A trip to Colombia offers a man unexpected excitement

“Colombia? As in drug cartels?!?”

My voice rose an octave and a half as my boss revealed
himself to be an alien from the planet Moron.

“Who goes to Colombia? Do you realize that country’s on
the State Department’s ‘don’t go there’ list?” I
continued in the same vein for a few minutes before
allowing him to get a word in edgewise. He reminded me
that all the major oil companies had major investments
south of the border, that the advisory was for targets
such as diplomats, and that regular business
transactions were continuing unabated.

I wasn’t terribly reassured by all this. He tried to lay
a guilt trip on me, pointing out that this would be a
really good thing for the company to have under its
belt, and that I was the only one who was available to
take it, not that he was forcing me or anything.

When he went on to describe the incentive compensation
and how the client would arrange for a security escort,
and by the way there was a $30 per hour incentive bonus,
then I felt a little better. After all, my passport was
current and I had no dates planned, so taking the job
wouldn’t really mess up my life. I told him I’d take it.

Then my boss gave me the kicker — I’d have to leave in
a week. Great. That wouldn’t give me enough time to get
anti-malaria shots and have them take effect. I eyed him
with thoughts of mercenaries and torture flitting
through my head, but the bonus money won out. Besides,
there was a certain James Bond-ish thrill to the whole
idea of going down there.

My roommate didn’t see it that way when I got back to
the apartment. “Colombia? As in drug cartels?!?” He
added several pithy comments casting doubt on both my
parentage and my sanity, concluding with “Guess I’ll see
you in the remake of Midnight Express.”

Over the next week I arranged to put my email lists on
vacation status, checked the Web on what to eat, drink
and avoid, and crammed a week’s worth of business casual
into one piece of luggage. I’d have to use my laptop
carrier for medicines and papers so I could get under
the two-item carryon limit and not have to check any
luggage. On most airlines that direction, checked
luggage is another word for bye-bye.

I was all set by Friday evening, which gave me enough
time to get my last McBurger for a while. And to see
Angela and have my ashes hauled. I liked Angela — she
was a zaftig brunette with vibrant green eyes, something
more than escort and something less than girlfriend, and
she didn’t mind if sometimes all I wanted to do was
strip down and cuddle up to her backside for an hour.

This evening I had more strenuous activities in mind,
and I didn’t leave her apartment until three hours
later, having exercised all of the major muscle groups
and some I didn’t know were useful. I walked out of her
apartment gingerly, trying to keep my aching empty balls
from rubbing against the inside of my pants. I didn’t
even have the strength to get undressed when I got home,
just fell onto the bed and collapsed.

My flight was Saturday afternoon. It was nothing
exciting; the DC-10 was full up, the food was better
than I expected and some Chris Rock movie was showing.
There was a lot of turbulence — the guy two seats to my
right wound up with a rum and coke in his lap. I managed
to get a couple of spotty naps anyway.

When I landed at Bogota there was a minor hassle over my
laptop, and I had to plug it in to prove that it worked.
Also, they wanted to see the prescriptions for all of my
medications. Finally, I made it through there, got my
passport stamped, and looked for the uniformed company
driver who was supposed to meet me.

The local company contact had been insistent about not
taking any public taxis while I was in the country. I
had a couple of nervous moments shaking off some shady-
looking drivers who offered me a ride into town, but
finally saw someone holding a sign with my name on it.
Well, a reasonable approximation of my name.

I waved and hauled my two bags over, and followed the
guy out to the van where he put the bags in the back and
I got to ride in the front. We chatted some on the
twenty-minute drive, interrupted every so often as the
van hit a bump or pothole and the seat slammed into my
rear. It was a good thing my laptop case was padded —
this drive was worse than baggage handling would have
been.

I arrived at the hotel, slightly the worse for wear but
fully briefed on topics including which subjects to
avoid in conversation, what the odds were on the
Colombian team in the World Cup, where to get a good
deal on jewelry (probably his brother-in-law, I was
guessing), who to contact for security escorts and what
the arrangements were to pick me up from the hotel in
the morning.

I checked in, got my room key, went upstairs and had
just enough energy to take my hanging clothes out to
unwrinkle before I took off my clothes and climbed into
bed.

The first day of the job was very straightforward. I got
up at 6:15, showered, got dressed, got my laptop and
working papers set up, went downstairs and had a cup of
coffee. A driver arrived promptly at seven, dispelling
at least one stereotype about life south of the border.

He and I went through a security scan at the front
entrance, he went his way and I went mine, schmoozing
with the staff until we started the first meeting at
7:30. We broke at noon for lunch, down in the building
refectory. Then between working sessions, brainstorming
and more meetings, we finally wrapped our daily review
at 6:00pm.

Five of us stopped by security and picked up a driver,
then went to dinner at one of the better restaurants, up
in a high-rise with a revolving view of the city.

We talked about office gossip, about the project, about
sports. There was some conversation in Spanish, which I
couldn’t follow, but they kept that to a minimum. About
an hour and a half later, they dropped me off at my
hotel and I wandered up to my room to collapse, stopping
in the lobby to get a daily paper. Up in the room I
checked the TV channels — outside of the Spanish-
language programs there was just HBO, MTV and a Sony
channel showing a variety of sitcoms. I looked through
the ads in the paper but didn’t see anything of
interest, then flipped through the Yellow Pages.

My rudimentary Spanish allowed me to identify the bars,
some massage outlets (probably legitimate) and something
that literally meant Turkish Baths. I made a few notes
for reference, then flipped to the jewelry section and
copied down some names and addresses.

The next day was like the first, with yet another
driver; they must have had a number on staff, and they
didn’t seem to have a standard uniform. The work was
longer, and we didn’t get to our review of the day until
7:00 in the evening.

I noticed during the day that there were very few women
on staff, and that those who did work there were all
pretty good looking. The group went out for dinner
again, so I got to my room later than on the first night
and still had to spend some time writing up my meeting
notes.

I didn’t have anything of visual interest on my laptop,
because I’d heard tales of travelers who had their PCs
seized by customs for pornography. I attempted to do
some recreational programming, but my mind wasn’t in it
and I really didn’t have the energy anyway, so I just
went to bed that night.

On the third day, before I went up for the first
meeting, I stopped by the security office and told them
I’d need arrangements for an evening driver. I told them
I wanted to go look for some emeralds and to check out
the nightspots.

At lunch that day, I stopped by the hotel in order to
change a hundred and fifty into local currency. The
bills made an uncomfortable bulge in my jacket pocket.
We only worked until 6 that day, which left me a decent
amount of time to go shopping. I went down to the
security office, but they told me my escort would be at
the front exit.

So I went down to the front area and a guy in a driver’s
uniform was slouching by the door. I waved and went over
to him. “You must be my driver,” I said as I extended my
hand to him, “Call me Brad.” He took my hand and shook
it, responding in kind, “And my name’s Rogelio.”

We got into a nondescript car and headed out. I told
Rogelio I was looking for emeralds, and mentioned the
place the airport driver had recommended. Rogelio made a
rude face and muttered something in Spanish, short and
probably derogative, then said only that there were
better places to find quality gems.

I looked around as he drove, noticing that there were
high security fences around every residential building
and barred doors and windows on the businesses.
Apparently Bogota had the same sort of crime problems
that you see in near-downtown Chicago or New York City.

We drove for a while until he pulled into a parking
space somewhere outside the central business district.
We stood outside the door as he pressed a buzzer, and
when the door clicked loudly he opened it and we went
in.

The shop was small, but they did seem to have good
stones. Rogelio turned out to have some knowledge of
emeralds, and his advice was helpful as I settled on a
couple of earring-size pieces for Angela and a stone
that would make a nice pendant for the right woman. Also
a ring for my mother; Mom was going to be surprised when
I remembered her 60th birthday this year.

After that Rogelio suggested dinner, and drove us to a
place off the tourist route. No decor to speak of, but
the grilled meats were incredible. We chatted as we ate
— I talked about Dallas, my job, my roommate and my
life.

He related tales of foreigners he had taken one place or
another and the troubles they had gotten into trying to
use American behaviors in Colombia. I looked longingly
at a baked coconut flan, but decided I’d best pass on
dessert.

Over coffee, Rogelio asked what kind of nightlife I was
looking for. I told him I was looking for a rubdown,
adding “…something with the *personal* touch, if you
follow me.” A flicker of something went over his face.
“That’s not going to be in the best part of town,” was
his only comment, and our conversation came to a
screeching halt.

I paid the bill and we left the restaurant. Rogelio
drove through the streets quickly and without small
talk, leaving behind us the relative safety of heavy
traffic and bright lights. We eventually pulled up under
a flickering street light at a building where the small
sign on the door said *”Masajistas — femeninas”*.

We went in, finding a shabby waiting room which held a
small coffee table and a sofa. A door next to a barred
window was the only sign of business, and Rogelio rang
the bell at the window. A middle-aged woman appeared,
and he spoke with her in low tones and rapid Spanish.
The woman looked at me oddly a couple of times, and
Rogelio turned at one point to ask whether I wanted a
man or a woman.

*”Una mujer, por favor,”* I replied, and he nodded
curtly before turning back to his conversation with the
woman at the window. Finally, he turned back to me and
said “Go down to the end of the hall. You need to put
down at least 75,000 inside and get on the massage
table. I’ll wait out here. See you in about 45 minutes.”
A buzzer sounded, and Rogelio held the door open for me,
a sour look on his face.

I went through the door and down the short hall, passing
a couple of doors along the way. When I opened the door
at the end, I was pleasantly surprised. The room was
clean, although the paint in the molding was peeling.
There was a small cabinet for the towels and lotions,
and a place for me to hang my clothes. I pulled out a
hundred thousand in local currency, did some mental math
to come up to roughly $65, and put down an extra twenty
thousand to be on the safe side.

It seemed unlikely that I’d be able to do any
negotiating in the room. I stripped, hung up my clothes,
laying my socks and shorts on top of my shoes, and lay
on my stomach on the towel-covered table. I was starting
to doze when I heard the door open and close.

With my head down, I could only see her from about mid-
belly down. Sandal-clad feet, tanned muscular legs
topped by a fairly wide wraparound burnt orange skirt. I
greeted her with a *”Buenas noches”*, but only got a
noncommittal “mmmm” in response. I heard the sound of
the lotion bottle being squeezed, and felt her hands on
my upper back.

She worked my shoulder blades and back muscles
knowingly, eliciting more than a few grunts from me as
she worked out the knots. She ran her fingertips up my
sides, making me wriggle, but then got serious about my
shoulders and neck. A pause, another wheeze of the
lotion bottle, and she pressed her forearm alongside my
spine, pressing and dragging her entire arm down my
back.

Instead of stopping at my waist, she continued on down
sliding her whole arm between my ass-cheeks, her fingers
fluttering along the way. I jumped and squirmed at this,
lifting my hips to give my expanding cock some room. I
settled down and started to relax again as she squeezed
my thigh and leg muscles and worked from there down to
my ankles. She spent quite a bit of focused attention on
my calves and feet, and by the time she said *”a su
trasero, por favor,”* I was purring way deep in my
throat.

I flipped over onto my back and got my first good look
at the rest of her. Late forties, I guessed; shoulder-
length black hair topped an angular face with pretty
brown eyes. An overfilled black athletic bra top
completed the picture, and seeing that she had my
attention, she took the top off.

I felt my cock thickening as her breasts came into view,
large dark nipples pointing right at me. She squeezed
some lotion into her hands and leaned forward to rub the
tops of my legs. I spread my feet outward to give her
better access to everything, but that didn’t get the
reaction I expected. She frowned at that.

Standing back for a moment, she barked, *”Puede usted
quedarse quieto?”*

Not quite understanding her, I shook my head and said
no. She pursed her lips, and then reached down on either
side of the foot of the massage table. She brought out a
couple of worn leather cuffs and quickly and efficiently
fastened them to my ankles in their spread position.
Then she strode to the head of the table and brought out
a chin strap which went into place before I quite
figured out what was going on.

When she finished buckling my head down, she took some
lotion and spread it over her breasts, then leaned over
me and dangled them against either side of my face.
*”Esta practico.”* She shook her torso, slapping me in
the face with her breasts, and sent her slick fingertips
dancing down my sides and over my belly, stopping just
short of actually touching my cock. I’m very ticklish,
and in no time I was writhing from side to side, trying
to escape her teasing hands but restricted by the face
and ankle restraints.

Next she went to the side of the table and dragged her
nails up the insides of my legs, grazing my balls. She
leaned down as she did this and her hair brushed over my
cock, making it quiver that much more. With one hand she
toyed with my nipples, with the other she stroked under
my balls, teasing my ass with one sharp nail. By this
time I was almost throwing myself from one side of the
table to the other, trying to force my painfully hard
cock into contact with her hands, whimpering *”por
favor, senora, por favor”*.

Just when I thought I’d break down and start crying, she
slid her hand between my ass-cheeks and rubbed her thumb
in a spot somewhere under my balls. I gave out a
strangled scream and came like a gusher, cum flying
everywhere, landing on my belly, her breasts, up to my
eyebrows. She stroked my balls, murmuring something
musical as I gasped, groaned and gave up my load.

Tears were running down my face, and when my cock slowed
to a dribble she released the ankle cuffs, came up and
cradled my face between her breasts, unfastening the
chin strap as well. When my body stopped shaking, she
took a moist cloth, cleaned me up, put her top back on
and left. It was several minutes before I could sit up,
much less get myself dressed.

When I came out to the waiting area, Rogelio put down
the daily newspaper, sighed, and took a look through the
window before opening the front door. We got into the
car without wasting any time in that neighborhood, and
headed off to the hotel.

On our arrival, Rogelio greeted the concierge, and
without my asking he escorted me up to my room. In the
elevator, Rogelio spoke up for the first time in over an
hour. “I need to use the bathroom, if it’s all right
with you.”

I nodded, and when I opened the door to my room he went
directly for the bathroom while I headed for the bed. I
kicked off my shoes, pulled off my socks and wiggled my
toes while he went into the bathroom. I turned on the TV
and lay back to see what was on — Meryl Streep in some
movie being depressed in Egypt.

I heard the toilet flush and the water running in the
washbasin, followed by Rogelio gargling. Just as I
finally worked out that the other actress was Tracey
Ullman, Rogelio cleared his throat and I glanced up.

Make that, cleared *her* throat. Rogelio had doffed the
uniform jacket and shirt, and I was looking at a very
appealing pair of small breasts with lightly traced tan
lines running up to her shoulders.

I took a second and third look at the uniform pants — I
didn’t see any bulge there. I started to turn red at the
thought of Rogelio waiting and listening back at the
massage place while I was getting my rocks off noisily.

He… She… giggled. “You should see your face! You
don’t know whether to get turned on or run like hell!”
Rogelio came over to where I was sitting, pushed me so I
fell back onto the bed, and climbed up on top of me,
straddling my legs. “But I bet turned-on is winning,
though!” Rogelio rested one hand on top of my crotch,
and we both felt the erection pulsing there.

She flexed her fingers over my balls and shook her
breasts over my face. She spread her legs wider and
settled down on top of me, one breast popping into my
mouth as her hands moved knowingly to my belt and
zipper. I sucked reflexively when her hand popped into
my briefs and grasped my cock, tugging on it back and
forth until it was at least as hard as the masseuse had
made it. I wasn’t anywhere near coming, though, when
Rogelio sat up, popping her nipple out from between my
lips.

“Get undressed, gringo. I had to listen to you giving it
up to that *puta* in town, now I want that for myself.”

She didn’t leave me any time to fold my clothes; by the
time I had my slacks down around my ankles, she was
nude. As pretty below as she was up top, with a sparse
dusting of brunette pubic hair already glistening with
her arousal. She pulled my pants the rest of the way off
while I got out of my shirt, and we worked together
getting rid of my underpants.

“Lie back,” she said, and swung herself around so that
her thighs covered my face. I dove in, enjoying the tart
sweetness of her while she breathed on my balls and
surrounded by cock with her wet active mouth.

I was hard in no time, but without the sense of urgency
I’d had earlier in the evening. Good thing, too, because
she got off my face, held my cock up and lowered herself
onto it. She rode me like a rodeo bull, rising and
falling to her own rhythms and needs, while I just held
onto her knees and stroked her legs, enjoying the
feeling of being inside her.

I watched, entranced, as a light flush spread over her
breasts, chest and shoulders, and as I extended one
finger to stroke her visibly-engorged clit she let out a
deep moan and her pussy did some amazing things around
my cock. I started wishing I *could* cum, as she slammed
her hips down hard, grabbed her breasts, opened her
mouth in a soundless “O”, and then fell forward onto me
in mid-spasm.

I stroked her sweaty back and ass-cheeks until her eyes
opened. “You’re still hard,” she said in some surprise.
I shrugged, not a terribly effective gesture when you’re
flat on your back beneath a naked woman.

She rolled her hips from side to side, then lay her head
down on my chest while still clasping me inside her. “I
*like* that feeling,” she murmured in my ear, “… a
lot,” and yawned, then slowly dozed off in my arms. I
was feeling a bit worn out myself…

I woke up in the middle of a very nice dream, lying back
in the jacuzzi with the water jets finding all of my
sensitive places. When I opened my eyes, Rogelio was
nibbling at my cock and playing with my balls and
backside. Seeing that I was awake, she rolled over on
her back and told me to “put him here, cowboy”.

I sat up, climbed on top of her, and did just that.
First with slow strokes, in and out, rubbing her clit,
then when she wrapped her legs around me and urged me to
go faster, I sped up and let my balls do the talking.
There wasn’t going to be a second act this time — I
already had that tight feeling between my legs, and she
was pulling me into her almost as fast as I was trying
to sink myself in.

Four, maybe five minutes later I was huffing and she was
moaning; no sooner did I let loose inside her than she
let out a yelp and dug her nails into my back. I could
tell there would be blood, but I was too lost trying to
drive my cock further into her to care.

At some point, after we both caught our breath, she slid
out from beneath me, her pussy still managing to grasp
the head of my cock for a last kiss as it popped off. “I
really ought to let you get *some* sleep before you go
to work,” she said smiling. I lay on the bed, totally
wiped out, as she took a shower and dried her hair. She
came back to me for one last long kiss, cupped my balls
and said “Take good care of these, mister.”

And with that she was gone.

I woke up the next morning, energized and looking
forward to my drive to the office. I hoped for Rogelio,
but I got a different driver and he was in a lousy mood.
When I asked why, I got a lecture about foreigners who
thought nothing about telling security they needed a
driver and then not bothering to show up at the
appointed time or location. “What did you do, just pick
up a car and driver off the street? You should consider
yourself lucky.”

I thought about that comment all through the morning
wrapup meetings. I guess he was right, because when I
called the security office after my final meeting they
claimed they never had a driver named Rogelio. I didn’t
get another opportunity; I left Colombia after lunch and
haven’t been back since.

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