1987 New York, approximately a week after the first meeting of Lily Fisher.

Irene stole her way past her husband, explaining to him that she was going for a long con. Something about befriending a gullible artist in a tower block art gallery. She dressed down, as instructed. A Black, flowing dress and a pair of cute ankle boots with tassles on them, complete with a kicky black leather jacket that made the look pop.

She arrived at a concrete marble building. Monochrome walls, whites and sharp black contrasts. A desk sat there at the front, complete with a peroxide blonde lady in business casual wear serving canapes and gulpfuls of what was allegedly champagne, but didn’t quite hold up to scrutiny. The champagne glasses contained only 3 sips worth, but you can’t complain about free drinks.

Irene looked at the business card with scrutiny, checking for a room number, or a specific exhibit she wanted to meet at. 2nd floor, office 12. red door.

Irene rattled up the stairs, the metallic zips and belts of her jacket shaking like a bell around a cat’s neck. She turned the bend of the staircase and was met with a striking statuesque presence. Staggering heels and rounded makeup, a pale, almost ghostly visage.

Her severe bob now replaced with a towering set of pastel pink victory rolls, and a lavender tipped horse riding whip. She wore a jet black trench coat this time, and a set of robust red-pink riding boots that blended in with the strawberries and cream configuration she was trying to produce.

“Hello my darling” she announced, her body moving like a phantom around the city. She took Irene by the hand, she could feel the allure of this woman becoming a deep, barely lucid, trance. Without protest, she followed the art mistress to her office, taking note of the robust, soundproof fire door. You notice these things in Irene’s line of work.

“What are we doing here?” Irene questioned, now getting slightly concerned of why an independently wealthy new yorker would want a door with three locks.

“Performance art my dear, you trust me right?” Lily purred, nuzzling the woman’s ear as she whispered the words.

“I just need your signature here, and we’ll be ready to begin.” Irene signed the contract, too baffled to register the words she skim-read. She’d had to learn to be adventurous in the last few years. A long way from desk jobs and petty fraud.

Before the ink even had time to dry, the trench coat was on the floor, and a perfect hourglass figure was revealed. Corset, waist trainer, and bra trying to tame the surprisingly ample bosoms of the previously very slender and quite flat chested academic. Irene watched her breasts, trying to pretend it was a strictly scientific intrigue, that she was only trying to work out how the illusion was created. Were they stuffed somehow? She’d need a closer look.

Before she proceeded, she noticed the blinking red light on the shelf, almost hidden by porcelain tribal mask. The penny dropped. Blackmail. She decided to investigate closer, besides her husband wasn’t exactly monogamous either, its fair game.

They kissed, a slow, softer kiss. Hands taking off her leather jacket and twisting up her skirt against her dolphin smooth shaven legs. The hands drifted until they reached her thighs, and then around to her bum. The lace underwear was quickly revealed, and the dress didn’t stand a chance. Irene found herself bent across the desk, purple lipstick staining her mouth, cheek and neck. Her skirt hoisted up to her hips and braced for the impact of the paddle.

Leather struck her arse, leaving a pucker of red against her soft lily-white skin. Afterwards she heard the scratch of a pen against paper. Was she tallying? The second whip hit against her, causing her to shudder forward on the office table.

“Did you really think you could use my friend’s name to scam me?” she asked, aiming the crop for another lash.

Irene nodded. “I’m sorry” she said, gagging through the words as though any wrong choices might end with her in worse trouble. There was a fourth lash. Then a fifth.

“I’m sorry WHAT?” she barked.

“Mistress?” Irene guessed.

There was another whip. “INCORRECT.”

Irene tried again.

Stolen from its rightful place, this narrative is not meant to be on Amazon; report any sightings.

“I’m sorry Lily” she exclaimed.

“Like you mean it” Lily pushed, another few whips going down.

She tried to say it again, but her throat was drying up. She didn’t know how anymore.

“Like you mean it you uncultured two-dollar powder pusher” Lily Barked with a strike that echoed through the room.

Irene felt the adrenaline hit her at that. Being under bondage and domination was one thing. She was even used to being underestimated, but insulting the quality of her work was too far. She worked hard for only the finest Columbian Marching Powder. She sold her life for this, she sold her prospects and her country and even her morals for this.

She pulled herself up from the desk and faced the art mistress. The birdlike woman tried to set her back down on the table, but it wasn’t working. Irene shoved her aside, her mojo well and truly back.

“You pretentious wonderbread TART!” Irene announced, shoving aside the woman and her 3 inch heels with her weight.

“I thought you were an easy mark, because you have all the trimmings of an artist nepotism princess” she barked back at the Jam Donut Dominatrix in her pinks and purples.

“Your fancy office and your plastic Art Deco knockoffs Don’t intimidate me” Irene said, snatching the crop from the woman’s hand and slashing it against the delicate clay mask replica on the bookshelf.

“That’s worth thousands” Lily gasped. Irene didn’t care.

She slashed at the camera and tore through the wires.

“You thought entrapment would work? I have been pushed around since I traded in that accountancy internship in a damp little Brighton office with mold on the walls.” She breathed.

“I worked my arse off for this. The world was not fair, but don’t you dare talk to me about culture and quality.”

Lily felt the first lash. She tried to shelter away from it, but it seemed she couldn’t take what she dished out.

She winced. “TRUCE?” she begged, catching Irene, whip in hand hovering in a golf swing motion.

Irene stood there quietly. “I’m listening.” she arched, letting the dominatrix scramble back onto her heels and cover away the marks that were beginning to manifest across her back and shoulders.

Lily thought to herself. “Your artist friends were talented. I can sell them.” she announced. “I’d have to take certain creative liberties with the backstories, but I think I’d be able to make it work … for a percentage” Lily suggested.

Irene lowered the crop away from the striking pose, considering the offer. “I expect it in writing” she proposed, “by Thursday next week.”

Irene got dressed to leave, but before she reached for the door, a voice chimed over her shoulder. “And darling?” Lily interjected. “You make a fabulous muse.”

***

Back in the bunker, Irene was unsure how to feel. She discovered the journalist had records kept of everyone’s mishaps. It turns out, the exhibit had taken on a life of its own.

Woman with Whip – a study in power and control was the title of the clip. It was Irene in her early 20s, crop in hand, a looping clip of her stealing it from the purple BDSM mistress and taking over with a surprising amount of gusto. She didn’t know whether she was proud or ashamed, but she did have to admit, she was still in shape back in those days.

The exhibit itself – as the interviewer explained – had become a party piece for many collectors over the years, and was especially popular in the more vice riddled parts of Europe. It was found in Amsterdam’s sex museum, playing with a track of custom music looped behind it. Something electric and sexy with a lot of synth.

Irene was especially shocked to find out how much these museums had bought it for, the Tate modern in Cornwall spent upwards of Ten Grand on it back in 2014, for a collection entitled rage from the 80s that lasted three summers.

She took a nervous glance at her husband, Ken. He didn’t quite know what to do with his face. To him Lily was an old friend, but also a bitter rival at times, both for Irene’s affection and for the attention in the room. She had a power over him, to revert him back to being a jealous teenager.

Ted was the first to break the silence, he also didn’t quite know how to react. He’d never witnessed his employers spellbound before.

“So you knew her well then?” he interrupted.

“Seems like it” Ken coughed out.

The interviewer watched them closely at the tensions boiled over. “I’m going to get another pot of coffee – I’ll leave you to process all that” she permitted, ducking out from the table and allowing the decades old rage and grief to sit there unprocessed for ten minutes.

Ted broke the silence first. “You said you just snapped, that you were worn down by compromise?” he asked.

Irene nodded.

“What compromises? How did you go from outsmarting a drug runner to being the powder queen of Europe?” Ted asked.

He’d never asked intimate questions like this before. It was a big faux-pas in his line of business. If his employers wanted to share something with him, that was their choice, but it was not his place to ask questions unless they directly impacted the mission. Those rules had gotten blurry before, but in the sober light of day there were very strict boundaries.

Irene looked at Ken, seemingly out of emotional energy to give. “You tell it better darling” she said, leaving a lot unsaid.

She didn’t say, I trust you. She didn’t say you’ll get the nuances right. She didn’t even need to say I’m tired of the scrutiny of this industrial recording death trap we’re in. She didn’t need to. Sometimes a spouse just knows.