It was my great good fortune a few short years ago to spend some time in Guyana, and I became a member of a small church in the capital, Georgetown. It was there that I met Mollie, with whom I shared a pew whenever she was there, and I have already written about her in a story called Gentle Persuasion. We got together only once, just before I left the country.

But Mollie wasn’t the only attractive middle-aged black woman in that congregation. There was Jean, a kindly little woman with a sparkle in her eyes. She was older and seemed tired and worn down by the grind of a long life. I didn’t have the heart to try it on with Jean, because I wasn’t sure she would go for it and if she didn’t react well it would spoil my relationship with her and, I felt, the entire community.

The horniest of all the women there was Jennifer, a lively character with proud breasts and a bottom that cried out to be worshipped. From the moment I saw her I wanted to crawl up her skirt and stay there.

Jennifer was feisty, though. That’s another word for argumentative, and it meant I sensed she was trouble – the sort with whom you could share a beautiful night of unspeakable debauchery but it would count for nothing the next time you were on opposite sides of a discussion.

She was a sort of sidekick to Alannah, a tall, statuesque piece of ebony beauty who was, in fact, too substantial and too perfect for most men to consider. She was bigger, heavier and stronger than me, and although very feminine, she was intimidating.

Alannah was always dressed to kill in tight, slinky short dresses and her Facebook page was a catalogue of glamour shots as she sprawled on sofas and beds, a come-hither look in her eyes.

She was about as far removed from the stereotype of a church minister as I could imagine, and yet that was her ambition. St Barney’s had no regular priest because it was too small to justify the expense, so on many occasions one of us was called upon to do the honours, leading the service. Sometimes it was Alannah and sometimes it was me, which she resented greatly, as I was a middle-aged white man reeking of privilege and clearly not to be trusted. All of this radiated from Alannah’s eyes when I was in charge, and as Jennifer was her henchwoman, she glared too, but with less intensity because she gravitated naturally to the winning side, so she had half a foot in my camp.

On Alannah-Sundays I would sit, with or without my friend Mollie, and gaze in totally inappropriate lust at the woman who brought new depths of meaning to the term “lay preacher”. She would stand there, bursting out of a bright red sheath of manmade fibres while reading the call-and-response segments or giving a sermon which she always prefaced with an explanation that the message was going to be simple – a dig, as I saw it, at my more cerebral offering on the days when I was in charge.

My religious beliefs made it possible to resent her and love her at the same time, with the undercurrent of sexual lust pushing her further into the good side. It’s impossible to really dislike someone when your dearest wish is to take her clothes off and bury your head in her crotch.

I said nothing when the elders such as Mollie and Jean complained about their occasional leader’s outrageous mode of dress.

So that was the cast of this Sunday show. An embarrassment of riches, to use that peculiar old phrase. It was hard to concentrate in the presence of such pulchritude.

While I took the softly-softly approach with Mollie, for whom I had genuine feelings, that wasn’t satisfying the cravings that each service only aggravated.

One Sunday when Mollie was absent, I found myself sitting next to Sybil, a regular, but not on a weekly basis. Sybil was there once a month or so. She was, you might say, amply upholstered. If she hadn’t managed her size so cleverly with her choice of attire and a certain inner confidence, she could have been a sad, untidy sight, but as it was, she elevated herself far above her natural station in the beauty stakes. She wore blouses that probably weren’t meant to be tight but which hugged her body and showcased her breasts, while her thighs appeared firm beneath the sleek black trousers which wrapped them.

Sybil sat too close to me, her legs touching mine from hip to calf. I didn’t flinch and she didn’t readjust, which was all we both needed to know. As we rose and sat down again we remained conjoined, and it didn’t go unnoticed by Alannah, who cast disapproving looks in my direction, attempting to separate us with her eyes.

After the service, I offered Sybil a life home. I had no idea where she lived and it turned out to be in the opposite direction from my place, in a quiet street near an army base. She invited me in.

Sybil’s house was alive with the smell of roast chicken, which she had cooked by courtesy of the timer of her electric oven.

“Are you doing anything for lunch?” she asked.

“Cheese sandwich,” I replied.

“Plenty of food here,” she said, “and some wine if you like.”

He looked at me hesitantly, as if half expecting me to admonish her for her sinful lifestyle.

“Great,” I said. “Shall I open it?”

Over the next hour, we finished the bottle - a cheap Chilean Merlot which I also bought, probably from the same shelf where she too scanned the prices rather than the labels – and made inroads into another one. We went through our life stories and she showed me pictures of her children, all now adults and having moved away.

She made no mention of a man, as was common among the women in Guyana. They saw no reason to marry and when a relationship had run its course, it was just them and the kids and they were happy with that.

When they needed sex they would arrange it, apparently able to find willing and suitable men easily enough. And that, I concluded, was where I came in. There would be no need for me to dress this situation up. Sybil and her talking thighs had communicated with me hours ago.

She respected herself and didn’t consider herself “easy” because it was her decision: it was when she chose and in this case where she chose, in the safety of her own home.

We sat together on the settee and she leaned against me. I put my left arm around her and she snuggled closer.

“You’re unusual,” she said. “People don’t know what to make of you.”

“I’m just an ordinary working man far from home and making a life for myself as best I can,” I replied. “There are nice people everywhere; this place just has more than most.”

I leaned across and kissed her, my hands roaming her exotic landscape, slipping beneath the tail of her untucked shirt and stroking her back. She unbuttoned the shirt, revealing a lacy black bra that contained her delectable breasts. I pulled the left one out and kissed it, then sucked the nipple and she wriggled.

“That’s nice,” she said, settling back to be pleasured. Her hand wandered onto my leg and she felt my expanding cock and gently squeezed my balls.

“Let me touch you,” she whispered.

I unzipped my trousers and pulled my cock out. Sybil dipped her head and sucked me.

“Mmm, this is nice,” she said. “Let’s go to bed.”

In her small, dark, cluttered bedroom we quickly undressed and she lay on her back, legs slightly parted and her splendid body at my disposal.

“I like to be licked,” Sybil said simply.

“All over?” I asked.

“ALL over,” she replied.

I kissed her mouth and our tongues promised each other their full attention and access all areas. I kissed her neck as her hands played with my balls and my buttocks. As I descended to her belly she stroked my back and when I reached her pussy she caressed my ears. I lifted her legs to lick all over her crotch and the sweet, pipe-tobacco aroma of her bottom drifted into my nostrils.

I poked my tongue into her arse.

“Yes?” I asked.

“Oh yes,” she replied. “Yes, please.” She pulled her legs as high as she could go and fell over onto her side, then got up onto her hands and knees.

“Again,” she urged, and I licked her arse lovingly.

“You’re very beautiful,” I said.

“You don’t need to say that,” she said quietly.

“I mean it,” I replied. “You have a beautiful body.”

“Big,” she said dismissively.

“I love it,” I assured her. “All of it.”

“You like doing that to me?” she asked.

“I love it,” I said.

“Make me cum,” she said urgently. “Just like that.”

I licked her passionately, carefully, insistently, and I felt her becoming more and more excited. Finally, she came exultantly and I could feel her smiling. The smile was verified when she rolled onto her back.

“Get inside me,” she said. “I need you in there.”

I lay in idyllic comfort between her legs and my grateful cock plunged up her hole. Her vaginal walls were oily marshmallows of intimate femaleness, caressing my cock as it strove to take her to ecstasy. Her fingers played with my arse as she, in turn, urged me towards orgasm. We were fellow passengers on a relentless train journey to heaven.

“Baby,” she breathed. “Honey, you’re driving me crazy. I’m going to cum again.”

Sybil began to bounce as I had never known before, fucking me back and taking my delicate control out of my hands. I found myself hurtling down the road to climax, helpless but safe in the knowledge that she was about to have her second.

When she came she wrapped her arms around me and whispered in my ear.

“Give it to me.”

“Give you what?” I said, toying with her.

“Give me your spunk,” she said, drooling at the delicious naughtiness, the divine sinfulness of what we were doing.

We came together, both clinging on for dear life as fabulous orgasms surged through us. I emptied myself into her depths and her cunt squeezed my cock to get every available drop.

Afterwards, we lay together and marveled quietly at our good fortune.

“I didn’t think you fancied me,” she said with a little giggle. “I thought you were in love with Mollie.”

“I do love Mollie,” I admitted. “But we’re not… lovers like this.”

“Are you and I lovers?” Sybil asked sincerely.

“Yes,” I replied. “You know we are.”