Gulping hard, I nod in acquiescence. Then I take a deep breath, open the door, and step daintily out into the blazing summer day.
Mistress follows close as we head down her driveway: a step behind me and off to the side.
She gauges my performance critically, punishing every totter, misstep, and the tiniest lapse in femininity with a slashing stroke of her quirt against the tops of my thighs just above the stockings and below the flouncy hem of my short-short skirt. This area is barely an inch wide, and thus each stroke becomes cumulatively worse as the welts build up on each other. Tears of agony soon have my mascara running, and the wet black streaks cut channels through my thick make-up. The incentive to improve is great indeed. By the time we’re three-quarters of the way to the road,
