The first time I went to the little church in Georgetown, Guyana, I felt more than a little out of place. There were only about twenty people there and they all clearly knew one another. All but two of them were women.

And all were black, because Guyana is one of those countries where slavery was everywhere and when it was abolished in the late 19th century, many of the plantation owners eventually left, but the workers stayed.

They had been brought in chains from Africa, and Guyana was where they were transplanted to, where their children were born and it was what they knew. So they made a life for themselves as best they could in this hot, fertile country.

More than 150 years later, though, the descendants of the slaves were still bitter about it, and it might be easy for me as a white British man to say this, but the lingering resentment and suspicion isn't helping global racial integration.

Even the black friends I had - and I had made a few in my five years there - could never cease to see themselves as representatives of their brutalised, downtrodden ancestors, and as for those who didn't know me, well, you'd have thought I had a whip concealed about my person.

Suspicion, disrespect, the constant need to put the white man in his place while hoping he would leave the country, all of these things made life uncomfortable for me and others like me.

In church, there was, on the face of it, none of that, but even so, I sensed that some felt I was given too much respect by the priest, too much authority because of the way I looked: a fairly distinguished middle-aged white man. So the fact that I was asked to read the lesson when I'd only been in the congregation five minutes, some felt was unacceptable, kowtowing to someone who might well have been - but wasn't - a descendant of a slaver.

Anyway, that first day in church I was feeling pretty uncomfortable, and even more so when I found it hard to follow the service, which leapt from book to book and from hymn to folk-style religious songs, seemingly at random.

A woman sat at the far end of my pew - she wouldn't sit next to me, of course, but noticed my discomfort and would signal which book I should be looking at and mouth the page number. Grateful as I was, I didn't slide over to thank her, for fear of looking like I was putting a move on her.

So at the end, I just thanked her and nodded as I left. She gave me a brief, demure smile and returned to her conversation with the people behind.

She was fifty-something, tall and sturdy and dark enough to be considered 100% black rather than mixed-race, as so many are now in Europe and the US. She was wearing a smart knee-length dress of blue satin. All the women dressed up for church, and the older men wore suits. There were no young men.

This woman had a slight twinkle in her eye, and one eye appeared slightly smaller than the other, because her left cheek was sort of pinched.

All in all, she was a fine looking woman and despite where we were and what we were doing I spent the whole service thinking about what she must look like naked, how she must smell between her legs and how she might react to my licking her and lying between her thighs.

I thought about that all week, too, and was thrilled to find her all alone in the same pew the next Sunday. I have this habit of arriving early and apparently so did she. I sat next to her and introduced myself. Her name was Mollie and she was a secondary school teacher.

We had to share a hymn book because there weren't enough to go round, this being a struggling little church that somehow clung to its existence when common sense said it should close and the congregation join other more buoyant communities. As we sang, our fingers touched and there was an electricity to it that you don't find with most people.

She lived in the same direction as me and relied on the bus, but hesitantly accepted my offer of a lift to and fro, in future. And so began a period when Mollie and I were in the privacy of my car once a week and I considered my options.

She wasn't the type to respond well to anything as blatant as a hand on the knee so I decided to be patient and let conversation lead us somewhere.

Her response to this was to describe to me bouts of diarrhoea, so that if I was thinking of her nether regions she could plant an unpleasant image in my mind.

It didn't work. Bodily functions of that sort are short-lived and the area can easily be returned to good condition.

One Sunday after several months she told me rather sadly about her family, who were dying off at an alarming rate in various parts of the world. We were parked outside her house in a busy residential street where everyone knew everyone else. I leaned across and gave her a firm kiss on the cheek and to my great surprise she thanked me.

A week later in the same place, she invited me in to meet her daughter and grandsons. Mollie was a widow and lived alone, but took care of the youngsters more often, I suspected, than she really wanted to.

She served tea and home-made cake and it was all scrupulously polite and sterile. When I stood up to leave she followed me to the top of the stairs and, seeing me poised to kiss her, lowered her head. I worked my head around underneath and kissed her unprotected lips and she smiled.

"You're wicked," she whispered.

We kept in touch on Messenger, which made it easier to use romantic and suggestive language, until eventually, we were on a much more promising basis.

Then came the time I had to pack up and leave the country. It was now or never. I had given up my apartment and moved into a little rented place for a couple of weeks. Mollie agreed to come and say goodbye.

She arrived in a taxi and made sure we didn't get too close until it had driven away, just in case the driver recognised her. Then she permitted a peck on the cheek and we went into the room. It had a curtain right down the middle with which you could separate the living area from the bed, and I had made that separation.

I had made a simple pasta salad, but even then I felt she thought it was wrong that a man was feeding her and that it should have been the other way round.

Mollie took just a few sips of the wine, which was white and sweetish, as I knew she wasn't much of a drinker.

Then I reached out and touched her hand and she groaned because she knew the moment had arrived.

As I leaned to kiss her she muttered, "What do you want to do that for?" but allowed the kiss anyway.

We weren't positioned right, so I readjusted and swapped sides so my head was angled to the right, and it was better. Her tongue was there - slightly bashful, but she was kissing me back.

I slipped my hand under her top and felt her left breast through her bra. I was quite taken aback to find she considered her appropriate move was to put her open hand on my package.

Awkwardly we removed the bra and I felt her silky skin and the hard, crinkled nipple in the middle.

We stood up and I drew back the curtain. She sat on the bed with her tits out, looking bemused.

As I removed my jeans and underpants she said, "Why are you undressing?" but as I turned to face her, with my erection right in front of her face, she lay back and encouraged me to pull her stretchy jeans off, and then her dark pink panties. She took care of her top and lay there, naked with the white guy who sat next to her in church.

I lay on top of her and kissed her and she kissed back, but with something missing, as if there were a particular move her tongue could make that she wouldn't permit.

I slid down and sucked her nipples, noticing that her torso was much paler than her limbs. Her pubic hair was short but natural, untrimmed, and she stiffened when I went down on her, hindering my attempts to lick her.

I went back up and kissed her again and we rolled around until she found herself on top, halfway down my body in a blowjob position.

"I've never done that," she said quietly. "I don't want to." But she took my cock in her mouth slowly and tentatively.

I imagined her thought process. Come this far... last chance... might be nice... but don't let go.

When she came up shortly afterwards I whispered in her ear.

"I want to lick your bottom."

"Ssshhh," she said, climbing on top, getting my cock inside her and maneuvring us into a position where we sat facing each other, rocking back and forth.

I was trying to decide if she had done this before or if she'd just read about it. It didn't work for me, anyway, so I tipped us over and lay on top of her, guiding my cock back up her pussy. She lifted her legs and again I wondered if she had read that this was good practice or perhaps seen it in one of the online porn sessions she allowed herself for educational purposes.

Then she took my left hand and placed all four fingers into her crack. My left hand is not the one I use to explore a woman, so I did my best to take advantage of this kind gesture, but I couldn't find her hole.

"Fuck me from behind," she said suddenly, turning onto her knees, and there was a few seconds' delay as she made sure she put me in her pussy, not her ass. Then I pumped her and she pushed back and started talking quietly.

"Just fuck me," she said. "Just fuck me," and I realised what she meant was I should just cum and not worry about her pleasure.

This mystifying woman knelt beneath me and I duly pounded her until I came with a relieved shout and she dropped her elbows and lay with her chest on the mattress, again, as she thought she was supposed to.

With little chat or affection we cleaned her up and she went for a shower.

So, sometimes you have sex and it's a riot, and sometimes you do it and it's a formality, a statistic. I never saw Mollie again and the best I can do now is fantasise about her, because I know how she looks, how she feels and to a certain extent how she tastes. And she's got the memory of being a brazen hussy for a white man, which she is probably both proud and a little ashamed of.