The lights of Downtown Seattle twinkled through the expansive glass front window of Victoria Duncan’s art deco two-story penthouse apartment.  She was sitting alone in a silk dressing gown and wearing Serta “counting sheep” slippers.  Even wearing fuzzy slippers that sported tiny ears and adorable smiles she still looked like she presided over her environment like a benevolent dictator.  By every standard she was a spectacularly captivating woman.  Her prior career as the lead detective of the elite Seattle Sex Crimes Division hadn’t allowed her beauty to show through; but her new and unusual career path more than provided her with opportunity to luxuriate in her natural allure.  

She was notably tall at five foot eleven, and curvaceous.  She actively loathed those anorexic, sticks with tits that pranced around like they were better people than real size women.  In direct defiance, she maintained what she thought to be a minimally rubenesque shape.  Her ex had always bitched that she had too much cushion, but not one of the men she worked with now could do anything but absolutely ravish her with his eyes.  It could be distracting, but it was, on a bad day, oh so good for any woman’s ego to be unrelentingly wanted.  She glanced again at her reflection in the glass and thought, “Why the hell not, I would want me, almost enough to pay.”  She laughed silently and gave herself a chastising glance.

The gray eyes that stared back spoke of a woman experientially far older than her thirty-four years.  Even at that, her luminescent skin subtracted a decade.  She had long raven tresses with hard earned wispy streaks of silver that make her more striking and her age even less determinate.  Though she was seldom in the mood, she knew she could have men pleading for her number at any of the trendy meet and greet spots that dotted downtown Seattle; but, the truth was, she was tired of being wanted.  Victoria wanted to be the one doing the pursuing and that wasn’t going to happen soon.

Tonight she was a comfortably lone figure peering at a bank of computer screens monitoring her businesses.  Classical music filled the room as she alternated her attention between the screens and the outside firefly-like swarm of lights across the sound.  She sipped her wine and sat it on a coaster that rested on her hideaway desk.  

The furnishings in just this room cost more than her annual salary in her first career.  Piece by piece it was modern and pricey.   In the aggregate, it was simply splendid.  Guests often said the decoration throughout the apartment was flawless.  She always tried to hide her pleasure at that, but failed.  Her current work had taught her the necessity of the look of things being right for the mood.   

Her favorite decorations were not stylish as they hung on two intersecting walls. The first surface comprised a supporting wall in the entry; several police commendations and awards for "Detective Victoria Duncan" hung in tribute.  On the connecting wall, framed magazine articles and newspaper covers told the story of Seattle’s most popular new fetish club, "Power Exchange".   Bisecting the two walls, framed and mounted on an angle in the corner, was a full color front page newspaper article with a photo of Victoria standing on the steps of a court house near a scuzzy criminal.  He smiled with his lawyer on one side and his arm around his mousey girl friend.  In the photo, Victoria glowered at the couple.  The headline read:  

    “Detective beats suspect, Suspect beats child molesting rap, City pays settlement.”

Immediately below, on a stand made of chain and handcuffs, was a granite sign with arrows that pointed to each set of frames on the walls.  The sign said it all:

               "Ironic, ain’t it!"

Victoria surveyed her room and in part her bizarre life, as a bank of computer screens flashed notifications; some critical, some just informational.    The images on the screen originated from security cameras that zoomed in and panned across dark rooms.  Without the accompanying sound the people in the main room looked as if they were milling about nervously; waiting for their turn in the darker rooms in the back.  Victoria sat in front of the screens and thought the most interesting thing was, no matter how experienced you were, no matter how many years in police work or this job, she still couldn’t tell the difference between people who needed nothing more than a firm chiding from those who would require full blown torture.  

It was beyond surreal to see these people almost begging to get their turn with pain.  Victoria shook her head slowly; once again amazed at how she made her living.  Parts of her business made sense to Victoria.  She knew her world was too dark and odd for normal “vanilla” people to come to grips with; but, she was happy she had the emotional ability to not judge, and was able, to provide what she saw as a critical service in the, well, safest way she could.

Victoria drew in a deep breath and resolved that she would always keep making the best of situations that sucked.  She gazed around the room she was in; and thought, well if things had to suck, at least it was nice to have them suck with fabulous furnishings and a sound system that let Mozart wash over her as she gazed out on Puget Sound.

The computer chimed for attention.  She picked up her wine and moved to two computer screens that had open chat windows from on-line programs.  A to-do list filled one of the monitors.  A chat window, titled ABBY SUSMAN flashed urgently.  Each line had the online name of the sender:

Sub-body special: HELP What do I do?

Victoria sighed and typed, “What happened?” The chat window began its logging as Victoria’s dark red fingernails typed, “Relax, little one.  I am here.”

Abby spilled fear and font on the screen.

Sub-body special: He’s just lost his mind.

VICTORIA:  Did you use your safe word?

Sub-body special: Not at first.

VICTORIA: Where is he?

Sub-body special: He went out, to get something… to teach me a lesson.

VICTORIA:  Give me his cell number.

Victoria grabbed a note pad and pencil and thought; sometimes old school was best.

Sub-body special: He’ll be furious that I called you.

VICTORIA:  Him?  Furious with me?  Silly sub.  Now give me the number.

Sub-body special: I don’t know.

VICTORIA:  Abby, what is rule number one?

There was a noticeable pause before more words fill the screen.

Sub-body special: Safe, sane, consensual.

VICTORIA:  Good.  Now, little-one, let me help.

Sub-body special: He’ll be mad about being charged for your time.

VICTORIA:  This one will cost him in many ways sweet girl.  It is what he wants and needs.

Sub-body special: Yes Ma’am.

VICTORIA:  His number?

Victoria closed the computer’s chat window, put on her phone headset and moved to the glass window.  She idly strolled and did some tidy time as she dialed and waited for the phone to ring.

Bill Susman’s voice nearly screamed through the ear peace, “WHAT!”

Victoria made him wait; letting the tension build for Bill.  Finally, she whispered, “William, what is rule number one?”

From the background, through Bill’s phone, she could hear a sales clerk doing the boring business of smut sales to slightly balding perverts, “Do you want the whip with fiberglass inserts or leather?”

Victoria’s whisper seethed venom, “William.”

Bill’s petulant tones resonated through the receiver, “She isn’t following orders.”

Victoria pretended to lose patience, “William!”

Victoria heard Bill’s obviously muffled voice speaking to the clerk, “Which one is stiffer?” He finally spoke into the phone, with faltering certainty, “It’s for her own good”.

Victoria could sense it was time to elevate, “Leave that place now.”

Sounds of Bill leaving the toy store morphed into a whipping wind, as he stepped out side.

Bill continued, “It’s her fault.”

Victoria didn’t bother to listen, “Go home, apologize to her.  Give her a bubble bath and start over.  You have to learn to be firm but fair.  We will deal with this during our next session.  Don’t forget, she’s your wife as well as your submissive.  Treat her well and she will serve you well.”

“Yes Ma’am.  Will I be billed for this call?”

“Of course, silly sub.  Now go before I get really upset.”

On the other end of the line, Bill Susman snapped his cell phone closed feeling frustrated. Everyone seemed to be taking Abby’s side.  They always did that and it killed him.  He fumed for a few minutes and then reopened his cell phone and hit a number on speed dial.  He needed some relief and he knew just where to get it.  Abby could wait for her beating.