8:40 P.M.

 
"I can't wear this." Scully announced, stunned by her appearance in the mirror of the FBI bathroom. Grace set her lips in a tight line and came up behind the other woman.

Dana Scully was a dream in a tight, low-cut forest green velvet dress with tiny black leather bows on the thin shoulderstraps. Matching bows trailed down the back. She wore long fingerless black lace gloves on her creamy arms, with matching black lace stockings on her legs. The high heels gave her a bit more heighth and the bows on the backs of the heels completed the outfit.

"Why not? You look molto elegante. That shade of green does wonders with the red hair--Mulder will love it." It was the wrong thing to say; Scully spun around sharply.

"I look like a--"

"--beautiful harem girl. Just like you're supposed to." Grace was rapidly losing her patience. "Give me a break, Dana. The one night you can have some fun completely blowing your partner's mind and you balk--what's the problem? Is there anything wrong with flaunting a little once in a while?"

"We are government employees and professionals--not cast members from some soap opera." Scully grumbled. "I just feel it goes against my--"

"--Catholic upbringing?" Grace interrupted through her mascara application.

"--I was going to say my sensibilities, but yes, I suppose there's that as well."

"Hmmmm. I don't seem to have a problem with it."

"Grace, Damien's gay--it's not quite the same."

"Dana--" Grace cocked her head and looked, really looked at the other woman. "Be honest. Isn't the reason you're having cold feet grounded in the thought that this might be something you have wanted to do with Fox? Act out a little? Be people you could never be in the real world?"

Scully didn't reply right away, and when she finally did, her voice was very soft, very low. "Possibly."

"There you have it. Tonight's a game, a charade. No Dana sitting in the cinders, okay? You will be the most incredible, sexy sultry thing there-- Fox Mulder is a big boy, but every now and then he needs to be reminded that you're not just a partner. Here." Grace fastened a black satin choker with a tiny gold cameo around Scully's throat.

"ID?" Scully asked, looking at the tiny cameo in the mirror. An anchor, she realized. "You betcha. It co-ordinates with Mulder's lapel pin. I bought these at an estate sale in Maryland. The grieving seventy-year-old widow was unloading her Admiral husband's stuff. She had no idea what they were--with them, Damien and I get in free."

"How will you get in tonight?" Scully asked, studying herself one last time in the mirror. Grace smiled, and wrapped a cameo-less velvet band on her own throat. "Sort of a guest pass. It means I'll get a master on the premises--"

"Isn't that dangerous? I mean if some lunatic comes up and demands that you--"

"There are lots of ways to get rid of them. I've hawked phlegm on their shoes. Once I even managed to pick my nose and pretend to eat it to discourage a guy--"

"Ugggh! Grace--don't tell me these things," Scully pressed the lacy palms of her hands to her eyes. "I want to go, get the disc back, and then come home to a warm cup of cocoa and a Carl Hiaasen novel."

"Well at least you don't have to wear--" Grace described her outfit for Scully.

Dana winced, shook her head and reached for their trenchcoats. Grace picked up the shopping bag at her feet.

9:10 P.M.
 

"Hubba hubba!" Grace murmured as Mulder pushed himself away from leaning on her BMW. Even Scully managed an approving smile. Mulder raised his arms and turned around for them, slowly.

"GQ--the Dominator edition." he tossed over his shoulder. Grace nodded handing him the keys to her car. Under a camel hair overcoat, Mulder wore a dark wool suit of charcoal with a collarless white shirt. The small anchor pin gleamed on the right lapel. Black leather driving gloves covered his long hands, his dark hair was lightly spiked with gel, and he wore serious, studious, slightly tinted wire rimmed glasses on his face. Leather ankle boots completed the outfit.

"You look like a junior Doctor Strangelove." Scully commented. Mulder opened the car door for her, smiling benignly.

"Strangelove is probably the right word for it. If I start speaking with a German accent, hit me." He climbed in behind the wheel and they drove out of the parking garage into the busy traffic of D.C. On the way to the Lone Gunmen, they discussed the layout of and protocol for Maison Noir. Scully still muttered under her breath rebelliously until Grace pointed out,

"Dana--anything suspicious, anything that draws the attention of the staff could be dangerous for all of us. You cannot be your fiery independent self."

"Alright." The other woman muttered in an I'll-do-it-but-I-won't-like-it tone of voice. Grace turned her attention to Mulder.

"After I get the disc and list from your friends, I'll catch a cab home and change. You two go on the Maison Noire. Better think of some pseudonyms for yourselves. Something unique."

"Like--?"

"Well, Damien and I called ourselves Sunnyside and Casket."

"After the magazine?" Mulder asked, surprised.

"Both of our dads were funeral directors--it seemed to fit. You two have to find ones for yourselves." They drove in silence for a moment. Scully sighed.

"Smith and Jones?"

"Scul-ly! We could be a bit more daring than that. I could always call myself, oh, Van Blundht."

"Sure, and I'll be Bambi."

"Low blow." Mulder shook his head. Grace ignored them.

"You started it. How about Marty and Ginger?"

"Ginger? You mean you'd cater to my Gilligan's Island fantasy?" He teased. Scully closed her eyes.

"No. But Ginger is a hell of a lot better than Red or Cherry. So shut up."

Grace clutched her shopping bag and checked her watch. 

10:11 P.M.
 

"Nice outfit--going to a mad scientist convention?" Frohike muttered as Mulder pushed past him. Grace and Scully followed, moving over to Byers and Langley, who held out a sheaf of papers and the disc.

"Here it is--but you're not going to like it." Langley muttered, pushing up his glasses by jabbing a finger between his eyes. "Most are mail drops, and the ones that aren't have diplomatic immunity."

"I figured as much." Grace replied, taking the proffered papers and pocketing the disc. She scanned the list briefly. "But it's a start. You guys are great--thank you." The unexpected warmth of her praised startled them; all three fell into an embarrassed silence. Grace fished in the shopping bag and shoved packages into each of their hands. Quickly she turned back to Mulder and Scully. "Gotta get moving."

"Ready Ginger?"

"As I'll every be, Marty."

They left. "What the hell was that all about?" Frohike wondered outloud.

"Hey!" Byers opened his package with a pleased smile. "Homemade fudge." He nibbled a piece.

Langley tore his open. "Oh man! A Cathy and the Catheters shirt! Totally cool!!"

Frohike unrolled his.

"Playboy, nineteen eighty two." He flipped it open to the centerfold. He blinked.

Langley and Byers flanked around him.

"It's--her." he breathed, almost reverently. "Ms. Pachelli."

No one said anything for a long moment. Finally--

"She's got really pretty eyes."

Langley and Frohike turned to stare at Byers. 

10:46 P.M.
 

The long drive leading up to the mansion was lined with Italian cypress trees that reached up fifteen feet or more to the dark sky. Mulder slowed the car down as they approached the circular driveway at the front of the house.

"Bienvenu a la Maison Noir."

"Aptly named. Do you see what I see?" Scully pointed up ahead. Two girls in burgundy skirts were valet parking the cars. Not unusual, except that the outfits were topless.

"How could I miss it?" He replied. "Sure you're going to be okay, Scully?" He looked at his partner and even in the darkness she could see the quiet concern in his eyes. She flushed, half in irritation, half in gratitude.

"Look at it this way--if I had to pick a master, I suppose it would be you." She admitted, grudgingly. Softly.

"Scully I'm touched. And intrigued. If you do windows, we could extend this engagement indefinitely."

"Mulder--" Whatever rebuke she was about to make was cut short by the driver side door opening.

"Master, we live to serve. May we move this car for you?" begged one of the girls standing there. Mulder took a deep breath, nodded with as much dignity as he could, and got out. Scully did as well and stood waiting for Mulder to give her the first order.

"Ginger--heel." he managed with a straight face. Scully fell in on his left side, her shoulders heaving slightly, but whether she was laughing or fuming was impossible to tell. Mulder led the way up the stone steps to the brightly lit entrance of the mansion. Strains of instrumental jazz drifted out into the night, flowing around them.

"Into the breech--?" Mulder whispered softly. Scully gave a quick smile. The doorman glanced at Mulder's lapel pin and sharply nodded.

"We're honored to have a founding father represented tonight, sir." The man told him in a respectful tone. Mulder inclined his head slightly. The doorman held the door for both of them as they stepped inside the building. Once inside the foyer, they looked around.

To the left was a hatcheck room manned by another topless girl in a burgundy skirt. She waited. Scully waited. Mulder waited. Scully finally realized that she was expected to remove Mulder's overcoat, and jumped quickly to do so. Mulder allowed himself to be helped out of the greatcoat, not even looking at Scully while she handed both coats to the hatcheck girl and received the ticket.

"Ginger--" he purred over one shoulder, Scully brought herself back to his left side, trying to ignore her burning desire to kick him in the shins. He crossed the anteroom to the glass and bronze Art Nouveau double doors on the far side and waited. Scully came forward and tugged on one of the heavy doors. It didn't move.

"Master--" she muttered sulkily. Mulder shot out a hand and gripped her chin, forcing her to look up at him. Behind the smoky lenses, she saw a flare of impatience. Immediately she dropped her eyes to avoid the rebuke that would be coming.

"Sorry."

"Take a look over there."

With his hand, he turned her head to the right. She bit back a gasp.

There was a little, well-lit alcove next to the double doors. Above it, a scrolled sign announced: I HAVE BEEN DISOBEDIENT. PLEASE REPRIMAND ME. In the alcove itself, a gagged, naked girl in high heels was bent in half, her wrists cuffed to her ankles with gleaming silver shackles. A wooden paddle hung on a hook under the sign.

Mulder slowly walked over and picked up the paddle.

He handed it to Scully. 

She hesitated, looking at him. He nodded.

Scully bit her lip, and swung the paddle at the girl's rump. It was a weak strike, but still made the girl grunt against her gag. Flinching, Scully dropped the paddle, which clattered on the tiled floor.

"Pick it up and replace it." Mulder's voice came out in a silky whisper. With nerveless fingers, Scully did. He turned back to the double doors, pausing. For a moment, she studied him: so tall, so imposing behind his glasses--

She scurried to the door, and adrenaline gave her the strength to tug it open. Mulder sailed through first with his slave following in his wake.

The main salon of Maison Noir was a huge room, with four supporting pillars framing a skylight above. Underfoot was a parquet floor of polished wood with inlays of green marble forming patterns of leaves. Enormous potted ferns hung in baskets from the pillars, and on the opposite side of the room, a six foot tall fireplace of green marble housed a cheery blaze.

Scattered about the room were deep club chairs and ottomans upholstered, some in rich ruby leather and some in green and black brocade. Thick oriental carpets under the chairs protected the floor from scratches. Against the right wall, a bar of mahogany carved with intricate Art Nouveau designs stood. Set flush against the left wall, a grand staircase with a green and black balustrade rose from under the floor and up to a second story.

Mulder and Scully stood for a moment, taking it all in. Mulder sighed.

"I'll find a seat, you get the drinks." he directed, pulling off his leather driving gloves and scouting around. Scully pursed her mouth, asking,

"Well what do you want? Beer? Wine? Imported water?"

"Actually--" he glanced down at her and his lazy smile made her stomach flip flop. "A root beer float would be perfect."

"Are you out of your mind? Who would come to a place like this and order--"

"--Anyone who considers a root beer float part of a true fantasy fulfillment. Fetch, Ginger."

"Grrrr." she strode off towards the bar, leaving him to admire her determined back view. Her decidedly sexy walk-- Mulder choked off that thought and went to find a chair. He nodded at people who nodded at him in that familiar don't-know-you-but-acknowledge-you fashion. The room wasn't crowded--only thirty or so were here, not counting the attending slaves. He tried not to stare as he drifted, but it was difficult.

Some of the women were dressed traditionally, in gauzy harem outfits. Others wore sarongs, loincloths or short togas. A few were in truly extraordinary wear: Mulder spotted a meter maid, a Girl Scout, a punk rocker and a nun in the latter group. He casually strode to the left side of the fireplace, finding an empty pair of chairs facing each other. Perfect. If he took the left one, he had a clear view of the front door and the staircase. Mulder sat down and settled in, relaxing into the soft chair.

It was good to be the king.

Scully found herself at the bar waiting behind a small black woman with beautiful hip length dreadlocks. The woman also had on an Egyptian shenti and an elaborate gold collar with the eye of Horus on it.

"Is your master as hot as he looks, honey?" The black woman turned and softly demanded. Scully blinked.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Your master--the one with the specs and spikes? Is he looking for a second slave tonight?"

"Uh--"

"'Cause I would dearly love to ditch the old fart I'm here with. All he does is ramble on about government conspiracies and feel me up a little when he's had a few."

"Oh. Uh--" was all Scully could managed to get out. The other woman gave her a wistful smile and shrugged.

"One on one tonight, huh? Lucky girl. Well, if he gets in the mood for a different set of pyramids, come find me. We'll probably be up in the Voyeurs Hall." She picked up the silver tray with the whiskey sour on it and glided away.

"Right." Scully called out after her. The bartender a tall cadaverous man with an eyepatch and long blonde hair scowled impatiently at her.

"What will your Master have?"

"A root beer float."

"Red cherry or green? Diet or regular root beer? Mug or tall glass? Two spoons or one?" he demanded, even as he began to pull the ingredients together. Scully lifted her chin a little.

"Green cherry, regular root beer, a mug, two spoons and the best damn vanilla ice cream you have." The bartender smiled. 

11:16 P.M.
 

Skinner stepped up to the doorman, meeting the man's steady gaze with one of his own. The card the AD held out glittered, catching and throwing light between them. The usher nodded.

"Sir, welcome. Will property be joining you later or will you be acquiring here?"

"Acquiring here." Skinner rumbled. He strode in, and looked at the hatcheck girl, who straightened up, wet her lips and smiled back.

"Take your coat, Master? " she huskily asked, hinting at how much she'd like to take anything else he'd care to offer. Skinner shook his head. He glanced briefly at the manacled girl in the alcove, checking to see if he recognized those buttocks. Nope.

He grabbed the handle of the bronze and glass door, took a deep breath, and strode in.

The conversation nearest him stopped, and the three men in it glanced at him before returning to the topic of national defense policies. Skinner looked around, more impressed than he cared to admit. He saw the bar, and headed over, trying not to rush, trying not to stare.

"Oohh--" came a soft giggly whisper. He couldn't mistake that teasing tone; Skinner refused to even look at the woman who had breathed it. He kept his eyes on the bar, and when he reached it, ordered,

"Scotch, no ice."

"Absolutely sir." The tall man with the eyepatch replied. The drink materialized, only to be picked up by someone else's delicate hand. Skinner tightened his lips.

"May I serve you?" A tiny girl in the loincloth asked, holding the Scotch up to his mouth. Skinner sipped it without choice, and when the girl moved it away from his mouth he rasped out,

"That's enough."

The girl pouted and Skinner was tempted to wallop her backside. Christ what was she? Eighteen at most?

"Go back to your master, Zenobia, or risk getting beaten." the bartender warned under his breath.

"It would be worth it." Brazenly Zenobia moved closer to Skinner, looking at him through her lashes. "I want a real master, not a tired old man."

"Well your disloyalty has just earned you a trip to the Pain Clinic, girl." muttered the bartender. Seemingly out of nowhere, two burly attendants in Maison Noir uniforms flanked Zenobia. She went pale.

"I live to serve." she whispered hollowly. The attendants escorted her to a doorway further down the wall. Skinner finished his drink in three swallows.

What the hell was he doing here? 

"Has she been with you long?" the old man sitting in the easy chair opposite Mulder asked cheerily.

"A good four years," he replied, carefully avoiding Scully's gaze. She sat on the floor near his feet, the firelight reflecting off her hair. Across from them, an ancient English gentleman with a brushy white walrus moustache sat back in his chair, nearly lost in the seat cushions. His slave, a curvy woman with elegant brows and sweet doe-like eyes sat perched on the arm of the chair, looking fondly at him.

"My Red here has been with me ever since the Profumo affair. Isn't she a darling girl?" the obvious affection between the two was sincere; even Scully smiled. "I bought her from a Swede who had no time to enjoy her. She can't speak a word of English, but we do just fine." The woman blushed a bit.

"A worthy investment." Mulder murmured.

"Indeed. Yours there is quite a beauty. Does she have tawny nipples or pink ones? Most of the redheads I've seen have the tawny ones, but every one and then you find the girl with a difference." The elderly man observed thoughtfully.

Mulder was too stunned by this rapid change of conversation to reply immediately, he shifted in his chair, Scully didn't dare look up at him; he would get no help from her on this one.

"Uh--"

"Can't remember, eh? Well let's have a quick peek and settle the matter. I'm betting on pink, lad. Perky pink for such a beauty." The old man laughed happily without a trace of lechery or malice. There was an expectant pause that neither agent seemed to quite know how to fill. Scully finally looked up to Mulder and purred,

"With your permission--" She shifted in front of him, resting her back against his knees and reached for the leather bows on her shoulders. Mulder could hear her take a deep breath. She tugged the ends and the dress slid down to her waist. In the glow of the firelight she seemed dipped in gold, a bronze haired statue. The old man clapped his hands delightedly.

"Oh how pretty, how extraordinarily pretty! Look Red, not pink, not tawny, sort of a--well I'm not sure what you'd call their color."

Mulder sat very, very still. He could see Scully's bare shoulders, feel the kittenlike bones of her shoulderblades pressed against his knees. Behind his closed lips he was biting his tongue hard enough to draw blood. Scully shifted, rising up on her knees to let the old Englishman inspect her more closely. Mulder crossed his legs and cleared his throat. Her bare back, her delicate spine, the dimples above the cleft of her derriere in view--

"Sort of a dusty rose, a mix of pink and gold and beige. What a lucky man you are to have such a perfect little pet."

"Lucky." Mulder echoed. Scully drew a breath and turned her torso to look back at him, the gold light bathing her as she met his gaze.