Millie was a fine figure of a woman. I know that's an expression that is often used only semi-seriously, like an old-fashioned compliment, but in this case it was true. She was beautifully constructed, medium height, nicely upholstered with firm flesh and just a light extra layer of post-30 fat smoothing her body out beautifully. And to top it all, she was of African heritage. Wonderful, smooth, very dark skin, slightly flared nostrils giving her a feisty look and there was a dignity about her face. When she was adopting no expression at all, she looked like the queen of the world: a wise, sensuous, caring woman who could satisfy any man on earth sexually.

Please put away your prejudices, plus any loyalties and fears, while I explain my attraction to this woman. I had met several lovely Caribbean women online, on a dating site called Ebony Adventurers, which was primarily for black people who seemed to like to keep to their own kind. Are the women afraid of being compared with white girls, those saintly feminine creatures who can look so innocent and pure? I don't know.

What I do know is that interracial sex is incredibly exciting. There is an extra element of "we shouldn't be doing this," the feeling that what we're doing is extremely rude and almost taboo. And the women feel like that about having sex with white men, too. They have grown up with the belief that it is somehow different, that a white penis feels different and white semen tastes different. And many white men are brought up with the idea that black sex is a more full-on, no-holds-barred affair.

There is a name for my aspect of this, among those who feel they must ascribe a technical term to such things: for a white man to be so attracted to black women in general is known as black fetishism. That sounds a little harsh, a bit critical, as if there is something wrong with it. But nobody objects if you say you've got a thing about blondes, or redheads, or big-breasted women. So what if I find a certain colour scheme sexy? It doesn't hurt anybody.

It's all just sex in the end. There may be an element of curiosity, but isn't there always? There are differences between one English rose and another, or one icy Polish blonde and another who looks much the same, just as there are between two Asian women of similar appearance and two chestnut brown Zimbabwean girls who can both make a man explode with passion.

Having discovered the delights of this mix-and-match experience, I am all for it. I had come to the Caribbean to increase the likelihood of meeting a particular kind of girl, and sure enough they were everywhere in this island, Antigua, starting with the first one I spoke to. Millie was the daughter of the owner of the cheap hotel I had booked, and she had picked me up from the airport. Her mother, Dilys, was a fierce old dame who clearly disliked me on sight. She immediately had me pegged as a privileged middle-class man with limitless money who was to be exploited.

Having checked in and dumped my suitcase in my room, when I asked where the nearest ATM was and she said two miles away, and there was no bus, she had offered to take me there for $20, then revised it to $30 because she would have to wait while I did my business. Millie was sitting in the back office, listening to her Mum trying to stitch the poor man up, and after a while she had come through and offered to take me there herself, without mentioning a charge. I accepted gratefully and didn't ask questions because she had been friendly so far and seemed like a kind person, without the bad attitude of her elder.

In this second little encounter, there was an electricity between Millie and me as soon as she opened her mouth. So much so, in fact, that we both had to rein it in until we got in the car. At least I think I was involved in that decision. Frankly, the feeling was so intense I'd have done anything she suggested. Anyway, for the sake of decency we drove half a mile in silence. When we reached the shopping mall, I asked her if she would like a coffee and she agreed, so we walked to a cafe, "accidentally" rubbing hips and touching arms as we went.

We had a drink and a piece of cake, I withdrew some money and we made it back to the hotel eventually without anything sexual happening, but I was boiling with desire and I felt sure she was too. We both switched it off again to appease Dilys and I went off to my room, a stifling two-piece cell with a little kitchen done out like a 1960s British working-class home or tea room, with red and white checked plastic tablecloth. The bedroom part was just a sad, sagging double bed with a yellow sheet. I found myself imagining Millie lying on it, her exuberant, fleshy body naked and unashamed.

She was solidly built, like many of her peers. Big breasts and big bottoms, which were prized by their suitors, the self-aware stallions who liked to have something to grab hold of. The women were too rough and ready for many British men, but only like the kind of busty, unsophisticated English country wenches of the early 20th century. I saw beyond the lush upholstery to the nice girl, the pleasant, natural little soul who resided there.

Dilys must once have been like that - at least I wanted to think so - before her general resentment of tourists from more affluent countries had soured her.

Wondering what I was going to do about eating that night, I wandered into reception to find Dilys peering into a little hand-held mirror, applying something to her eyes. Seeing it was me, she yelled over her shoulder, "Millie!" and her daughter came through to take over. Dilys was wearing a red satin dress and heels, looking astonishingly sexy as her off-duty beauty took over from her daytime guard-dog gruffness. She was still gruff, but only for my benefit.

A big, old American pickup roared into the yard, kicking up dust that had Dilys muttering, "Only washed the fuckin' windows yesterday" before she waddled out and climbed in beside a man who was about to get an earful that was probably all part of his relationship with this woman. But he hit the accelerator anyway and made a scratching, crunching exit.

I explained to Millie what I had come for, and she sympathised but said she couldn't leave the desk because she was in charge while her mother was out on the town with this man, who was also the local taxi driver.

"Looks like you're stuck here with me," she said cheerfully. I had seen no other guests, which may have accounted partly for the old lady's mood.

"But," said Millie grandly, "I have some curry goat and there's enough for you too. If you like that sort of thing," she tossed in as a sort of barb on the end, in the way she had picked up from Dilys. I had noticed in England that the West Indians tended to spell things as they pronounced them and that was fed back into the system, so if the ed ending wasn't pronounced, it ceased to exist. So it wasn't a goat curry or curried goat, but curry goat. At least she was speaking more or less standard English, whereas put another islander in the room and they would have been chuntering away in a language I thought I should understand but didn't, apart from maybe the "y'unnerstan?" as an automatic finisher.

"Great," I said politely. "That's very nice of you." She smiled demurely, and I began to melt, as I had earlier in her presence. She was wearing a short denim skirt and pale yellow t-shirt, and her hair was braided and pulled into a kind of knot on top. Black bra straps winked at me from the loose shoulders of her top.

Half an hour later, we were sitting in a big, sparsely furnished, bright red room at the back of the building. Millie had locked up, and there was a doorbell to alert her if anyone came, but the last flight had been and gone, and there were no bookings.

She opened two bottles of the local beer, and we ate the curry while she told me a bit about Antigua and how it had suddenly come to the world's attention when Viv Richards became famous. One of the greatest cricketers of all time, Richards was the most well-known son of Antigua by a long way, and there was now a cricket stadium named after him.

"You like cricket?" she asked, prepared to be disappointed if I turned out to be too posh even for that. "You're not more interested in croquet?"

I smiled and said, "Viv was fantastic to watch. And a nice guy, too."

Millie patted me on the knee. "Good boy," she said happily. A buzz of excitement shot through me and actually made my cock hurt a little. My gaze pivoted to her skirt, where I could see the innocent yet terribly provocative bulge of her white knickers. She knew as well as I did - better, in fact - that they would be coming off soon.

After two more beers each, which would be added to my bill to keep the boss happy, things had mellowed nicely, or rather, we had managed to restrain ourselves while heading inevitably for a physical paradise that was appropriate to the island. Like most in the Caribbean, Antigua was beautiful around the edges but dry and scruffy in the middle.

"You're nice," she said plainly. "Some of the guys we get here for the cricket are idiots."

"Is that why your Mum is like she is with me?"

"Probably," she said. "She's had bad experiences." She put a hand on my leg and then quickly withdrew it. "Would you like to go to the beach tomorrow?" she asked. "I can take you on a little tour." There was one place I needed to see immediately, and I took this invitation as evidence that the girl liked me as much as I liked her. I sat next to her on a huge leather sofa and put an arm around her.

"Look into my eyes," I said softly.

"You sound like a hypnotist," she replied. "Why should I look into your eyes?"

"Because then I will be looking into yours," I said. "And your eyes are so beautiful." Corny, I know, but you don't get points for originality in these situations, plus she liked hearing it, and most importantly, it was true. Millie's eyes were big and bright brown. Hazel, perhaps. Darker than oak, less red than mahogany, but just as rich. Her nose, as I observed earlier, was proud and defiant. Her lips were sensational: full, elegant, sumptuous.

Our eyes locked in an electrified trance, pulling us together until our mouths met and we kissed long and slow. I instinctively put a hand on her left breast, and she responded with her spread fingers and open palm on my balls.

" We can use my Mom's room," she said, "as long as you don't cum all over the sheets." She had a point. This was going to get gloriously messy.

In Dilys's crimson boudoir - and that's what it felt like - we kissed standing up and I slid my hand into Millie's pants, feeling her tightly curled pubic hair. She unzipped my brand new shorts - £9.99 from Matalan - and the weight of my phone and keys shot them to the floor with a clunk. She put her hand in my underpants and took hold of my cock. I was afraid I was going to cum there and then, so I knelt down and, pulling her biggish, sensible knickers down, pushed her back onto the bed and got my face between her thighs. She was fabulously wet down there, in a slippery, creamy way, and the word that sprang to mind was the foodie term umami, meaning savoury, slightly salty, and in this case, utterly female. Feminine if you like, but it was more than that. It was the nectar of a woman.

Quickly undressing, we returned to our natural configuration, I between her legs and she embracing me with her thighs. Then she pulled me up and went down on me. The feel of her body was unbelievable: warm and soft, yet heavy and insistent. Her breasts stroked my legs as she sucked me happily. The nipples caressed my thighs with an uncannily erotic random tenderness.

Then we returned to kissing and I found myself sucking her bottom lip, which led me to her breasts - as fine a pair as any woman in the world possesses - and her armpits, pure and natural and extremely responsive. I kissed and licked her there, and she moved languidly, soaking up my physical adoration.

"Turn over," I said urgently. "I want to kiss your back." She knew what was coming as I kissed her all the way down her spine to her lower mountains. She lifted herself obligingly and allowed me to get my face between her buttocks and lick her arse.

Being unaccustomed to this kind of attention, Millie was surprised to find me still there several minutes later.

"You really like that, don't you?" she said.

"Licking your arse?" I replied.

"Yes. My ass. Or as you say, my 'aarse.'"

"I love it," I said. "I could stay here all night."

But I didn't stay there anything like all night, because we heard the squeak and creak of the big steel gate and then the muted conversation of Dilys and a neighbour.

"Shit, we've got to get out of here," Millie said as we scrambled off the bed. She smoothed the sheets and shooed me away to my room while she composed herself and felt to see if her hair was in place.

An hour later, she sent me a message, apologising and repeating her offer of taking me to the beach. We agreed that just after ten in the morning, I would walk towards the mall, and she would pick me up on the way.

I felt I was falling in love, but that's holiday romances for you. No need to worry about the realities, just plunge into the relationship and gorge on its simple pleasures.

Millie took me to a secluded beach that wasn't as picturesque as the usual ones, but more of a local family number. I spent the day watching Millie and other local girls mooching around with their voluptuous bodies, mostly a little overweight, but they didn't care. That was what they had been given, and they knew their men found them attractive. Did they suspect this random English guy was savouring the sight of them? I don't think they cared about that either.

Millie could tell I adored her, but I was here today and gone tomorrow, or at least by the end of the week, and we were in public, so I couldn't pull down her bikini bottoms and avail myself of their sumptuous contents. But when we sat together to eat or drink a full-sugar Coke, she would sit facing me, legs crossed, and her worldly goods smiling at me from their manmade fibre pouches. You know the thoughts that go through your head: I was going to give up my job and move to Antigua, get some kind of work at the Viv Richards stadium, and live happily ever after with my luscious tropical beauty.

On the way back in the car, she told me she was going out that night: dinner with her father, who didn't live with them. Most of the families were like that, she said, but she considered herself lucky because her Dad was a decent man and he loved her.

That left me at the hotel with the dreaded Dilys. I had bought a bottle of wine and some beers, plus some chops and sausages that Millie said I could cook on the hotel barbecue, a dirty old half oil drum.

I was gamely trying to get the coals to light when the old lady came out. When I say old, I don't mean ancient. Dilys wasn't decrepit or doddery; she was slightly over the hill, and even she would have acknowledged that. But she was also feisty, which is a popular word these days for spirited or forthright (Americans might call it spunky), but actually means argumentative. She could start a fight in an empty church, and I was trying to work out why. Did she feel unloved? Had she had her heart broken? Let's face it, we all have, but some worse than others.

Tonight she was wearing an elaborate, multi-coloured African-style dress that seemed to be wound around her, rather than cut in a certain style. On her head was another piece of the same cloth. The effect was of some sort of tribal queen, and I must admit it suited her. It gave little sense of her body shape but conjured up an air of mystery. She was there to be worshipped.

"Pyramids," she said. "You have to build three little pyramids with a firelighter under each, and they will all start going and then join together." She bustled around, showing me how to do it, and I was struck by the fact that she smelled freshly showered. She wasn't unduly aggressive, either, by her standards. Brusque, yes. Disrespectful, certainly. But not downright hostile. She even set the table with odds and ends of cutlery she must have picked up in second-hand stores, if they had such things.

Dilys set two places. She brought out two tumblers and polished them.

"Wine?" she said. "Don't tell me you want to go and buy some."

"Got some in my room," I said.

"Red or white?" she demanded.

"Both. And some beer."

"We'll have a beer first," she commanded. "Then red. Unless you bought some of that sweet shit from a supermarket." I assured her I had been to the wine shop and this was Australian and probably decent. It had certainly cost enough.

A surprising sense of camaraderie arose quite quickly, with Dilys apparently conceding to herself that I wasn't a complete moron.

During our meal, we struck up an unexpectedly pleasant conversation about cricket. Then, when the food was finished and the conversation dried up, she came straight to the point.

"I'm going to fuck you," she said. "In there, my bedroom." If I didn't blush, it was only because all the blood required for that operation had been used up in my enormous erection. "But first, come with me."

She led me into the kind of shower known as a wet room, where the whole floor could cope with some water.

"Get undressed and lie on the floor," she ordered, and I complied, excitement mixed with trepidation because this woman was a strange character who was capable of anything.

She reached up her skirt and removed a black thong, then stood astride me, skirt raised and knees braced, and urinated. A strong stream of hot piss hit my chest and she moved back and forth so that she doused my cock and balls, then up to my neck and face. Her expression was intense and preoccupied, combining the concentration to keep it flowing with the desire to see how I reacted. A faint, satisfied smile appeared as she ran out of juice.

"Rinse off and dry yourself, then come through there," she said, nodding to the sumptuous red bedroom. When I got in there, she was on all fours on the bed, naked, facing away from me, but when she heard my footsteps, she turned her head, so she was looking at me like a four-legged animal, a beautiful dark brown creature, seeing what was behind her. Her hair was bundled up on top like Millie's, but her pubic region was shaven and shiny, and above her dark peach with the pink split lurked a shiny recess. She noticed where my gaze was going and said quietly, "Yes, you're going to lick my ass. Tell me what you want to do."

"I'm going to lick your ass."

"Do I have permission to lick your ass, Ma'am," she admonished.

"Do I have permission to lick your ass, Ma'am?" I said dutifully.

"You do," she said in a kindly voice.

I got right down to it, and she reached around to pull my head in further, but that wasn’t necessary. She didn't know it, but she had me right where I wanted to be.

I gave her the sexual adoration she wanted, but it was very much a two-way street. As I licked her, I was getting more and more excited.

“Make me cum,” she growled. “Make me cum, make me c… oh I’m cumming.” And with that, she writhed and wiped her saliva-filmed cleft over my face. She took a few seconds to collect herself before sitting cross-legged and looking at me.

“You can masturbate,” she said coolly. “I want to watch you.”

I quickly assessed my options. I wanted to cum in her mouth, but she was calling the shots, and not only did I not want to spoil the mood, I was more than happy with her being in charge, so I would have to wait and see what she offered.

I knelt up and began to wank. She watched me with a sort of fascinated disdain. I strung it out as long as I could, but soon I couldn’t hold out anymore and, reading my face and my mind, she crept forward and said, “On my tits.”

I launched my semen at her magnificent chest, and she rubbed it into her nipples. Then she put her fingers in her mouth and said, “It doesn’t taste bitter at all,” as if she were surprised. As I sat back and then lay down, drained in more ways than one, she launched herself on top of me and, almost in spite of herself, began to cuddle me. I grabbed her head and kissed her, and she acquiesced. I sensed it was a momentous occasion for her. Acquiescence, and with me of all people.