As Mistress Maxine strolled along, she breathed deeply, taking in the warm, summer air. It had, indeed, been a very pleasurable stroll; idyllic. But
suddenly, as she inhaled, she was aware that all was not as it should have been. Amongst the sweet smell of honeysuckle and hay, came the hint of a familiar, unpleasant odour. Stopping in her tracks, she tilted back her head and tossed her mane of silky black hair. "Somewhere... Somewhere here," she muttered to herself with a scowl on her face. Snapping the twigs under her feet, Mistress Maxine strode boldly into the hedgerow, her gorgeous, dark eyes scanning for the offending object.
Crouched behind the leaves and branches, the hapless male stared out. He was sure that the Lady would hear his heart pounding. Her boots moved ever- closer and he shrunk down into the dirt, wishing that he could disappear. He had heard horrifying stories of unspeakable cruelties carried out by Ladies on runaways.
The scent of this fine, tall Lady was beginning to have an effect upon him. His grubby trunks began to swell. The close proximity of those tall, shiny boots made him lick his lips.
He was a trained bootlicker; a job from which he received a great deal of pleasure. It was a pure accident that he had fallen from the open boot of his Mistresses car. But he had always been a good, loyal enthusiastic slave for Victoria. And now, he was a common runaway.
An overwhelming desire to sneeze came over him. It was hay fever. Although there were cures, they were not available to males. "Tishoo!"
"Aha," snarled Mistress Maxine, "What have we here? A runaway!"
"Nnno, Mistress, I was in the boot of my - "
Whap! She smacked him hard across the face. "Silence!" Click! He had been cuffed by the collar.
"Get out of there!" Mistress Maxine dragged on the cuffs and yanked the grovelling male front his hide.
"If there's one thing I hate, it's miserable, ungrateful runaways."
"Yes, Miss. But - "
Whap! Another slap around the face. "Insolence!"
She pulled the male by his neck down the long, sharp gravelled lane which led to her weekend cottage.
Soon his knees were torn and bleeding, and he made subdued whimpering noises. "Shut the fuck up!" Boot! "Aaaagh!" The toe of her pointed boot caught him perfectly in the mouth. He choked and spat two teeth onto the gravel.
He instinctively tried to put his hands up to feel the damage. But his instincts were denied. "Move your arse! Worm!" Mistress Maxine yelled. And wrenched the lead with all her might, causing him to fall flat on his face. He scrabbled with his fingers through the dirt and picked up his detached incisors, fearing that his looks and his ability to eat properly again would be lost, along with his occupation as a bootlicker. What Lady would be seen dead having her boots cleaned by a toothless Ticker?
"What the fuck are you doing?" shrieked Mistress Maxine. And with that, she snatched the teeth and threw them as far away as possible
Mistress Maxine strutted up and down the stone floor of her cottage, waiting for her telephone call to be received. Finally there was a reply. "Hello. Lady Victoria's residence."
"Victoria. Now!" commanded Mistress Maxine to the slave who answered the phone.
"Lady Victoria is presently - ".
"Don't answer me back! If I have to come over there...!" she threatened.
A few moments later, "Victoria," came the voice at the end of the line.
"Hello. We don't know one another. My name is Maxine DeBillier. I have a runaway slave locked in my barn. The brand mark in the directory is yours. Do you have - ?"
"I'll be right over. What's your address?"
Victoria's bright red coupe hammered along the driveway in a cloud of dust and screeched to a halt by the cottage. Victoria, resplendent in ultra- mini skirt, stockings and suspenders, threw open the car door and jumped out. Mistress Maxine approached from the cottage to greet her. Introductions complete, the pair idly chatted about their attire, their favourite clothing stores, bootiers etc. "Where is he?" asked Victoria.
"In the barn. I've got him shackled. I haven't fed or watered him."
"Good."
"I don't think he's very hungry," said Mistress maxine with a wicked smile and a raised eyebrow.
As the barn door opened, the runaway groaned and tried to say something.
"He started blithering, so I stuck a tongue bit in his mouth, reported Mistress Maxine.
"Hmmm," observed Victoria, "seems to have lost a couple of teeth."
"Oh yeah. A bit of an accident with the toe of my boot."

"Horses just happen to be lazy animals", the arrogant black haired girl told the elderly couple who had questioned her, sitting high up in the saddle.
"But that is no reason for beating and torturing the poor animal so terribly, young lady!" the appalled hiker retorted, and looked pleadingly at her husband who was literally fuming with anger and pity for the poor horse.
"Will you just leave me in peace, this is my horse and I can treat it whichever way I want" the girl shouted fiercely and raised her hand in order to violently strike at the exhausted animal with her whip.
But before the tortured creature could gallop off again, driven by unspeakable pain, caused by the razor- sharp Texas spurs and his rider's cutting riding- whip, the alert elderly gentleman jumped forward and grabbed the reins resolutely to stop the girl from riding away. "Go ahead, you damn creature!" the beautiful girl now yelled, her voice cracking, and once more thrust her spurs into the poor horses flanks. But even though her switch was cutting through his coat he could not tear away from the man's grip.
"Get down." The man now ordered sharply, and the horse- driver had no other choice but to let herself glide unwillingly out of the stallion's saddle, which was padded with a soft lambskin.
There she was, standing next to her victim, which was a pitiful sight, covered in red weales. The criminally sharp curb was blood smeared and his flanks were trembling, because he was desperately pumping for air. The man who had had a lot to do with horses during the war had never seen anything like that before, and his fury became overpowering.
"What is the point in beating your horse up this steep winding road, why do you have him gallop, why is he not allowed to walk?" the man snapped at her, his voice trembling, and looking down into the valley in a meaningful way.
A long, steep road that could be seen well wound its way to 2400 metres altitude.
"I wanted to see whether he would make it." the kid, who was about eighteen; responded sulkily. She was very well developed for her age and emphasized her feminine charms by wearing very sexy clothes. Even though the old man was infuriated he could not help but notice this.
This fact even mellowed him unconsciously and certainly saved the girl from receiving a few smacks, which she would certainly have deserved.
She was wearing black breeches, riding boots with very big spurs, a very thin T- shirt which was almost see through, and which had a very low neck line. Because of the heat, it was almost 30 degrees in the shade, the T- shirt tightly across her .firm breasts.
In her hand she held a long switch which was very thin and firm. From what could be seen on the horse's coat, it was also very effective. Her curly hair and the large earrings gave her a Spanish look.

The sporty Inga regaled us with some super stories of the fun they have at home in Sweden, and we both decid-
ed we would try out some of their dressage techniques the next day.
Dawn broke with a clammy heat haze over the lush green pastures, the forecasters promising a scorcher over ninety degrees. By noon the sky was a deep blue, with a gentle breeze coming off the coast, perfect riding conditions for our late afternoon work-out, as my XJS white Jaguar Convertible nosed in.
Inga and I dressed the same, but in skin tight leather hot pants, short as bikini briefs, instead of the usual skin tight breeches. These shorts were rather special, and had a little buttoned opening over the vagina, between the thighs, designed for riding eroticism. We each wore expensive, neatly pressed white cotton dressage shirts with short sleeves, and beautiful Hermes cream silk ties, sealed with jewelled stock pins. It was our boots and belts which stopped the show.Inga had brought over two pairs of high black leather riding thigh boots, from the Spanish Riding School in Vienna, one for herself, the other for me.
They were polished like glass, and looked rather like the boots worn by the Household Cavalry at the Trooping, very sexy indeed.
We wore them with two garter straps on each boot, secured by elastic, so they fit bondage tight high on our thighs.
Our silver cavalry spurs were enormous, heavy and medieval-looking rowel headed affairs worn for effect rather than practical use.
They were completely over the top and we had to be careful not to cut our horses to pieces.
We even wore huge black leather, gold studded and buckled viking belts, which bit into us like chastity corsets, and completed the ensemble with long black leather gloves, handling lethal long wire thin dressage whips.
We had carefully made ourselves up, with maximum eye shadow, glossy scarlet lipstick, the full works, and when the other girls saw our outlandish gear, they stopped dead in amazement.
They had never seen boots like those before, and even if they could afford them, they could never get them.
And with the sort of money my horses spent in that yard, no-one would dare say anything, or dare criticize.
Inga and I carefully adjusted our high- crown velvet Hubert Johnstone hats, hers in navy blue, mine in black, with elaborate silk hair ribbons, holding our nearly plaited hair. I had to admit that I felt terrific, as we both strode majestically into the yard, eyes followed us.
Inga was to ride my second horse, a magnificent eighteen hand grey Lipizzaner Stallion from the Piber Stud in Austria.
As usual, the staff were sloppy and unprepared, and I stood astride in the yard, admiring myself, and commanding service.
"Joe did you not hear what I said? Where are you, and where are my horses?"
I flicked my whip impatiently, and Joe, plus three more little male grooms in tow, came running.
"I'm sorry Ma'am.... and Ma'am" he mumbled, doffing his cap at myself and Inga.
Inga was pulling up her garter straps, and tightening the splendid buckles on her massive belt, with a telling glint in her eye.
The overpowering Hanoverian dark brown, my pride and joy, together with my grey Lipizzaner were led out, saddles and bridles gleaming in military shine, leather almost transparent to look at, numnahs fluffy and white laundered, kneeboots spotless. Inga nodded approval and addressing him in precise guttural English, ordered him to kneel before her, and he meekly complied. "You will kneel down before me, Ya," She felt mighty and aroused, I could see, and I could feel my juices rising to the simmer point.
She pointed her six foot long wire-thin dressage whip onto his private parts, and ever so lightly, delicately, stimulated him with the red thread of the lash, and hard tip of the loop. I could see she was enjoying this tease, and his penis now erect, I could see fighting to tear itself out of his pants.

Mistress Tiffany flexed the spindly cane between her fingers.
As her captor writhed on the floor, tethered at the wrists, ankles and knees, she raised the rod to her mouth and gently caressed her tender, red lips. She played the implement across her strong, white teeth. The wretch on the floor grunted and puffed as he wriggled against his bonds.
"Stay still, worm!" she commanded.
The wriggling ceased.
She stepped slowly towards the creature, her tall, spiked heels sinking deep into the carpet. Normally a male would not be allowed into the bed chamber of a Cruellan Lady, but on this occasion he had been permitted entry to attend training and assessment in the position of personal slave.
Tiffany had instructed many such slaves. As the Lady of the house, it wasn't that it was her job; she merely enjoyed the challenge of converting common, uncouth houseboys into worthy attendants.
This particular creature had been chosen for possible promotion by a friend of Tiffany's; a Lady of the High Court of Cruellan Justice; a Lady of distinction; an academic; a discerning taskmistress. Tiffany sighed as she glared down at the dishevelled sub-life bundled on the floor. He had been delivered in bonds. He would remain tethered until she felt the urge to begin the training. As Tiffany slept, the slave fought against his restraints, being careful not to wake her. His arms and legs were blue and numb. And his wrists and ankles had burns where the ropes had cut into his flesh. He wanted to scream out; to plead for release from his torture. But he was fully aware of the consequences of such an action. Another houseboy taken from the laundry for bed-chamber training had committed just such a crime. He was dragged screaming from the great house to the pens which housed Lady Tiffany's pet wolves, and uncermoniously thrown in. His screams could be heard some miles away by the field slaves as they toiled to till the land. For a split second, work ceased as the slaves raised an inquisitive ear towards the house. Many were flogged, one to death, for failing in their labours. Lessons in Cruella were taught and learnt in a definitive fashion.

The slave toiled, his back aching as he pulled as hard as he was able against the metal harness. It was usual for slaves of a new batch to be set to work at the generator plant. Round and round they would trot, hour after hour, day after day, turning the spokes of the dynamo which would generate electricity for the town below. Some of the generators were large, accommodating up to forty slaves pulling the giant turbine blades in unison. Other machines were were of smaller proportions and created power for smaller appliances, such as hair driers, curling tongs, vibrators etc.
Lady Katerina entered the building. A thick bull-whip curled from her gloved hand. Her boots were high, her briefs small and her jacket short. All were made of the finest slavehide, expertly cut and sewn by the eunuchs of the tannery, many of whom had been forced to manafacture lady's purses and bags from their own scrota.
As Lady Katerina stood watching the overseers whipping their charges on to greater efforts, she scanned across the floor. It was her intention to choose one of the slaves to use for a series of experiments which had been commissioned by the Cruellan Research and Unification Department (CRUD).
She observed as the slave who was harnessed to the single generator had to be egged on for his lack of effort. His overseer had noticed the dial of the ammeter flicker as the power output dropped by a fraction of a unit.
Lady Katerina smiled as the slave was punished, fully aware that the overseer's bonus payment relied heavily on the output of her personal charges.
"What's his tag?" inquired Katerina of the overseer.
"GDQ," she replied.
Lady Katerina looked for the brand on the slave's hide as he trotted round. The Q denoted that he had spent time in the quod (the jail). This interested Katerina. Male life was worthless, but the paperwork involved for experimentations on a Q Grade slave, especially if things went wrong, was far simpler.
"After his shift, could you send GDQ over to Labcell 6?" requested Katerina. The overseer nodded. "Will he be returned later?"
"Either that or I'll send you an expiry note," Katerina replied.
"To save you the tedium of coming all the way back with an EX Docket, write me one now, and you can return him or not," suggested the overseer. "It's all the same to me."
Lady Katerina signed the slip and passed it to the overseer who slipped it into the top of her briefs. The whip howled and cracked across GDQ's hide as he threw himself against the traces of the harness. It was obvious that the overseer would expend every last ounce of strength from the slave's body before having him delivered to the Labcell block, in the knowledge that it was unlikely he would ever be returned to her.
The communicator buzzed and Lady Katerina awoke from a wonderful nap.
"Labcell here. I have a GDQ, it's been delivered to number six for you. Shall I...?"
"I shall be down presently," Katerina cut in.
GDQ lay face down, asleep, on the slatted framework.
It was the most comfortable place which he had ever been allowed to rest.
Slaves at the generator plant were always shackled into small pens in their dozens and slept as best they could, lying on top of one another; it was the most economical use of space.
Although the slave now rested on a bed of sorts, it was certainly not provided for his convenience or comfort, but to accommodate the mistresses who performed experiments and operations there; they certainly could not be expected to crouch on the floor to execute their work. Lady Katerina briskly entered, allowing the tip of her bull-whip to trail across the dusty floor.
The conditions in the experimental suites were less than sanitary, as there was no reason for them to be so.
She stamped her spiked heel onto the corner of the frame.
The slave did not stir as she hung the whip up and took her operating gloves from the drawer.
She stamped her spiked heel into his leg.
The slave instantaneously sprang into life. "Wake up time," she announced.
Her tone was neither soft nor harsh, but simply matter-of-fact. Experimenting on slaves gave her a great deal of satisfaction when worthwhile results were produced, but the pain and suffering which she inflicted on them was not a matter which she had ever considered. However, from a male's point of view, she would be considered cruel and sadistic in the extreme.
GDQ cringed as the lady held her gloves aloft. She struck him across the face with them, grabbing him by the hair and sticking her boot into his throat.

It was a blessed relief to Simon when the telephone rang. Supreme Guard Aphrodite unleashed a final thrash with the bullwhip which ripped into his prostrate form before lifting the receiver and barking
"Yeah!"
He could not hear the other end of the conversation, and even Aphrodite's harsh words were blurred by his inability to control the spasmodic sobbing, but he understood from her irritation that his ordeal was to be terminated. Temporarily. At least that was better than having it terminated permanently.
"What?" she snapped into the receiver.
"Now? Does it have to be right now... Someone's going to pay for this!"
She threw the receiver back onto its cradle and kicked out at Simon's heaving side, rolling him over onto his back. "I'm going out for a few minutes," she said, coldly.
"When I get back I'll be in just the right mood for a gelding, so stay here. Okay?"
His reply was indeterminate but she took it for a yes, striding out from the office and slamming the door shut behind her.
Simon remained supine for a couple of minutes, hardly trying to control the flow of tears.
The thought of his intended fate had drained away what last reserves of strength he possessed.
He somehow managed to pull his body upright and leant against the desk for support. His genitals were too tender to touch - he did not dare to hope that the ice-cold pain emanating from down there might subside - but at least they were intact. For now.
He slumped forward onto the desk and remained there - half standing, half laid - for a couple more minutes, allowing the breath to percolate his agonised body.
He saw the knife ready on the blotter; short and serrated with a carved wooden handle. It took him another moment to understand what the handle was supposed to represent...
"NO!"
Then he suddenly knew what he had to do...
Supreme Guard Aphrodite strolled back to her office, contemplating the minor disturbance that had called her away. She had sorted it out easily enough, the two girls being unwilling to challenge her judgement on the matter. They should not have been fighting, she thought. It's a waste of energy: energy that would have been better spent on the punishment of males. And all over a stupid breeder... Guard Angela and Guard Katherine had both tried to book the same slave from the prison harem: an enormously well-endowed young male who had taken the fancy of many of the guards over the preceding weeks. Neither of them would relent and a bout of fisticuffs had ensued. Supreme Guard Aphrodite had resolved the situation with resort to the Wisdom of Solomon and a pair of scissors, allowing the girls to share the breeder amongst themselves. "That was a good cock," she mused, pushing open the office door. "So I suppose Katherine got the best of the deal."
A few seconds elapsed before she remembered that she was not supposed to be alone in the room... No Prisoner had ever dared to disobey her in the past and so she had to search through her memory for the location of the secret emergency button: she found it at last, next to the light switch, and set off the sirens which deafened the entire prison complex.
Guard Geraldine dashed into the office and saw that Aphrodite was keeping herself occupied. Four men were chained to the wall, all bearing the scars of an ongoing beating. It was clear that the Supreme Guard knew how best to keep her anger in check.
"Supreme Guard," the young brunette began."
"Yes, Geraldine?"
"Watchtower 8 reports a possible sighting of the escapee; moving through the bushes towards gate C. They want to know if they should strafe."
"Who is on gate C this afternoon?"
"Voluntary Guard Krista, Supreme Guard."

Vanessa clicked her marble lighter and in one graceful movement applied it to the tip of her cigarette.
As she took her first deep inhalation, she glanced down to survey the figure squirming abjectly at her feet.
Her slave's tongue lathed over her shiny leather boots with an abject obsequiousness. Vanessa observed his feverish attempts to earn favour with a look of total disdain. Her ruby red lips parted slightly to launch a jet of smoke on a downwards trajectory.
The slave's mind was almost blank. He saw the boots of his owner before him and his mind told him to lick, to abase himself, to demonstrate his total submission.
As Vanessa inhaled deeply on her cigarette, a warm relaxing feeling enveloped her. A cruel smile of satisfaction formed on her lips before they parted slightly to release a hazy plume of smoke. She luxuriated in the delicious feeling of control over another human being, total unconstrained control, even unto life and death.
She surveyed the mewling, grovelling creature pinioned beneath her heel. Yes, creature was the most appropriate term, since Vanessa's slave had been stripped of the slightest veneer of human dignity. It was hard to remember that it had not always been so. Five years ago, this creature had been a normal, cheerful, ambitious man. Some sort of salesman as she recalled; she had some recollection that he was a graduate.
Vanessa increased the downward pressure on her heel and searched her memory for his original name. She didn't bother using it now. 'Slave', 'Object', 'Cretin', 'Creature', anything suitably demeaning was perfectly adequate. He knew when he was being addressed.
`James', 'Jamie', it was something like that. She shrugged her shoulders. What did it matter, he'd never need it again.
Vanessa's mind wandered back to the early days, her firm, pert breasts rhythmically pulsing, her left hand gently rubbing against her. She took another deep draw on her cigarette to calm herself a little. Her dark red lips pursed into a cruel smile at the thought of his very first whipping. The petrified, disbelieving look on his face. The sound of the whip as it cracked through the air, then cracked again as it lashed into virgin white flesh. His shrill tormented screams and desperate, futile pleas for mercy.
"Ahhhh, there's nothing like the first time" reminisced Vanessa.
The thought was highly stimulating, awakening a deep seated need to inflict further pain.
A need that simply had to be slaked.
"That ugly butt of yours is looking almost white again."
Vanessa exhaled the smoke through her nose before continuing. "Guess I've been too soft on you lately."
"Mmmmmfff, yeth Mithtreth, thorry Mithtreth" lisped the mewling creature at her feet. She seemed totally oblivious of the mess her lash had made of his back only the night before, simply because he'd sneezed without permission.
"Lift your arse higher insect, come on, I want it sky-high, I shouldn't have to bend over when I'm whipping you, it's very tiring."
"OOOOOh, no Mithtreth, thorry Mithtreth." apologised the male, thrusting his backside invitingly high towards Vanessa's tapping crop.
The young brunette inhaled on her cigarette once more. Moments like this were made to be savoured.
A male lay squirming at her feet, desperately offering his buttocks as a sign of his abject submission. His anal muscles twitched in feverish anticipation of the punishment to come, but Vanessa was relaxed, prepared to wait her moment.

There was the faint residue of a very nasty smell in the drawing room. Lady Candida tilted her head and sniffed at the air, recognising the aroma instantly, and cursing.
"Someone's been wanking," she breathed. "Don't they KNOW my rules..."
The culprit had left the French Windows open, presumably in the hope that the noxious evidence of his crime would percolate away, so she strode over and looked out onto the patio. There was a slave there, tending the plants and looking for all the world like an innocent man.
He did not notice her approach and almost jumped out of his skin when the slim fingers of her right hand tapped on his shoulder.
The jittery male glanced up into her dark eyes and immediately bowed his head in supplication, asking: "Yes, Miss Candida?"
The slave had a vaguely familiar look about him; a fact which came as a surprise: Candida rarely paid the domestic servants enough attention to recognise their faces.
She reached out and grasped hold of his chin, forcing him to meet her eyes: "Someone has wanked in the drawing room," she announced, evenly.
"Was it you?"
The man's eyes flickered and his pale face became paler. "No... No My Lady."
She laughed, icily, "I am well aware that males hardly ever own up to masturbation - especially when they fully understand the punishment that I have in store for them - so I will examine your genitals for myself. Get them out."
"But..."
She slapped him across the cheek. "How DARE you hesitate when I issue an order?"
A terrified look on his face, the man reached down and began to undo the zip at his flies, but she stayed his hands: "No," she said. "I can see that you have something to hide so I think I will find out precisely what it is for myself."
She sank down onto her knees on the concrete and extended her fingers to the zip, pulling it down with a swift jerk. The man had no underwear beneath - it being forbidden - and she half expected him to squeal as the metal teeth whipped open against his flesh. She unfastened the button at his belly and allowed the flimsy pants to slip to the ground.

I own Trap Royale. Originally my establishment was just another of those Trap establishments which are so common throughout
Cruella, a place for a pleasurable ride with the advantages of aids; whips, bridles, electric probes, and so forth.
I changed my approach after one lady said 'It was another boring ride, just thrashing the male.' At that moment I realised what was required, variety of entertainment, and I set out to provide it. I sought out the best brains, engineers, psychologists, doctors, all women with imagination and who delighted in accepting my challenge. We devised different routes with a variety of surfaces; grass, concrete, grit, water, mud, etc. We devised hazards like barbed wire, nettles, electrified plates. The vehicles themselves were improved and the range extended. All traps now have mobile phones and have facilities for music. A lively gallop can be played at the touch of a button. Interestingly enough, a funeral march can serve as a reminder or prediction to a flagging male.
Of key importance is surprise,usually a surprise for the male but often a built in random element where the lady is not aware of what will happen next. A surprise ride is the second most popular option, the most popular being the dash down the small stream. The big river route is the most difficult and adventurous.
Before the ride the lady can enjoy the delights of selection. I have a hundred or so horses to parade and they are of different types, ages, strengths, fitness, dispositions, etc. Thus, the lady can select the male to fit her mood of the moment.
Naturally, I have no difficulty in causing pain and no squeamishness about punishment, but I do insist that the stable yard itself should be a safe area for males, it encourages them to complete their rides. A notice says 'No prodding or whipping in this yard'.
I have no problems about disposals, these are inevitable and routine, particularly in royal circles.
As for acquisitions, I have first pick. At all trials the judges preselect the horses when giving sentence. Usually the judge says one word only 'Traps'. I select acquisitions on two principles. Firstly, I aim for a balanced stable, strong and weak, fat and thin, young and old, ugly and handsome,
Secondly, I always choose males guilty of serious offenses, usually disrespect or disobedience. This means that the lady driver need have no hesitation in applying whatever persuasion is most enjoyable.
Perhaps I should mention that offenders exist, but not criminals. Males guilty of murder, rape or theft never come before the courts, the owner disposes of the criminal in whatever way seems most satisfying to her.
So successful is my new venture that the Princess granted it Royal Approval and only members of the Court and their daughters have access to the delights I have on offer. Naturally, the fees are steep. Although I am one of the richest ladies at Court it is pleasant to know that my efforts are appreciated. Perhaps the most memorable first ride I ever witnessed was that of Caroline on her fifteenth birthday. She was introduced by her mother, a Senior Judge. My first impressions were not favourable. Caroline was in frilly; dress no boots, no whip, no gloves. I assumed she was inexperienced. When she inspected the parade she chose an older male, thickset and rather ugly.
He was obviously strong, but his age would reduce his stamina on any long ride.
Young girls frequently overlook this point, thinking that strength and stamina are the same thing, and at the end of a ride they can become impatient with strong elderly males who wilt. "I am going to call you Toy" she giggled at him. I wondered if she liked toys and older men, or whether she hated them and broke them.
She had him harnessed in a highbeam trap, the shaft situated behind the driver and rising into the air to end in a simple neck harness. Usually the horse would grasp the flexible fibreglass shaft with both hands just above his head in order to assist the pushing and reduce the pressure of the harness on the neck. I wondered if Caroline chose the trap for elegance. Did she realise that it provided the driver with maximum access for whipping.

It is a game that Lady Charlotte plays on most mornings.
The slave knows the rules - past survivors have made them legendary - but that does not dissuade his tormentress from explaining them to his face after she has secured him to the wall. She hoists herself up onto the workbench in front of him.
Her skirt is very short and he can see the unblemished white flesh spreading from the top of her thigh-length boots all the way along to the laced-up gusset of her leather G- string.
On the bench beside her there are four objects laid in a neat row: a simple pack of playing cards, a riding crop, an enormous pair of hedge cutters and an efficient-looking revolver.
She picks up the playing cards and begins to shuffle them, grinning benignly.
"This," she says, "is a pack of cards.- The male nods idiotically and she continues - "A perfectly ordinary pack of cards in every way bar one... They are going to decide your destiny." She pauses to allow him to assimilate the importance of the statement, shuffling the cards continually and gazing into his eyes with a look of amused contempt.
"In a moment I'm going to cut the pack and draw out a card at random. If that card is a Club..." And she miraculously pulls the Ace of Clubs from the pack... "Then I will reward you with a nice, long, slow beating." She places the card on top of the riding crop beside her and continues to shuffle. "If that card should be a Spade..." And she draws the Ace of Spades... "Then so shall you be... Spayed, that is." She giggles as she always does at the frivolous pun before adding: "Spayed, neutered, call it what you like." She places the card down on top of the cutters.
"If the card is a Heart..." And she shows him the Ace of Hearts... "Then I shall shoot you through it." This card goes over the revolver.
"And if it's my favourite suit, Diamonds..." The Ace appears in her hand... "Then I get to choose! A whipping, a snipping or an end to your miserable existence - whatever takes my fancy. I may even decide to do all three... Who knows?" She spreads her thighs a little wider on the bench and lays the card down between them.