As Sir opens the front door, his hungry eyes trace the inviting outline of my voluptuous figure, accentuated by the sheer camisole I'm wearing. Surprisingly, he groans and turns to leave.

"Where are you going?"

"Service station. We've run out of condoms."

"You can pull out," I suggest.

"You are ovulating. Too risky."

"How do you know I'm ovulating?"

"Twice in a row, you impatiently waited for me at the door, eager and willing."

I'm blushing from embarrassment but tingling with lust as I watch him leave. After he's gone, I check my calendar and realise he's right.