The evening before the 9th Annual Symposium included, as always, a cocktail party for Mistresses, Goddesses, and dominant Women to mingle, share some experiences, renew acquaintances, and, of course, flaunt their beauty and power. For there exists, in such Women, a great deal of vanity and pride. In fact, years ago, it became accepted practice for a Mistress to declare Her supremacy over other Mistresses at this event. Such challenges usually led to a sort of battle. Often, choice slaves were used as pawns in such conflicts, since the true measure of a Diva’s power is reflected in Her slave.

So, through time, rules for these conflicts formed. Mistresses were allowed only one slave to accompany Her to the Symposium cocktail party. Only proven Mistresses of great prowess and rank were invited to the party, although the Symposium itself allowed any interested femme to attend. Slaves, of course, had no place in the actual conference. Often, commitments prevented some great Feminists to attend, so a Woman, who declared Herself most supreme, winning in battle, could only hold such title during the convention, and often lost Her crown the following year to the true reigning Mistress who missed the previous seminar.

The cocktail party for the 9th Annual Symposium was held in the Plaza; the incomparable star of New York. The crown jewel of Manhattan’s fabled Fifth Avenue. The reigning Queen from the previous year was Goddess Tiamo Isolda, an exotic dark haired Italian beauty. She had, no doubt spent the day grooming for this night, for not a hair was misplaced. Her cheekbones were set high and proud, enhancing the almond shape of Her sparkling blue eyes. Her full lips wore cherry red lipstick, and a liner of exactly the right shade. When She looked at any male, parting Her lips slightly, She knew his sexual hunger was immediately aroused. She wore a red, Versace dress, which exposed Her flawless, creamy white shoulders, while hugging every curve down to Her toned legs. Her ears, neck, and ankles were adorned with jewels. White satin gloves graced Her hands and forearms. Red heels with 4-inch spikes lifted Her to over six feet. Upon Her finger was a loose steel ring, with a chain leading to the neck of Her slave.

Isolda’s slave was a muscular man, about 200 pounds, dressed, or is it semi-dressed, in a leather thong and various studded leather belts and collars. A large, colorful tattoo on his right arm depicted a Goddess, waving a sword, atop a mighty stallion. His skin had the rough texture of leather, and here and there, scars disclosed his life’s story. His head was shaved bald, and he wore a smirk on his lips that seemed to be permanently fixed there.

Isolda glided to the little stage set near the front of the room. “Stay here, slave,” She angrily said, and proceeded to the front of the stage.

“I am the great and glorious Goddess Tiamo Isolda,” She proclaimed loudly. An immediate hush enveloped the room. Everyone turned and gazed at Her in awe. “I am the most powerful Mistress among You, and demand that everyone, Domina and slave alike, kneel before me. For there is…”


The Voice which stopped Isolda in mid-sentence was not as loud, or as sharp as Isolda’s. It was the velvet Voice of Mistress Marquesa. Emerging from the crowd of Ladies, She stepped toward the stage. Marquesa wore a black, low cut gown, revealing the uncontested beauty of Her cleavage. Her heels were black, as were the leather gloves gracing Her exquisite hands. Around Her neck was a gold chain, with a curious circular pendant. She wore very little makeup, for Her natural radiance and charm required no pretentious enhancement. Unlike Isolda, whose makeup attempted to hide the wrinkles of annoyance, Marquesa’s divine face bore the tiny lines of wisdom, love, laughter, and compassion. This enhanced Her more than any bottled product ever could. Unfortunately, Marquesa had been unable to attend the 8th Annual Symposium, held in Paris last year, at the Hotel Madeleine-Haussmaan.

Marquesa’s slave was no Adonis. Mike was well dressed, and looked like an average, nice guy. There was no leash of chain between them. In fact, the only indication that he was a slave at all was the soft leather collar around his neck. Well, that and the humility he displayed while following Marquesa up the steps to the stage. He stopped beside the other slave, without command, as Marquesa continued toward Her stunned foe.

“You’ve gotta be kidding,” said Isolda. “Do You have any idea how many men have submitted in homage to me? Why, I’ve posed for so many magazines, in so many countries, that My power now exceeds Yours tenfold!”

“Unfortunately, My dear, You’ve weakened Yourself and Your soul with those photographs. I’ll explain this to You tomorrow, when I address the Symposium. But for now, let’s entertain our colleagues. Do You know the rules?” Marquesa spoke so softly that only Isolda should have heard; yet everyone in the great room heard Her as though She were mere inches from their ears.

“Yes. I’m going first, since I intend to win quickly,” said Isolda. She strutted over to Marquesa’s slave. “Remove your shirt, you feeble excuse for a human.”

Marquesa’s slave removed his jacket and shirt. His tanned skin was soft and smooth, like someone who had taken many bubble baths using fine oils and solutions. A small tattoo graced his left arm: the two “M’s” that Marquesa uses on envelopes She mails. Isolda held a leather whip. “Now, kneel before Me,” She commanded. The slave stood, his eyes fixed on Marquesa. Isolda then proceeded to whip and beat him unmercifully, constantly yelling for him to kneel. Some Mistresses in the thong called out as well. The slave, though grimacing in pain at times, continued to stand, gazing at Marquesa. Isolda’s hair was in complete disarray. Perspiration had caused Her makeup to run. Noticing the slave’s gaze, She tried a new tactic.

The sexy Isolda placed Herself between the slave and Marquesa. She began to draw Her fingers across Her breasts, caressing Herself. One hand slid down and curved under Her pubic zone, between Her legs. Slowly, She gently rubbed Herself there. “C’mon, slaveboy, kneel for Me,” She cooed softly. “I’ll reward you beyond your wildest dreams. I’ll be your sex, your pleasure, your feminine prize.”

The slave shrugged his shoulders. His expression became very helpless, very sad. It appeared that he was about to break. Actually, he just felt sorry for this Woman. He smiled suddenly, and, in a joking way, said “Sorry Ma’am. No can do.”

“Times up,” said Mistress Lacinda, the official timekeeper.

Dejected, Isolda walked back over to the center of the stage, past Marquesa. Marquesa turned to face Her. “Well? Your turn,” said Isolda.

Marquesa said nothing, but continued to gaze into the blue eyes of Her adversary. The silence in the room was as if no one was there. For about 2 minutes, the tension remained. The expression on Marquesa’s face was one of total peace and compassion, yet the glimmer in Her enchanting emerald eyes was of absolute focus. Then, slowly, behind Her, the large slave of Mistress Tiamo Isolda began to drop to his knees. In fact, he continued down until his forehead touched the floor. Isolda’s eyes widened in disbelief. Even as She wondered how this could be, She felt Her own knees begin to weaken. Her face became helpless in fear as She dropped in submission to Marquesa. “Forgive me, Goddess,” She whispered.

Marquesa smiled and took Isolda’s hand. “Just apologize to Me for the beating You gave to My little slaveboy, and we’ll forget the whole thing.”

It is an unusual sound to hear applause from so many gloved hands, but that was the noise, which followed. “Reminds Me of the 1999 Symposium,” said Mistress Anita to Mistress White Dove. “She did the same thing to Me back then.”