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Returning from my morning ride, both in and out of the saddle, with my husband, Lord Andrew Seymour; who, since he is many years older than me and still carrying that extra weight, is content for me to seek sexual fulfilment with associates (one time watching, as 6 such men profoundly fucked me), and the staff; I lead our horses back to the stables to have the grooms brush them down. "Take care of these for me, boys, will you?" I request, addressing John and Robert while Jane brushes down Lancer, a 3-year-old gelding. "He's a bit frisky today, your ladyship," she informs me. "He's not the only one," Alex, a young upstart, remarks, under his breath. Releasing our mounts, I step over to Alex, and condescendingly say: "what's the matter, Alex, not getting your oats, again?" making a veiled remark to his masculinity; whereupon, he retorts: "We've got a good idea, how much of a slut you are, Fiona; your behaviour doesn't go unnoticed you know."

With my crop in my right hand, somewhat lower than the left, which I part consciously tap it into, I rejoin: "I'm sure the people of the village are most definitely aware, how much of a slut I am, married to a titled man, 20 years my senior, but, without our wealth it'd be pretty fucking dead." Somewhat smirking, Alex exudes: "You're bloody ballsy, Fiona, for a whore, marrying into money." Moving my hands to either side of my hips, I now snap: "I mind you to curb your tongue. I can have you fired as good as look at you. Now get this place cleaned up; all of you," I vociferously order. "See what you've fucking done now," Mark says. "Watch your tongue, Mark, I've earned the right to ...

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