Chapter 42: Inviting Pamela

She sat under a huge umbrella, swaying lazily in her hammock. Her skin glowed from hours of tanning. Now she preferred the coolness of shadow, sipping a drink while listening to mellow jazz on her iPod. She idly scanned a magazine.

Looking up, her eyes caressed the outlines of a body she knew well by now. It lay stretched out where sand and water met. Her gaze traced the shining roundness of a hip, the sweet softness of a belly. She felt her clit tingle from recent licking; her body sang with the memories of satisfaction — and all the while her mind shuddered from the sheer, unspeakable madness of it all.

As she watched, a gray shadow sped by the dozing girl, huge paws causing fountains of droplets to rain on her. The girl jumped up with a cry, starting after the dog. She scooped hands full of water on his dashing body, her voice competing with the booming surf until both she and the beast disappeared in the rolling waves.

Pamela put away the magazine and sipped from the white wine the girl had brought her. The balmy breeze played with the sarong she'd wrapped around her naked body. It felt so good to be away from wet and chilly New York and find this place where the wind was as warm as the blood in her veins. She smiled, looking over to where the Arab girl and her dog had returned from the waves. She seemed small beside him, her deeply tanned arm around the dog's neck as they plodded through the water.

"Get over here, Licia," Pamela said, using the forbidden name. She waved and patted the free space in her roomy hammock. "Please?"

The girl came out of the glaring sun, its rays painting a halo around her silhouette. She started running — like a child, Pamela thought, an innocent child — plunging carelessly through the sparkling surface. Her feet kicked up the water, her voice danced like a melody to the rhythm of the ocean's waves — as did her titties.

Pamela remembered how they first met, back in New York at her Manhattan office. It had been a rainy day; the kind that made her thoughts slip into gloomy depression. But seeing Alicia changed that. The girl was infectiously sweet, moving her petite body with sensuous ease. She remembered the sway of her incredible hair ... how her chocolate eyes looked up from under deep black eyebrows, hiding a naughty sparkle ... her generous lips smiling, pouting...

By now she knew it was hard not to like Alicia. The girl oozed a shy kind of sexuality that went straight to Pamela's lesbian heart. The meeting had been mercifully short, the following lunch long and sweet, stretching into a careless afternoon. She'd taken her to a concert in the park. The weather had improved enough for a pick-nick under the trees.

Then, after returning to her apartment, they'd had sex — first the tentative making out people do when meeting for the first time. But soon that changed. As she licked the girl's pussy, sucking on her clit, Alicia went crazy, demanding to be treated harder and rougher. She begged Pamela to torture her nipples, pulling at the piercing in her left tit. And when her climax neared, the girl's nails raked her skin, clawing, scratching until she arched into a thunderous orgasm.

The girl had rolled aside, close to unconsciousness. It was then that Pamela saw her backside, and the bluish marbling of the perfect olive skin of her ass cheeks and thighs. She traced them with a fingernail, making Alicia shiver where she touched.

After they regained their breath, Pamela asked her about the piercing and Alicia told her what it meant. She made it sound like a madness from the past, at once diminishing its importance when she noticed the alarm on Pamela's face. Pamela hadn't dared asking about the bluish traces after that.

Alicia flew back home the next morning, leaving a puzzled Pamela behind. The blonde wasn't an innocent by far, but the petite Arab girl's body and stories had hinted at a perverse obscenity she wasn't ready for; it kept lingering in her mind. Something was off — not enough to be called sick, maybe, but way too much for the vanilla tastes of this particular New York lesbian.

There was a new meeting scheduled wit Alicia. Pam decided to be nice, but to return to a more businesslike relation. She remembered the pain in the girl's eyes when she turned her down — softly, sweetly. Alicia had left right after their second meeting; there'd been no lunch, no getting together.

Then she remembered meeting Angique Jonckers and her first impressions when the woman walked into the small Italian restaurant in Greenwich Village where they'd agreed to meet. Stunning is such a common phrase, yet at times it's very apt. This woman was stunning in a calmly provocative way. 'High-end Gothic' might get close to describing her. Her hair was black, as was her outfit, and her skin was pale, almost translucent. She was tall and dressed in a way that was beyond fashionable. Her jacket and skirt were of the business variety, but too tight and too liberally cut to be businesslike — as were her laced, high-heeled vintage boots.

The woman moved gracefully towards her table. Her hand was warm and strong, her smile spontaneous, but her green eyes stayed intensely watchful, brooding even. Then there was the voice — low and hoarse. It lilted with a European accent she could not place; but it went straight to a nerve that made the small hairs on her forearms rise.

They'd ordered salads and talked. First about the business proposition Angique had called her about 'while she was in New York anyway'; then about more and more personal things while the white wine flowed. The soft, hoarse voice spun a web around the two of them; a gauze tent of intimacy. The green eyes became harder and harder to escape from. It struck Pamela how much Angique and she seemed to have in common and how easy it was to just sit there and talk.

They'd ended up at Pamela's apartment, having sex — wonderful and very skilled sex; and it was only while they rested in a foam-filled tub that Angique mentioned Alicia. She did it in a mix of other names and in a totally natural way. It surprised them both to find out Pamela knew her as well.

By now she knew it had all been a set up, but back then she'd had no suspicion. She'd admitted being taken in by the 'petite bombshell.' She and Alicia had a lovely time, she said, hitting town, visiting concerts and making love. But she'd suspected 'something off' with the girl, something boding trouble — a red flag waving.

Angique had chuckled at the red flag warning. "Yes," she'd admitted, "the girl is special" — before dropping the subject and getting back to things more physical.

To make a long and delicious story shorter — Angique left the next morning promising to keep in touch. She kept calling and made one more visit while she was in New York again. So when she called, a few months later, to invite Pam for a stay at a tropical island 'among friends, ' she'd looked out of her window into the dripping wet New York autumn and heartily accepted the invitation.

The chartered jet stood parked near a big hangar. Looking down from a cabin window Pamela watched a limousine drive up until it almost touched the roll-on stairs. A chauffeur opened his door, the tails of his coat flapping in the autumn wind. He walked over to the left passenger door, opening it for a pale woman dressed entirely in black. While she waited on the tarmac, holding her coat closed with both hands, the driver walked to the back of the car and opened its trunk. From it jumped a Great Dane, pulling a petite naked girl along by a connected chain. Pamela peered through the glass into the falling darkness, trying to make out who the girl was and why she was chained and naked.

The chain went from the dog's collar to hers. It lost its tautness after she scrambled out of the car as well and took her place next to the dog — pushing her shivering body into his for warmth. He licked her face, almost dwarfing her in comparison.

The woman in black turned and walked up the stairs, confidently ignoring the precarious height of her heels and the tightness of her skirt. She never looked back to see if the huge creature and its chained companion would follow.

Inside the plane Pamela saw how a smiling young pilot waited at the entrance to welcome the new arrivals. He was immaculately clad, his cap tucked under his arm.

"Welcome, Ms Jonckers," he said. "Always honored to have you on board." Angique chuckled as she whisked away an invisible speck of dust on his chest. Then she brushed her cheek against his in a faux kiss, breathing a few words in his ear. They made the young man blush and the woman grin.

Angique turned half a circle on her heels, clearing the way for her entourage to enter.

"Let me introduce you to Brynn, darling," she said, cupping the brute's skull with her hand, scratching behind his ear. "And his little bitch, of course."

The girl kept the dog between herself and the young man, a finger in her mouth like a shy schoolgirl. She seemed to look down bashfully, a blush on her cheeks. Pamela suddenly saw who the girl was and it made her heart miss a beat. Then she was even more amazed at Angique's next words.

"Mon capitaine," Angique said, "I bet the little slut would love to fly with you, even before we have take off." She chuckled; then she nodded as her eyes moved from the girl to the man and back. The girl at once sank to her knees in front of the pilot, busy fingers unzipping his fly. The young man's cap dropped to the floor as his hands closed around her head. Soon her very wet activities filled the air as his considerable member started filling her. Angique chuckled again.

"Mmmm," she whispered, leaning towards the girl's ear. "Remember, honey cunt — this is why they call it a cockpit." She undid the chain from the girl's collar and walked into the cabin, leading the dog beside her.

"Ma chère Paméla!" she cried out, greeting the blonde woman seated there. Pamela smiled and mumbled a response, but her eyes were captured by what happened behind Angique. She'd bet her life that the girl was a pure lesbian and now she swallowed this cock like a starved whore. Pamela sat straight and craned her neck to see the girl's silhouette at the entrance, her mouth sliding up and down the erected cock of the standing man.

"Is she... ?" she asked, pointing her finger. "She is, isn't she?"

Angique let go of the dog and walked up to the blonde. She pulled the woman's face away from where she was looking and pressed her lips on hers.

"Welcome, Pamela; so great you could make it," she said, slightly out of breath. "And yes, I guess she is and yet, she isn't." Pamela's eyebrows rose at that.

"She is Alicia, isn't she? The girl I, eh, worked with in New York," she said, puzzled. They sat down, both having a free view of the two lovers. The girl's head bobbed faster, her fingers working furiously between her legs. Judging by the way the man groaned and arched his back he was close to coming.

"Yes, she used to be the Alicia you know," Angique said. "But right now she isn't called that anymore. She has no name at all, actually. She doesn't need one and I'd appreciate it if you wouldn't use it. You may call her slut or bitch or even whore; or you may call her honey cunt or sweet tits as I often do. She's a slave by any name and she'll be entirely mine, soon. Very soon."

The man now fucked the girl's face with deep, merciless strokes, holding her head with both hands. She gagged and spluttered, producing generous amounts of saliva that ran down his balls and her chest. He suddenly stopped, his cock all the way down the girl's throat. He cried out and squirted his seed straight down into her stomach. The two women watched, enraptured by the primal violence done to the girl. When the man finally relaxed, sagging against the doorpost, they too sighed. They were slightly embarrassed finding their fingers entangled.

"I... ," the blonde said in a breathless voice. "I thought she was a lesbian. She said she was." Angique smiled.

"Yes, I guess she said that," she answered. "But she never really was, you know. She craves cock, always has, even if she loves cunts. But by now that is all immaterial, isn't it?" Pamela's eyebrows rose. At the entrance the girl was cleaning the pilot's cock with her tongue before putting it back and closing his fly. Her lips moved an inaudible 'thank you.'

"Slaves are slaves, honey," Angique said, patting Pamela's hand. "She fucks whatever I tell her to."

The nameless girl at the entrance rose to her feet. She looked around before walking hesitantly into the cabin. After a few steps she froze, her eyes fixed on Pamela.