Diplomat

This is something quite different from anything I've published before. I want to warn you in advance that it takes a long while to get to the sex. Of course, any and all feedback is appreciated; I'm always keen to learn and improve.

All sex is between characters 18 or older, and any resemblance to real persons or events is purely coincidental.

Please enjoy!

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I tested the weight of my revolver before sticking it into my waistband. It was two bullets shy of a full cylinder, but I didn't think that would matter much.

Valentines Day had always been something for other people. When I was in the Army, it always stirred up a lot of excitement among my compatriots, but I never had love in my plans. I was going to be a citizen of the world — a wanderer without attachments. That part of me didn't change when I left the military for the foreign service. No, I met a few girls here and there, had some fun... Nothing serious.

One night everything changed. It was only six months ago that I arrived at my new posting. A country ruled with an iron fist by a dictator whose been around since before I was born. On my third night, we went to a reception, and that's where I met her. Love at first sight — me and the Dictator's wife.

Her name was Amelia, and she possessed a kind of beauty I didn't know existed. For all her husband's cruelty, you could see the purity of her soul in all her features. Everything about her enthralled me, and we gravitated to one another. I remember her cherry-red dress, the delicate gold necklace she wore, and the way she first touched me. She put her hand on my forearm, "I didn't know Englishmen could have such beautiful eyes."

"I'm flattered, Ma'am," I replied shyly. The little dove, suspended from her neck, hypnotised me. When I tore my eyes from it, I looked up and saw the woman of my dreams. From that moment, my life was on a dangerous new trajectory.

Now, it was the 14th of February and my last night in the country. Someone on my side found out about the affair, which meant that someone on her side probably knew too. My career was as good as done, but I at least had a chance to escape unscathed.

The Dictator's wrath would be sudden and cruel; best to be avoided. Still, I had no intention of leaving Amelia behind — of surrendering her to the violence of her husband.

So, I rechecked my gun. It was a rusty old thing, bought from a barber who had no business selling it. He could only spare a few rounds to go with, and the price was astronomical, but I couldn't afford to go unarmed. I figured if we got caught, I'd be able to take one of the President's goons with me before being mowed down.

In fact, a quick death would be one of the better outcomes.

I observed myself in the mirror one last time and straightened my tie. Laughing under my breath, I struck my best secret-agent pose; feeling very much like a bad James Bond.

The embassy was in the nice part of town. Little cafes and restaurants lined the streets with their candle-lit tables. That night, there were no families, only couples sitting snuggly with bottles of wine. It was ironic, really, that they chose a day dedicated to lovers to throw me out. I wondered if it was a sick joke, cooked up by some brutish bureaucrat back home. I never liked them... The men in suits with thick fingers and crooked smiles.

A sweet married pair ran a nearby grocer. They were out for the night, and I found their son operating the till. I didn't see him often, but he seemed to carry all his land's ambitions in his heart. Despite it being my last night -- no matter the danger that lay ahead -- he made me smile. "Big data, Mister?"

I nodded and passed the kid a little something extra as a tip. Along with some breath mints, I bought a bunch of flowers. Not red roses because they didn't have those. No, a colourful bunch that seemed to defy the darkness of the situation.

On our first 'date', my lover found me at midnight, a block away from the palace. We sat between flowers like the ones I now held; their petals drowned by the blue-black night. There she told me that her name meant 'work'.

"Sounds challenging," I responded.

"You're silly," she spoke with an accent more English than my own. "My name means... It means that I'm committed and hardworking. That's what my father had in mind. He told me I can do anything."

I smiled, "Your father sounds wise. I'm sorry I'll never get the chance to meet him."

The story of Amelia's upbringing is bleak. She did not marry her husband by choice, having been young and with her country in a civil war. Now, she was 32-years-old and had spent fifteen of her years as first lady. In that time she'd started many charitable projects and earned an advanced degree. The people loved her more than they loved her husband, but that wasn't saying much. Personally, she had no love for the Dictator; a man whose men killed the father she so loved.

"A revolution is imminent," I assured my lover.

"Good," my she smiled. "I doubt they will spare me, though. Marie Antoinette and all."

Amelia had a point — another reason for her to leave the country with me. Then again, she might also be wrong. There was something about the way her people looked up to her. She represented something deep within their hearts. In my heart.

I arrived at our secret meeting place: the home of a friend and former colonel in the police. He was a bulky man named Alex who wore a cellphone on his hip (alongside a Beretta). The house was in a quiet neighbourhood close to the palace, for Amelia's convenience. It was also discreet, and our host was well respected in his community.

Outside, the building was grey brick while white plaster peeled off its interior walls. But then there's the courtyard; a magical place where the house's owner spent all his money and energy. It was the spot where Amelia and I could talk and touch and laugh, in relative peace.

The First Lady was yet to arrive, so Alex and I made small-talk. He was defined by his commitment to his beloved wife, who sadly passed away several years ago. He did everything he did because he had an appreciation for the power of love. It turns out, he was also big into Valentines Day.

"My wife and I," Alex poked me, "Every year! The whole of February!"

"The whole month?" I asked.

The man's English was so-so, but I got the point. He continued, "Flowers, candles, love, love, love... Come, look at what I did!"

I followed my host to the courtyard garden. The little iron table where Amelia and I would meet had a beautiful white cloth over it. There were rose petals strewn on and around, and tiny candles danced with the shadows.

"Alex—" It was beautiful, and I was speechless!

Before I could thank the big sop, he ran off to go fetch something in the house. Looking around, I was struck by the fact that the thought of romance could make even the toughest guy swoon.

When Alex returned, he was carrying a bouquet of bright red roses. "I will take those others," he insisted. "Give her these!"

I nodded, grateful for all the help. My host took the flowers I'd bought and gave me a wink, not knowing this would be my last time seeing him. He represented the best in people; understood all the risks and stood by us.

We had another helper. I never quite caught her name. A stern lady who served as Amelia's lone female bodyguard. The two of them trusted each other implicitly, and that was enough for me. In any case, without the woman's help, we would never have been able to arrange meetings. She walked into the house ahead of Amelia, her head on a swivel as she scanned for threats.

Then followed my beloved! Words cannot describe the way she makes me feel just by walking into a room. I hugged her tightly, catching a whiff of her sweet perfume before feeling the touch of her lips. We kissed like it could be our last — neither of us willing to let the moment pass — clinging. I stayed firm on my feet as her soft mouth opened to my tongue and made contact with hers. Her hands snaked around my back, cradling my head, as we seized every second we could.

Sadly, every kiss has to end. We stepped into the garden, and I pulled out her chair for her. Meanwhile, our companions made themselves scarce.

"The secret police followed me here," Amelia said matter-of-factly. "The President has asked to see me tomorrow."

"I see—"

"Don't look so glum!" the raven-haired beauty snickered. "At least we'll have one Valentines Night together."

On cue, Alex arrived with a bottle of red wine and two glasses. He set everything down on the table with a shy smile and retreated back indoors. He wasn't aware of the danger surrounding us, yet I had no doubt he'd want to confront it head-on.

"If they know where you are, we're all in terrible danger," I said.

"No, no. The President is many things, but I am certain that he only intends to punish me. You will be fine, my love, and so will our confidants."

I didn't know whether to admire or fear the ease with which Amelia spoke. I suppose she'd seen a lot of dark things during her life. Maybe that changes the way you look at your own mortality. Then I wondered if her square-cut black dress had been a choice — funereal and anticipatory. She wore the same necklace she'd worn the night we met; a dove on a light gold chain.

Yes, her outfit sent a clear message... One of acceptance, if not outright defiance.

My own career had been full of bloodshed. I used to be a soldier; trying hard to hide my past with fancy suits and mixed drinks. I was still a soldier at heart. Yet, I never lost my fear of dying, and I certainly wouldn't accept that my lover's fate was sealed.

"I've arranged a helicopter. It's a short flight over the border!" I declared.

Amelia shook her head; summoning a weak smile and dismissing me firmly. "If he cannot punish me, he will punish others."

"I won't leave you behind to die! Dear God, what will they do to you? To Alex and your protector..."

"The President won't touch you or them," Amelia restated with absolute confidence.

"Okay, then it's just you. Amelia, my love, you can't stay here. Don't you understand that they'll kill you?"

A naughty look crossed the face of the woman opposite me. She made a mockery of the perils we faced, "I hope to be tortured first... For loving a man — for loving you — more than any woman has a right to love another."

It had only been six months, though Cupid's arrow only needs to hit you once.

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We could never find a bedroom. It was too much to ask of Alex.

I recall, on our second date, we ended up in a park. Sat beneath a behemoth of a tree that my lover could name in her native tongue, we stared longingly at the universe. The night sky was our blanket — hiding our affair in its darkness while the stars sprinkled us with light. That evening, the moon was stunning. A spotlight that steeled the softness of my lover's face.

We often found ourselves stuck in a frustrated kiss or an embrace halfway to nowhere. The sensuality between us kept being bottled up; always had to be interrupted.

I touched Amelia's cheek and could feel the moonlight on my fingertips. Her nose crinkled as she responded to the electric sensation, then I kissed her softly. Her hand touched my thigh while I cradled her body. Pulling her closer, I swept her off balance, and we kissed like that girl and the sailor — the day a great war was won. We both wanted more to happen; our bodies craved it, but it couldn't be.

Then, our time was up. The First Lady's protector approached us and informed us that we couldn't be out much longer.

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After the initial unpleasantness of near-certain death, our dinner didn't turn out too bad. There was an air of defiance in the way we laughed — in how we drank wine and held hands, and stole every second we could.

"What will you do when you're back in Britain?" Amelia asked.

I exhaled, "It depends, what part of London do you want to see first?"

My lover's lashes fluttered, and her hand rested on mine. I was still trying to convince her to run away, but she hadn't budged an inch. Just like that evening in the park, our time was running out.

Alex was the first to see it. A couple of cars had parked across the street, each with four men inside. Seemingly, the Dictator was not going to give us one last night together.

"You must get out of here," our host commanded. His face was resolute, his furry moustache solid, and eyes firm.

"I have a way out of the country. We can all make it," I replied. Hands trembling.

Alex shook his head and put his hand on my heart, "No."

The old man pointed to the ground beneath him and to his pistol — he intended to die where he stood. His conviction was admirable, but I had no intention of letting him die. I grabbed a handful of greasy polo shirt and looked him dead in the eye. "We're all getting out of this alive."

The First Lady spoke commandingly to our host and her protector. She assured them that once she leaves, the police will lose all interest in them. "I would never have put you in danger. Knowing my husband, he will focus all his rage on me. Let me go outside and surrender."

My lover's words sounded impossibly naive, but I didn't doubt her sincerity. I turned to her, "Please, you must come with me. I don't think you understand the danger."

A tenderness overtook Amelia's face. Her eyes narrowed; my heart sank. Taking her hand, I pulled her a little and her lips tightened. I saw, again, she had no intention of running away.

"Please," I begged. "No matter what, I'm not going to leave you to face what comes next alone."

Amelia swallowed hard. Her lips softened, and her shoulder bumped against mine as her head found a resting place. "I will go with you, but only to make sure you are safe. My love, I cannot leave the country!"

The bodyguard with us advanced an idea. She too spoke with perfect English, which came as a result of expensive foreign education. "Many men visit brothels near here. The people there often see generals and ministers pass by and they never say a word. Find a spot there; neither the women nor their pimps will betray you."

The compromise was good enough for now, and we got to our feet. We'd need a plan to get past the security men outside. Our little group conferred — the faces of our protectors telling us that they were prepared for what came next. Alex smiled and put a hand on my shoulder, drawing me in for a bear-hug. Amelia embraced her bodyguard, departing with a kiss on the cheek.

Sneaking out the backdoor, we had a good view of the street. The two cars parked conspicuously on the sidewalk seemed at rest. The men inside calm and self-assured; torturers, killers, thieves... I felt for my revolver, its presence somehow reassuring as I reached to hold Amelia's hand. We were crouched behind a bin, watching as our female companion darted between cars a few metres away. Then Alex emerged from the house, his one hand waving while his other held a large gun behind his back.

As the car doors edged open and the men sought to approach our host, a blast of gunshots could be heard. Our compatriots had opened fire. Amelia's bodyguard shot from the back and Alex from the side. The muzzle flash with the thunderous sound made us flinch, but we didn't have the luxury of fear. As our friends continued to unload their weapons, we ran into the night.

The smell of lead fire and iron blood haunted us as we navigated narrow streets. I remembered nights in the Army, and I could taste the sand from nearby deserts as if I were back in barracks. I'd been in warzones but never been the architect of an ambush. My skin went cold, and my legs switched to automatic.

The bordello that would be our hideaway wasn't far off. In this country, the poor intermingle with the rich. Every centre of wealth is only a short walk away from a slum.

My adrenaline was pumping; both me and my lover stealing glances at each other. Peeking at the world behind us as we snaked through the streets and searched for enemies. Again, we found romantic cafes along our route, packed with lovers who had peace on this Valentines Night. Here and there someone would watch us pass, possibly recognising their first lady.

At one stage, my feet hit a puddle of water. Because I didn't expect it to be there, it made me stop. It forced me to listen to the world around us, and I heard a beggar's guitar in the distance. Then my lover pulled at my hand, and we were off again, but the music remained.

We reached our destination: a row of brothels in an empty street. One would think Valentines night is popular in such places, but there were very few people around. Of course, there were a few girls on the road and one or two rough-sorts loitering nearby. None of them paid us much attention. Turns out, couples aren't really their target market.

After walking the whole street, we settled on a place called 'Cupid's Arrow'. It was in a dilapidated brick building with a half-lit electric sign announcing its name. Prostitution wasn't legal, but that didn't stop such places operating openly. The front door was guarded by a bulky man who kept his eyes to himself. Inside we found room after room — some vacant and others occupied. Where doors were open, women stood in their frames and smiled mildly at us as we passed.

Either it was dark, or no one cared, but the fact that Amelia was with me didn't seem to raise any eyebrows. I don't know how such places work, but there was no madam or pimp to be found. We negotiated the system they had in place for ushering clients, ending up in the 'Presidential Suite'. Ironic.

I passed a duo of women some foreign currency, and they were more than thrilled to help. They gave us the key to the room and told us we had 90 minutes — an hour-and-a-half to plan a way to safety.

"Romantic," Amelia giggled girlishly as we entered.

The room was pretty bare; a four-poster bed at its centre with two chairs in the corner and a small bathroom. Red bulbs covered everything in an elicit dimness, and a single heart-shaped balloon floated in the corner. That and two electric candles were the brothel-owners' attempt at a Valentine's theme.

My lover seemed to have adopted a strange sense of resignation, "I want to be clean for my execution."

The way she behaved was frustrating. I could compartmentalise with the best of them -- had to sometimes -- but she seemed lost.

"Our friends could be dead out there!" I snapped.

The way Amelia looked at me... She was feeling what I felt but had no way of saying it. No, she didn't have the words, yet I could see into her heart and feel her pain.

My eyes followed the raven-haired first lady into the bathroom. Her movements were slow, and her eyes beckoned me to join her. She dropped her arms, and her dress revealed a bare shoulder. That's where I held her; feeling the whole climate of her emotions course through my fingers.

We stood like that for minutes. Then, I felt her hands reach around and touch my stomach -- grip my shirt. I found the zip of her dress, guiding it down. Slowly, the little bumps that made up my lover's spine articulated as her breath sharpened. As her head turned and our lips came close, I saw the first sign of fear in the corners of her eyes. I was scared too; my privileges and immunities rendered useless as a madman chased us down.

We weren't going to let our moment of safety be wasted on fear.

My lips found Amelia's and my mind could focus on only one thing. All my attention was on that little point of contact between us. It became my world, and every other thing — every object and sensation — faded from existence. All we had to do was share this kiss, and even the very act of breathing seemed unnecessary.