I was the stag male invited to dine with an interested couple. He offered me a beer, she'd made homebaked lasagna; no surprises there. It was only later, after the beer, then another beer and a final glass of red wine that we proceeded, as inevitable as the path of a fired bullet, to the bedroom. It wasn't the exotic place of porn sets, but the lived-in, homely place that creates the discordance in your mind, rampant testosterone coupled with "My mum has that bedspread at her place". Males outnumbering the female two to one we voted to skip the foreplay and cut straight to the action. I was hoping she'd be like an overbooked calendar appointment and be able to squeeze us both in but that wasn't on the cards. I was given the front door, him the back. At first there was nothing remarkable about it (there's only so many times you can cram it into a vag before it becomes old hat), but gradually I noticed an extra sensuality creeping into it, an extra pressure in a place I normally felt a lonely wet abyss. "Do that again", I grunted, "That's it". "Do what?" she moaned. I asked her several times, but she clearly didn't know what was going on. Then I realised it; I was feeling hubby through her connecting wall. He felt it too, he must have, because like female office workers we managed to sync up. Each time we rammed it home we were beaten back by each other, heighting our illicit non-gay pleasure even more, building and building in what felt like the sort of Paradise that you wish could only last forever and then... and then. And then she orgasmed and we both shuddered our way through our various discharges and plopped out, never to touch in that way again. I made my excuses and got dressed, leaving without a word soon after, never to return. I think of it every time I'm on the job now, with a hint of sadness as I know he and I can never share that bond again. That was the problem with marriage, the wife always came between you and your mates.