There were two bars to choose from on this little Caribbean island: the tiny one on the beach and the slightly bigger one across the street. That was called the Journeyman, and it was where I used to go not just in the evening, but sometimes for breakfast.

It was owned by a thin, unhealthy-looking Danish woman who probably thought of herself as responsibly slim in a new-age way. The polar opposite of her was the larger of the two black, island-born waitresses.  Lizzie, her name was, and while her colleague was of the sort of build that is described in parts of England by words such as “buxom” and “bonny”, Lizzie was just plain fat and always had been.

She consequently made no attempt to look attractive, dressing functionally in dark colours, although there was no disguising those big, gleaming brown breasts which lurked just below the neckline of any dress or t-shirt. Rather than waiting for others to make comments about her, she would make them herself, playing the jester’s role in the little community of boozy expats of which I was one.

So it was that one night when it was her turn to finish early, she announced loudly,

“I’m going to find a man.”

Everyone laughed, not in an unkind way, perhaps, but playing their part in a jokey exchange. I thought about her going back to her room in the family home – although she must have been in her thirties, the locals had neither the inclination nor the money to live independently, and she was still with her mother and sisters.

The next morning I was there for my customary Saturday livener of corned beef hash and grits, and the place was quiet.

“Did you find one?” I asked playfully when she brought my coffee.

“What?” she said.

“A man,” I explained.

“Oh,” she said with a shrug. “Just a joke.” She sat down at the table because it was the boss’s day off and she was in charge.

“You ever been married?” I asked.

“Who’d have me?” she smiled.

“Plenty of people,” I said, trying not to sound patronising. “You’re a nice woman, friendly, amusing…”

“Obese,” she said to finish my list.

“That’s a medical term,”  said. “It has nothing to do with attractiveness.”

“No,” she said flatly. “But get real. I have. I’ve had to.”

“What time do you finish tonight?” I asked.

“I’m off tonight.”

“Doing anything?”

She made a dismissive sound involving vibrating lips.

“No?” I continued. “So would you like to come round to my place? I’ll make some food and we can have a few drinks.”

“Are you asking me out?”

“No, I’m asking you in. But we can go out if you prefer.”

“Like where?” she said. “No.”

“No what?”

“No I don’t think we should go out.”

“But we could stay in? At my house?”

“Are you sure?”

“What’s such a big deal?” I asked, getting a tiny bit exasperated.

“Okay. What time?”

“Eight?”

“Okay.”

Somebody from the kitchen brought my breakfast and Lizzie stayed out of the way for the half hour I stayed there, but I caught her eye as I was leaving and she raised eight fingers.

I had a nice old house on the beach, courtesy of the firm I worked for, which must have had more money than sense. Walk out of my garden gate and you were on the sand, with an Australian pine giving shade to the place I used to lounge. Funny having trees on the beach, but there were a few along there. It was a popular spot at night, and although I never saw anybody there, the telltale presence of condom wrappers indicated some moonlight loving when I was asleep.

I made a chili and rice because it was easy, not too hot in case my guest didn’t like spicy things. She arrived ten minutes late – only ten minutes, I should say. They operate on what they proudly call “island time” round there, which means any time they feel like it.

We sat on the deck and listened to music while drinking white wine.

“Shit,” Lizzie said. “You do this all the time? Seduced all the white women and starting on the Belongers?”

“I hate that word,’ I protested. “How do you think it makes the rest of us feel? I do my bit. I pay tax, spend money and don’t do anyone any harm.”

“All right, don’t get touchy,” Lizzie said, patting my hand. “Now what are we eating? I’m starving. Don’t tell me you’ve made a salad with no dressing because it’s good for me.”

She enjoyed the chili and as the wine went down she relaxed and I could sense she was beginning to feel at home. She wasn’t used to being asked out, let alone plied with food and drinks at a table by the sea.

When the mosquitoes got too bothersome we moved inside and sat together on one of the three odd settees in the vast sitting room.

“Are you going to seduce me now?” she asked playfully, in case I wasn’t.

“Well, I’m going to kiss you,” I said, and took as much of her into my arms as I could manage.

I slipped my hand under her t-shirt and she sat up and obligingly removed her bra and the shirt itself.

“I suppose you want a blow job,” she said with a sort of resignation in her voice. “Yes? No? That’s what guys want, isn’t it?”

“What if I want to lick you first?” I asked, trying to manipulate her waistband to get her unzipped.

“Ooh,” she said. “Really? You are full of surprises.” She stood up to allow me to dispose of her jeans and the big black thong under them, the string of which lived in a warm, dark place which fascinated me.

“How do you want me?” she asked, leaning back. It was an uncomfortable settee, the seat too deep for sitting on properly, but perfect for licking a pussy. I quickly took off my clothes as she luxuriated on the upholstery like Cleopatra waiting for Anthony.

I got down between her enormous thighs and smelled the characteristic aroma of the fat girl. With so much bulk involved, there is less scope for ventilation, so the smells that all women produce have to be released in great batches rather than a constant undetectable flow. I licked her pussy, which I guessed she had shaved in my honour. I also got the feeling she wasn’t used to this. When she had had sex, which I presumed was not often, it was probably with macho, selfish studs who demanded to be serviced. She probably expected me to fuck her arse, too, which was something the local numbskulls more or less demanded.

I bet nobody’s ever licked her there, I thought as I turned her over. She was quite a sight, her swathes of dark, shiny skin in folds and rumples. She didn’t have the stretch marks that many local girls did, souvenirs of pregnancy or simple weight gain followed by drastic loss.

“You going to fuck my ass?” she asked routinely.

“No, I’m going to lick it,” I said.

She grunted as she thought about it and then said, “You’re weird.”

As my tongue entered her lushly cushioned crack, she sighed.

“Fuck. You’re really going to do that?”

“I have always wanted to lick your ass,” I said. “Couldn’t you tell?”

“Nobody has ever wanted to do it before,” she said. “You’re the first man to get in there, ever. And no women either, despite what you hear about us.”

“Do you mind?’ I said with mock irritation. “I’m trying to perform anilingus on you.”

“Sorry sir,” she said, back in her jester’s role. “Ling away. Fuck you’re a strange guy. It’s nice, though. You really know what you’re doing, don’t you?” And with that she gave a little cry as a small preliminary orgasm tickled her.

“Okay,” I said as she turned back over. “Now you can suck my cock. If you want.”

“I’ve always wanted to suck your cock,” she said. “Couldn’t you tell?”

She was a seething, wriggling mass of beautiful black flesh as she got in position, laid me back and sucked me with great skill and – yes – strength.

“What I really like about you,” she said, “is you didn’t expect it. Most of the guys around here seem to think it’s their right. Now sit still and let me perform fellatio on you.

“Sorry, Miss,” I said. “Fuck, you’re good at that.”

“I aim to please,” she said as she gave my dick a parting lick.

“Now sit on the edge,” I said. She did as she was told and parted her legs wide to enable me to get between them. She lay back as I pushed myself through the soft valley and my cock entered her. My tongue had had the effect of producing what felt like little fleshy buttons deep inside her, like orgasm triggers and each time I hit one, she came again with a yelp.

I fucked that great monument of a woman until she begged me to stop.

“Jesus,’ she said. “It’s been a long time and you’re wearing me out.”

“Sorry,” I said. “You had enough?”

“You can switch to my ass,” she said, turning over again and kneeling to expose her wonderful shit chute. I got up nice and close and penetrated her with a beautiful little pop – not the sound but the feeling. All of a sudden I was in there where I had no right to be but had been given permission.  I fucked her ass for just a few minutes before pulling out and, as she trembled with ecstasy, I wanked myself into her crack. My spunk ran, blue-white, down her dark skin and into her crotch.

When we had finished and cleaned up and dressed again we sprayed mosquito repellent on each other and sat back outside with some liqueurs. I had a brandy and she nursed a Tia Maria, as dark and sweet and succulent as she was.

“You’re like that drink,” I said.

“What, a fat glass full of ice?”

“No, you’re a big glass but you’re dark and sweet and succulent.” A little tear appeared in the corner of her eye and she gripped my hand.

“Am I?” she asked. ‘Really?”