I was hot and horny as hell.
Which was typical of me. I’m twenty-five, and I’m healthy, and a healthy girl is always thinking about sex.

Once I had a wild fling on an otherwise boring weekend holiday in Edinburgh, with a guy I met who turned out to be a psychiatrist. He agreed with me, after hours and hours of our naked cavorting in a hotel, that I was a sex addict; although he did stress he wouldn’t change me for the world.

It turned him on that I was so sexual, and we turned a dull weekend in a grey city into something wonderful for the two of us.

So, what was the problem?

He closed the door behind us, and led me through to the back of the shop. ‘If you don’t mind, you can get changed in the stock cupboard,’ he said. ‘We’re not posh enough here to have staff changing rooms, but you’ll soon get used to it.’

‘Oh, don’t worry, Chris,’ I said warmly. ‘I’m used to getting my clothes off in unusual places.

You know, when I see a good-looking man, the first thing I think about is sex. I want to see him naked, and I imagine running my hands impatiently over his hot body.

I can’t help it: it’s just how I am.

I’d love to be tried out,’ I said, with a suggestive smile. ‘One should always explore something, before one goes in deeper.’

I saw a little flicker of fun in his eyes.

Excuse me,’ I said cheerily. ‘Is the job still going?’ I pointed to the notice.

‘Of course,’ he said, looking back at me with a warm smile. I think he was as hopeful as I was about where this could lead to. ‘We need all the hands we can get.’

I looked at the tight swell of his shirt against his chest, and thought, 'Mmm, yes, I can imagine my hands getting your fucking clothes off right now.