It was 1988 and Laura and I had been married for almost two years. I was deputy head in Storton Middle School, while she led Home Economics in the Brandley High School, and doubtlessly, one of the reasons I married her was because of her cooking skills.

We met at a conference and my first sight of her, that exquisite figure and delicate nobility of her face framed in the shoulder-length tawny hair had me trapped immediately.

From the outset, she had let me know that she had little interest in the physical side of marriage. One bad experience too many, she told me. But her looks and her gentle demeanour had me prepared to accept any problems in that direction. Having proved to at least three disgruntled young ladies that I was no Lothario. Quick to rise, but always leading to swift expulsion.

So, our married life quickly fell into a matter of timing. Laura admitted, “to appease your male needs.” If it happened fortnightly, I was lucky. A cool, swift union. I tried to reassure her when, on occasion, she admitted something was missing. Other women friends would talk, and she’d heard how it might be.

But I was to discover how a series of seemingly unconnected circumstances can combine to create a life-changing situation.

The first significant event occurred on the Tuesday as I left school on my way to the car park. Where car park met public footpath, I spotted a small black box lying near the fence.

Picking it up I found it was a VHS tape inside the usual cardboard casing, but all black, which was strange. Clearly someone had dropped it and could come looking for it. I stuck it in my briefcase, handy if anyone enquired about it.

The week went on, and, tape forgotten, I looked forward to what had become my traditional Friday night drinks session. A three-pint evening of chat and laughter with Pete and Frank, old friends from college days, both now also in education. Laura often joked about the dubious fun of talking education when I’d lived it all week.

All washed, shaved and dressed, I had some minutes before my taxi was due, so with notebooks and my briefcase on the table, I set about an early preparation for Monday. I became so involved that I was surprised when the taxi arrived.

Hastily I began grabbing at the various tests to shove into my briefcase. Shaking her head, Laura put down the newspaper, and with a sweet smile, she said, “Leave it. I’ll clear your mess.”

I went and gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek, before dashing off for my taxi, unwittingly setting up another contributing event.

We always met at the ‘Jolly Stag’ pub and invariably we would exchange the woes of the week. Pete, tall, disgustingly handsome, with wavy fair hair, but unmarried always had a tale of how some female parent or other was lusting after his body. On this night it was a mid-thirties blond mother who had put her hand on his knee.

“I think I could be in there,” he crowed, when we were into our second pint.

Frank, of medium build, with premature thinning hair, shook his head with an applied sense of pity, “You, my friend, are going to wank yourself to death.”

Pete just laughed and shook his head. Late in the evening, Frank disclosed that his wife Pam was expecting their first child. After much bawdy laughter and cheering, Frank insisted on buying a celebratory whisky, and to that we each added a congratulatory shot. By the time I climbed into my taxi I knew I had had a touch above my alcohol threshold.

So, there was yet another contributory factor. Plus, sitting drearily in the back of the cab I was troubled by the way that evening’s conversation had seemed to centre around sex. Jokes, exploits, in which I did more listening.

Paying off the taxi driver, I saw that the living room curtains of our bungalow were as usual, dimly lit. Laura always had herself a glass of white wine before dimming the lights and going to bed. So, I was always quiet when opening the front door.

But as I stood in the porch, having turned the latch on the connection to the main hall I heard the sounds.

Something jumped inside me, and my breath caught up in my throat. That sound, the grunting of a male followed by the gasping, squeals of a female. On this night, spirit inflamed, there was only one explanation on my mind. Sex. Passionate sex at that. No room for error. Unthinking, our bedroom was the obvious destination for my troubled mind.

An empty unrumpled bed. No Laura. Into the second bedroom, and again, nothing. As my befuddled senses kicked in, I realised that whatever was happening, had to be in the living room.

Holding my breath, I slowly, silently pushed open the door. The grunts, gasps and squeals were here. And were there two women?

The bottle of white wine on the table, was one Laura and I had drunk one glass each from the previous evening. Now, I guessed there was scarcely a glassful left in the bottle, and no glass was visible. The sounds of mutual pleasuring intensified as I stepped into the room.

That brought me close to the high back of the sofa, wondering about Laura, yet immediately I caught the shocking scene on the TV screen. There, a naked man was parting the thighs of a young blond woman, to reveal her pink, tender parts, as he leaned to slide his tongue along the wide-open slit.

Laura? Where was she? How was I hearing two female groans? One more step, as my eyes remained on the sexual activity on the screen.

Then from beyond the sofa a pair of bare knees jutted up from the floor, and flexed, wide apart accompanied by a low moan, the source of which I had no doubt. I felt my cock twitch as the man’s tongue tickled at the sprouted female clit, before slithering through her petals to her wide entry.

I staggered to one end of the sofa, to slump into a chair as I looked down on Laura’s near-naked form, lying flat on her back, her head turned so that the action on screen was her sole intent. That was the moment my eyes noticed the empty black box on the coffee table.

The significance of that only slowly became clear as my whole attention moved to looking into Laura’s pink folds, where her own fingers played with some desperation, blocking my view of an aspect of her anatomy which had, rarely, if ever, been in my line of vision. But as of that moment, it became the most thrilling experience in my life.

Drunkenly, I unzipped my pants, eased up to lower them, and took my quickly hardened shaft in my fist, while Laura had two fingers lost inside her delicate entry. Seeing the fluid on her upper thighs was a puzzle to me. I had never seen that on her, but then, I had rarely had the opportunity.

A glance at the screen showed, close-up, the supine blonde having her breasts fondled by hands appearing from off-shot. An image that had my hand jerking on my hardness more keenly, while, at the same time, Laura, emitting another low moan, was running her free hand over her own breast, with her thin robe almost off her, and an empty wine glass near her head. Had I ever seen her in such an abandoned state? I hadn’t.

My hand frigged madly on my shaft as her lovely lips gaped, her breath quickened, and her eyes never left the screen, where hands had appeared on either side parting the blonde’s thighs even wider. A finger began twiddling around the flowering clit. Matching that, Laura’s fingers moved out of her hole and copied exactly what was happening on the screen.

“Ooh,” and, “Mmm,” sounds burst from her lips, and there was no doubt that her wildly thrashing hips and thighs were getting more of my attention. She began to make whimpering noises as her own finger flicked and fluttered at her clit. Her mouth gaped. My hand hauled on my rod.

My balls threatened, as I lost any interest in the on-screen events as Laura’s eyes closed, her mouth gaped on an almost anguished squeal, both hands grabbed into her crotch as her hips heaved up as though to accept some unavailable intrusion.

Watching that, I hadn’t realised how my own hand had tugged vigorously on my avid hard cock, and as Laura calmed, my own balls released, and spurts of uncontrolled cream shot across the carpet. Oh, God, that had been so satisfying, seeing her like that, and having that release.

“Mark!!”

Her cry brought me back to earth, I looked up and saw her sitting completely naked, on the floor, pointing, “My good carpet.”

I looked at the white streaks, looked back at her reddened face, and she started giggling. Was that the wine or what she had just experienced? Whatever, I couldn’t help myself joining in her giggling and we sat like two naughty kids.

“How long have you been there?” she asked, getting to her feet, and did she stagger just a little? She had never stood naked in front of me before. Was I drunk? Or was my cock really flickering at the sight of her luscious body?

“Long enough.”

“I can see that,” she chuckled, and hurried into the kitchen, to return with two cloths and a spray can. “Come on, clean up your mess you dirty boy.”

Was this really my Laura? As we bent to the cleaning task, I was fascinated by the wiggle of her breasts. As she scrubbed, she told me of having her usual glass of wine, and searching for a decent television programme. Finding nothing appealing, she’d had a bath and, dressed only in her thin robe had come back, realising she hadn’t cleared up my papers.

“When that tape slipped out of your brief-case. I was curious. Nothing else on TV I put the tape in the player and poured myself another wine.”

She stood up as she went on, “What I saw disgusted me - at first. Had you brought it home for me to see? I gulped down another wine and became more and more curious. Then I felt my wetness—touched myself—and was gone.”

She nodded towards the newly cleaned carpet, “You obviously enjoyed it.”

I stood and kissed her on the nose, “No, that was your influence.”

“At my high point I did wonder what it would be like with your fingers there,” she said with another uncharacteristic giggle.

I told her about finding the tape and not having any idea of the content.

“Like advice from the gods?” she suggested, sitting down on the sofa.

Settling myself beside her, I couldn’t help recalling the unconnected events that had led to me sitting there, naked beside my own wife, also naked. Yes, an unusual event. Indeed, it was like some god-like interference.

Laura broke into my thoughts, “Mark, will you think me terrible if I say it was exciting, seeing you spurt like that.”

“Not the porn?”

“Was that porn? Well, that started it, but—”

On-screen, the action had continued with the blonde clutching and frigging a large cock, and Laura went on, “– I want it to be me who makes you fountain like that.”

She turned those wide gorgeous eyes to me. Part of my mind was telling me that this had to be the drink talking, yet another part was thrilling at the prospect. And that thrill showed because Laura glanced down, and said, “Oh, yes, things are looking up.”

I saw that my hardness was returning, and her immediate touch lifted it a further notch. Drawing a breath which was a mix of surprise and anticipation, I tentatively said, “If my fingers can pleasure you.”

Her smile was so uncharacteristically lascivious, as she said, “That’s what I thought.” She glanced at the screen as the large cock, in the hands of the blonde began pumping its white across her breasts and belly.

“More room on the floor, don’t you think,” I asked, as her fingers became more ambitious in pulling back my foreskin, and her thumb stroked the shining head. As we slid to the floor I whispered, “Where did you learn that?”

Her head flicked towards the screen, “Dirty pictures,” she grunted, as she lay back and my own fingers slid along her already wet channel, wonderfully mushy.

We kissed, and while tongues waltzed together, our hands gave a treatment that we had wasted two years ignoring. Her hand gripped my shaft, and jerked it before letting go and her fingertips, so gently, trailed and explored the whole length,

Her uneven breathing showed that patrolling among her petals was having an effect. I slid my middle finger into her deep wetness. Lovely to hear her groan, and feel her fingers squeeze my balls.

But it was my fingers tickling at her clit that really got to her. I stroked around the growing seedling of it, flicked it and every movement was bringing jerks from her hips and thighs.

Then, in her ecstasy, her hand clutched my balls and I was sure that I would cum. “Oh, Mark!” she gasped as I spread my hand to leave my thumb on her clit while my little finger slid back to touch her tiny wrinkled anus.

Laura squealed my name again and she gave a vigorous series of tugs on my shaft. All too much. And I called out in desperation, “Laura.”

Grunting, gasping she managed to utter, “I must see. I must.” And she raised her head while her own hips and thighs flexed and shifted around my own fingers.

As I hit the wonderful spasm of my ejaculation and my cream spurted across her belly and thighs, she sighed. “I did it.” Then her voice shuddered in her throat as her thighs clamped around my hand and she mouthed a long, “Mmmm. Ooooh.”

We lay still for a while, skin on skin, my mouth pressed to her left breast. At last, I could see a way forward. Was it too much wine, or the porn images? I’ll never be sure. But something had moved Laura, and in doing that, moved me, into a different pattern of thinking.

It wasn’t an immediate success. But mutual masturbation led us into greater confidence leading us to take those gradual steps until, after just a few months, my hardness was welcomed wildly into the core of her femininity. We both agree that circumstances had led us to our joyous fulfilment.

One night, many years later, we played the tape (never claimed) and Laura cried contemptuously at the screen:

“Amateurs!”