Thursday , May 19 2022

Diplomatic incident

I am a First Secretary at our Embassy, one of several
such diplomats who are next rank down from the
Ambassador himself. That means I have to tread the
cocktail circuit a fair bit, which frankly is a bore. It
sounds great to be out partying as a profession, but
unfortunately you have to stay fairly sober, mind what
you say to people, and listen to all their bullshit. After
you’ve been for a while posted in one place, it gets to be
the same old people talking the same old bullshit. But I
have to do it, as “networking” goes with the territory.
And you do pick up some interesting gossip from those
for whom the novelty of unlimited free drinks has not
yet worn off.

The one oasis in this social desert was the functions
held at the Residence of the new British Ambassador.
He was an old fart, but his wife Samantha was
smashing. Smashing to look at, I mean. When in his
forties, he had wed a young show-biz type in her early
twenties. Since he was now around sixty, that made her
almost forty. She was about 5’5″ and built along Teri
Hatcher lines, but a wee bit plumper with the onset of
mid-life. This made her breasts a tad bigger, her arse
fuller and her tummy a bit more rounded. All of which,
Monroe-fashion, simply added more dangerous curves.

And she liked to dress up for functions. Not ornately,
but simply and sexily. Her favourite was backless
gowns of elegant cut with the hem just above the knee.
Great legs. He obviously liked her to show off her
figure with clinging outfits of thin fabric, and he
always seemed to beam with pride when she was on his
arm. Yes, well chosen, Harry.

So there we all were, the diplomatic corps regulars plus
the usual sprinkling of social climbers who always put
their names on Embassy resident-nationals lists. We
were quaffing wine and finger-food in honour of some
state occasion. It really was the type of dreary little
nation where there was nothing interesting to do except
drink and fornicate. More on the latter later.

It was getting toward the end of the evening, and I had
just finished listening to a local politician griping
away about this and that. I got away from him and joined
a colleague over in a corner. He had just finished being
chatted to by Samantha.

She had joined another group and now had her back to
us. As usual she looked great. Tonight her volup-
tuousness was clad in a matt-black dress that stopped
above her knees and had splits partway up the sides.
It left her shoulder-blades bare, except for thin
straps which ran over and secured (not all that tightly)
the two triangles of fabric in front which covered her
chest. The width of these was only just adequate to
conceal her breasts, and her nipples were easily
discernable under the thin covering. Each breast would
wobble pleasingly as she moved about. Her long dark
hair was piled up in an elegant coiffure, and she had a
single short strand of pearls around her neck, worn like
a “choker”. Gazing at her derriere, I could not see even
a hint of a panty line to mar the shape of each arse
cheek (curious, I thought). The dress fabric fell across
the curve of her bum so faithfully that it even hugged
into the cleft in between.

“So, what did she have to say for herself?” I said to my
colleague.

“She talks about nothing very much, but in an
entertaining way.”

“Well, if you don’t want to listen I guess you can always
just look.”

“Actually, I could hardly tear my eyes away from her
tits,” he murmured. “And there may be hope for
somebody. I have heard some scuttlebutt that she may
not just be a case of Can See Can’t Touch.”

“Yeah, right; when we finally get a spunky-looking Mrs
Ambassador over here, someone’s bound to go and say
that.”

“No, I have it on good authority. It could well be that
she likes a young stallion now and again. My source
says that young Martin from the French Embassy was
noticably absent near the end of last month’s do, for
about half an hour. And so was she.”

“I didn’t notice, and I was there.”

“You should be more observant, then.”

“So you think he went up to view her etchings?”

“Unless it was coincidence, but my informant thinks
not.”

I filed this away in my brain under “I” for “Intriguing”,
and we separated to circulate some more.

I gravitated toward her group, and ended up in
conversation with her for about a minute. It was just
the usual politely-interested “Who are you, and how
long have you been in this place” sort of stuff from her,
pitched at a professional level but with a twinkle in her
eye all the same. She held a glass of white wine, and
seemed to be just a little bit tipsy. Her accent was very
proper BBC English, probably calculatedly so, as the
occasional word would betray slightly more provincial
origins.

My colleague was right about her breasts. They were
magnificent. The black material of her dress might as
well have been spray-painted on, for all the good they
did at stopping you seeing exactly what her boobs
looked like. About a C cup, very full and round, and
slightly pendulous. When she moved, they moved too.
The two raised bumps caused by her nipples were
particularly enticing. I got the slight impression
that she was checking me out too, because she was
regarding me a bit more intently than our “sweet
nothings” level of conversation really warranted.

She turned and leaned forward a bit to pick up a
smoked-salmon tidbit from a passing tray, and the
movement created a bit of slack in one shoulder strap.
The fabric of her dress fell forward slightly and
afforded me an excellent profile view of the curve of
her upper breast, almost down to the fairly-prominent
nipple. It was just a glimpse, as she turned back and
popped the salmon between her lips.

“Mmmm … ” she said of the salmon, “truly sex-on-a-
plate …”

Before I could think of anything to say to that, some-
one else buttonholed her and I retreated.

I sat by myself on a sofa in a side alcove and nursed
my drink. The glimpse of her breast had caused a sudden
hot tingling all around the back of my neck, and I was
savouring those feelings. This woman excited me
beyond belief.

Next, to my surprise, she and a gentleman came and sat
on a sofa directly opposite me, about 15 feet away.
They were in conversation (don’t ask me what about!),
and she didn’t look my way at all. I could see
something of her smooth thighs, though her legs were
crossed and this stopped anyone looking right up her
skirt. But then, still talking to her companion, she
uncrossed her legs quite slowly and then recrossed
them the other way. Again it was just a glimpse, but
under the tent made by that momentarily-tightened
short skirt I saw what was practically a naked pussy.

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