Bogota Bang

by Rajah Dodger {rdodger@hotmail.com} (c) 1999, 2009

This work is licensed under the Creative Commons
Attribution-Non-Commercial-Share Alike 3.0 United States License (by-nc-sa). In
jurisdictions where the Creative Commons license is not recognized, United
States copyright and Berne Convention provisions apply; all rights reserved to
Rajah Dodger except that electronic not-for-profit reproduction rights are
explicitly granted with the stipulation that this authorship and permission
note must remain attached. 

Abstract: 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 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/ 

Endnote:

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. 

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.