I struggled into a sitting position, no mean feat without the use of my hands, which were still trapped inside those awful disabling gloves, my wrists locked to the broad corset belt that was part of the suit. Then, grunting into the foul tasting leather gag that was strapped between my achingly distended jaws, I managed to stand up using the rough stone wall as support. Just as before, my feet were encased in those ridiculously high heels and I had to pause for a moment to re-accustom myself and balance before finally tottering across to where the top half of the stable door stood open, the bottom half locked and bolted against any hope of escape.
Eighteen year old Teena’s apparent journey back through time into the body of her ancestor, Angelina, has left as many marks on her psyche as Sir Gregory Hacklebury’s whip had left on her borrowed body 130 years earlier, and her encounter with the dominant lesbian Anne-Marie back in her own time in 1975 has asked even more dark questions and opened too many secret doors to the depths of her soul.
Has the Hacklebury gene left a permanent scar through the decades, or is it the Thyme side of the family tree that causes Teena to seek thrills through pain and degradation? Needing an answer more desperately with every passing day, Teena knows that she can probably only find it in the past, and once again must try to journey back into an era where women were merely corseted chattels and poor Angelina is still enduring an existence of bondage and suffering that her supposed husband and master would not inflict even upon his livestock.