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would be suitable.
    Goodness kept the small tack room clean and tidy. Nonetheless, it was a sad place, a room full of equipment that, even before Mark’s accident, had become ever-increasingly neglected.
    In an empty water bucket, I found three whips. One long and narrow, two shorter. The shorter ones were tough and sturdy with rubber handles and thick leather flaps on their ends. I also found a pair of spurs – and there, wrapped in a towel, were a pair of polished, knee-high, black leather riding boots. Those I could certainly use.
    Only one saddle remained – I’d sold my other two, but I’d kept their spare stirrup leathers and the gleaming stirrup irons. They might also come in handy.
    I found a set of thick black felt stable bandages once used to wrap my horses’ legs. Now thinking increasingly creatively, I realised they would be perfect as makeshift ropes for tying up my slaves. So would the reins, which could be knotted around wrists and ankles. The leather halter could be used as a body harness. I could even recycle my black suede gloves. I had visualised myself wearing shiny patent leather, elbow-length gloves, but in the meantime these would do perfectly.
    My tack room had, in fact, offered up a cornucopia of domination delights. Although my shopping list was still frighteningly long, at least I now had some of the essentials.
    I picked up one of the shorter whips and stared down at a folded blanket, imagining it was the naked buttocks of one of my clients.
    â€˜You’re going to have to take some tough punishment now, you pathetic little wimp,’ I announced. I lifted the whip above my head and brought it down hard. There was a dull, thwacking sound as the heavy fabric absorbed the impact and a small cloud of dust puffed out.
    I hit the blanket over and over until I was putting all my force behind the blows.
    How painful would a beating like that feel if it landed on human flesh? I would have to learn to judge how hard to hit. Some clients would be able to handle more pain than others. Some would want visible marks left; others not.
    As they might plead for the punishment to be stopped, there would need to be a safe word in place. Some would enjoy begging for it to end, knowing their requests would be cruelly ignored and their calls for mercy disregarded. I would need to be able to draw the line. To learn my slaves’ limits and judge how much each one of them could take.
    â€˜Er – excuse me, ma’am?’
    I spun round, realised I was still brandishing the whip, and lowered it in a hurry.
    Dressed in blue overalls, work boots, and his precious yellow Kaizer Chiefs baseball cap, Goodness stood just outside the open door. He was staring at me with a worried expression, as if he was concerned about my apparent lack of anger management skills.
    â€˜Ma’am, are you going to ride?’
    Beyond him, I could see the long, brown, expectant face of Admiral, the seventeen-year-old, peering hopefully over the paddock fence.
    It was clear that Admiral wanted to go for a ride.
    â€˜Yes,’ I found myself saying. ‘Could you put his saddle on, please, Goodness?’
    I rushed back to the house to get my jodhpurs. How long had it been since I’d worn them? They were right at the back of my cupboard and, when I attempted to put them on, I found they were shamefully tight; so much so that I broke out in a sweat as I wrestled the ribbed fabric up over my thighs.
    A while later, red-faced, I tottered downstairs again, put on my boots and hard hat, and went over to the low wall that I used as a mounting block, where Goodness and Admiral were waiting.
    I’d thought that Admiral would be as unfit as me, but it turned out that he’d done a better job of keeping himself in shape than I had, and he was desperate to show me the extent of his joy at being ridden again. He jogged and pulled and pranced, giving playful mock-shies at dangerouslooking bushes. His