My personal research into the world of adultery started a few years ago, when I was already safely ensconced in the newly married nest and matching cosy status. The first person over whom I entertained lustful thoughts was my Pilates instructor. Predictable, I know, and slightly tawdry, but the analysis of this issue's infancy is quite interesting.   

There I was, with my legs both up in the air and over my head, when the young instructor decided to come over and lean over my already overstretched limbs, pushing my feet further beyond my head. It was then, when my legs obediently followed and my spine curled up away from the floor, that I looked at his face hovering over mine and noticed the first ironic glimpse of surprised lust: my body was talking the only language a fitness instructor would understand: 'I am supple and giving, and will do as you ask.' His grip on my ankles got firmer.

Now, it is true that I am - and keep - in good shape. I understand the surprise in the eyes of a boy barely out of his teens in seeing a woman in her early thirties whose body responded to the demands of his class with the skill of a flexible telephone cable. It was irritating nevetheless: flirting should take place on my terms, not on the basis of how far my coccyx will rotate on its axis. 

I smiled at him between my legs, which was awkward, and whispered that the singular of "vertebrae" is "vertebra". I reasoned that, if I couldn't confess that my ankles are the most erogenous part of my body, at least I could give him some street-cred over his use of Latin in his classes. 

Later on that night, when I was analysing the events that had taken place earlier (like only women can, re-playing the moment and its repercussions), I swear that I could still feel his hands on my ankles. 

Of course, nothing ever happened beyond the occasional comment on my physical prowess and his use of Latin; of course I occasionally wondered what those rippling muscles would feel like under my sensual touch, and indulged in thinking of alternative kinds of press-ups, but my imagination did not extend to the fully-blown carefully staged fantasy involving him grabbing me and pulling my hair back, gently but firmly, to kill any possible resistance before taking me there and then on the Pilates mat. 

Yes. That was the beginning, my dear reader. I was a long way from reaching the pinnacle of my sexual fantasies, where all personal will must be removed to achieve the perfect satisfaction of being possessed without the spoiling sense of guilt. A long way.