But neither would Dexter yield to a woman's whim.
"I'll tell you!" said Merton, now contemptuous of his mount.

"Get the buggy whip and tickle his ribs." Metta sped on his errand, her eyes shining with the lust for torture.
With the frayed end of the whip from the delivery wagon she lightly scored the exposed ribs of Dexter, tormenting him with devilish cunning.
Dexter's hide shuttled back and forth.

He whinnied protestingly, but did not stir even one hoof.
"That's the idea," said Merton, feeling scornfully secure on the back of this spiritless animal.

"Keep it up! I can feel him coming to life." Metta kept it up.

Her woman's ingenuity contrived new little tricks with the instrument of torture.