[bogo] [1999-03-01] Bogota Bang [FM bd, MF]
Bogota Bang, by Rajah Dodger <rdodger@hotmail.com>,
Copyright (c) 1999. All rights reserved, except that electronic
not-for-profit reproduction rights only are explicitly granted
with the stipulation that this authorship and permission note
must remain attached.
Word Count: 4221
"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 asscheeks, 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 asscheeks 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 asscheeks 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.
/end/ 03-01-1999 Rajah Dodger (c) All Rights Reserved
Okay, folks, I feel it incumbent on me to add some sort of
disclaimer. Anonymous encounters in foreign countries with no
condoms are an invitation to any number of nasty STDs.
Unprotected sex in the United States is no guarantee either.
Play careful and live to have fun. /rd
Also, thanks to my good friend Tom of Panama who provided me
with the correct idiomatic Spanish to use in place of my
dictionary translations.