It's cool Saturday morning in a village outside Medellin, Colombia. Cool because we are way up in the hills in Santa Elena, a group of villages famous for its flowers. Down in the city, it's t-shirt weather every day, but you can feel the temperature drop as you ride up the winding hill in the bus.

I'm staying in a little cabaña, a wooden cabin on a steeply sloping piece of land owned by two middle-aged Colombian sisters, Gabi and Esme. It's a wild and natural area, right next to a national park that rambles for mile after wooded mile and the sisters' property is tended near the top where their little house is, with flowers and shrubs artfully positioned, but down by the two log cabins, it's pretty much like the park. It's dead quiet and dead cold.

Apparently, it never snows up here, but it can't be far off, and there is no heating in the cabaña or their house. They grew up around here and heating is for wimps. They've got a chimney and a fireplace but they never use it. They just wear another sweater and a big pair of boots. Even in the bigger village a few miles away, in the cafes, they don't light the fire for customers,. You're supposed to drink hot chocolate and eat hearty local soups to warm up.

I've been in hot weather countries for years and have no warm clothes left, so I spend my days in two t-shirts, shirt and suit jacket, which is the only outer garment I now possess.

So, this morning I'm in Gabi's house – she's always here but Esme lives in the city and only comes up at weekends – because I need the internet and it's not working in the cabaña. It's an old stone house and I'm sitting in the dining room, from where I can see the kitchen, just beyond which is the bathroom. Gabi is making breakfast, boiling water for coffee in a pan. She is fully dressed in jeans, shirt and cowboy boots. She's a small, thin, bird-like woman, quite pretty but exuding no sex at all.

Esme, on the other hand, is taller, sturdier and made of livelier stuff, as she reminds me when she appears from the shower.

She pretends she hasn't seen me. She's wearing just a long t-shirt – nothing else, not even on her feet as she strides around the chilly stone floor. She walks through to her room and comes back a minute later with some underwear in her hand. She asks her sister in Spanish where the detergent is and Gabi tells her there is none left. I deduce all this from my rudimentary Spanish plus the gestures and tones of voice.

Esme holds her black undies in her hands, stretches them, adjusts the position and stretches them again so she is looking at the gusset, that blessed little strip that spends its working life looking pressed up against her crotch.

She still hasn't acknowledged my presence. Then Gabi looks up and calls through to me, asking if I would like some coffee. I say yes, please, and she pours some into a cup.

Esme grabs the cup and brings it to me, the panties still in her hands. She makes no attempt to hide them, but looks down at me and feigns embarrassment. I am half hoping she will put them under my nose and invite me to sniff her essence, but even she seems to draw the line at that. If only we could read each other's mind, there would be so much more excitement in the world.

Esme turns to the kitchen but Gabi has gone, so she does a precarious balancing act while stepping into the knickers, turning as she does, so I get a very brief view of her buttocks before the fabric covers them.

When Esme does this sort of thing she kind of brazens it out, playing the eccentric mature woman who has seen it all and assumes everyone else has too. In this way, she can dismiss any objections from Gabi as petty and prissy.

“You enjoy la cabaña?” she asks me. “Not cold?”

“It's cold but the bed is nice and warm,” I say.

“Confortable?” she asks, using the 'n' instead of the 'm', which is how they spell it.

“Lonely,” I say, joking. She smiles and touches my arm before wandering off, calling to her sister.

I finish my coffee and checking my email and head back down the hill. I chose this place for two weeks of rest and recuperation after a stressful time at work in the city and I'm enjoying doing nothing, just wandering around the hillside, walking to the little shop in the village and drinking wine and listening to my iPod.

I've been here three days and Gabi has been discreetly attentive during the day but nowhere to be seen at night. Now that naughty Esme is here I feel the evenings could be more interesting.

As it turns out I don't have to wait that long, because at 11:00 am there is a knock at my door and she's there, brandishing a box of cookies.

She has dressed, now wearing a long, overstretched sweater and a skirt which only just peeks out below it. Her hair is wet and she looks generally ill-prepared for facing the world.

We talk in faltering Spanglish as we eat the cookies and drink the tea I have rustled up, but it is clear to me that she didn't come here for a conversation.

“English gentleman,” she says simply. “Roger Moore. I like.”

“Beautiful Colombian woman,” I reply. I have noticed in recent weeks that Colombian women seem to like me and I don't know why. Maybe my nationality has something to do with it. And, although I'm not tall, nor am I at a height disadvantage because the Hispanics are generally quite short.

As we sit together on the little sofa I put my arm around her shoulders and pull her to me. Her eyes lock onto mine and her mouth, usually set in a brash grin, narrows with intensity.

We kiss over-eagerly. I don't know how long it has been for her but for me, it has been months: far too long.

Esme pulls her sweater up to reveal her large naked breasts and urges me (I assume) to suck them. I admire their firmness and trace a long blue vein with my tongue, then lift the heavy flesh pouch and lick her underneath, before sucking her nipples as she writhes around, moaning in ecstasy.

It occurs to me that many women who seem more available than the norm, more up-for-it, simply get more out of sex and therefore go looking for it.

Since Esme is clearly in this category I decide she won't object if I indulge in my favorite sexual practice.

I lift her skirt and find she has no underwear on, so I dive in and spread her legs before licking her freshly shaven pussy. She is juicy and succulent as she holds my head with something akin to thanks.

“Turn over,” I command, with hand gestures to reinforce the point. She is more than willing and I know she is not afraid of anything. If I wanted to fuck her up the ass she would let me. As it is, I don't want to do that, but I have looked up on my phone's translator what I want to do.

“Quiero lamer tu culo,” I say and she sticks her tushy out invitingly. I hurl my face at her rump and shove my tongue as far into her crack as I can get.

“Ay!” she cries, the Spanish expression of surprise and, in this case, approval.

I lick Esme's ass for a full ten minutes as she bucks and pushes back at me, muttering in Spanish. And then comes the internationally understood gush and gasp of orgasm.

“English gentleman,” she repeats with a chuckle. “You lick my ass. Bad boy. You do me cum.”

And with that Esme unzips my jeans and gives me one of the best blowjobs in history, my body electrified by the raw nature of our encounter. She sucks me skilfully and plays with my balls and my crotch and in no time I am exploding into her mouth.

“Tonight I sleep with you,” she promises. “We will fuck. You like?”

Just then the door opens after a tiny knock and Gabi enters, bearing a cake. Her big sister is flushed and disheveled, her sweater up around her neck and her skirt also hoisted. Esme smooths herself down nonchalantly as I return my spent cock to my underpants and zip up.

Gabi shakes her head and mutters something which draws a sharp but not unfriendly response from her sister.

Gabi puts the cake on the table and leaves.