It was two weeks before Christmas and I had been compelled to swap the heat of the Caribbean, where I was living, for the chill of England. Family business. A funeral, in fact.

I was travelling in the warmest clothes I had - a thick cotton suit that I could never wear in the tropics because it was just too hot. But having been living out there for a few years, I didn't have a coat or an outdoor jacket, or even a sweater or fleece.

That. though, was not the main source of my disgruntlement. I had left behind a world of sexy black women to come to a place of pale skin. Not that I want to disrespect white girls, or women of any colour and shade. I grew up with the sweet nectar of white girls on my fingers and later my cock. It's just that recently I have become partial to dark chocolate. I don't really know why. The feel of their skin, the way they use their tongue when they kiss? Maybe.

Their willingness to get down and dirty? Again, maybe. You can't generalise about black women any more than you can about white English girls or Japanese girls. There are those who love sex and are uninhibited and there are those who are more reserved. But I had been finding that the Caribbean women suited me, and I was now middle aged, when dark skinned women seem to come into their own. They can handle the extra weight that comes with age and their skin still glows and their lips are still plump.

Whatever. This is not meant to be an essay on the delights of black women, I'm just thinking out loud.

I had to get a coach home because my destination was hundreds of miles from Heathrow. There were two queues and as I shivered in one I became aware of a woman about my age in the other. Every time I looked at her she was looking at me and it turned into a game, with her averting her eyes a nanosecond too late and finally smiling because the game was up. In a few seconds we had established we were interested in each other.

She was wearing a cheap white fur coat and her hair was straight, silky and blonde. But she was black. African-looking. I watched her as she walked off into the coach departure lounge, her ticket in her hand, while I waited impatiently in my queue.

When I finally had done the deal, I walked  into the lounge and there she was. I marched straight up to her and started talking – just about the queue, the airport, the cold.

Her name was Brenda and she was originally from Zimbabwe but now lived in Nottingham and was on her way back there. I was going to Taunton, the other direction. But we got along so naturally that she gave me her number and somehow I felt that we would meet again.

Back in the south west with a UK mobile number I sent her little texts and enjoyed her replies. She was fun in my kind of way – you know other people’s idea of fun is not necessarily yours, but we suited each other. Gradually I concluded that she was a decent person, respectable and trustworthy, and I wanted to make this count.

I was only going to be in Taunton three days. I told her when I would be back at the airport to return to the sun, and she said she would meet me there. We arranged it for the day before my flight and I fantasised about a night with this beautiful, smiling, slightly fleshy dark woman.

Our arrangement kept a smile on my face throughout my stay at home, to the extent that people noticed and asked me what I was up to. I shrugged noncommittally and left it to their imagination.

Soon the day came and I was on that coach the second it arrived. I wasn’t entirely convinced that Brenda would show up, because after all, if I was slightly apprehensive about our arrangement, how must she be feeling?

But as I swept into the arrivals, there she was. Same fur coat, same shiny hair and same faint air of amusement with the world.

As I walked towards her I wondered how we were going to greet each other, because if we seemed stiff and uncomfortable it would look odd. I decide to give her a hug, and she had obviously had the same thought, because we kissed cheeks and it must have looked like we were old friends.

I noticed some makeup on her collar and wondered why she was wearing so much. Anyway, I would soon find out. I was going to fuck her the minute we got in the hotel room, then again at bedtime and in the morning. We hadn’t discussed anything, but it was an unspoken certainty. She wanted our little relationship as much as I did.

At the hotel she sat down discreetly while I checked in, putting her down as my wife. It was one of those sterile, very functional hotels with no personality and a dead sound in the corridor.

As soon as the door closed behind us we were in each other’s arms and I was slipping her coat off and unzipping her knee-length cream polyester dress. As it slid to the floor she put it in the wardrobe while I got undressed down to my underpants. So far, so married-life. It felt perfectly natural, as if we had done it many times before, but of course that was going to change in a moment when we made love for the first time.

We held each other close and I unhooked her bra. She kissed my chest and as my hand slid into her knickers she took a handful of my balls and then slipped inside to grasp my erection.

Then she disengaged and pulled her hair off – a wig – revealing a thin, compacted crop of real, black, curly hair. She fluffed it up  and shook her head.

“Are you disappointed?” she asked quietly.

“You’re beautiful,” I replied.

The kissing was fantastic. She was animated and sensual, knowing how to stimulate me just with an innocent old tongue. My middle finger found her hole and plunged up it. We hadn’t exchanged more than a few dozen words and some text messages, and we knew next to nothing about each other, but in no time we were in bed and I was on top of her, between her legs.

We locked together, my cock inside her, as if we were afraid of losing the opportunity, and we both smiled with the relief of it before unlocking again so I could go down on her.

I kissed her lovely full breasts and sucked her unusually delicate, thin nipples. Then she pushed me off  and slid gracefully down my body to take my cock in her mouth. She sucked me gently and lovingly and her fingers roamed my back and my crack as I caressed her head, felt her ears and stroked her cheeks.

I found myself telling her how wonderful she was and then telling her to come up, because there was something I wanted to do to her.

Brenda lay expectantly on her back, smiling her gentle smile. She was mine completely, happily, relaxed and content.

I sucked her clitoris and licked her pussy. She was shaven down there, but even left alone there probably wasn’t much hair. Her juices were flowing and coated my cheeks and chin as I slavered over her like a hungry animal.

“Turn over,” I whispered. She did so without question and sighed with pleasure as I waited at her buttocks, kissing them and poking my tongue between them until she knelt up  little to allow me full access.

I licked Brenda’s arse and it felt like that was my purpose in life, that everything had been leading up to this divine, bizarre moment when I was rimming a beautiful African woman who I didn’t really know at all.

She moaned with those sensuous, primeval, slightly disbelieving sounds of a woman in ecstasy. I love it when a woman really appreciates having her arsehole licked. It turns me on even more and makes me want to stay down there forever. I loved Brenda’s naturally shiny black woman’s crack, so receptive and welcoming. I licked her and licked her until she came to a magnificent, shuddering climax and started muttering endearments to me.

I climbed back up and kissed Brenda and we were lost in a blissful feeling.

But we weren’t finished. I lay between her legs again and her stomach felt so warm and soft. It all just felt right as I slipped inside her again and ploughed up and down, in and out, my tongue on her neck and my fingers in her crack, wanting to possess her completely. For her part, she was open to me, access all areas. I could tell she had decided, as I had, that although this might be a fleeting relationship, we were going to give it everything.

I poked a finger into her arsehole, slick and easy with her vaginal juices, and she grunted her approval., so I pushed in further, deeper, faster and she mumbled something in a language I didn’t understand, but it was obviously good. She began to whimper and then gave a suppressed squeal as she came, putting a hand around my balls as if to encourage my spunk to enter her.

And my spunk rushed into her, spurted into her pussy, up her dark canal, taking with it not just my lust but a daily helping of love for this unbelievable woman and her kindness in taking me into her body and, all too briefly, into her heart.

We showered and went down to dinner. She asked if I would prefer her to wear the wig, but I didn’t know why she would think that. I told her again she was beautiful as she was, and throughout the meal we stared into each other’s eyes and occasionally held hands across the table. My knee lodged between her legs the whole time and we luxuriated in the heavenly  experience we had been given together.

After dinner we went back upstairs to what now felt like the honeymoon suite and before she could take her dress off I removed her knickers, made her kneel on the sofa and rimmed her again. I could tell she liked receiving as much as I liked giving and this controversial, often misunderstood act was like a confirmation of our devotion. She came with tumultuous writhing before wrenching off her clothes, pulling my trousers and underpants down and sucking me off as I stood there, incredulous  at my luck.

We slept the sleep of the blessed and I woke in the morning to a warm, happy smile and a kiss before she flung herself down and sucked me again.

All too soon it was over. She had spent all her money coming to meet me so I gave her some to cover the fare. Then she went back to the Midlands and I went back to the other side of the Atlantic, both with a precious memory to treasure forever.