worked her way back down my body, including my hands and fingers, ending with another minute or two on my feet. I have to confess, I'd never gotten a full body massage before, and it was a wonderful feeling.

But so far, nothing had happened, or been said, that would imply anything more than a massage.

That was when Pearl came back up to the top of the table while she was cleaning her hands with a towel.

"Mr. Mark," she looked at me very closely, gauging my reaction, "are you cop? You try 'trapment' on Pearl?"

"No, Pearl," I replied, "I'm not a cop. I'm a teacher."

She walked over to where my clothes were hanging, and felt them. I was a little alarmed, but I later figured out that she was searching to see if I had a 'wire' or recorder or something.

She also reached in and pulled out my wallet, which she brought to me.

"You show Pearl you I.D.? Open please, to show that you no got badge?" she requested.

I complied, and then she got a big smile on her face.

"Good," she said, then whispering to me, "You got extra $25 tip for Pearl? I give Mr. Mark excellent hand-job, make you real calm and relax. Is most healthful to relieve stress."

There it was, out in the open.

I took out $25 in cash out and handed it to Pearl, who put the money into a pocket, and took my wallet and put it back in my pant's pocket.

Then, to my surprise, she slipped off her shirt and bra, and returned, her breasts exposed. She picked up another warm wash cloth on her way.

She took the towel covering my groin off, and started by washing my penis.

Boy, oh boy, did that make him happy!

"Mr. Mark, you are having beautiful cock," she said, examining it with an expert gaze, "Nice, long and thick, but not too big to hurt woman."

A positive assessment, although given the source, I didn't have a clue whether to believe her or not.

Finished washing, she took the bottle of the almond scented oil and put some on her hands again, and this time began stoking and caressing my now turgid member.

"Pearl very much like your cock, Mr. Mark. She like men very much. And you are very clean man, smell good, wash," she went on.

She saw me looking at her breasts. They weren't especially large, I would estimate a 'B' cup, but like colors, I wasn't very expert, and was just making a WAG — a wild-assed-guess. But her nipples were impressive, large, and erect.

"You like Pearl's breasts, Mr. Mark?" she asked, and I grunted in the affirmative.

She took one of my hands, and put it on her breast,

"You go ahead, play with Pearl's tits while she play with you. It's OK — I like."

So I did. I played with those nipples of hers, and when I rolled them gently with my fingers they got large and VERY erect, I could hear Pearl moan.

"Yes, Mr. Mark, Pearl very much like you play with nipples," she said, while still working on my dick.

She was very skilled. I was actually worried initially that I would be blowing my load after about a minute, but Pearl was a wizard. She would bring me close, and then back off, and she could squeeze me in places, that would keep me from coming. Then she would repeat the process. She was playing with my testicles, something that Martha had never done for me, and it felt great.

It was nice that she seemed to be worried about extending MY pleasure, which she did for longer than I thought was possible. After all, I'd had nothing except my own hand touching my penis for about nine-months.

But when Pearl continued stroking me with one hand, but the other left my testicles, and started moving downward, and when her well-oiled fingers started teasing and massaging my anus, another unique experience in my life, I spurted my load up and out! That was when I understood why she had taken off her shirt; I had just erupted all over her chest!

She wasn't offended, she seemed pleased.

"Mr. Mark, you are most virile man. You shoot your juice far into wife's womb! Very thick, much juice. Make many children," she was actually praising my semen.

I was, of course, in a semi-comatose state for a minute, between the massage and my violent orgasm.

By then Pearl had returned, again with a hot wash-cloth, that she used to clean me (as well as her chest), and then she used a hand-towel to dry me. She was smiling, seemingly happy with her effort.

Surprising me again, after she had finished washing me off, she reached down and grabbed my now soft penis, and lowered her head and took me into her mouth! She bobbed her head up and down a couple of times, and my formerly limp organ, began to stiffen again.

Pearl had just done something more for me that in all of our married years, my wife would never do.

She stopped, though, and looked at me and smiled again.

"Mr. Mark, next time, now you reg'lar customer, you bring Pearl extra $50 tip, and I give you best blow-job. I give good blow-job," she stated with pride, "because I love to suck on man's cock! Especially clean, handsome man like Mr. Mark."

I assured her that I would indeed have an extra $50 tip the next time, because I dearly wanted to have at least one blow-job in my life.

"You remember ask for Pearl when you come back, OK Mr. Mark?" were her parting words.

I assured her I would, and I meant it. I also added another $15 tip as I left.

Back in my car, I didn't know what to do, or what to feel. I drove over to a park, not far away, where I could get out and walk around a small pond, looking at the ducks.