I met Honey through a Christian dating site. I’m a Christian and it’s an unfashionable thing to be, so it made sense to look among kindred spirits. We hit it off immediately, as you can do in cyberland, even though I know you never really know until you meet in the flesh.

She was thoughtful and kind, had a sense of humour I liked and seemed like a decent person.

On the physical side, she was right up my street. She was black, of Barbadian origin, and full-bodied, which is the kind of thing they say about wine, but it applies equally well to a woman.

I’m white, have had many relationships with white women and I’m still a huge fan of the English rose, the dark-haired Irish colleen, the lean, tall Dutch girl, the inscrutable Polish mystery and so on ad infinitum. But in recent years I have become particularly fond of women of African descent, dark and luscious, and often uninhibited. Whatever it is, I love the dignity of a resting black face – a sort of dignity which they don’t know they possess. And that lack of inhibitions: even among those who are private individuals without much experience, they seem willing to do whatever you want at an earlier stage in the relationship than I had come to expect.

I have met shy, quiet, intensely religious black women who gave me free rein to roam their body and put any part of my anatomy anywhere I liked.

And I’m a few pounds heavier than I would like, so a full-figured woman is in the same group as me, you might say.

Honey looked great in her photographs, which were, of course, all utterly respectable, ordinary pictures of a middle-aged woman going about her daily life, sitting at her office desk, smiling, laughing at a Christmas party, posing with family members and trying to divert the spotlight from herself.

It was with considerable surprise and delight that I came across, deep in her Facebook photos, a cheeky shot of her on Wall Street, standing behind a statue of a bull, with her hand cupping its testicles and a suppressed smile on her face.

So, she was aware of what sex was and not averse to a laugh. I didn’t mention it, but I knew then that in the right circumstances we could have some fun in bed.

After a month or so we arranged to meet. I would visit her town and, she insisted, stay in her spare room. Same house, separate room. I didn’t argue with that. It gave me a sporting chance.

I arrived early on Friday afternoon and we went out for coffee. And the reason we did that was that there was this huge spark between us, and I think she was afraid she would get carried away and find herself in bed with me before she had planned to. You might think I’m flattering myself but keep reading and you’ll see.

So we sat in this coffee shop and had afternoon tea and cakes and even there, in broad daylight, we couldn’t stop ourselves from sitting as close together as it is possible to be. Our thighs were jammed together and we even touched at the calf. I had to exert extreme discipline to stop from pulling her into my arms and kissing her. If we had got that far, I felt we couldn’t have stopped and there would have been a scandalous scene in public.

Anyway, we managed to keep it under control and after an hour of incessant talking and glancing furtively into each other’s eyes and at each other’s body, we walked back to the house. We instinctively held hands and then dropped them, because this was her area, where everyone knew her and he couldn’t afford suddenly to be seen, smitten, with someone she had only just met.

I wondered how long we could keep up the screens when we got indoors, but she seemed to relax as soon as we got in, because her daughter was sitting in the kitchen with her boyfriend. They were twenty-something and she was a modern version of her mother: equally buxom and radiant but with the younger woman’s extra licence to thrill. Her jeans and top were tight and showed off her full breasts, beautiful bouncy bottom, and slightly rotund stomach.

If I hadn’t been in pursuit of her mother I would have been wondering how we could lose the boyfriend and get down to brass tacks ourselves.

The couple’s visit had obviously been arranged as a screening process. The daughter gently probed me with seemingly innocent questions designed to draw out things Honey and I hadn’t yet discussed. There was a lot about family, divorces and kids, work, financial situations, and religion, and this went on for an hour before Honey started preparing the table for four people.

It was a very British teatime, with ham and cheese, pickled onions, floppy lettuce salad with vinegar, and then ice cream. No alcohol, just endless cups of tea. And all the while the subtle grilling continued until I was sorely tempted to suggest we continue this another time because her mother and I had our own conversations to have.

Eventually, at about 8:30, the younger generation left us. Honey made a relieved eye-rolling face at me.

“She means well,” she said. “Just looking after her Mum.”

“Quite right, too,” I said. “She ought to join the police.”

“She is a special constable,” Honey told me. “She’s got a real strong sense of right and wrong. I hope you didn’t mind that too much. Anyway, she’s done her duty and I can tell she approves. You did very well.”

In truth, it hadn’t been that bad, because the imagination is a good companion, particularly when your interrogator is a sexy young woman whose body you can fantasise about. During my ordeal, I had mentally undressed her over and over again. I had licked every inch of her beautiful black skin, she had sat on my face and I had cum in her mouth. I had fucked her missionary, then with her legs on my shoulders and I had given her an anal experience she would never forget – except it was only in my head.

And all the time I was having concurrent thoughts about Honey, who was now back at centre stage.

We sat together on the settee and she put on a DVD, a religious film about bad boys and good women and redemption. It was all a bit too nice and unrealistic, as religious films tend to be, but a pleasant enough way to spend ninety minutes in close contact with the object of my affections. We held hands and our legs were like conjoined twins.

I wondered if she would relent about the separate rooms idea, but she didn’t. When she stood up, yawning and talking about things to do tomorrow, she led me to a tiny room at the front of the house, not much bigger than the bay window in which it sat.

There was a single bed and a small table – no room for anything else. Honey wished me goodnight with a little peck on the cheek. I brushed my teeth and washed my cock in the little downstairs bathroom.

Then I got undressed and lay in bed, thinking about having a wank but hoping and praying the evening wasn’t yet over.

After ten minutes there was a knock on the door.

“Yes?” I said.

“Does that mean ‘come in’?” said her slightly uncomfortable voice.

“Come in,” I said.

She wasn’t wearing the clothes she had had on earlier, but a thin cotton thing with buttons up the front. Sexy it wasn’t, but no substantial barrier either. I could discern no bra.

Honey lay beside me on the bed and we kissed. My cock had been alive all afternoon and evening and now it became almost painfully hard. I pulled back the duvet.

“You’re naked,” she said as if surprised.

“I’m in bed,” I replied. “I always sleep like this.”

Now Honey had seen my body and my urgent erection and she hadn’t run away or slapped me. I could tell her brain was working overtime considering what to do about this sexual opportunity. It wasn’t on the schedule but it had arrived and she had two choices: stay or go.

She stayed. She allowed me to kiss her neck and then undo a button.

“This is nice,” I lied.

“It’s a housecoat,” she said dismissively. I could now see her breasts and I reached in and cleared the way, then kissed each one before taking a nipple in my mouth.

“I’ve been very impulsive in the past,” she said. “A couple of years ago I met someone and it all happened very fast – too fast – and we were going to get married and then I came to my senses. It’s not going to happen again.”

“Okay,” I said, thinking, “we’ll see about that.”

She sighed with pleasure as I sucked her nipples (I had moved on to the other one). Her hands were wandering over my chest and stomach and when I looked down at my cock she looked too.

“Do you want me to touch you?” she whispered.

I don’t know why, but I wiped a bit of precum onto my finger and rubbed it into a nipple. She wiped it off immediately with the housecoat, asserting herself. But then she took my shaft in her hand and just held it gratefully.

“Feel my balls,” I said quietly, and she did. She held them carefully, like she had in the bull photo.

Then she lay on her back.

“You can lie on top of me,” she whispered. “But don’t get inside me.”

I lay between her legs and unbuttoned the garment, so her dark, fleshy torso was exposed, and I lay my naked flesh on hers. My cock pressed at the crotch of her knickers.

“Don’t go inside,” she repeated.

With my hand, I rubbed the tip of my cock against the cotton that covered her wet vagina and a dark stain appeared as proof. Part of it was me but mainly it was her, her pussy juice. I rubbed her clitoris and she moved. She didn’t know whether to cooperate or move away, so she did neither. She just lay there and let it happen.

I rubbed again, more intensely, and I could feel her getting excited. Should I pull her gusset aside and slip into her? I knew she would like it, but she had asked me not to, so maybe I should establish my nice-guy credentials and leave that for another time.

My head strayed down towards her crotch and I poked my tongue below the waist of her knickers. She stopped my head with her hand.

"I want to lick you," I said.

"No. Please," she said, firmly but weakly.

"Round the back?" I offered, my hand between her buttocks. I'm always keen to negotiate. She wasn't amused.

But I had to cum. She had been driving me to distraction for hours, she and her daughter, who I was sure had been aware of my desire for the two of them.

I made sure the housecoat was out of the way and I grabbed my cock and wanked furiously. My spunk shot up to her chest, further than I had ever known before. And it kept coming, some high up and some in her navel. She turned her head away but her fingers were in my semen, drawn there without her approval, but by nature, by instinct.

Then quickly she took a spunky finger and plunged it into her knickers. She came in seconds as I collapsed on top of her.

We lay quietly for five minutes before she shrugged me off.

The crisis having passed, she wrenched off her knickers and used them to wipe away my mess.

Then she stood up and left the room.

“I’ll see you tomorrow,” she said.