I had been going to this evening class for a few weeks, learning to do fancy things on Microsoft, and there was more to it than met the eye. In some ways I felt like an idiot, because although I used Word every day just for writing, there were all these other things you could do with it, and all the secretaries and administrators knew more than I did.

My attention started to wane and my mind began to wander, and where it wandered to was a classmate called Letitia. She was a mature, that is middle-aged, woman from somewhere in the Caribbean, a dark-skinned, big-bodied woman who always dressed smartly, wrapped up in tight skirts and blouses. Too tight, some would say, but when you’re an admirer of the full-figured female form, as I am, there is nothing wrong with seeing the bulges, the rolls of flesh on the stomach and the straining seams on trousers that leave you in no doubt as to the style of underwear she prefers.

There were no reservations from my side, then, about getting to know Tish, as she liked to be known. And I gathered that she quite liked me too, but there is often a barrier between a white man and a black woman: a barrier she herself puts up for reasons I can never understand.

I’m not saying I expect to be waved through into her knickers with no negotiation – that’s just standard man-woman relations. But there was something about Tish that made her repel my advances, even in the early stages, when all I was doing was looking at her and making friendly conversation. She seemed suspicious of me.

I kept at it, though. Every week I would try to leave the building with her when the class finished, and strike up some spurious conversation about an aspect of what we had been looking at that night.

Eventually I decided I would  try to get her to go for a drink with me. And how was I going to do that? I was going to ask her. Simple, and yet daunting, as many men will agree. It’s such an easy, natural thing to do, and yet when you’re about to say it you feel like some sort of pervert, as if she could read your thoughts and know that what you’re really saying is 'let’s get the formalities over with, do a bit of chat and getting to know each other so we can move on to the real business: getting you naked and doing sex stuff with you.'

No matter how much we tell ourselves that they’re interested in having a sex life too, we still feel a bit guilty about it.

Well I do, anyway. Some guys don’t seem to suffer from this affliction and can just steam in with a smile and a cheeky remark and the next thing you know they’re fucking her.

Anyway, as we walked to the cars I broke off from the thread of conversation – text boxes and illustrations, something like that - and said what was on my mind.

“Wanna go for a drink?”

“What, now?” she replied.

“Yeah,” I said. “There’s a pub there and it’s quite early. I thought we could… ”

“Okay,” she said, stopping and giving me a knowing look. “I knew you were getting round to that.”

And so we went to this big pub, the kind that does a lot of food and is busy early on but half empty later because the customers are more interested in eating than drinking.

We sat in a corner, miles away from anyone else – my idea, fucking pervert that I am – and we chatted slightly nervously for a few minutes before I began to relax.

“You knew I was getting round to what?” I ventured.

“Asking me out,” Tish said.

“Have I asked you out?” I said playfully. “It’s just an extension of the evening class.”

“Oh,” she said. “Right.” She seemed a bit insulted.

“I mean it’s not a big deal,” I said, digging myself deeper into a hole that threatened to keep me out of hers.

“Try again,” she said with a slight laugh.

“Okay, I asked you out,” I said. “I wanted to get to know you a bit.”

“Because… ?”

“Because I like you,” I said uncomfortably. “I find you interesting.”

“Interesting?” she pursued. “In what way?”

“God,” I said, exasperated, trying to get the conversation back onto a stable path. “You’re a nice woman.”

“Why shouldn’t I be?” she said.

“Okay,” I said. I’m sorry. I thought…”

“No, it’s okay,” she said, touching my hand. “I’m being silly. Some people in this country think I’m a  sort of novelty. Because of my colour.” She looked at me for a comment.

“I like your colour,” I said. “It doesn’t make any difference. Actually, it does,” I corrected. “There are sexy women of all colours and nationalities. But… ”

The rest of that line was 'a sexy black woman is the sexiest of all', but I regretted using the word sexy in the first place, in case she thought I really was some kind of fetishist who was turned on by her ethnicity rather than her personality. Which was partly true.

“But what?”

“I’m sorry,” I blundered, “I shouldn’t have said you were sexy.”

“Oh, thanks,” she said.

“You are,” I said. "I think you are," By the little smile on her face I guessed she was sort of playing with me.

“So should I be worried if you invite me to your place round the corner?” she said, patting my hand again.

“How do you know I live round the corner?”

“You mentioned it once in class.”

Fifteen minutes later we were at my place around the corner. Tish had gone to get her car and parked it outside. She was making things easy for me and I wasn’t sure why.

We sat together and then she got up to look at my CDs and stood there too long, facing away from me. I walked up behind her and put my arms around her. She murmured her approval and I kissed the back of her neck. She turned around to face me and we fell into a long, passionate kiss. I found myself stroking her back and then her arse and up to her breasts. As my hand dived between the buttons of her blouse and began feeling her tits, her right hand move straight down and, fingers spread wide, felt my cock and balls.

The kiss grew more and more intense until I felt we should lie down, so without a word I led her into the bedroom. We kicked off our shoes and lay down.

My hand was now up her skirt, stroking her smooth, fleshy thighs, and she unzipped my jeans and put her hand inside, squeezing me gently.

“Have you ever been with a black woman?” she asked quietly.

“Yes,” I said.

“And?”

“And what?”

“Did you like it?”

“Yeah,” I said, groping for words.

“Nothing different about it?”

“Everything’s in the same place,” I said. “You ever been with a white guy?”

“You’re the first,” she said. “All I ever seem to meet here is black guys. My boss is Nigerian and the whole office is black.”

She worked for a lawyer who specialized in visa work.

“And?” I said back at her.

“And so far so good,” she replied. “Are you going to show me how relaxed and open minded you are? Not the uptight white guy of legend. Not you particularly, but, you know.”

I slid my finger inside her vagina and she gasped.

“Are you going to lick me?” she said with a giggle.

“All over,” I promised.

“Undress me, then,” she said firmly. “Don’t be shy.”

I peeled her clothes off and it was like unwrapping a big Christmas present, or a collection of presents. Her breasts were big and firm with fabulously chewable nipples.

“You can bite them,” she said, so I did.

Her stomach was bigger than many, but again it was firm and I kissed my way down it until I reached her knickers. I pulled them off and couldn’t stop myself sniffing them.

“You are a pervert,” she admonished. “I like it. Are you really going to lick me all over?”

“Everywhere I can reach,” I said, nuzzling her crotch with my nose. She smelled slightly different from most of the pussies I had experienced, certainly different from the white ones.

“Mmm, chew my lips,” she breathed. I chewed her lips and licked her slit, my tongue invading it as far as I could go, pulling it apart with my thumbs.

“All over,” she whispered, turning over so my face was looking at her arse.

“Kneel up,” I said, and she did, I parted her buttocks and got my face right in there. I licked her smooth, shiny crack and the tip of my tongue played with her anus.

“God you’re dirty,” she said approvingly. “Have you licked a black girl’s arse before?”

“I have,” I said discreetly.

“And?”

“You expect me to generalize about that?”

“Yes,” she said. “Do you like licking black women’s cracks?”

“Yes, I love it,” I said.

“Why?” she asked genuinely.

“I’ll tell you why I like licking your arse,” I said. “Because it’s clean and smooth and sort of shiny. And I like the way you wriggle and push it at me and make little noises.”

“I make little noises because you’re very good at it,” she said. “Most guys won’t do it, and if they do, they have no idea. I don’t know what it is you do that’s different, but fuck, it’s nice. You’re gonna make me come in a minute.”

I kept doing what I was doing, having been lavishly praised for something that was my pleasure as much as hers. I licked her long and steady. I don’t know about other people’s ways of doing it, but you see some porn where they’re doing silly little licks and their tongue spends most of the time in mid air rather than touching what it’s supposed to be stimulating.

Tish began getting more animated and I knew she was about to come. That was all I wanted that night. I just wanted to lick her arse until she came. Fucking and everything else could wait. I was in the business of adoring her arse until she had an orgasm. Then she would be mine.

Tish ground her arse into my face and I licked and licked and licked and slurped my Tish-arse-flavoured saliva and finally she clenched all her muscles and a great orgasm flooded through her.

“Fuck,” she said as we lay in bliss afterwards. “You really know how to do that. Now, I’m not going to tell anybody about this because I want it to be our secret. I’m not having all the other black bitches demanding your services. And you can keep your hands off the white ones too. Your tongue belongs to me.”