***
Miss Teasdale proves to be an exacting and demanding equestrienne, apparently growing up in England on a country horse farm. Her voice becomes sharp and shrill, insisting that I run on my toes, knees high. She constantly taps with the crop to imbue her governance, my brands the target, stroking more nastily for outright infractions.
The cart proves to be easy to pull and so I can run full out, expending inordinate energy. I quickly learn that, mentally, exertion seems to counter the intense burning of the ginger and that physically, the moisture of my body dilutes its effect. Thus as she brings me to a good lather I am oddly grateful.
Months ago the deep humiliation of being run well trussed and naked... and by a woman formerly subordinate to me... would bring great distress. But no
