‘Oh, oh, right . . .’ What the hell did he mean? I had no idea, but, trying to look worldly and suave, I straddled Wayve and pinned his arms down on the bed as forcefully as I could. But then what? I wasn’t sure what my next manoeuvre should be. It struck me that boys his age have watched so much porn that they must expect a pretty sophisticated repertoire. Especially from an older woman. I immediately experienced a performance anxiety I hadn’t felt since those hedonistic hours of enforced folk-dancing in primary school. It was obvious he wanted me to play a role – but of what? Teacher? Prison matron? Mother? Good god, not mother! Paging Doctor Freud to reception . . .

I racked my brain, not sure of the script he craved. I am firmly of the opinion that handcuffs are only acceptable if you’re an undercover police officer. The only thing I’d ever whipped was cream for Amber’s famous pavlova. Ironically, I would have quite liked to be dominated myself: since he’d roughly grabbed my hair to kiss me, the whole Poldark fantasy of the strong young stud unable to control his passion was playing on repeat in my head. The only area in which I was clearly dominant was intellectually. Maybe I should ask him sternly to name the square root of the hypotenuse, or to triple an entendre, or maybe to do a little light quipping in Latin? Discombobulated, I dismounted and rolled to the side.

‘So, what are you into?’ Wayve asked, rubbing my nipple between his fingers. ‘Rope play? Rough verbal? Anal? BDSM?’

‘Um . . .’ was the only reply that leapt immediately to mind. It seemed that I was now the one failing the audition for the Algonquin Round Table.

He kissed his way down my body and my pulse quickened. I felt his tongue flick under the lacy edge of my lingerie and brush back and forth across my vulva for a blissful few seconds. Just as I was surrendering to the joyous idea of finding myself in one of those subtitled European movies, Wayve said something I couldn’t quite catch.

‘What?’

‘Hair?!’ he said, perplexed, before drawing back.

‘Um . . . yes, well, we are mammals,’ I pointed out, reassuringly.

Wayve tugged Emerald’s ‘Lover’s Spark’ Brazilian briefs down to my thighs and gazed, amazed, at my nether regions. I kissed the top of his head, stroking his shoulders encouragingly . . . but, glancing down at his naked body, I realised that my toy boy’s impressive appendage had deflated faster than a beachside li-lo at the end of summer.