Okay, I know a lot of stories are rated NC-17. This one, however, is rated that FOR A REASON. Rated NC-17 for violence and sex and foul language and adult situations. IF YOU ARE UNDER 18 PLEASE DO NOT READ. I promise, you can download it when you're older. If you do not feel you would appreciate scenes containing Bondage and Discipline please do not read. I do not consider this "obscene" or "indecent" because the subject matter and text is not, of itself, for the reason of pornography, however, it is, and should be rated as for adults only for the same reasons as adult material always has been. Acknowledgments to my tireless editors, Goo, Rodent, Linda, and Monkey Boy. Without them, my writing would not be what it is. More than that. They are my friends. They have all seen me through some incredibly trying times with unwavering support. Thank you. Acknowledgements to Gregory, Susan Coe, Lisby and MsBrooklyn for taking a peek at the beta version. Acknowlegments to Greg for the non-vanilla, and to Susan Coe for the reasons why, especially. The X-Files, Fox Mulder, Dana Scully, Skinner, the Lone Gunmen and the Cigarette-Smoking man are all property of Chris Carter and 10- 13 productions. Written 10-95 through 2-96 Mistress 1/20 by Amperage The fireplace screen was up. Mulder felt a small pang, staring around the tiny apartment. She had already put the fireplace screen up. It was decorated with only the very best. Fussy Victorian comfort Tanny had called it, laughing with her brightest laugh. The wide persian rug, an antique, left curled in someone's attic for years and years, brought down and sold and bought and eventually winding up in Tanny's living room. Mulder had lain on it naked before. His penis hard against the fine woollen material, eyes closed before the onslaught of pleasure and pain that Tanny brought. The body was in the bedroom and he did not go there at first, content to let Scully and the others photograph, examine, fix time of death by the heat of the body. A hairbrush lay on a round end table. Leather manacles for feet and wrists were tucked amid the decorator clutter on her coffee table. A spreader bar was tucked among the wood stacked beside the fireplace. Mulder did not have to go to the bedroom to know that a wide leather strop hung over the vanity. It was not often that he had visited Tanny. But he was one of Tanny's clientele. One of a few, select that Tanny chose to dominate, to rule, to domesticate. A number Mulder had heard rumored included an ex-president and several senators. He'd never understood why Tanny had called him. "I have an opening. I've been told you might be interested." She'd whispered in a dusky voice, only half-sounded. When they'd met for lunch she'd been demure, beautiful and demure and they had negotiated, tapped around the truth. Mulder had never been to a prostitute or a dominatrix before Tanny. He remembered telling her that, blushing. Telling Tanny that he really wasn't interested. Careers could be destroyed for less and he had a bright future with the FBI. Her hands had stroked his, teasing the lines of his palm, her voice rich and gentle, had pulled from him his deepest fantasies, until he found himself admitting, admitting right there in one of the smartest restaurants in DC, that he had fantasies. He didn't see Tanny often. Less than any of her other customers, he guessed. But that was why she had chosen him. She had wanted someone who only came once every few months. That was what the opening was for. He had never learned where she got his name either. Tanny did not advertise. Tanny called you. And she was confidential. For all Mulder knew, Reggie Pardue or Walter Skinner or even Cancerman could have been in her thrall. Tanny. Mulder glanced around the small room, staring at the cluttered red lacquered secretariat. Another antique piece. Tanny kept no names. Men were scheduled in her rich leather date book by slave names. Secret. That was his name. Secret. She had always called him Secret. Making the sss's long and luxuriant, sliding the name until it became either a prayer of annucation or a curse of damnation. He was Secret. And he paid by mailing his money to a PO box in Baltimore. He did not want to go into the bedroom. The big old bedroom with the massive victorian oak bed. With the vanity. With the worn places around the corner posts were restraints were slung. The rich lace sheets and the full plumped pillows. The heavy persian and oriental rugs slung against gleaming honey floorboards. The tall high boy and the wardrobe. She would have already laid his accourments. Mulder swallowed, wondered what it would have been. He went down the long hallway, slipping past the police. Scully was all professional detachment. She did not know. How could anyone know? The fire screen was up in the bedroom too. Tanny tormented, Tanny teased, Tanny domesticated. But Tanny was never cruel. For him only, there were big brass fire screens to separate the fire from his world. The strop was indeed flat against the mahogany surface of the vanity. She had been planning that he leave her with a sore, bruised, perhaps welted, bottom. Bottom. That was Tanny's word. Bottoms and cocks and balls and cunnys. She had never questioned his need for the strop. Mulder sometimes wondered if her understanding of the psychology of men outweighed any person who held a PhD. A cock strap lay directly on top of the leather strop. Mulder imagined himself trembling as he hung his clothes up in the wardrobe, had to touch the wide, oiled leather, to pull the leather around his balls, fit the harness to the base of his cock. Tanny lay in the bed. The blood had spilled onto her floor and onto a long, narrow rug. Spilled and was clotting. The smell was warm and humid and not Tanny's sent at all. Tanny wore White Shoulders, a gentle traditional scent. Her eyes, her wildcat green eyes, were open. Her perfect nose, aquiline and strong. Her rounded mouth, open now in the surprise of death. She had been wearing only a white terry robe. And the robe was pushed open. Her hair was still up in a white towel. Under the towel it was a rich, honey shade of blonde gold that clung well to her richly defined features. The robe had been cast open and Tanny had been opened from the base of her throat to her sweet clean cunny, all ivory soap for Secret to arrive. When Secret had arrived, she would be dressed in Velvet, because it was Christmas Eve. Velvet and lace and barefoot. Mulder imagined her bottom rounded under tight velvet panties and the bustier heaving. He felt a warm buzz in his ears. The world was distant and unreal. "It looks like more of the same." Scully was telling him. Mulder made some comment. He wasn't sure what. It must have been normal. She seemed satisfied. The only real thing was Tanny, lying aslant her high, beautiful bed. Tanny's legs and arms were still their soft nuzzling long. Spread against the lace. Her breasts were flopped on either side of her opened sternum. She had had large, full breasts. 34DD's, she had once told Mulder in a quiet moment, curling with him on the living room rug. Tanny had been beautiful beyond measure. Tanny had been killed in the same manner as two Senators and a member of the White House staff. An incredible, unbelievable manner. "Do you want to bet we'll find incredibly high adrenalin levels in Tanny when I check?" Scully asked. Mulder felt something in his soul come back into his warm, living flesh. He nodded. "And again, no signs of a struggle." Mulder said. He said it softly, almost under his breath. Scully looked at him critically. The police were having a fine time, here in the luxurious apartment of one of the city's highest paid call-girls. "Do you think they were her customers?" Scully asked. "Who?" Mulder stared at her, his eyes on an anal plug left among the fashionable objects on a bedside table. "The other victims," Scully stared at her partner, aslant. "Possibly. She was rumored to have quite a list." "Then I hope we find her little black book." "They're in code." Mulder spoke quickly. And Scully swallowed. "I mean. . .they're always in code. This kind of occupation. . ." Mulder explained. He was staring now at a blindfold hung on the handle of the wardrobe. Scully wondered what sexual games Mulder played. The things in this room seemed to have an effect on him, as though they were familiar friends. "Well, still. We can try." Scully replied, feeling odd. Mulder swallowed. "Yeah." He smiled hollowly. He tramped into the bathroom, another room rich in Victorian charm. He was going through her secretariat when Scully came out of the bedroom. His gloved fingers made soft rustling sounds as he found and pulled out a leather bound book. Not a planner or an organizer. A social calendar from a time long gone. Gold glinting bright on the edges. Thin vellum paper. There were several heavy fountain pens, Waterman and Parker, a Mont Blanc or two, lying on the desk top. He pushed them away, remembering once, lying on the rug, naked, while Tanny drew intricate designs on his buttocks, on his back. He had been trained well enough to resist prickles from the movement and the sharp tracery on his back. As with everything else Tanny did, she'd been an excellent pen artist. He flipped to this date, curious what she would have written. There it was. "Secret. 7 p.m." "Secret?" Scully questioned. Mulder considered other entries. "Dreamer" for this afternoon. "Blue" for last night. There were words and times. Secret. He was Secret. Mulder flipped through the book. "They're slave names." He said in a dry professional voice. "Names for her customers." "But Secret?" Scully questioned. Mulder shrugged. "It might be a secret meeting," he allowed, "but I doubt it. Probably a name." Scully stared at the thin lines the spaces. Mulder set the appointment book down. "When was she killed?" "Not too long ago. Her body is still warm. . ." Scully sighed. "Think `Secret' killed her?" Mulder considered this. It was 7:20 now. He'd gotten the call when he was already in his car, headed to Tanny's winter apartment. "He wasn't scheduled until 7:00. . .I don't know. Possibly." He replied, frowning. "If Secret did it, what about the others?" "What are you thinking?" Scully asked, sitting on an ottoman. "Well, first off, we both know that the murderer knew what he was doing. We know she didn't struggle. She probably knew her killer. Her killer is used to being in control. He's not hesitant. He knows what he's doing. The X-file is in the fact that his victims don't struggle when they're gutted. . .so he's doing something we can't identify. So it's not impulse, it's not immature. He's an older man. In his 40's. Most men who are the regular clients of dominatrix are the ones who push the envelope. Most of them are. . .the best at whatever they do. They may be in control everywhere else. This gives them a place not to be. They may be the thrill seekers. The ones who push it and push it. Who. . .who always have to go further, go harder. Who won't give in no matter what the cost. . .this is. . .this is their release." His release. His guiltless erotic journeys. His safe place where the pleasure and the pain were not connected to anything else, where his adrenalin could pump and pump and it was secure, because Tanny wasn't going to go too far. Because Tanny wouldn't do anything too much. He hadn't even had a safeword. Tanny knew what the bare keening edge of a man's pleasure was before it moved into pain. Mulder flashed suddenly. Not here in the quaint Victorian apartment. This was her winter home. No. The bright airy house, with the porch furniture and the soft pastel colors. He'd been pushed and pushed, his hands pressed against his chest in heavy leather handcuffs. His rectum was sore and his body tired. And Tanny wouldn't stop and wouldn't stop and he suddenly found himself retreating into a dizzying caliphony of some kind of. . .and then everything was gone, the vibrator and the whip and the handcuffs and the blindfold and it was just Tanny in a lace gown and the soft, high bed and the dying evening light of summer and his head against her breasts as he fell, childlike into the cool cotton and battenburg lace of her and of the bedclothes, and he'd cried and cried and cried, for hours and hours until he fell into a deep, cleansing sleep. Scully was staring at him. Mulder reached into his pocket, pulled out his reading glasses. He opened other drawers, searching. He knew Tanny kept a book. Kept a book of fantasies. Her clients' fantasies. Kept track of all that went on, recorded it, diary fashion. His own section would be thin, but others, he knew others would be fat with notations. There was no such book in the secretariat. He did find a small velvet envelope, filled with cash. Payments for sessions, some unused. Mulder rifled through the money. He'd paid 250 a session and he knew that was extraordinarily cheap. "You give me ideas. You are. . .inspiration for me. For that, 250." She'd whispered to him setting the price. "If it goes up, you'll get a note in the mail. This is the last time we ever discuss money." It had never gone up. For Mulder it was a hefty wad, but not terribly hefty. And for Tanny? Why? Why had she said that, why had she priced her services so very low? But Mulder did not set the sessions. Tanny called and left a whispered time on his machine. "This is your stylist. 7:00 Christmas Eve." The same message he'd had every Christmas Eve after Tanny came into his life. Mulder had always supposed that Tanny told him the truth. Sometimes, lying there with her, she would ask him about fantasies, dreams. She would get deeply inside his skull and demand answers of things he would never talk of with anyone else. There was about two thousand dollars in the envelope. Mulder wondered how much money Tanny earned. Most of it tax free. She declared some, enough. An Escort. Escort? Tanny never escorted anyone anywhere. Her men met her here, in quiet and in solitude, in a secret place. He set the enveloped down on the appointment book, began rifling again. Nothing. "Agent Mulder. Agent Scully. I'm glad you were able to come out on Christmas Eve." King, SAC pulled to work this case. Important people were dying. These weren't prostitutes, at least they hadn't been. Senators, cabinet members, you got on a fucking stick for that. You put 30 people on the case. Scully smiled politely. She'd been called from her family for this case. She was missing out on her family for this. She was reminding them that Missy was gone and why. From the moment her cellular had begun ringing to the moment she slipped back into the family and smiled apologetically, she was reminding them all. Mulder shrugged. "My Christmas plans were suddenly canceled right before you called." Not a lie after all. "Listen, I'm curious. . .her appointment book has a listing for 7. Someone called Secret. Do you know if anyone showed up and left? Might give us a line on at least one client." "I'll find out. What do you think the connection is?" "I would think that's kind of obvious. . .our UNSUB killed her clients, some of them anyway, now he's killed the dominatrix." King frowned, sighed. "It's probably true. But don't put it in any reports. Not until we've got the killer in custody." Mulder nodded. "Orally, we tell the top people in the investigation. No press, no families? There'll be rumours in the media." "Yeah, but not too much. Libel suits." King replied. "Okay," Mulder took off his glasses. King nodded, relieved that Spooky wasn't making trouble. "What do you think the odds are that we can find her clients or that we can get any of them to come forward." Mulder swallowed. He wouldn't come forward, never in a million years. Not if Jane Reno herself promised Mulder that nothing would *ever* happen to him. He couldn't imagine any of Tanny's supplicants coming forward. Secrecy was a premium with them all. He shook his head. "I doubt it. Think about it. If you were one of her customers, would you?" "I don't have that kind of money to toss around, Agent Mulder." King grinned. "And besides, I got my butt beat enough when I was a kid. Doesn't make me the least bit horny." Mulder grinned back, shrugged. "You never know who's into what." He replied a bit loopily, a bit out of focus. Scully was watching from the ottoman. She got up. "The body's being taken down to Quantico. . .I'm going to get the autopsy out of the way tonight. Will I be able to have Christmas morning with my family?" King nodded. "Yeah. We could probably wait on the autopsy until Christmas evening." "I don't want to open presents and be around my family knowing I have to go dissect a corpse after dinner." Scully replied. "I'll catch you tomorrow." She shot at Mulder. "If you're interested, my mom said to remind you that you're always welcome." Mulder smiled. He had planned to be here all night. But not with an FBI evidence team. He would be thrilling to Tanny's inspection of his body right now. He should be doing that. Tanny's body should not be in a black bag, headed to an autopsy bay. Tanny should be here, warm and sweet and unbearably in control. NC17 material. Underage, please go away. Offended by B&D, please go away. Usual disclaimers. Mistress 2/21 by Amperage He was sitting in his living room, staring at evidence photos of the previous deaths, staring at a small package he'd bought Tanny. A glass paperweight lay inside the expensive paper. Hand blown with a maker's mark stamped in the bottom. Tanny had loved paperweights. She kept her collection in her summer home. Mulder wondered what Tanny had gotten him. No doubt he would find out in the police reports. Something small, something that showed she understood him in a way that, based on their limited time together, she should not have. Monday Afternoon. Christmas day. He sat, rubbing his beard. Wondering what to feel, what to think. He was alone on Christmas Day. He'd needed Tanny to get through Christmas day. Because otherwise he was alone. He knew that Tanny had needed him on Christmas day. Because otherwise Tanny was alone. Well, they were each alone this Christmas day. Alone. Tanny was lying in her refrigerated spot, tagged and sewn up and minus cells and tissues and organs. Mulder was sitting on his couch wondering what he should be feeling. What he should do. There was the Scully house. The very thought of it made his gut wrench. He wanted to go back to bed and when he woke up it would be the day after Christmas and everything would be okay. He got up, went to shave, put on his shoes, his coat. He would go to Tanny's house after all. Scully sighed as she entered the apartment, saw a familiar face bent over a drawer. She had to wonder if this case didn't strike some familiar chords in Mulder. If he didn't. . .indulge in odd sexual practices. He'd been so into himself telling her what kind of man needed a dominatrix, as if trying to describe, to apologize for himself. Well, at least, she knew it sure as hell wasn't Tanneka Bonet. Even Mulder wouldn't have been able to afford *her*. "Hey." She said. Mulder looked up, light glinting off his reading glasses. He smiled. "Our little dominatrix was into a variety of activities." He said wickedly. "You name it, she had the implements. You don't even want to know what I found under the bathroom sink." Scully wrinkled her nose. "I'll pass, thanks. Found anything interesting?" "She had family in California. A cousin." Scully nodded. "They apparently knew what she did for a living and didn't approve." Mulder handed her a collection of envelopes, waited while she fumbled through her coat for gloves. Only the first few letters had been opened. Lots of references to Tanneka's life of harlotry and the forgiveness of God. Scully flipped through the envelopes. "I wonder what they'll do with this place?" "Convert it to a Sex-aholic meeting center?" Mulder's grin was manic. "You just want to have someplace to go on Friday nights." Scully replied. "Mom said she wished you'd come. What did you do, stay up all night and watch porn?" Mulder grimaced. "With *this* case? I don't really feel like it." Oh shit. Scully realized she'd misstepped. "Sorry. Ouch. I didn't think." "No. That's okay. Find anything else?" "Not much." He hadn't found the fantasy book. "One of her clients was an FBI agent. He or she left a note written on official memo paper. It was Bonet's handwriting, and no prints but Bonet's, but still. . ." "Who could afford Tanneka Bonet on what we get paid?" Scully marvelled. "A SAC could. Or a director. Someone in the brass wouldn't have a problem." Scully's mouth twitched. Mulder saw it. "Tell me what you're thinking." "I just flashed on Skinner here. . ." She bit her lip to keep from laughing. Mulder grinned as though it were hysterical, the image of Walter Skinner gagged and bound and soundly spanked. The package sitting on his kitchen table had been ornately wrapped in velvet paper. A small gold cord with a simple bow. Mulder stopped dead in his tracks when he saw it. Swallowed. He pulled his gun and made an inspection of his house. Nothing else had been touched. Nothing. It was late and whoever had left this package had come and gone and touched nothing else. He sat down at the small table and tried not think about this thing. Tried to deny where the package had come from. Tried not think. He undid the bow slowly, closing his eyes, imagining Tanny on the other side of him, smiling. The paper fell off softly into a rectangle of gold. A heavy velvet box, Mulder felt the tight resistance from the springs as he opened the box. Inside, nestled in soft white, were a pair of gold earrings. Tiny little loops. Loops he couldn't wear. There was a note. "For the Oxford years when you were allowed to forget and to laugh." Mulder fingered one loop and discovered suddenly that the loops were clip on. A very delicate, gold clip on that did not look like it. She had planned to present them to him, giving him another fantasy world. A world of innocence. There was probably a heavy leather jacket, a black leather jacket with Aviator shades in the pocket, in her wardrobe. Mulder honestly couldn't remember right now. They would have gone out. Gone somewhere no one knew them. She probably had even arranged a Harley. Gone out and he would not have been Spooky Mulder; he could have revelled in a blissful ignorance of who he was, for one night amnesiac. This night. This was supposed to have been his night. Their night. Mulder closed his eyes and began to sob. There were certain facts in Fox Mulder's brain as walked into his office December 26th. The first of these was that the killer had waltzed into his apartment, left a little present and waltzed out. The second was that the killer knew who he was, knew about his relationship with Tanny. The third was that the murder had been planned to coincide with his expected visit to Tanny. He was supposed to have arrived to find Tanny lying dead. His fingerprints were supposed to be on everything. He was supposed to look guilty. But Tanny's little Porshe 928 had been repaired. Mulder supposed he didn't want to know how much cash she had dropped to get a Porshe repaired on Christmas Eve. And Tanny had been supposed to get the keys, only Tanny hadn't answered her bell. The super had permission to put stuff in her apartment, to set things on the hallway table. Entering the house, he'd noticed that it looked like Tanny was home. Her purse was on the table. The lights were on. Mulder was supposed to have been guilty. The door to her apartment hadn't been locked. He was supposed to have walked right on in and incriminated himself. It was such a pat thing to happen, he felt even colder chills going up his spine. It was pat and arranged and perhaps the killer hadn't wanted him incriminated. Not yet, anyway. Just wanted Mulder to know he could be incriminated at any time, that the killer could set up whatever, however. To keep Mulder terrified. Scully was at her desk, reading a report on a past autopsy. "There were a few differences in the murders." She told Mulder, voice dry and professional. "Minor things. But I think the killer took more time with Tanneka." Mulder glanced at his partner. "So she meant more to him." "I think so. He tried to take the same amount of time with them all, but. . ." Scully frowned. "I just. . .his heart was more into his work on her. Perfectionist details like the straightness of the cut." Mulder absorbed this. "What about the calm of the victims?" She shrugged. "We still haven't found any evidence of drugs. I don't know." Mulder nodded. He looked like hell. Scully swallowed, considered the report in front of her. "You have a bad night?" She asked softly. Mulder went and sat down at his own desk before answering. "I had. . .some bad dreams." He answered gently. "Anything you want to talk about?" Mulder shook his head. "I was just lonely." He replied, opening a file folder, the account of the building superintendent. He felt Scully's eyes on him, felt her concern, but he ignored it as he read useless information. Quiet. Quiet. Keep your voice quiet. "Secret." Tanny's voice was soft and gentle. It purred. The silk of the blindfold lay across his face, across the bridge of his nose. Kneeling, kneeling and not knowing, skin pulsing at the sudden nearness of Tanny. His hands clasp in front, the leather around his wrists warm and sweating. How long had he been here? Trembling. Nervous. He felt tears slid down his nose, tried to hold the sobs in. He felt her draw him up, fingers linking on the chain between his cuffs. His body brushed against hers. Leather. The smooth supple texture of leather. She drew him along. He could not see. He must follow. Must trust. Out into the sunlight. He felt the sunlight. Felt the bright, white radiation on his back, felt the rough concrete under his feet. Thud. Thud. Thud your heart to the fear and the quiet of a bird sing. His feet in the thick grass. Taste of bile in his mouth. "Stand quietly and listen to me." Tanny's voice hot. Hot, wet. "Are you frightened?" He did not answer, could not find the words. Could not speak, his heart thudded so hard. His lungs burned. The strop across his buttocks burned with fire and he stumbled. "Secret." Her voice was softer. "Are you frightened?" He licked his lips. "Yes." Silibant, soft. Unvoiced. "Why are you frightened? Examine your fear and tell me Secret. Tell me what you fear." He hesitated. Felt the lash again. Well trained. Oh God, but she had him so well-trained. A good slave does not react, not to one lash. "I don't know." It burst from him, in a choking sob. "I don't know!" "Do you want it to end?" He did not know why she asked. She knew. She always knew when it had to end. How far he could go before the need became abyss. "Answer me." Her voice was not cruel, only commanding. "You will answer me." "No. No. Please. Don't let it end." His penis throbbed anguished, as a fine linen bodice brushed against him. "Please don't let it end." Mulder closed his eyes, wiped his face with his hands. Looked around the office, Scully was gone, back to Quantico, to finish the work she had started. Alone in a still and dark office and his memories threatened to overwhelm. It must be lunch by now. Or past lunch. Tanneka Bonet was still dead. Lovely, bright Tanny was dead. She would never be back again. He felt so tired, his feet cumbersome in wingtips, his skin sensitive with ache and weariness. The suit was rough against his skin. His eyes were heavy and ever so tired. Mulder thought about lunch without checking his watch and let the thought slip past him, into some forgotten place. Stared back at the profile on his monitor screen. He had his database. He had the facts. He had killers and profiles and matches. He had this profile written, except for summation and presentation. Except the killer sprawled across the computer screen had no business in reality. It was a lie, a lie the Mulder knew was not true. The earrings and the Porshe and the likely near miss, that was not so likely. It was a lie, because the records and the recorders had never felt the thick leather cuffs slid down across arms linked behind chilling backs. The questioners knew only their findings of fetish and fantasy. They did not know sensate thrill of a woman's voice whispering and whispering and filling the mind with images even as a wide lacquered paddle came down unceasingly on the firm round peach of a man's bottom. Scully stared at her partner, still hunched over the computer screen. She wondered how long he had been there, encircled by a web of files and documents and words that kept him from remembering that it was Christmas again and that he was alone. Scully watched him and wondered at the close tightness so binding him to his solitary life. "It's 3:30. Did you eat lunch?" She asked, dropping her satchel onto the desk. "I had a candy bar." Mulder's voice was distracted. Scully could not see his eyes. The glasses reflected the blue light of a computer screen. "Everything go okay?" "Yeah. The tissue samples came up negative again. We know she was HIV negative and not on any types of drugs." "I'm sure there are men who will breathe a sigh of relief." Mulder's voice, a small grin, but he continued facing that damn monitor screen. "No clues how our UNSUB gets his victims so quiet?" "No. None." Scully sighed. "I got some hate mail delivered to Quantico." "Oh?" He turned, finally. His eyes were unsettled, tired. "Yeah. Weird thing. I had it sent on. Not really hate mail. It sounds like something from our mutual friends up top." "And?" More concern. She finally had his attention. "Just a slip of paper, handwritten. It said. "I know your little secret." It looked like the kind of thing Barnett wrote those haikus on. Same kind of writing, same size paper. You sure he's dead?" She smiled. "I don't know. This time I hope so. You want me to check potter's field?" A smile, but his voice was soft and tense again. Any play was purely for show. And now she wished she hadn't mentioned any of it to him. "If he's back and walking, I think I'd rather not know." She replied with a grin. A shiver. If he could play the game, so could she. He would rather. And she could give him that. "There's supposed to be another press conference tonight." Scully said, changing the subject. "Did you look at the memo?" "It was on my e-mail." He replied. It was like playing games with a stranger. Scully frowned. Something of Mulder had been missing from this interchange from the start and now he was only talking on autopilot. "And?" "There's a press conference." Mulder turned back to the computer screen. "We're supposed to be there." Mulder's fingers poised over his keyboard. He sat, just sat and stared. "I can't. I can't." His voice was a whisper. "I just can't." <<"Can't what?" Tanny replied. "Can't what? Can't? My dear. Can't is not a word you say to me. Over the arm of the wingchair, love. Maybe 20 licks of the hairbrush will eliminate that word from your extraordinary vocabulary.">> "Can't?" Scully frowned, staring at the frozen figure. "Why not? It's just a bitch and moa. . ." Mulder's arms were around his chest. His breath was hot and tight and she heard a rasp as he tried to force sobs back in. He was unable to stop the tears. Unable to keep his crying inside. The tears were agonized, soft. Scully froze. She had, honestly, no idea what to do. She knew him well enough that the moment she acknowledged the tears, tried to show him sympathy, that he would respond badly. The fact that he was crying in her presence probably embarrassed him a great deal. Scully settled for getting a handful of kleenex and kneeling beside him. Handed him the tissue. "Do you want to talk about it?" Mulder's eyes were closed. He shook his head, wiped his nose, hands trembling. Scully thought of several questions to ask, knew he wouldn't want to answer them. Saw no point in antagonizing him. "I'm here, if you want to talk." He nodded. Drew in a deep raspy breath. Scully stayed where she was kneeling beside his chair. Waiting. She did not know for what. "Was Christmas that bad this year?" She asked softly. Mulder said nothing, just tried to stop crying. "I. . .I. . .I'm sorry." He whispered through thick lips. "There's no reason to apologize." Scully put a hand gently on his knee. Mulder blew his nose; the tears seemed to be going away. "Why don't you go wash your face and then we'll duck out for something to eat? I haven't eaten lunch either." Mulder swallowed, seemed on the verge of refusing. Then nodded. Scully stood, watched as Mulder pushed out of his chair. She sat down at her desk, began rifling through her portfolio. "I'm sorry, Scully. I don't have anything to cry about." Mulder's voice was soft. Scully looked up from her desk, startled. Stared at him. He had just as much reason to be unhappy in this goddamn fucking overhyped season as she did. His eyes were swollen and his nose was bright red. "Yes." She answered softly, swallowing. There was a lump in her own throat and if he didn't get the hell out of here soon she would be crying too. "Yes, you do. We both do." She let Mulder choose. A quiet little place, a pub with decent sandwiches and a peculiar fondness for David Bowie and Sheena Easton music. A booth where they could sit. There was a TV, but right now it was turned to Rikki Lake. Two waitresses were sitting, filling sugar and salt containers, immersed in the tribulations of a woman who was in love with her ex-husband's new girlfriend. And people said the X-files were out there. Mulder ordered a beer, watched Scully, gauged her reaction. "The press conference is at 5." Scully reminded him, eyes on the dark bottle the waitress brought with her iced tea. "I won't go in with booze on my breath." Mulder promised, rifled through his pockets. Smiled. "See." He shook the small clear plastic box. "Breath mints." "Alcohol is a depressant." She added. Mulder shrugged. "Did you know that Tanneka had a summer house?" Scully blinked. "Two residences?" "In the same city. Apparently, she kept one for summer time play and one for winter sports." Mulder dug through his pockets, pulled out a post it note, read the address. Scully whistled. "Do you know what private residences in that zip code go for?" "Our Miss Bonet wasn't a pauper." "So she had the obscenely expensive downtown apartment *and* the place in Chevy Chase?" Mulder nodded. "After that fucking press conference I'm going over to look around. Care to come?" "I would, but I can't. My mom has me roped in for a holiday dinner. Bill Jr.'s wife's family is coming over. They're Navy too, and they just moved to D.C. . ." Scully rolled her eyes. "Why don't you skip the house and come with me? You. . ." She let the sentence die. Knowing that the words were loud between them. `You don't need to be alone in that house, not if you're depressed.' "Well, as horribly tempting as that offer is. . ." Mulder gave her a ghoul's grin, "I'll decline." "What about the D.C. cops? Shouldn't you have one of them with you?" Mulder smiled patiently. Their sandwiches, French dip for Scully, Pastrami and Swiss on Pumpernickel for Mulder, arrived, with sides of thick slabbed home-fried potatoes. "I called." Mulder shrugged. "They're overworked. They don't want to pull overtime the day after Christmas, and I can't say I blame them." Scully nodded. Changed the subject to things that had nothing to do with the Tanneka Bonet case. Material highly NC-17 and includes Bondage and Discipline. Usual Disclaimers Mistress 3/21 by Amperage Stand on the worn wooden porch. Soft patina paint. Green. Bright, shiny wood floors. Matte walls, hand hooked rugs and hand braided rugs thrown along the skittery wood. Bright, cotton chintz. Floral. Country. The big crystalline panes. He hit the light switch in the big, bright living room, only to find the bulb did not work. Dust covers over the furniture. On the mantel, small round globes glinted from hallway light. Mulder stared at them. "Stand very still." He stood, feet cold against the waxed silken of floor. It hurt. He hurt. It hurt. Unwelcome presence in his anus. A stropping. His hands twisted up in cords and sore. "Stand very still. You are not allowed to move." Stare, stare at the small glass globes. Swirls of colors, patterns against clear globs. Crying. Tears rounded down his chin, down onto his chest. Tears fell off the edge of his jaw, landed on his hip, his toes, or did not land on his body at all but the left small drops on the polished pecan wood floors. "Secret. Secret. " Tanny's voice, so very soft. "Tell me about your favorite place when you were small. Where did you go to hide? When it got too bad. Secret, tell me where you went. What you did." The anal plug tied to him, into him. Sore and it hurt. His hands, his arms, they hurt. The leather snug around his waist, the restraint belt, that held him. Unbearable. His bottom was on fire. His legs were sore. "Come on." No strikes for not speaking. Tanny's voice was gentle. Stare, stare at the small glass globes. Imagine the heat, the fire of the bellows. Orange hot glass in thick chunky globs. "Secret. Tell me about where you went when you were scared." The bed was stripped of sheets and coverlet. A high, Jenny Lind bed. Painted Creamy white. His hands touched the roughness of the thin, knewled bars. Grabbing the bars, kneeling on the firm mattress of the bed. Eyes closed in hard exhilaration feeling the strength of the paddle again on his body. The acute agony that rocketed through him, a release that sent his body into spasms of want, of need, of purely animal desire. Arching against the head, Tanny's head down low, watching his face. Arching and screaming, head thrown up to face the white of plaster ceiling. He was standing in the soft, old light of the bedroom, standing and staring at the blonde pecan wood wardrobe, eyes distant and vacant, when Scully came in. Standing and staring and his eyes were focused somewhere, on something neither she nor anyone else could see. "Hey." She spoke plainly, coming into the room, to give him time to reacclimate to her voice. Mulder spun, disoriented. His face was sad and heavy and Scully's own gut twisted in sympathy for what she saw. "I thought you had a dinner to go to?" "I did. I went. It was. . .awkward. I ducked out and left them all discussing the antics of my nephews." A lie. But not a blatant one. She had been uncomfortable but not enough to leave. Mulder made a good excuse for leaving there. Now her awkwardness made a good excuse to him for coming here. "Oh." His voice was soft and skittery. "There's not much to see, I'm afraid." Scully nodded. "She had excellent tastes." Mulder laughed. "She had excellent decorators." "You don't know that." Scully defended, trying to find something positive about the dominatrix. Mulder turned to the wardrobe and opened it. She could not see his face, only see the tense set of his shoulders. Scully again wondered at his reactions to all this. But she did not ask. She did not want to know this, that he played any of these games. Knowing his personality, knowing his type, she imagined he did play them, but his sex life was nonexistent, so he did not play them often. Not now anyway. This wardrobe was not opened when a Slave was here. This wardrobe held props. Tanny chose the props before her supplicants arrived. Chose and put them carefully in casual places, handy when needed. The feel of a vibrator inside your anus. The smooth texture of a plastic cuff. The smooth leather hooking into cock straps. It fitted like a string bikini. Leather fitted between the firm clefts of bottom. In front, a small pouch held his balls. a strap encircled his cock at the base, and when he moved the constant chafe kept him erect, unable to relax. Unable to release the frustration until Tanny would so say. Straps tight above his hips, coming down across his flat belly. He strode into the living room, nervous, ridiculous. "You are beautiful." Tanny's voice. Purring as he came to her, dressed. "You are so beautiful." His blush. His fiery blush as her eyes slid across his body, admiring the move and the curve and the size, admiring the separation of two perfectly formed halves of buttock. He'd stood, cold, chillbumps rising on all his skin. Kept his hands at his side. Well-trained slaves do not move when they are admired. "Beautiful." Tanny's eyes slanted as her dusky voice cherished her prize. "You do know you are beautiful, don't you?" Mulder bit his lip. Oh God. How could she do this? "You have big dark eyes, you have a beautiful face. A full mouth. Your body is lithe and strong. Close your eyes and think about this." Mulder closed his eyes, nervous. "No." Tanny's voice was close to him. Sharp, angry. "No. Do exactly as I say. Think about what you are. Who you are. Your body is beautiful and smooth and firm. You have a kind and gentle face." Her fingers traced along his body, electric, intoxicating his senses. "No. Do not think all those things that you were taught. You are tall, your body is lissome, agile. You are a handsome man and there is no reason for shame. I would not have a slave like you unless he was beautiful." She withdrew from him a moment. "Go to the mirror and look at yourself. You are so beautiful. And all mine. All my little Secret." He walked to the mirror, expecting to see himself. Dark eyes. He stared at a stranger with dark eyes and a fulfilling pouty mouth. Strong streamlined body. Runner and swimmer. And the immense erection, the darkness of hair and the soft, hay brown of his genital pouch. The straps biting into his skin. This was a stranger. A new and delicate creature lately come from an erotic womb. "Turn. Turn." Tanny's voice. "Admire yourself. You are beautiful. Handsome. You taste like the richest of creams." He'd turned, head straining to see the broad shoulders, the perfect, firm bottom. Beautiful. He was Secret. Tanny's beautiful slave. Tanny pressed against him, hand coming to caress and spank. His cock pressed, rock hard, against her stomach. Beautiful. He was beautiful. He was a beautiful woman's pleasurous toy. The fact buried itself and insinuated itself in all the words and all the thoughts and all the confusion. It did not matter. Nothing mattered but that he was Tanny's beautiful Secret, who did her bidding. Nothing mattered but that she found pleasure in him, in his body. There was no room for Spooky here. Mulder bit back the sob, felt Scully's hand brush him, electric. He stared at her, looking at her, startled, terrified, a rabbit caught in bright, electric headlights. Not knowing which way to turn. He rushed away from her, leaving the wardrobe open, leaving his footsteps loud against the wooden floors. He was on the front porch, staring at the long, mature lawn when she came out. Scully swallowed, not wanting to talk about what was happening, what she was seeing. "I'm going to make you an appointment for a counselor." Her voice sounded strained, even to herself. "I don't need another shrink." Mulder's voice was sharp as he clung to the railing. "The holidays are hard on a lot of people. You didn't go see your mother this Christmas, whatever plans you had, you obviously canceled for some reason or other. Your affect. . ." "Shut the fuck up about my affect!" His voice was unexpectedly savage. "I'm all right! I don't need anyone taking care of me!" He hated it even as he said it. "Oh God. I'm sorry, Scully." Scully buffeted the rage and the apology. Licked her lips. "What's wrong with you?" Quiet. Serious. "I. . .I can't. . .I can't talk about it." He hit his hand against the railing. "Why not?" "I. . .I don't. . ." Mulder took a deep breath. "I just can't." "Can you talk to a counselor? Could you talk to someone else? How about someone not in the Bureau?" "No. It's nothing. There's nothing. Nothing." "It's not just losing your father. Something else." Mulder stared at her. Wanting to tell her. But this was not about trust. "I'll be okay." Scully did not believe him, did not press. 7:30. Scully wasn't in yet. Mulder pressed his fingers around his pen, sharp angular script detailing his findings at the summer house. The sharp scratch of pressured ink against thin document paper. "Agent Mulder?" He looked up from his writing, stared at the figure of the SAC in charge of the task force. "Sir." Mulder began to rise. "No. Keep your seat." King gestured. Took a seat across from Mulder's own. Sat back. "In early. They say you were a blueflamer before the X-files." Mulder gave a half-smile. Get to the point. Am I getting reamed and how badly? "Agent Mulder, I. . .I just read your profile. Very complete, very well done. We know we're looking for a white male, intelligent, professional, in his 40's, dominating parents. We know the main focus is Tanny and that the others are only secondary. We know that he was probably abused as a child. Compulsive planner, overly neat. No medical experience, but a hunter. . ." King recited as though it were news to Mulder what the profile said. "Yes sir." "Do you think it would be possible to profile Tanneka's. . .clients?" "What. . .what do you mean?" Mulder asked, frowning. King took a deep breath, spit out between his teeth. "There is some concern at the highest levels, that the killer will. . .strike again. . .killing more highly placed members of government. We know that her. . .clients. . .aren't going to come forward voluntarily. If we can find them we provide protection." "I. . .I can." Mulder began, feeling his stomach churn. King nodded. "There is a need for. . .confidentiality on this. It is not to go into any database. You are not keep any copies for your own use. Do you understand, Agent Mulder?" Mulder nodded. "Sir, we know that someone in the FBI was one of Tanneka Bonet's. . .clients." King frowned. Nodded. "The CIA also suspects that some of their top level people could have been involved with her. . ." He sighed. "I have some suspicions, nothing scientific. . ." Mulder said. "If I went to. . .the most likely person, what could I offer him?" King considered this. "I don't know." He said honestly. "Are you sure?" Mulder shook his head. "I have suspicions. Nothing hard." King chewed his lip. "I recommend you go to Director Skinner." He finally told Mulder. "Skinner and Freeh. Do I want to know who you think it might be?" Mulder shook his head. "No. It's not. . not who a layman might think it would be." "It isn't Freeh?" King asked. Mulder smiled. "No. It isn't Freeh." Mulder frowned as his pen gave out. Fucking government cheap pens. . .he threw the ballpoint into the trash and reached up to his cup for another. And stopped, his fingers millimeters from the assorted writing utensils. A Fat, emerald green and gold Mont Blanc pen mingled with the utilitarian ballpoints and felt tips and pencils and erasers in the old coffee mug. He felt his heart thud and his mouth fill with a sour, plate metal taste as his shaking hand retreated. He stared at the fountain pen as though it were a snake, just stared at the dark heavy surface of pen, sitting innocently among the lambs. His breath came in short pants; his chest ached. Oh God. His fingers fumbled, cold and clumsy and he could not breath. Oh shit. Oh fucking shit, it hurt. He couldn't breath. An evidence glove in the drawer and an evidence bag. Oh fucking, fucking shit. Oh hell. His fingers trembled almost uncontrollably as he stared at the heavy pen. Black ink. Tanny always used black ink. And had a jeweler engr. . .TB. Mulder uncapped the pen with spasming fingers. TB in a delicate scrip. Oh God. He dumped the pen into an evidence bag, breath coming in rapid, puppy-like pants, face stinging and cold. His joints ached, were restless as he dumped the pen into his desk drawer. Tanny's pen. He could not swallow, could not breathe. Tanny's pen had been mixed among his own. In his office. Past security guards and locks and passcards and. . . And none of that mattered to this killer. None of it mattered at all. He could not breath, his chest hurt and ached and burned and the pain was running up and down his arms. Clinically he knew that this was an anxiety attack. Emotionally he felt like he was going to die. Oh God. Mulder swallowed, wrapped his arms around his chest, cold. He was hunkered over his reports when Scully walked in. Hunkered was the only appropriate word. Protecting himself. His hand curled over a report. Sunflower seeds sat in a little pile and the small wastepaper basket was beside him. He'd eaten some, but wasn't eating any more. His eyes were on the paper and he was writing sharp little marks. Trying not to cry. Scully thought back, tried to figure out when all this emotional instability had started. . .Christmas Day? He'd been okay in Tanny's apartment. Distracted, but okay. . .wait. He'd said his Christmas plans had been canceled unexpectedly. "Hey." She concentrated on keeping her voice as normal as possible. Mulder looked up, gave her a smile that did not touch him, was no more than an animal baring its teeth in fear. "Hey." He said, also keeping his voice as normal as possible. Whatever had happened, it had happened at Christmas Eve and it was big. "Any new theories?" She did not need to say on which case. Mulder shook his head. "They want a profile of the clients. Want descriptions of the kind of men Tanneka might have had for customers." Scully nodded. She wanted to ask how he was feeling. She knew better than to ask. "Are you going to work on that all day?" "Probably. . ." Mulder paused. "I've got a ton of reports from the body to write." And she would be right here, able to watch and observe and keep the web of isolation from getting too thick. "Agent Scully." She answered the line, hoping it wasn't some half-witted paranoid who would only talk to "Agent Spooky." You had to wonder who the Lone Gunmen gave their names to sometimes. Really. "Agent Stine." A terse voice. "We got another one." NC-17 material. If you are under 18, do not read. If you are offended by B and D, do not read. Usual disclaimers still apply. Mistress 4/21 by Amperage The house was silent and warm and Mulder watched servants retreat from the presence of the FBI. John Tower had been a rich man. Rich and powerful. Senator Matheson knew him. He was in Matheson's district. He was not in government. He was just rich and powerful and influential. From what Mulder knew of him, he'd always been in control. The body was up in the bedroom, up a tall, graceful staircase. Mulder did not go up. Why? He knew what he would see. He could see into a formal room, see a woman with ash white hair, elegant in her pearls. She looked like his mother. He could see a younger woman sitting protectively beside the woman. He could see a young man in blue jeans and a rugby shirt. He could see a DC detective talking to them. They didn't know. About Tanny. They thought Dominatrix were for paraphiles. For people with something wrong with them. He wanted to come so bad. Wanted it and wanted it and Tanny would not give the word. Her possession. Her toy. He had no choices, no will. Staring at her, at her lips gathered around his mouth and the gentle teeth barely touching as she pulled and he moaned, bucking, barely able to stand the onslaught of pleasure. His hands were attached above his head, the sensation long since having left them. She released him. Left him with his cock long and hard and unbearable with excruciating agony. It was not fear of the lash that kept him from coming, although he knew that she would whip him hard for that. It was not fear. But Tanny had ordered him to wait. Wait and wait. And he was Secret. He did what Tanny said. He whimpered. Tanny stared at him, eyes dark and quiet. Her hands pushed a dollop of lubricant out of a bottle, into her hand, he watched in morbid curiosity as she slicked her fingers, pulled herself back up to a kneel, put her hands behind him. He felt the fingers parting and holding and kept his buttocks relaxed. Felt her finger as it entered, entered and twisted and then a second finger. Enough. She entered and caressed and put her mouth again to his tender, throbbing cock. Mulder began to cry and twist, trying to escape the pleasure, to escape the torment. Her free hand came down hard on his bottom. Hard and it was worse. Worse. Ten times worse as she fucked him and sucked him and her hand came down again and again against his bottom. Michael Tower stared at the dark haired man standing in the foyer. Another cop. His father was dead. The cops were everywhere and they couldn't even go see the body. His anger was irrational and pulsating and the cop was still standing there, staring at them as though they were zoo exhibits, as though Sarah and his mother and he were all there for the amusement of bored law enforcement agents. The cop in this room was speaking in long, bored tones, trying to pull information from his mother. Michael tried to pull his attention back to the room. But the cop was still there, in the foyer. He didn't know how it felt. Fuck him. He didn't know what it felt like, to get that call, that fucking sickening call and know that your father was dead. To come into the house and see all the uniforms and the cops and hear all the unfamiliar words and see the bags and the tape and the stretcher and then see your mother sitting there, sitting there quiet and retreated as though she were on a trip inside her own mind. What did the fuck did this cop know about pain anyway? He skirted the edges of other people's torment. He was a damn vampire, feeding on other people's pain. They were all damn fucking vampires. Without knowing it, he had taken long steps over to where the damn fucking asshole cop stood, staring. The cop's attention wasn't on Michael as he swung. "Agent Scully." Scully looked up from the body, from the meat thermometer and the careful examination of location and placement. A uniformed officer. "Agent Scully, they said you needed to come downstairs. Agent Mulder was just attacked." She was up instantly, stripping off her gloves, walking behind the officer, almost running in her low, serviceable heels. Mulder was sitting on the stairs, face pressed against a bannister. There was a uniformed young woman trying to get him to let her clean up the blood on his face. He wasn't responding. Scully knelt beside him, turned his face. "Ouch." She said casually, taking the washcloth from the police officer. Mulder smiled or tried to. There were tears in his face, on his cheeks. "What happened?" Scully began gently wiping. His eye was closing and there was a tear on the corner of his mouth that was bleeding profusely. "You need a couple of stitches." She observed. "Mr. Tower's son, ma'am." The woman told her, handing Scully some disinfectant. "Attacked him. Unprovoked. Just walked up and started swinging." "Such a positive affect you have on people. This is going to sting like hell." "Can't you put butterflies on it?" Mulder asked. Scully sighed. "Yeah. But I think it'll heal more cleanly with the stitches." She cleaned the laceration, accepted a thick piece of cotton and gauze and pressed and taped it against his mouth. Stared at his eye. The officer handed her a blue chemical pack. Scully twisted it, pressed the icy coldness against his face. Mulder accepted it, put his hand up to hold the pack to his face. Her focus broadened, watching Mulder accept it. He was so quiet, so fucking quiet. The kid, Mulder's attacker was yelling something about how the `fucking cop didn't know what his family was going through. Couldn't know.' Scully felt her stomach drop. Oh God, kid. If you only knew. "What's going on?" She asked quietly. Mulder shook his head. Closed the eye not already covered. Scully sighed. He needed to get the stitches put in. "Are there any loose teeth?" She asked, although Mulder would have let them know that. She hoped. He shook his head. The quiet, withdrawn way he was just accepting all this alarmed her. Scully pushed the bangs away from his face. "Okay. I've still got to play with the body. Is there anything here that you positively *must* see?" "I wanted his appointment book." Mulder whispered in the voice of a hurt child, shocked that anyone would hurt him for no good reason. "Can you accompany Agent Mulder, help him find the appointment book, talk to. . ." Scully glanced at the almost hysterical young man and rolled her eyes. "Talk to someone in the family and make sure they know we've got it." The woman glanced at the kid in the next room and smiled. "Sure." Scully nodded. "We'll go down to the doctor's office when this is over, get the stitches." Mulder winced. "Oh God. Not your friend Foster again." "What's wrong with Foster?" Scully asked, relieved that he was acting normally. Relieved? She was fucking ecstatic. "He stabs me with his needles like it's my fault you're a pathologist." Scully snorted, shot a look at the uniform. Any problems, anything. Get me. The woman nodded. She was still in the bedroom when Mulder wandered in. "I thought you were just going to find the appointment book." "I am." Mulder replied, evenly. "I found his official one. I need his personal book." His words were slurred by the obvious pain of speaking, of moving his mouth. "His wife thought it might be in here." He glanced at the body, at tangled and drying entrails. Felt his mouth go dry. The quiet face. The tang of blood that has dried. But it all seemed so far away from him, as though he were looking at everything through a tunnel. "What are you looking for?" He asked, words indistinct. "Placement. Tanneka was on her bed. He's on the floor. I think the killer let Tanneka get onto the bed. He didn't take the time with this one." Scully shrugged, measuring distances from doorways and table legs and beds and dressers. The bottoms of her shoes were red with clotting blood. Mulder avoided the heavy carpet on which Tower lay, went into the dressing room. Came back out with a small, red leather book that would easily fit into a breast pocket. Brass edges and gold filigree. "I'll be down in a couple of minutes." Scully said before barking a distance in centimeters to the uniform with the clipboard. Mulder nodded distractedly. Stared at the body a moment. Went back outside. "Agent Mulder." Skinner swallowed, staring at the figure who strode into his office. He'd heard about the black eye. It was worse than he'd heard. "Sir. I thought you might want this." Mulder's voice was slurry; someone listening to him over the phone might assume he was drunk. In person Skinner could see the stitches adorning the left side of his mouth. "Thank you." Skinner took the plain folder. "This is the profile of Tanneka Bonet's customers?" "Yes sir. But it's very incomplete. Judging from the things we found in both her homes, Ms. Bonet probably had several types of client." "King said you thought you knew who one of Ms. Bonet's customers might be." Mulder gave as much of a smile as he was able. "It was just a wild guess. Pure speculation." "You've never been afraid of chasing down a lead based on purest speculation in the past. Are you afraid of the name?" "No sir." Mulder swallowed. "But I'm not going to that person without being able to offer them some security." Skinner nodded. "Anonymity?" Mulder nodded. "Give me his name. I guarantee that it won't go further than myself and the director." Mulder stared at Skinner. Did not speak. Bullshit. All due respect, that is *such* bullshit. "Why are you so loyal to this person?" "I'm not about to have someone's career compromised on my guesses." "I see." Skinner was nodding at Mulder. His eyes bore into Mulder, questioning. It would be so easy to simply tell him. To breakdown and yell it, scream it. *I AM SECRET. TANNY WAS MY DOMINATRIX. I WAS HER SUPPLICANT.* He swallowed nervously. "Will that be all sir?" "Yes, Agent Mulder. That's all." His apartment was quiet. Cold. The fish swam in heated luxury, but they were the only ones. He threw his briefcase down onto an unsuspecting chair. Tried not to think about how late it was. He'd turned in the profile at 6:30. Gone back down to his office. Driven home. No wonder he was so fucking tired. Go to the bedroom, put his jacket and pants over the chair to go to the dry cleaners. Pull on some sweats. Fix supper. He was too tired to think about supper. Oh God. Oh God. He'd stood there in Skinner's office and nearly told the man everything. He moved from the kitchen, body protesting at any movement, protesting the perpetual lack of sleep and the tiredness and his bones ached now, a tired, sore ache that he knew was the result of being given lidocaine and then going back and working 8 hours. The door was locked and bolted. The windows, all the windows were locked. He checked the house, not sure what he was checking for, only knowing that he had to do so, that he had to be sure, because even once his mind knew that there was no one here, it would still jump and start and he would not be able to relax. He could not relax anywhere. Mulder finished, went back into the kitchen. His supper was rotating in the microwave, under the fragile yellow light. He leaned against a kitchen counter. Scully was worried about him. Scully had problems with his behavior. Oh fucking hell. He had to pull it together. Had to. Scully was close to discussing his behavior with Skinner. Skinner would do the expedient thing, which was to put in a recommend for mandatory counselling. That's what you do. CYA. Cover your ass. He'd wanted to tell Skinner. The microwave beeped at him. Supper. A small plastic tray covered with plastic film. Hot lasagna, the "hungry man's portion." Burned on the edges, cold in the middle. Thank God for Stouffer's. He let the food sit in steaming comfort while he contemplated cabinets and chair legs and the gloomy darkness. Even with his back to the cabinets he didn't feel safe. He had no choices, defenseless unless he wanted to tell the Bureau. (Oh yeah, tell them, tell them the truth. . .) Violation. "Come on." Tanny stared at him, expectantly, licking her lustrous red lips. "Come on." She took a handful of rose petals and tossed them into the clear, steaming water of the tub. He stared at the round tub filling with hot water and the scent of roses. Pulled off his Nikes and his socks, his Levis and the tight white t-shirt and shivered uncontrollably. Put one foot into the deep water, a hand on the warm, sweating, marble edge of the tub. Put his other foot deep into the tub. Knelt, sinking down into the recesses of the white marble, shot with grey iron. The hot water surrounded him. Tanny had a small blindfold in her hand, she tossed it to him. His hand came up, out of the water, caught it. "Put it on." Her voice dictated. He fingered the material. "Secret. Put on your blindfold." Tanny said, forcefully now. He watched her eyes run over him, read things, he could not know what. He swallowed, feeling his mouth dry and his stomach cramp. "I can't." He whispered. "Why not?" "Please don't make me. Please." He whispered, staring at the stiffened material, the heavy cloth. "Secret, come here." The force in her voice was gentle and sad but left no doubt what she planned. He moved forward, glided through the hot, steaming water until he was before her. She pulled him up until he was bent over the edge of the tub, staring at a wide marble counter and rolled bath towels. The feel of the back of the brush was harsh and familiar and good. She did not stint, not until he knew his bottom was a bright, protesting red and tears stood in his eyes. "Go back into the water." She ordered, voice aristolian liquid. He did so, feeling the hot water strike and soothe bruises. Feeling his cock, hard now, hard from pain and a beautiful woman named Tanny. "Put on the blindfold." Tanny ordered. His hands moved up and he slipped the blindfold over his face. Crying. Crying like a child. Over this. This that a child might do. The fear intensified. Tanny's hand was there, holding his, stroking his body. Reassuring him that she was still there, leaning over him, watching him. His cock withered in the terror that enveloped him. Her voice, but he could not make out words, only sounds and only the undercurrent of soft consolation. Sensations but he could not feel anything but the warm of water covering and surrounding him in this private, terrifying womb. Tanny stroked him, manipulated knotted flesh. Unyielding strength, forcing him. Her hand left him, he could no long feel strong, warm bones under a supple skin. He was alone. Alone. Alone. Tanny was there, but she was the only one. Tanny would say that he could take the blindfold off and everything would be all right. Panic rose in him, tightened his shoulders and his chest, charged through his shoulders and his arms, he could not breathe. Tanny was gone. Tanny was not speaking to him. No. Tanny was sitting above him. Tanny was gone. All alone. Tanny was going to stay. Tanny would take care of him. Tanny was there. You're all alone and there's no one else in the world. They're all gone but you, Fox. All gone but you. You're all alone. Everyone is gone. Alone. Because you were bad. You were evil. Everyone else is gone. You're never seeing Sam again. They're all dead. Dead. It's your fault, Fox. No. No. All his fault. Hands tore the blindfold off, hands pulled him to her. He could not move in the sudden, searing light that inundated fragile senses, flooded him until his thoughts shrivelled into brittle paper. Held him. He struggled, incoherent. Sobbing. Words, there were so many words, but they could not shape themselves. Words. Tanny hummed a lullaby, rocking him. His head against rough linen. Stroked his hair and his head and acknowledged the raw need. Safe. You're safe here. But he could not stop his crying, could not stop, would not stop. He clutched and held so that she would not go away. He did not want to be alone with his thoughts.