Six o’clock at the Jolly Roger, down by the beach on this steaming Caribbean island. Evenings started early here, for the benefit of the hordes of middle-aged and older Americans who wanted to eat and be entertained and in bed by ten.

There was live music every night and on Tuesdays it was Johnny van Clapton, a Dutchman who had been given the nickname by a bar owner who admired his guitar playing. Johnny had been on the island for fifteen years and last had a haircut around the same length of time. His thinning, greying straggle of straw was pulled back in a ponytail.

I had become friendly with him because I’m a musician myself. He knew everybody.

We were standing next to the little gazebo that marked the “stage” and Johnny was regaling me with guitar talk, as he was wont to do. He knew a lot about the instrument, the players and the technique, and at every opportunity, he would launch into a lecture.

On this occasion, he was interrupted by the arrival of Lucille, one of the waitresses. She too had been around forever and was well known and very popular. She was from the island of Dominica, with dark, dark, shiny skin and hair pulled back in a sort of bun. She had a happy, self-deprecating way about her, with beautiful pert lips and a turned-up nose and she moved in a clumsy way as if she were deliberately not entering the Miss Gorgeous Caribbean contest.

“Johnny, I want you to kiss me,” she said, playing it for laughs.

Slow-witted, Johnny thought for a second before replying,

“Where?”

“Everywhere,” she said. Johnny laughed and talked about something else. He had a long-term girlfriend and they lived right across the road. And anyway, he was working.

“So?” Lucille persisted, still acting.

“I’m playing in a minute,” Johnny said. “Mick will look after you.” That’s me.

As Johnny stepped into the shade of the gazebo and picked up his Stratocaster, I turned to Lucille.

“You not working?” I asked.

“Day shift,” she said. “Just finished.”

“And what are you doing now?”

“Morwen and I are going to have a drink somewhere,” she said. Morwen was another waitress, tall and slim and moody. If I had to guess at her heritage, I would say it was basically African but so diluted that she had pale skin but black features. While Lucille was perpetually cheerful, Morwen, or Wenny, as she was usually called, was okay when she was busy but could be sullen when things were quiet and sometimes downright rude to customers.

She appeared now through a crowd of young, sunburnt rich kids.

She nodded at me and said, “Hi.” Then to Lucille. “Well, are we going?”

“Yeah, let’s go to The Waterfront. Mick’s coming.”

With this oblique invitation, I tagged along and we walked half a mile to another bar, where a Venezuelan singer/guitarist was doing his Latin stuff.

Lucille was all in black, t-shirt and jeans. Wenny had changed out of her uniform into a blue and white seersucker shirt, knotted under the ribs, and very short, stretchy shorts that left little to the imagination. Her hair was straight, parted on the left and swept only slightly sideways so there was a touch of the Hitler about it. Her strong black features gave her a forbidding appearance only alleviated when she smiled.

We ordered some food and a bottle of Sauvignon blanc and I felt at ease in their company – Lucille made sure of that because that’s what she was like. Wenny relaxed and became slightly flirty with me. The two of them fended off the approaches of a succession of local men who, it seemed to me, were rather presumptuous, trading on their race and regarding the girls as their property and me as an interloper in a land where they reigned supreme.

“Oh for fuck’s sake,” Wenny hissed eventually. “I don’t want to sit here and be hit on all night. Where can we go?”

Lucille shrugged.

“Come to my place,” I said, the gallant knight protecting the virtue of two fair maidens.

“Sounds good to me,” Wenny said without enthusiasm.

Ten minutes later we were sitting around the little table on my balcony overlooking a different beach. It was now dark and the air was still and peaceful. We were drinking rum and Coke, aka Cuba Libre, as Tom Petty and the Heartbreakers’ Shadow of a Doubt rocked majestically in the background, the first of an endless succession of random gems on my iPod.

“This is better,” Wenny said, leaning back and exposing her navel in a way that made me think of the times it must have been filled with the semen of some non-condomed stud who had pulled out just in time.

“When was the last time you had sex?” the charmingly extrovert Lucille asked me.

“I couldn’t possibly tell you that,” I protested. “Might have been last night. Might have been someone you know. Your Mum.”

“Lives in Dominica,” she laughed.

“How about you?” Wenny said to her with a slightly piercing look.

Lucille sighed.

“I know because I’m beautiful and stylish and rich you probably think… No, let’s not go there.”

“Mick wants to fuck you,” Wenny said.

“Mick wants to fuck both of us,” Lucille replied, turning to me. “Don’t you, Mick? You and two girls in your private space.”

I smiled enigmatically. At least I hoped it was enigmatic rather than just vacant.

“Trouble with European men,” Wenny said, “Is they’re too polite to be really rude. And rude is good, isn’t it Luce?”

“Well let’s ask him,” Lucille said. Even in this conversational crucible, her innate kindness shone through her eyes. “Are you too polite in sexual matters?”

“Could you be more specific?” I asked.

“Okay,” Wenny said. “Let’s say I love getting my ass licked – which I really do, by the way. Would you do that?”

“As part of a series of other things or just that?” I said, surprising myself.

“Say I come round here one lunchtime and that’s what I want you to do? Only got fifteen minutes. Lick my ass and then I leave.”

“I think we should go to my bedroom,” I suggested.

“That hypothetical lunchtime?” she said, eyes widening.

“Now,” I said.

“Okay, let’s go,” she said, standing up. “You can come too,” she added, looking at Lucille. “To watch or…”

“I’m not just gonna watch,” Lucille said flatly.

In my room, Wenny stripped without ceremony. Lucille pulled me to her.

“Kiss me,” she ordered. I did, and we really got into it, so that Wenny was obliged to cough.

“Excuse me…”

She was kneeling on the bed, naked, with her pale arse in the air. I quickly removed my clothes. I got on the bed and I put my face between her buttocks. My eager tongue found her little squeezed hole and I probed it, then licked her with my tongue flat and wide. She gasped.

“Shit,” Wenny exclaimed. “You’re not shy, are you?”

Wenny grew palpably both relaxed and excited as I continued rimming her. Then we both became aware of Lucille, who had found a way of playing with Wenny’s clitoris while pumping my cock.

Wenny struggled and wriggled as she came, gasping and crying out in ecstasy. When she slumped to the bed, Lucille assumed the position.

“What do you want?” I asked playfully.

“I want you to lick my ass,” she said happily.

Hers was deeper, more mysterious and smoother, slightly shiny, like beautiful soft leather, and she felt and tasted fantastic. But it doesn’t do to compare one woman's bottom with another, because they are both precious gifts.

I was in two-arse heaven and my two girls knew it and loved giving it to me.

Lucille was very vocal when she came, pressing her rump back at me and urging me on.

“Make me cum, Mick, I want to cum. I’m… oh god, I’m cumming.”

She fell forwards, turned quickly onto her back and pulled me down to kiss her. Wenny’s hands were all over me, feeling my balls, stroking my crack and wiping the precum from the tip of my cock.

She maneuvred herself down and took my cock in her mouth.

“So where are you going to cum?” Lucille asked softly.

“I’m going to fuck Wenny and then cum in your mouth,” I said, rolling over to where Wenny had now obligingly positioned herself on her back. My cock slid swiftly up her slick, welcoming chute and she pulled my head down to get her share of the kissing. She held my balls and then slipped one of her long-nailed fingers into my crack. She was trying to make me cum, but a gentleman keeps his promises, and when I was on the absolute verge I pulled out and knelt over Lucille’s face

She opened her mouth and pulled my cock in with both hands and my spunk spurted onto her tongue and down her throat.

Afterward, the three of us lay, pulses racing and satisfied smiles on our faces.

“Next time you can cum inside me,” Wenny said.

“Maybe we should meet separately,” I suggested. “Then I could give both of you my full attention.”

“Yes, you haven’t fucked me yet,” Lucille said with mock indignation.

Five minutes later I was between her legs, my cock in her hole but my tongue in Wenny’s mouth.