Having sex where I might get caught used to be one of my thrills.

Going to an all-girls Catholic school for eleven years had messed with my mind.
By the time I was having sex I couldn't get enough of it.
It was decadent and naughty and all the delicious things guaranteed to send me straight to Hell.
Like icecream I had my favourite flavours, but guilty, bad-girl, naughty sex was the tastiest. The naughtier the better.
Indeed, it was the very badness of sex that made it so delicious.
Oh and I was greedy. Where and when didn't matter as long as I got it when I wanted it.
No one wants a tantrum now, do they?
So I always got my treat.
I got it in the car, I got it on the beach, I got it in the University typing room, I got it in the library, I got it in a hollowed out log in the bush, I got it in my wardrobe, I even got it behind my friend's sofa when she left the room to make coffee.

Intoxicating and exhilarating, the thrill of inappropriate pleasuring became an insidious thing, and pervasive. The thrill of the guilty pleasure made the mischief so desirable that it became my drug.
Furtive, fevered, lust-filled forays in the backseat of the car were an orgasmic banquet upon which I feasted, revelling in the wrong, my appetite wild and whet by it's wickedness. Those tedious lectures on the evils of sex before marriage, by nuns who had presumably never had it, ensured it became the best aphrodisiac for feverish frenzied fucking.

So, last night, as my husband struggled to close the bedroom drapes that are a little too flimsy and don't quite meet, I had to laugh.
You see, a few months ago, after a history of sex in appropriate places, we were finally caught in the act, in flagrante delicto, in our bedroom. Our own bedroom!
In the marital bed. Of all places!

It was a moment, as it happened, when both of us were simultaneously facing the gaping division between the drapes. Without my contact lenses I was technically blind, but when my husband, lurching, spluttering - and shrinking - grabbed the covers and threw them over us both I could see there was a problem.

"What the hell!" he gasped. "There's someone at the gate! They were just looking through our window!"

"What? Who?" I giggled.

We stole furtive looks through the gap in the curtain like naughty children.

"I don't know but they're moving hard. They look like Jehovah's Witnesses."

Sure enough, two plainly clothed figures were scurrying out of our courtyard, heads down, books clutched fervently to their chests, their morning evangelism soiled by what had been witnessed, a witness glaringly incongruous with their vision.
Visions incongruous! Indeed!
Funnily enough, after all those years of flagrantly inappropriate sex, this interlude was likely to be remembered as the most intrusive and exposed.
Here, in the marital bed! A million years later...

We laughed. Because it was perfect.
All alone, in the privacy of our own home, in our very own bedroom, we had been made to feel the naughtiest.
We'd even had the curtains closed!

Well, sort of...