I know what you're thinking. One minute I'm claiming I have no interest in sleeping with a girl 21 years my junior, or indeed any kind of girl at all, and the next I'm letting said girl lead me to her bedroom, my shirt basically hanging off of my shoulders and with sex very much on the agenda.

What can I say? The road to Hell is paved with good intentions.

The proof of the pudding of course, lies in the fact that as I made my way up the stairs I was completely convinced that it wasn't all going to end in sex. Yes, we'd kiss; yes, we'd cuddle – it was what we both needed – but as far as I was concerned, we were going to stop short of full sex.

You don't need me to tell you that that didn't happen.

I'd barely made it through the bedroom door when she turned and took me in her arms again, kicking the door shut with her foot and gently pinning me against it as she kissed me yet again, with levels of passion and intensity that I'd never felt from anyone, let alone her. It made me feel better actually, as if it justified the whole thing – if she was a passionate and sexual being, then she couldn't also be an innocent little girl. It was bad logic in retrospect, but at that moment what did I care? It was easier for me to keep kidding myself, especially since she was very much the one in control.

As a testament to her being the dominant one, I found myself on her bed before I knew what was happening, guided there as she showered me with kisses, and as we tumbled down onto it she finished the job she'd started downstairs and removed my shirt

As we lay on the bed, still kissing, I felt her hands creeping up my back to the clasp of my bra, and again I made an abortive attempt to halt the proceedings but as she silenced me once again, undoing said clasp and slipping the bra from my shoulders, I realised I was fighting a losing battle.

It was going to happen. All I could do was go with it.

And that knowledge in itself brought with it a whole new set of worries.

"I don't know how to have sex with a woman."

I'd blurted it out before I'd even formed the sentence in my head, and as I did so I couldn't help laugh at the irony. Connie Beauchamp, a sexual predator with degree level knowledge of the Karma Sutra becoming a scaredy cat in the face of sex with an 18 year old. I'd been having sex before she was even born, although that wasn't particularly a thought I wanted to dwell on. I half expected her to laugh at me too, but she didn't, instead just smiling supportively as her hands made contact with my naked breasts for the first time.

"It's ok Connie. We'll work it out. I saw a film once."

At that moment with her hands fondling me, I could have very easily have let the comment slide, but curiosity won out, "A film?"

She smiled, "You know, porn. Some guys put it on at a house party I was at. Girl / girl action – you know how much they like that stuff."

Oh I knew. I'd quite often had to endure whatever crap Michael brought home in the hope of turning me on, and I'd seen enough to know that two girls going at each other with hair brush handles while one of their husbands was wanking in the wardrobe was not what I really wanted for Martha and I.

If it was going to happen, it was going to be completely the opposite of any film she'd seen.

It was going to be special.

I'd never be able to live with myself otherwise.