The first stop on the grand tour of the Dominion was to a rather unexpected place. Sara looked around the room with a blend of fascination and disbelief, aware of the dozens of outfits and accessories here, all carefully color-coordinated around the walls. They hung neatly on hangers, organized by fantasy apparently; Sara spotted a little Bo Peep outfit, a nun’s habit and poodle skirt all within a few feet of each other. Lady Heather caught her gaze and gave a tiny roll of her eyes.

“The Dominion caters to the client, and strives to accommodate whatever their fantasy—and a few are extreme, even for our fairly broadminded interpretations. They come here to be understood though, not judged, and we strive to be of service.”

“Everyone plays nice,” Sara commented in an amused tone. Lady Heather smiled back.

“We play rough too, but only by request. In any case, we’re here because I feel the tone of our evening needs to begin with the outward trappings. These are the costumes for the staff, and further in—“ she lead the way to a door that she unlocked with a key from her pocket, “—is my own Dominion trousseau.”

Sara and James followed Lady Heather into another room, smaller this time but more elegant than the staff costume room behind them. Several rich wooden wardrobes stood along the walls here, and for a moment Sara had the bizarre fancy that each might lead to an enchanted world through them; Narnia, Middle Earth, or far more likely, Gor—

“Here I’ve kept a collection of my own possessions, gathered over the years and stored for just the right moment.” She looked at Sara for a moment. “Not all of them are right for me, but each item here holds power and significance. I have a feeling that you understand the nature of the right fetish in the right setting.”

Sara caught the other woman’s gaze and nodded; she did. Across her mind flashed the image of Grissom’s black leather duster; of her own silver chain collar; of the little knob of wax from her navel now cunningly made into a tie tack. Lady Heather stepped over to a wardrobe of Asian design, lacquered in shiny black, with gold bamboo designs on it. Carefully she opened the two doors, revealing a column of delicate drawers in it. Lady Heather slowly tugged open a one.

“So, in order to emphasize the significance of your education Miss Zara, I request that you take this, and use its symbolism to delineate your time with me.” She reached in and pulled out something, then turned to Sara, presenting it.

Sara stared, startled. The beaten gold cuff gleamed in the light, a curved and beautiful piece of craftsmanship, polished and pebbly-textured. Set in the center of the cuff was an oval large tiger’s eye cabochon, the stone rounded and richly striped, the colors ranging from lightest café au lait to caramel to cocoa to burnt umber, shifting and blending under one’s gaze.

Before she could begin to object; to protest that it was too beautiful and too personal a gift, Lady Heather had slipped it onto her right wrist, and squeezed it until it fit perfectly on Sara’s slender arm.

“There. I have been waiting years to match this piece with the right woman. This is NOT a gift—“ Lady Heather cut off Sara’s protests with a wave of her hand, “—you’ll earn this, work for this badge of rank, believe me. I’m not an easy teacher Miss Zara, but you are no ordinary pupil. James—“

He stepped forward, waiting her next words. Sara was still staring at the cuff, feeling the cool weight of it warming up on her skin. The tiger’s eye seemed to glow.

“—Acknowledge your position under Miss Zara, if you please.”

James gracefully dropped to one knee and bowed his head in quick compliance, his words soft and sincere. “I acknowledge that Miss Zara is now a peer to my Mistress Lady Heather, a baroness, and that as such she has authority over me.”

“Wait . . . I’m not here to be . . . “ Sara trailed off as Lady Heather looked at her politely, and James rose to his feet once more. She felt a flush rise up her cheeks, the heat of embarrassment. Lady Heather waited a moment then spoke in her low, serious voice.

“Whatever you ultimately do with the knowledge you gain here is up to you, Miss Zara, but while you are here to learn, your status is important. While you are the beloved of Sir, you are also a baroness of the Dominion. In training, but a baroness nonetheless.”

For a moment those words hung in the air, and Sara felt the weight of them. With the same courage she’d used all her life, Sara cleared her throat and spoke up. “I . . . accept.”

“Good,” Lady Heather replied sweetly. She closed the drawer and waved a hand around the room at the other wardrobes. “These other armoires are where I keep the variety of my professional wear. Contrary to belief, I don’t live here, and do have a private life, but that being said, I’ve also practiced my vocation for a very long time.”

“How long?” Sara blurted before she could stop herself. Lady Heather didn’t seem to take offense at the question; she thought back, ticking her slender fingers against the palm of her other hand for a moment.

“Nearly . . . twenty-one years now. I’d been a dilettante in S and M since my private school days, but didn’t choose it as a vocation until after I’d graduated from University with a degree in Anthropology and no prospects of a career.”

“Flooded market?” Sara asked, trying to visualize what Lady Heather must have looked like as a college student. Probably not much different, she decided—younger, but most likely with all the same self-assurance she had now.

“Not flooded, but not easy to break into. I knew I had no interest in research or data, and fieldwork barely paid the rent. Then one night my beloved reminded me that I was a natural dominatrix, and that there would always be a market for fantasy fulfillment. I argued of course, and pointed out that what he and I had was special, that I couldn’t transfer that intimate bond to strangers.”

“But . . . you did, “ Sara commented. “You do, that is.” Lady Heather shot her a quick look, and then one to James. She reached out and touched his shoulder gently.

“I do not. The people I choose, my personal clients, are NOT strangers. They are hand-picked individuals with whom I relate to on a basis far beyond anything that resembles a service industry. Through the years I provide them with a Mistress to cater to and adore, a goddess to control them and give them the pain and pleasure they crave. They in turn support me with friendship, services and finances. They are dear to me, and I care deeply about each and every one of them. They’ve given me everything you see here, and more.”

“Oh. But . . . I’m confused. You love all those people? Intimately?” Sara asked. “As in . . . sex?”

“Most of them aren’t seeking sex. They come to me for the stimulation, the loss of inhibitions. Out of that group I once in a very great while take lovers, and in THOSE relationships, there is no compensation but mutual devotion,” Lady Heather finished, still looking at James. Sara felt her face flush again, but Lady Heather laughed ruefully.

“Complicated, isn’t it? Suffice to say I am NOT a prostitute; rather, I am a professional creator of dark fantasies. And on that note—“ she lead the way to the door once again, “We move on to the cyber chat rooms.”

They walked along a side corridor and Lady Heather pushed open a tinted glass door, revealing what looked like a television monitor room. Dozens of screens were embedded into a wall, and three people were in separate control booths, speaking quietly into microphones. Sara felt her cheeks redden a bit at some of the salacious activities on the monitors, and noted that even James was averting his eyes. Lady Heather lifted her eyebrows and led the way around the room. “As the quote goes ‘Infinite diversity in infinite combinations.’ This is the fastest growing aspect of the Dominion, and certainly one of our best moneymakers but it lacks the personal touch. Come—“

She led them out again, and along another corridor, this time to a large room at the end. Lady Heather stopped at the door and gestured to a spy hole in it. Sara realized it was the same sort she had on her own front door, but this one was reversed, allowing a view of the room. Here, in what had been servant’s quarters of the old mansion, two bedecked French Maids were lacing a heavyset man with a crew cut into a corset, tugging the strings of it tightly while taunting him with feather dusters. The man looked slightly red but thrilled.

“That’s um . . . different.”

“Forced feminization. Very popular with certain men since it combines humiliation with cross-dressing. I’ve found it’s a fetish that’s easy to accommodate, and builds a repeat business. Cleo and Jane are not only specialists in it; they’re actually very fond of their clients.”

Sara tried to picture lacing Grissom up in a corset and serious giggles threatened to leak out at the absurd idea. She could picture him scowling, utterly UNthrilled at a lacy black bustier around his broad chest. Catching a glimpse of her face, Lady Heather smirked, and Sara got the impression that she too, had thought of Grissom in lingerie.

“Not for . . . everyone,” Sara murmured, desperately trying to maintain a straight face. She looked at James, who was biting his lips. She blinked. He gave a little shrug.

“Well--not by choice,” he replied in a low voice. Lady Heather brought a finger to his lips warningly.

“Hush, my toy. No secrets out of school.” Her tone was sweet, and in it Sara heard deep affection. James was instantly quiet, his brown eyes bright. Lady Heather let her fingertip stroke his lips, then pulled back and gestured to Sara to follow her further down the hallway.

They reached a corner room, and before they did Sara heard low gasps coming from behind the closed mosaic inlay door in front of them. She recognized the pitch as that of a woman, but the sounds weren’t quite those of pain, and that alone made Sara squirm a bit. Lady Heather cocked her head and a little smile played about her lips.

“The first of our three whipping chambers. The décor is different for each, depending on the client’s fantasy. This one is the Sultan’s Bedroom—geared for submissives with romantic inclinations.”

Lady Heather made no move to look in the peek hole this time. Instead, she pressed a buzzer button set on the wall and a moment later the door opened to reveal a gorgeous monolith of a man, sleekly muscled and dark, his mouth lush and full.

“My Lady,” came his low rumble of a voice.

“Ezra. How goes it with Miss Winnie tonight?” Lady Heather asked gently. Sara looked into the candle-lit room, noting the rich Byzantine theme in the Moroccan furniture and carpets of burgundy, gold and beetle green. A woman was securely strapped over a plush ottoman, her bare rump exposed and gleaming while her long lace petticoats lay pulled up over her back. Ezra smiled, his dark eyes holding a glint of amusement.

“Extremely well. We have moved from the flogger to the first cane, and I am aroused by her fiery spirit. Once she has learned her lesson we will rub her poor afflicted bottom with almond oil and caress the red welts lovingly,” he purred loudly, letting his voice carry. Across the room the woman squirmed, making a sound somewhere between a sob and a gasp. Sara shifted, feeling a pang of empathy; she looked away, not wanting anyone to see her expression.

Spanking. A kink she’d laughed at in others only to fall under the tantalizing ritual of it herself. Sara fought to keep still, to stop her thighs from clenching in quick sweet memory as she flashed through recollections of Grissom’s masterful talent in the art of reddening her cheeks.

First his hand; big and broad, spreading the sting over the greater swell of her rump, the heat and hardness enough to bring that lovely pang of sharp, hungry lust between her thighs before he took her, hard and deep or slow and lingeringly. The burn and throb along her ass afterwards, sensual reminders that lingered for an hour or two afterwards. The little discomfort the next day; reminders that left her smiling to herself through her investigations.

Sara remembered the night Sir had refused to spank her by hand; the first night and how she’d grown furious, behaving more and more badly in an attempt to seduce him into it. He’d watched her grow petulant, and finally cuffed her to the banister of the stairs in the townhouse before making his announcement.

“Choose, Zara, my sulky pet—spank you with a toy, or leave you to fret. I have books to read and files to write—it’s no hardship for me to keep your beautiful naked self chained and waiting right here in plain sight.”

How she’d spluttered at his infuriatingly calm tone, only to later feel the hot smack of the chosen spatula across her backside, the sting so very different from Sir’s hand. He used it softly, but still the intensity concentrated in just the right places had left her breathless and trembling, her need swelling in a throbbing ache demanding 
release . . .

“I said, Miss Zara, if you will come this way?” Lady Heather repeated politely, breaking into her reverie. Sara blinked, feeling acute embarrassment, but the door to the room was closed and James was waiting for her to follow Lady Heather. Sara did, running her fingers over the cuff on her right wrist, appreciating the coolness of the gold metal.

*** *** ***

Grissom looked up over the rise of the desert and watched the morgue station wagon roll away, carrying off the victim. The crime scene was minor; a hit and run with one fatality, and in truth he could have sent Greg to do it, but tonight Grissom needed the solitude.

Vartan snapped closed his notebook and shot him a tired look. “Not much left to process here, huh?”

“No. You and the officers can go on ahead. I’ll be along shortly,” Grissom reassured him. With a nod, Vartan walked off, and within a few minutes the section of highway was deserted once more, the air still and cooling, filled with the scents of asphalt and sun baked dirt.

Grissom looked up in to the night sky. The distant glow of Las Vegas made it hard to see any but the brightest of the stars; nevertheless, the sight of them gave him a sense of peace. He’d always liked the night sky; it was one of the factors he appreciated about having the shift that he did. Carefully he leaned against the Denali and took a moment just to keep his gaze upward as he allowed himself to let his mind wander.

Sara. Sara was in the Dominion right now. Doing what, he didn’t know, but his imagination nudged him, and Grissom let it indulge him with a few lovely, dark fantasies of his pet in her new playground. Lady Heather undressing her; redressing her—Grissom’s nostrils flared. Lady Heather had a dark and exotic sense of costume, and might easily put Sara in anything from tight glossy latex that clung like a second skin to the tiny scraps of a fur bikini.

The mental vision of Sara wandering around the Dominion in a tiny tiger skin bikini made a low sigh leak out of Grissom; he let his mind’s eye wander up her long muscled bare legs, her firm rounded fanny barely covered by the black stripes on the cream and ochre fur . . .

Damn it, he was hard. Grissom gritted his teeth, frustrated and amused at himself even as one palm skimmed down the inseam of his jeans. He was a grown man, far past the seamy daydreams of a teenager, and yet sweetly salacious thoughts of Sara did this to him. He closed his eyes and the picture shifted a bit. Sara still wore tiger skin, but it was a low-cut bustier now, paired with her black leather pants and high-heeled boots. And sunglasses.

Dear God—Grissom bit back a smile at his ferocious little kitten. Sara striding across a parking lot in that getup, Sara planting one spiky heeled foot on Ecklie’s chest and shoving him down until he groveled. Sara wrapping the leather coil of a whip around Hodges’ neck, whispering filthy things to him while he hyperventilated and spontaneously ejaculated. Sara cuffing Catherine to Warrick and Nick; Sara flashing Greg--

Sara stalking through the halls of the crime lab looking for him.

Ohhhhhh . . . . Grissom groaned aloud, then straightened up, feeling flushed and sheepish. Despite the ludicrous, wild elements of his imaginings, the last part, the very picture of Sara stalking him sent hot uncontrollable pangs flashing low between his hips. Urgent pangs; undeniable pangs. He ran his palm against the heavy ridge of his erection straining against his jeans, squeezing it enough to feel it throb pleasurably. Grissom hesitated, then glanced around, seeing only empty desert before him. He undid his fly and fumbled with his boxers.

The air was cool on his bare skin, and he hunched his shoulders a bit, feeling both foolish and achingly horny. Even as Grissom wrapped his fingers around his turgid flesh, finding the familiar grip, easing his heavy cock into it, he closed his eyes and brought back the heated image of Sara.

Yes, oh yes. Sara stalking him. The lab nearly empty; no one seeing her move in her long lanky stride, those wicked boots echoing along the linoleum, her eyes hidden behind her sunglasses. God, the sway of her hips—having already seen them encased in her leather pants, Grissom knew how gorgeous a sight they were. His grip on his cock tightened instinctively, and he dropped his other hand to cradle his balls, caressing them gently.

Sara his tigress, striding into his office, lightly kicking the door closed behind her. Locking it. Turning those dark sunglasses to him, her smile cold even as her hot red lipstick gleams.

//I think we need to talk, Gil darling. Get over here.//

Feeling trapped, loving the surge of adrenaline and lust rising up as she taps her foot impatiently, moving from behind the desk and trying hard to keep control.

//We need to talk?// bluffing, striving for nonchalance. Sara rolling her hips lazily, her tongue flicking out.

//On your knees.// Her voice calm but full of heat, full of promise. //Right where you love to be, Doctor Grissom.//

The undeniability of that. Yes. Grissom stroked himself roughly, feeling urgent now. On his knees for Sara, feeling her hands on his hair, sometimes petting it, sometimes pulling it hard. Her gap-toothed smile knowing and sure.

//Why are you fighting it? You want it so much, Gil. You’re fucking HARD for it. Give in to me. I could be very, very nice to you--// Her words like hot fudge, low and sweet and nasty, egging him on, making him throb. Grissom cupped his balls harder, feeling them tighten. This was going to be good---

//I’m not that way.// Denial of course. Can’t give in too easily, not after years of topping, years of bending pliant feminine flesh to his own will. Feeling Sara’s hands pull his face to her leather-covered thigh as she makes him rest his cheek on it. So close to her fly.

//You LIE, Gil. You want it. You want to be under me, you want me to tie you down so much you’re leaking for it right now. You’d give ANYTHING for me to cuff you to a bed and suuuuuuck you off slow, letting you fight me while I leave pretty red lipstick all over your big dick---// she croons and—

--Ohhhh, fuuuuck, ohhhhhhh, imagining her voice, her hot pussy scent mingled with leather so close to his mouth, Grissom stroked himself savagely, hips thrusting forward until a few seconds later the hot spray of his cum jetted out, spattering onto the hard-packed dirt in thick pearly ropes. He grunted, lost in the pleasure of fantasy, eyes closed, expression tight and drawn. Milking the last of his orgasm, Grissom drew in a deep shaky breath, and slid his slick fingers off the end of his still firm cock, wiping the final drops off and flicking them away.

Damn it. The hypocrisy and hope twined around his brain like a crown of thorns. Having Sara one way while wanting her another—and not having the courage to face the truth of that.

Yet.

The very crux of the matter. Grissom fished out a tissue from his pocket and cleaned himself, wiping his hands and balling the damp Kleenex up in one big fist. He stared at the dark traces of his semen now soaking into the desert dirt, dimly admiring the way nature let no moisture go to waste here, and looked up into the night sky once again. His body relaxed, blindly happy in the quick release of orgasm, but Grissom’s thoughts remained troubled, and the image of Sara with her knowing smile on red, red lips haunted him for long, lingering minutes.

*** *** ***

The tour had ended in the basement of the Dominion, and Sara had to admit she was impressed; not only by the layout of the entire fetish fortress but also by the cleanliness and efficiency. The basement was a low-ceilinged room with track lighting, stone pillars and plush leopard carpeting, almost as large at the ballroom one floor above it. Sara watched as Lady Heather pointed out a few pieces of equipment to her, pride in her tone evident. “I’ve used the basement as a sort of multipurpose room for a the last few years—given demonstrations, held our CPR and First Aid classes here, used it as a training facility for new employees. Most of the recreational furniture is the very latest in comfort and safety.”

“CPR?” Sara asked. Lady Heather nodded, accepting a glass of ice water from James. Sara did as well, murmuring her thanks.

“Oh yes. All my employees are required to have certification in CPR and First Aid, and each playroom upstairs has emergency equipment in it. I play safely in my own house, Miss Zara. James darling, I need you to pull out a pommel, a cuff chair and a standard bondage kit if you please.”

“My lady,” he murmured, retrieving the requested equipment within a few moments. Sara noted that the pommel horse was a lovely leather one, on wheels that could lock. The cuff chair was a ladder back variety with no arms in a rich cherry wood varnish. James also brought over a small folding table and set a steel attaché case on top of it. He flicked the two clasps up and opened the case.

Sara looked in. Rope. Two pairs of leather cuffs. A selection of scarves. Bungee cords, and what looked like corkscrews---

“And now, lesson one in bondage,” Lady Heather intoned gently. “Trust. James?”

“My lady,” he bowed his head, hands held behind his back. Sara could see a feverish glitter to his dark brown eyes, a tension to his rangy shoulders under his black shirt. Lady Heather cupped his chin in one hand.

“May I use you to teach Miss Zara bondage?” Lady Heather asked in a soft, serious voice. “You have the right to say no.”

“I . . . would be honored to be so used,” James replied in an equally serious voice. “I trust you, my mistress.”

“Thank you,” Lady Heather told him, her blue eyes bright.

Turning to Sara she added, “Let us begin.” Lady Heather reached into the attaché and pulled out two segments of rope. It was a thin cotton rope, unbleached and soft, with tied ends to keep it from unraveling. Lady Heather held her segment up. “Simple cotton—it doesn’t abrade, it doesn’t cut into the skin, it’s easily cut if needed and washable. James, your wrists, please---“

He held out his two fists facing each other, and Lady Heather looped the rope around them three times. Instead of pulling on the rope ends and drawing his hands together, she instead looped the rest of the rope between James’ hands, tying the rope bands between his wrists and knotted the ends on the inside, towards his wrists. Sara watched, impressed.

“So you sort of made rope handcuffs instead of just tying his hands palm to palm because he could probably wiggle out of them. And the knot?”

“Square knot easily loosened if needed. I put the knot closer to his palms rather than his fingers so he isn’t tempted to try and untie it.” Lady Heather tugged the knot herself and undid James within seconds. “Your turn, Miss Zara.”

Sara looped and tied, pulling gently. When she tied off the knot, James cleared his throat reluctantly. Sara looked at him. “Oops, too tight?”

“Um . . .” he twisted his right wrist and easily slid it free, waving his fingers at her. Sara scowled, and Lady Heather fought a smile.

“Cotton rope has some degree of give—you’ll need to work a bit more with it to fine tune how tightly or loosely to tie it. Let us move on to ankles and feet . . .

After half an hour, Sara had a new appreciation for the ease with which Lady Heather worked, and much more respect for Grissom. Clearly there was an art to bondage that she hadn’t known prior to this. James made it fun though, helpfully letting her know what was too loose or too tight. They’d progressed through behind the back ties, elbow to wrist ties, wrist to thigh and wrists to shoulders, all through James’ patient good-humor. Finally Lady Heather pulled out a twelve-foot segment of rope and looked thoughtfully at him, cocking her head for a moment.

“Are you up for . . . a diamond wrap, my darling?”

The effect of her words startled Sara; James widened his eyes and his nostrils flared, he fought a shiver. Carefully he lowered his head and took a breath.

“A full . . . diamond?” he whispered. Lady Heather nodded, waiting for his answer. Sara felt the embarrassed eagerness rising off of James and in a flash of intuition realized that this was something personally meaningful for him, something arousing and intimate. She tried to speak up, but James spoke first, his voice stronger. “As—as my mistress wishes.”

“Darling James—“ Lady Heather murmured. She held the rope in her hand, waiting. Sara looked from her to her slave, and realized he was unbuttoning his shirt. Lady Heather spoke again. “A full diamond is a lovely bondage wrap that immobilizes the arms and ties them to the submissive’s sides. It makes a lovely diamond pattern that looks best on bare skin. Very erotic and sensual for the bound one.”

James had taken his black shirt off and was now undoing his pants, stepping out of them with a little embarrassment, but without protest, carefully draping his clothing on the back of the cuff chair. He stood in his briefs, a lanky and fine-boned, his bare chest lightly furred, his stomach taut and flat. Sara couldn’t quite meet his eyes now, all too aware of his semi-nudity. Lady Heather smiled.

“And so—we tie a small loop in the middle of the rope and center that to hang down at the back of his neck. Now we bring the long ends around, knot them once, and let them hang down in front, like a necktie . . . “ she made her actions follow her words, bringing the rope to dangle between James’ nipples. “And at intervals we tie knots in the two ropes . . . bring the rest of the two ends down between his legs and up the back . . . now we part the ropes and weave them back to the front, looping the ends into the segments between the knots in the front. We are pinning his arms down and see? The ropes are pulling into diamonds across his chest. Bring the ends up through that little loop at the back of his neck and tie them off . . . Voila. My lovely James is now in a full diamond, completely at my mercy, aren’t you my lovely man?”

The effect was impressive; James stood bound in the crisscross of cotton rope, his face flushed, and Sara noted the sheen of arousal on his skin, the strain of his erection against his briefs. She reddened a bit. Lady Heather carefully guided James into the cuff chair, making him sit. She ran one palm over his high cheekbone. “Sit and wait, my darling. Miss Zara and I will be back in a moment.”

So saying, Lady Heather motioned for Sara to follow her up the stairs of the basement until they’d reached the foyer once more. She sighed, and moved to a low table with a vase of red roses on it. Lady Heather carefully selected one, pulling it free and sniffing it thoughtfully.

“Miss Zara, tell me—would you rather be in a full diamond, or put your Sir into one?”

Sara paused, feeling herself on tricky ground now. Carefully, she crossed her arms in front of her chest and waited a moment before answering. “I don’t know. I haven’t really thought about it.”

“Take a moment then, and consider now which side of the rope you want to be on. I will wait.”

The pause that filled the foyer was long and dark; Sara glanced briefly at the basement door, feeling a pang for James, then closed her eyes and thought.

A diamond against her bare skin. Soft cotton ropes holding her, tying her. Sir’s hands skimming over her flesh, his mouth nipping her chest, stroking her bottom. Nice. Achingly nice.

A diamond against Grissom’s bare skin. Sara could see that more clearly. Yes. Soft cotton ropes holding him, tying him. Her hands skimming over his flesh, her mouth nipping his chest, stroking his bottom. Not nice. Powerful. Heat and lust and so very, very, much power.

Sara trembled. When she opened her eyes, Lady Heather nodded. Very carefully she took the rose and pulled the head off of it, until only the green branch with its spiky thorns remained. Lady Heather dropped the petals back into the vase and sighed, fingering the stem thoughtfully as she made her way to the basement door.

“We will meet again in an hour; James will come for you. I suggest you take this time to practice your knots and think carefully about your beloved. You are dismissed.”