The Posting

10 min read

photo: MetArt

Welcome to Colombia

The posting, when it came, was a complete surprise: Colombia, Bogotá. He didn’t know what machinations had been taking place above his head; his boss, his boss’s boss, but the decision, now it was made, delivered to him on heavy Foreign Office headed stationery, could not be undone. He waited until he got home to tell her, Emma, prim and proper Emma, even though he knew she’d be annoyed he hadn’t told her straight away. Poor Em. The sense of relief told him it was the right thing to do.

“Bogotá?” A catch in her voice. “I don’t think I can come with you. Not this time. Not now that everything’s going so well for me here.”

“I understand, Em,” he said. And they looked at each other across the room; she with white face tight and eyes hot, mouth set: she would not cry in front of him.

That night they made love in the dark of their bedroom, as usual him on top while she lay there, acquiescent and cold. He fucked her with long, slow strokes, feeling the little movements under him as his cock eased in and out of her, the slight gasps, the whimpers and quiet moans as she came; her skin cool and soft, breasts pressed against his chest. When he put his face next to hers, kissing into her neck, muffling his own shuddering groans as he came, her cheek and neck were wet with tears.

In truth it had been coming for a while, like a slow train that you watch from afar, meandering its way along tracks that will lead it inevitably to you, but he couldn’t help the sadness that welled in him as they parted. The car arrived as they had said it would, his bags shipped out the day before, and so they stood together on the steps of their Pimlico townhouse and said goodbye to each other for the last time, the foot or so that separated them in reality a gulf.

“Good luck,” she said.

“Thank you,” he replied. “You too.”

He kissed her, no more than a peck, a final contact, but she turned her face to him and his kiss glanced off her cheek. And like that it was over.

His flight connected through Madrid with no time to do any more than marvel at the rolling wooden waves of the new terminal roof, and after a further thirteen hours aloft, his plane began its sharp descent into Bogotá, pushing through the thin clouds that he would find to be an almost permanent fixture over the city. The pilot told them that while they’d had to climb 38,000 feet at take off, they’d only had to descend 32,000 to land and so were still 6,000 feet higher than Madrid; in a sense, he said, we’re still airborne.

The waiting car took him from the airport to his new apartment in the diplomatic quarter just off Plaza de Bolívar, and he thrilled at the sights and sounds of the city; the buildings that changed from industrial by the airport, through boxy concrete, mean-looking dwellings, to the majesty of the fin de siècle palaces and modern skyscrapers punching up through those low grey clouds. He watched through the windows the people of this sultry, once violent city as they went about their day; the sedate pace of the periphery, old men playing cards under flashing Coca Cola signs, children playing soccer, to the hustle and noise and traffic of the center. It was all a joy: to see something like this, the city where he would spend at least the next two years, for the very first time.

The door to his apartment closed behind him and in the hall, on a table newly decorated with fresh flowers — lilies, he saw — was a letter welcoming him to the city and letting him know that his driver would arrive at seven to take him to the Embassy. He wandered through the apartment; high ceilings, dark wooden floors, tall windows that opened up onto wrought iron Juliet balconies. He found the master bedroom and undressed, shedding the dirt of the journey, sitting naked at the foot of his bed, almost falling asleep right there, before rousing himself and heading to the bathroom where he scrubbed himself pink beneath the baptismal waters of a scalding shower.

Now he lay on the freshly laundered sheets of his new bed, a towel wrapped around his waist, and stared at the ceiling, trying to feel tired; but the jet lag had him and his mind wandered back to London and all he had left behind.

He sat up suddenly, cursing himself, and made a call to the concierge. A taxi. Somewhere for dinner; somewhere he wouldn’t see any foreigners, just the locals. The driver dropped him at Pajares Salinas and he was ushered inside to a table tucked away in the corner of the formal dining room. The hostess couldn’t hide her surprise when he said that rather than dining alone in the main room, he’d prefer the intimacy of the bar, and she escorted him, straight backed, to the one open seat facing a golden wall of backlit bottles. He ordered a whisky, dealers choice, just make sure it’s Scottish, and began to look down at the menu and the classical Spanish food the restaurant was famous for. He shook his head, put the menu down and his whisky arrived. He raised his glass, a silent toast to his new life, and took a long drink, pulling the liquid across his teeth, swirling it around his tongue, letting it burn just enough before swallowing.

“What did you drink to?”

He turned to his side. “Excuse me?”

The woman sitting next to him smiled, full lips deep red, black eyes huge and laughing, as though the whole world were her plaything. “What did you drink to?” she repeated.

“To new beginnings,” he said. “I’ve just arrived. I’ll be here for a while. I just want it to go well.”

She raised her glass, a red wine: “To new beginnings.”

“New beginnings.”

“Tell me,” she said. “Where are you from? American, perhaps? But your Spanish is very proper, very Madrileño. You are European. French?”

“British,” he replied. “I work at the Embassy. And no, I’m not a spy. Just a secretary to the Ambassador. A new posting.”

“A new posting,” she repeated. “And you are here alone? Are you being joined later? Is your wife flying out?”

“No,” he said. “Not married and this… well… this was the end… but…”

She seemed to stop listening halfway through, as though she had all the information she either needed or wanted.

“We should eat together,” she said.

“Together?” He had picked up the menu again and was looking through its Tapas, Sopas, Mariscos, Carnes, and the rest, and was about to order a thermidor of langoustines. “Why together? Not that I wouldn’t want to…”

“The Paella Valenciana,” she said. “They only make it for two people. It is the best thing they do.”

“It says it takes an hour to make…”

“The only people in a hurry in a restaurant are going to the theatre but don’t have the style to eat after the show, or else they hate each other’s company.”

He smiled. “Well then,” he said. “You should order that. And some wine, seeing as we have to wait.”

He looked at her properly, now they were partners for dinner. Her hair was a mane: black, lustrous, falling in heavy waves over slim shoulders. Her eyes were huge, black lined under sharp eyebrows. Full lips and a mouth that seemed always a moment away from laughter; glowing skin the color of a cafe latte. Her black lace blouse hugged her frame, opening out at her neck to plunge between perfect breasts. At her throat, a small golden crucifix. But it was more than how she looked that held him enraptured, for layered on top of that was a dense, musky perfume; a combination of whatever she was wearing and her body, her skin, her sex.

She caught the bartender’s attention, ordered the paella and a bottle of wine.

“My name is Violante,” she said, turning slightly to offer her right hand.

“How do you do,” he said, twisting to take it, skin soft but grip firm. “I’m Richard.”

They talked, laughed, drank. She poured him wine and asked him about London: How was it? Such a long time since she was last there. The food arrived, a steaming paella teeming with fresh seafood, the woody scents of saffron and the smoke of the paprika filling the air. It was everything she said it would be and they ate until they could eat no more. He ordered digestifs to go with the coffee; bitter herbal tinctures from Italy.

“A new toast,” she said, the facets of the small crystal glass flashing in the muted light of the bar as she turned in her seat, facing him more directly. He took his own and raised it to hers.

“What would you like to drink to?” he asked.

“To you. Welcome to Colombia.”

They drank, he breathing in the heady scent of her over the fumes of his drink, looking into her eyes, so deep and dark, profound and exotic, and as he placed his glass on the bar top, she leaned in towards him and her lips found his. He put a hand to her shoulder, the heat of her skin, ablaze beneath the lace, and they kissed again, her tongue now pushing into him; the taste of the bitter alcohol, the taste of her.

The taxi was waiting for them outside, steel flanks reflecting the lights of the restaurant, engine humming, and he opened the door for her and watched as she slid herself inside. They sat apart across the rear seat, no hand holding or other contact because he knew that any touch would be too much — a spark on so much combustible flesh — but the heat coming off her had him hard against his trousers.

He paid the driver and they watched for a moment as the red tail lights faded down the now misty street, before she stepped into him, one high heeled foot between his legs, her hip pushing against him, reveling in the hardness of his cock pushing uncontrollably back into her. She kissed him, fingers coiled in his black hair, and he was helpless against her.

The concierge called the elevator down for them and the moment the doors closed her hand was on his cock, down his trousers, gripping the shaft at the root, making him moan against her, her grip unrelenting as her tongue wrestled with his.

They fell from the elevator and he took her hand and walked her to his apartment, struggling with the lock, her hands under his jacket, pulling at his shirt, running across his chest, until finally it was open and they were inside and the door slammed behind them. They made it as far as the hallway table, knocking the vase over to smash across the wooden floor, as Violante tore at his clothes and his hands pulled at her blouse, and sought the zipper at the side of her tight leather skirt.

She stepped back from him for just a moment, lips swollen and breath short, a single fingernail scoring his chest, on its way down towards his open trousers and pulsating cock.

“It is not for you to choose how I undress,” she said. “That is for me to do for you. It is my pleasure. Now you will not touch me again until I say.”

She moved like a wild animal: sensual, every movement, every cast of her eyes, every noise she made, focussed on one thing. He was pinned back against the wall, chest rising and falling, hypnotized by her and the heat that came from her. Her finger pulled at the elastic of his briefs and his bulging cock leaped at being free, rising hard between them.

Back in London, if they’d had sex, made love, whatever, it was always because he wanted it; always because he had chosen to seek Emma out, to push her onto the bed, or to roll on top of her while she, pliant but always slightly disengaged, lay there while he fucked her. Now, to be told that he couldn’t touch Violante, that she controlled him …

“Take off the rest of your clothes,” she said, her finger circling the tip of his cock, and he obeyed without thinking—the sudden release of not being in charge—shrugging off his trousers, pulling off his shoes and socks, sliding his briefs down over his thighs while Violante watched, hands on her hips, mouth open and eyes burning for him. She began to undo her blouse, one slow button at at time, untucking it from her tight skirt and letting it fall from her shoulders; then she turned from him and began to pull her skirt down over her ass, bending forwards as she did so, and it was all he could do not to grab at her and pull her into him. She stood for him, posing for just a moment, letting him drink her in — bra, small briefs and heels, skin flawless and glowing — before she was on her knees, one hand around his cock, pulling him into her mouth.

He shuddered as her lips closed around him, her tongue pressed hard against the underside of his cock, and he groaned as she took him deeper and deeper, before pulling back, lips tight around just the head of his cock, cheeks indented, sucking him as hard as she could. His hands were tight around the edge of the table behind him as he looked down at Violante, red lips staining his saliva coated cock, hungrily sucking on him, hands on his ass, pulling him into her, into the heat of her mouth. He couldn’t remember the last time he’d had a blowjob, certainly not from Em, and anyway, nothing before had prepared him for this; the insatiable hunger Violante had for his cock.

His hips began to move — rocking back and forth in time to her sucking, pulling away from him, her tongue rolling across the head of his dick, pushing back towards him, taking his full length deep into her throat — and he knew that he didn’t have long but as his legs began to shake and his body to contract, Violante freed him, leaving his cock twitching and straining, standing to kiss him with wet, swollen lips. He groaned again as she pushed her body into him, grinding herself against his dripping cock, but he didn’t take his hands from the table, focussing instead on his mouth on her mouth, their tongues wrestling, his head cupped between her hands, her long thick hair, brushing against his chest. The heat coming off her, the smell of her, the energy, her whole body screamed sex and he felt as though he might cum now just from her kissing her. A hand went to her side, the skin just above her hip, pulling her harder into him, grinding his throbbing cock against her, feeling her muscles move beneath skin so hot it seemed to burn. But the contact lasted for just a second as she stepped back from him, admiring his panting frame, the effect she was having on him, before telling him that it was time, that he should take her to the bedroom.

Violante told him to lie back on the bed, told him that he could touch himself if he wanted to, and she began to slowly remove her bra and panties, teasing them from her body, teasing him with her swaying hips and legs, stepping eventually from her heels. She stared at him while her hands played across her body, first at her breasts, sliding down across her stomach, past her belly button, the triangle of black hair, to her pussy, where she began to rub her clit and run her fingers between already wet pussy lips. And his hand went to his cock and he stroked himself while he watched her.

When she decided that he’d had enough, she climbed onto the bed, straddled him and guided his cock into her, and he gasped at the heat and the way she squeezed him as his cock slid up inside her. She lent forwards now, her hair a living thing, cascading across his chest and face while she looked down their bodies at the sight of his dick sliding in and out of her, stretching her pussy, and she gripped him hard with her sugar walls and laughed at his gasps and groans.

Now she leaned backwards, sitting up on him, her hair flicked over her shoulder, her hands at her breasts as she bounced up and down on him, her pubic bone banging into his, dense hair grinding against him, faster and faster and she was shouting and crying out, “Harder, more, fuck, fuck!” as he stared up at her, the unrestrained joy on her face, in her words, and she came hard, screaming, and he had no choice but to cum too, hot cum boiling up his cock, pulled from him by Violante’s pulsating pussy. She fell forwards onto him, lips hot against his, tongue playing with him, the roof of his mouth, his teeth, biting his lips, softly at first, then hard enough to draw blood and she continued to bite until he cried out and rolled her off him, now pinning her arms above her head, moving against her, his dick beginning to stiffen again.

She smiled up at him, her voice a laugh: “Welcome to Colombia,” she said.

Leave a Reply