When I was in the Army my first posting out of training was Northern Ireland. The Troubles were officially over so there wasn't as much shooting any far fewer bombs but still dodgy enough that we weren't allowed to go drinking in Belfast (I was on a camp about 10 miles outside the city).
However, the RUC (police) country club on the outskirts of Belfast had a disco on the first Saturday of every month which we were allowed to go to and which the regiment would lay on minibuses for with armed drivers. So every month we'd go down there there and get blown out by hot RUC girls.
One Saturday night I was on the minibus back and on the road of seats behind was a lad called Steve from a different troop who I knew vaguely and his obscenely Scottish (and obscenely wasted) missus. Being Scottish and pissed they were, of course, having a full blown domestic.
The crux of the argument was that John (a good mate of mine from training) was in his troop and was being bullied and she was angry about him not standing up for John. As it goes the bullying allegations were true and a few months later John would be caught signing an on-call bag (1x MP5, 1x Browning 9mm and a few hundred rounds) out of the armoury while both (a) hammered and (b) in possession of a list of the people he was going to kill. I was on the list because he thought I'd fucked his girlfriend. I hadn't, as it happens, but I'd have risked the shooting because she was gorgeous.
So Steve isn't enjoying his journey back to camp and, as we come through the gate onto camp and pull up at the main NAAFI where we were all getting kicked off the bus he asks me to come back to the house with him and talk to Mrs Steve. Personally I thought it was a waste of time because I could barely understand about 10% of her angry Glaswegian and I was terrified I'd end up getting knifed too if I was in their house when the inevitable happened and she went to town on him with the kitchen utensils.
He insisted though so I went back to their quarter. She calms down a little bit, presumably because even in Scottish society outright domestic violence in front of guests is considered rude and we all sit on the sofa with a drink.
Steve passes out after about a minute because he's both absolutely twatted himself and also a huge lightweight and I'm left speaking to fucking Braveheart, who might as well be speaking Gaelic, about John and how all of his troop are "a bunch of fucking cunts". Particularly, as it transpires, her husband. He is, from what I can decipher, a "fucking useless wee alchie cunt who can't get it up". Nowadays I'd know exactly where this was going but 18 year old me was quite frankly still waiting for the blue face paint and large blades to make an appearance.
A few minutes later and she obviously realises that she's going to have to make it a bit more obvious why she's not hacked me to pieces and stood over my twitching body screaming "FREEEEDDOOOMMMMMMMM" so she grabs me and sticks her tongue down my throat.
Now she's not an unattractive woman so I don't have any major objections to this but I did feel like I should point out that her husband was sitting on the other side of me and while I'm a lot bigger than him he might still take offence if he woke up and found me with my tongue in his wife.
"Dinnae worry about him big man. The useless cunt willnae awake up until morning. I need cock, so shut the fuck up and get on with it" and she unbuttoned my jeans and started yanking on it like I owed her money.
So I bent her over the arm of the sofa, lifted her skirt up and had her from behind about four feet from her unconscious husband. She nearly screamed the place down cumming, which he slept through, until I came inside her. Ten minutes rest and she made me sit on the sofa again and blew me until my second load went down her throat. Then she told me that was exactly what she needed and that it was time for me to fuck off.
She wasn't my first married woman (I might tell the other story another time) but she was the only one where I had her virtually bent over her husband.