The woman finished her preparations and admired her image in the huge wall mirror. Although her chamber was dim she was pleased with what she saw. Tall and statuesque, waist very small, breasts unsupported above the black leather basque, full and upturned. Each nipple, large and dark, was pierced and adorned by a polished iron ring. Her nails, long and exquisitely manicured, smoothed the taut suspenders down her thighs. The darker triangle, just visible through thin nylon briefs, appeared as a centre piece, a focal point, framed amidst the black of stocking tops, suspender straps and basque. Her high stiletto heels were also black.

The woman smiled at her reflection, head held high, arrogantly, haughtily. Her skin was coffee coloured, her mane of thick raven hair was held back by one silver clasp. It hung almost to her buttocks, but not quite. In no way would she permit such obscuring of her bottom - she knew it was superb; a priceless asset in her dealings with the opposite sex. She pondered a moment before fastening a broad, studded choker round her neck. Then she stood: hand on hips, legs slightly parted, breasts jutting forward, full red lips curled in an expression of contempt, dark eyes flashing below sloping eyebrows. She was good. She was the epitome of the dominant female.

The woman was happy. Indeed, excited. She experienced a warm internal glow as she thought of the power she wielded. She was in her chamber, about to take control of a male. She would beat him, torment him. He would grovel, and be her slave. She did not dominate JUST for money; she enjoyed every moment! The adulation of the victim, the arousal as he was debased. She never desired their bodies, though, not even the virile ones. She had her own methods of achieving satisfaction. Rhia, her maid, was one. The woman smiled at the thought as she pressed a small buzzer on the chamber wall.

She was twenty five years old and known to slaves only as Madam Q.