It was amazing, she thought, how stuff just accumulated. This came to her as she carefully rolled up another set of floggers and packed them away in pro-wrap and tucked them into the big, green metal footlocker. The floggers-- short handled whips with a dozen little tails at the business end, came in all sizes, shapes and materials. A good Dominatrix needed lots of them, as well as lots and lots and lots of other implements too. But she hadn't realized just how many she'd picked up along the way. She certainly didn't remember buying all of them.

Angie had already packed away the Big Flogga, the one she used to terrify newbies, before she was nice to them and let them kiss her boots. The Big Flogga was really just a paper tiger, being huge, red, and loaded with soft little woollen whips that would barely make a kitten twitch. But, if looks could kill, the Big Flogga would have laid out dozens of anxious, frightened, naked men.

The Suede, on the other hand, was a really serious implement, with nine knotted tails that could wring a squeal out of most males. So could the Little Suede, which was half the size, which allowed for short strokes in tight corners. Of course, the most serious of the whole flogger family was the Olde English Cat O'Nine Tails, which had a foot-long, black handle and tightly knotted leather tails that ran out for two feet more. A loving reproduction of the real thing, as used in the Royal Navy three hundred years before, all it was lacking were the bits of metal tied into the knots that would open a man's back and get his blood running. For the most part the Cat just hung on the wall, more atmospherics than useable plaything. But now and then, she'd taken it down to wield on some mouthy man, who thought he hadn't been beaten hard enough yet.

Then there were the Kangaroos, a whole line of floggers from an Australian S&M outfit. The Kangaroo "Spaghetti" was a favorite, it drew dozens of little red lines on a client's ass with each stroke. Five minutes with that one was a great way to get a session off to a good start and perk up the most jaded slave. And here was the Tiger Tail, with the long, flexi-handle and a cluster of six, serious short whips at the other end. That was good for over the back whacks, while a slave was worshipping her boots, but still needed some reminders of who was standing over him, Dominating him for a couple hundred New Dollars an hour.

And that was just some of the leather stuff, and leather was only one material employed for floggers. The rubber ones, for instance, were still piled in a heap on the bench. There was the massive Big Squid, with its heavyweight, twenty-two inch rubber straps, now that could make a man produce some very satisfying shrieks. Then came a whole set of inbetween Squids, in various bright, kindergarten colors, and the cute little Pink Tickler, which had so many sly uses, especially on a client's genitals, which could be whipped, in fact probably should be, but must never be damaged exactly, not even if they asked for that. What men wanted in the heat of a session was one thing, but what they wanted a few hours later was often something else altogether. Still, the tickler was excellent for getting into a client's mind and making him a long term, regular slave.

And right there you had the mystery of the business. Slave was an odd term to use for the completely free, paying customers, who enjoyed the services of women like herself. But, it was the term that'd stuck long before her time. These were men who desired punishment from a figure of Female, and usually extremely Feminine, Authority. It wasn't like they were clamoring to be spanked by some fat, old schoolmarm type with grey hair and rimless glasses. Unh-uh, they wanted to be beaten by gorgeous blondes, wearing tight leather or rubber outfits, teetering around on five inch heels. Well, not all of them wanted blondes, there was a big market for attractive African American Mistresses, too, to whup white-boy asses. Such men dreamed of being no more than playthings, toyboys, chattels, mere property belonging to beautiful women. And most of these men were powerful, money making types too. In her time, Angie had beaten CEOs, Bishops, Entrepreneurs, Merchant Bankers, and even a General or two. In the hands of a domme, they all became little boys, crying and begging for mercy.

Well, almost all of them, because Mr. Sangacha had never done that, not once. He kept his tears and pleading for the Virgin Mary.

She sighed, wrapped floggers and wondered why they, whoever they were, had killed him. They'd certainly fucked things up for Mistress Julia.

Floggers dealt with, she turned to the paddles. Now there was a group that had seen a boom in population. Once upon a time you bought a paddle, like the Pink plastic "Bunnsy" that she had in her hand. It cost fifty bucks and it did its thing. In the case of the Bunnsy it moulded itself to the slave's bottom each time you hit the target, and made a particularly exciting "whap!" noise. It wasn't a heavy paddle, it wasn't designed to really hurt the slave, it was designed to make that noise. But nowadays, paddles came in sets, made to fit design themes. Like this group, the "Drivers & Irons" set of 9 different paddles with a golfing theme. They came on their own stand, grouped with their "working surfaces" uppermost and they all looked a bit like golf clubs.

An expensive set, running to several hundred new bucks, but it'd paid for itself and then some, because she'd had a number of golf mad clients who'd asked to be spanked with those particular paddles. She'd even worked out a nice little pattern to use with them. First she'd tie the client over a bench and then tee-ing off with a couple of really hard shots from the Big Driver. Then came some work with the "Irons"- getting in hard, calculated shots to parts of the ass that had missed out from the Driver's attention. Then came the Putting, fairly gentle taps on those precious little balls, hanging loose and vulnerable.

Just another odd twist in an odd business. Tormented men, often happily married to women who would've screamed their houses off the foundations if they'd ever learned that Joe or Bill spent several hundred dollars now and then on a two hour session under the heel of Mistress Julia. Successful men, powerful men, who had this need to be collared and leashed, forced to their knees and called slave.

Talking of which, she had Paul, her most devoted New York slave, here with her in the dungeon, helping her dismantle everything. It was partly an act of kindness, for Paul would miss Mistress Julia very much. But it was also down to necessity. She needed help with some of the biggest items in her dungeon and she wanted to keep all this activity as secret as possible.

Before asking Paul to come up and help her, she'd considered the risks from every angle she could think of.

She needed help, because she had to get her stuff out before she put the house up for sale. That meant dismantling the cross beams, the benches, the throne and the big cages. She couldn't actually move the beams on her own, they weighed eighty pounds apiece and taking them down herself would have been dangerous. Paul, a Wall Street, takeover-and-merger specialist, was a 6ft, 2 inch mountain of muscles. His life revolved around three things--work, the gym, and his devotion to Mistress Julia. He was her most regular client, three times a month, two hours a session, and he always tipped her $500 on top of her fee. He'd confessed more than once that he dreamed of Mistress Julia, that he wished she would marry him and become his Dominant Wife.

In fact, he'd been heartbroken by the news that she was shutting up shop.

But, like a good slave, he had responded to her call by showing up with tools and the right attitude, and after kissing her fancy sneakers, had gone to work on the benches, cages and the big cross beams, where he'd been hung so many times as Mistress Julia spanked his very handsome, depilated ass.

A handyman could have done it for her, but she didn't know of one that was trustworthy and available. A moving company was out of the question, because it would have meant questions and a commercial transaction with a credit trail.

And above all, no one in the straight world could be trusted to keep their mouths shut. Men would talk. Probably no one would make anything of it, but you never knew, and with General Sangacha's death just a few days behind her, Angie was sure the cops were looking for whoever had whipped him before he was shot. So, the choice of Paul, who was so willing, anyway, was easy. His was one mouth she knew would stay closed on this topic.

"You need a wife." She'd told him before this.

"I'm afraid of normal women."

"Understandable, considering your psychic needs. But if you had the right woman, she'd do everything that I do, and make you very happy."

"She wouldn't respect me. She wouldn't understand my kind of love."

"I think you're wrong about that. There are lots of woman these days who have crossed the line on this subject. They do understand the kind of love guys like you are offering. I've placed several slaves of mine with the right kind of wives. It's part of the service."

Not to mention the two thousand new-dollar matchmaking fee.

"I'd marry you." Was his immediate response.

"I'm not the marrying kind."

But, lately when she'd said this, Angie had been left wondering. After all, here was Paul, very good looking, completely besotted with her, and extraordinarily rich. Okay, he was besotted with Mistress Julia, not quite her, exactly, but she could always summon Mistress Julia to life. If they were married, he'd be her slave. She would have only one client and all the protection that wealth could provide. A little more surgery, some efforts at cleaning off her trail and a quiet life in some lush New Jersey suburb would be hers for the taking. Or perhaps they'd purchase some gorgeous Manhattan condo and she could jog in Central Park everyday, have lunch at Nessie's and Helmindo's and take up worthy causes.

She was also confident that she could probably segue from S&M sex to something more enjoyable for herself. Paul would do whatever she asked him to. Maybe she could even have kids.

But, attractive as that all might sound, at the back of her mind she knew with grim certainty, they were waiting, and they were watching and she was on that list. Sure it was an old list now, but her name would always be on it, until she was eliminated. That was the way it was, she knew. She could never go back, never be a part of society. If she wanted to live, she had to live off the radar.

And Paul was such a good man, so generous, so loving, he deserved better than to be put at risk by public involvement with her. Because if they found her, and she was living with him, then they would kill him too. Because that was the way it was, and she knew that too. And if she had kids? Then they would die as well. No loose ends would be left.

So Paul took out the six inch bolts that held the cross beams together, while Angie packed the paddles. The Whacker Deluxe, the Leather Hand, the set of six Ping Pong Paddles in various sizes, some with holes, some without, the punishment sticks, in various woods and lengths and weights, and some of the less commonly applied items, like the Impressions series, designed to leave words like SLAVE, SLUT and SUB spanked onto naughty bottoms.

And, of course, there were the real old favorites, like the lovely little handmade leather Spanker, made of latigo, with a flexi-handle and an oval business end without holes. For OTK scenes that had been her favorite tool, since her earliest days in the business. God, that brought back memories. The first few clients. The first time she'd whipped a man. The first time she'd sat on a slave's face. It was amazing what human sexuality lead people to want, or need, because as she'd come to understand, for men like Paul, there was a vast aching need for the attitudes of Mistress Julia in their lives.

So much stuff. The floggers and paddles took up a whole footlocker. Where had they all come from? Some of them had hardly ever been used. Like the pair of heavy bamboo canes that hung on the wall as a warning to all. They were official canes from Singapore where they were used to punish prisoners for certain offenses. They were wa-a-a-ay too serious for her clients.

You had to be careful. In the heat of the moment, in a session packed with psycho-sexual dynamite, while they were grovelling at the feet of their Domme, clients would beg for crazy stuff. They wanted to be beaten senseless, whipped 'til they bled and all the rest. But she knew they didn't really want permanent marks left on their expensive behinds.

Now, there had been this one, really annoying guy. Back in the city, when she was Mistress Roberta. He'd been so determined about getting some real suffering and he'd pestered her about it, and then struck defiant attitudes about ordinary whippings to an extent that she'd finally said, "Right!" And she'd taken down one of those Singapores and let him have it. He was bleeding, and howling, from the third stroke. Funny thing, he'd never asked for that kind of punishment again, though he'd been a regular of hers for almost two years afterwards, until she'd arranged a marriage for him with a stern young lady from North Carolina.

The canes went into tubes of various lengths secured with bubble wrap and the tubes went into footlockers. There were a lot of canes, of various lengths, widths and weights. There were also crops and whips. Some of them were old, old favorites, especially her pair of Mexican leather single-tails. She'd bought them from a guy called Pachuco, in LA, when she was Mistress Sarah, and just getting started in the business.

She sighed, and then clucked her tongue, as she considered just how many asses she'd whipped with those two smart little instruments. Made from high quality leather, the whips were the perfect weight and flexibility for inflicting a sharp sting while never cutting skin. The handles were beautiful, literally works of art, with Female Power symbols carved into the dark, heavy wood, and then embellished with silver paint. Silver conchos, hammered into shape, finished out the butts. Hundreds, maybe more than a thousand total, of human bottoms had been on the receiving end of those two whips.

Incredible. And she'd made a good living out of it, too. Even if she'd had to hide in the shadows of society.

Canes, whips, floggers, paddles, eventually they were all packed away. Into another set of five lockers went her collection of fetish shoes, boots, latex suits, leather dresses, skirts and bustiers, masks, crowns, gloves and jewelry. Some of the shoes were extraordinary. Hand-mades from Silvio in Brooklyn like the canary yellow heels with open toes that she'd been given by a grateful client. Or the thigh-high Belgian boots that were very popular with some other customers.

It was part of the show. You couldn't expect normal women to want to put on skin-tight red latex. The stuff was uncomfortable, and it made you sweat big time. Nor could you expect your girlfriend to wear shoes like these-- diamond studded, black patent-leather fetish heels. They looked extravagantly fantastic, but they were actually quite painful after about five minutes. But that didn't matter, because dress-up and make-believe was what the Domination business came down to. Plus a little pain of course.

Last, but not least, came the restraints and the toys. So many, in so many styles, it was kind of astonishing. So much human ingenuity had gone into these things. Cuffs, collars, chains, leashes, even the straight-jacket, all went into one box. Electric play stimulators, dildos, strap-ons, vibrators and pain wands went into another.

The decorations came down. The photos, the pictures, the cloth backgrounds all were placed in Pro-Wrap and stashed away. With them went another layer of memories. Angie had had several "dungeons" before this one, and each had a place in her thoughts, filled with mementos of the times and the clients. This beautiful photo of her legs for instance, shot from below, and finished with clever false color, had been made for her by a long term client in LA, a leading fashion photographer with a fetish for shapely female legs. He'd begged her to marry him, too.

Meanwhile, Paul had been busy. The big beams were down and placed in the truck. The cages were dismantled, including the one that he himself had got to spend Christmas in, every year for the last five. A special treat for a really worthy slave. The spanking bench had been packed away, as had the big throne. She'd never been that keen on the throne, but some clients loved throne scenes so she'd bought one. It was bulky and took up one entire end of the room, but it had paid for itself several times over, so ultimately she'd accepted its presence.

The room was virtually empty now. All that was left was the high backed wooden chair she used for old fashioned spankings, a couple of rugs, the last footlockers.

She sat down. It was the signal that faithful Paul had been waiting for. He knelt before her and placed his head between her feet. He was crying.

"Thank you, slave. You have completed your service to me in excellent fashion. I've sent an introduction on your behalf to Mistress Kelly, in Brooklyn. She's a fine domme, a litle younger than myself, and, "Angie paused to grin. "She looks like me, too."

Paul sobbed. Mistress Julia continued.

"She's used to slaves of your type, and I checked her out with friends in the scene in Brooklyn. They say she's a good Domme. She'll give you what you need."

Paul was too choked up to reply.

"You may kiss my feet."

Still crying, Paul removed her sneakers and socks with his customary reverence and pressed fervent kisses to her insteps and toes.

"I'm sorry to leave you, slave. You have served me well." Mistress Julia had this cadence she went to that Angie, on her own, could not achieve. A rhythmn filled with sexual power that went beyond the human norm. "But life is like this and we must accept the changes that come and move on. I expect you to apply to Mistress Kelly tomorrow, using my introduction and to place yourself at her feet. "

Phrased like that it was a command. Paul answered, finally, "Yes, Mistress."

She let him continue to kiss her toes for a while. He'd been such a good man, and she really couldn't have done this on her own. Those beams were simply too heavy for her.

Suddenly he spoke up, voice thick and fervent.

"Mistress, marry me. I will serve you like no other man could. I have all the money we could ever need. I could retire now. We could move somewhere, maybe California?"

It was such a temptation. It wrung an honest response from her.

"Paul, don't think I haven't considered it. Many times."

"Then take me. I am yours. I will set up a joint bank account. You will never have to worry about money again."

His earnestness, his pain streaked love, so naked, so vulnerable, it touched her. How could it not? And the money? Well, you couldn't ignore it. Paul had taken away a bonus of N$4Million last Christmas. She knew, because it had been on the netnews.

How to explain to him?

"All I can say in explanation, is that it would be very dangerous for both of us. You are a public figure. I have to hide."

"Why, Mistress?" He was looking up at her with tears running down his face.

She could not go too far, but she had to tell him something. It wasn't easy.

"Because, well, there are powerful men out there who want me dead. They will never give up hunting for me. I cannot have a public life. As soon as they locate me, they will terminate me. If you were mine, like that, they would kill you too."

There, she'd told him.

He was staring at her. He didn't understand.

"Who, who are they?" He was ready to go to war for her, she could see it in him. Submissive as he was to Mistress Julia, he was a totally dominating male in all other relationships. These men, he would find them, they would be punished for threatening Mistress Julia.

"Paul, you are a wonderful man, and you have been my perfect slave. I cannot let you put yourself at risk. I want you to move on to Mistress Kelly and forget me. It is the only way. I can take care of myself. I have lived this way for a long time now. But you must swear to me that you will not try to find me. Others may be watching you, others may put two and two together. The men who want me are very powerful and very determined."

A kind of understanding flicked across his eyes suddenly. "M-military?"

"I can't say anymore."

"Why?" His longing for her simply ached in his voice.

"I can't. That has to be enough."

Paul heard the finality in her voice. Obedience to Mistress Julia was in his bones after five years of regular visits. The tears continued, but he bowed his head once more and resumed worshipping her feet.

She let him do that for a few more minutes. Then with an affectionate touselling of his dark hair, she brought it to an end.

"Dress now, take your tools and go home. Thank you for your efforts, they are much appreciated."

"Yes, Mistress."

"And, Paul, remember, never speak to anyone about me. Please. For my sake."

He nodded agreement, despite his obvious sorrow.

She put the chair in the back of the truck. It was a fully automatic Jatsu 300, borrowed from Jim for the day. Where he'd gotten it, she didn't even want to know, but Jim could get anything, or so it sometimes seemed.

Her footlockers, her benches, her cross beams, all the stuff she'd need to set up a functioning high end dungeon, was stashed neatly in the truck. She would let it do the driving.

Paul got into his Mercedes two seater with a last kiss of her hand and then drove out and back to the city and his life. She watched him go, then closed the garage door, made a final check of the basement, and left by the side door. Maybe Kelly O'Brien over there in Park Slope would marry Paul and give him the kind of wife he desired. Maybe that kind of marriage would prove to be more than he'd bargained for. Who could say? But it was out of her hands now. Mistress Juia was history, Angie would have to reinvent herself again.

She made a last pass around the basement. Paul had been thorough, there was nothing in any of the rooms. The place was bare back to the walls and the concrete floor. You could never tell that it'd been a kind of dream factory, where Mistress Julia had stalked in her fetishistic high heels, while men endured their own painful fantasies. The next day, D-Kontrol, a high end cleaning company were scheduled to come in and steam the whole place, scrub it down, and hyper-vac every surface. Hopefully it would remove every last scrap of DNA connected to her.

Her tenant, upstairs, had been informed that changes were coming. The house was up for sale. The tenant's lease ran for another fifteen months, but then a new lease would have to be negotiated with the new owner.

Angie got into the cab, told the truck to head back upstate, dropped her seatback and tried to relax.

Regrets, there were always regrets. It was hard not to think she'd made a mistake there. Paul would be the perfect husband, whether she loved him or not. He wanted something that she, with the help of Mistress Julia in her head, could easily provide. She was truly fond of him, he was handsome and he was rich. Angie Bricken had lived long enough to know that true love, that whimsical passionate creature, was too rare to worry your head about. And, besides her heart would belong forever to Mark, dead these twenty four years, murdered by the very country he had given his all to.

And, there it was. She wanted to live, more than she wanted to live in luxury. If she took Paul, as he had offered, then someone, somewere, in some concrete bunker buried underneath Washington DC, or the Pentagon, would put it all together. They scrutinized every high-flyer, every celebrity. They felt they had to, to maintain control in a difficult world, in a chaotic era. Paul's marriage would be studied, probed, examined. They would want to know who he was marrying. They would want to study her background. You could not trust that even the best prepared lies would pass that level of scrutiny. And then they would know who she was and they would nail her, and him, too. It would be a death sentence for both of them.

The Jatsu pulled out, its hybrid gas engine puttering as it turned right on Airmont Road and headed for the Thruway. Angie leaned back into the battered upholstery and composed herself for the ride. Jim had set things up so she could store her stuff with some friends of his. He said it would be as safe as houses, one of those London cockney expressions of his that didn't seem to make sense, but maybe did. Whatever, old Jim was a good man to have as a friend. The truck was programmed to drive itself there and he would come pick her up later. It'd be better than hauling it all up to her house on the mountain. A scrap of a sad song, by Tilley Heron came to mind-- "things that once seemed all so certain, now have drifted far away....."

That was her life, she supposed. And there was nothing to be done about it. Except to stay alive, which she was determined to do.

The truck ran down the ramp onto the outer northbound lane. She heard the clack as the latch slid onto the power rail. Immediately the power drive picked up, the gas engine cut out and the Jatsu began to accelerate, shifting from rail to rail, moving inwards towards the center lanes where enormous freight-bods howled past at two hundred miles an hour.

Behind her, unseen, an older model National 500 had followed her down Airmont Road and was shifting across the rails too, keeping back but not too close, following the Jatsu as it boosted northwards, past the Ramapos into the Mid-Hudson Valley.