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Erin's Adventures
Chapter 16
Riding Lessons I

(***, F/f, Intense, Teen cropping)

Erin meets Miss Arler. (Approximately 1,967 words. Originally published 1998-02.)

School soon settled into a familiar routine. There were studies and tests, adventures with friends, and a growing interest in the opposite sex. There was naughtiness and consequences, and much learning and growing up. I was comfortable and content. At the time I rarely thought of my life as routine, especially the discipline--only looking back from years of perspective do I see the obvious pattern and how it comforted me.

In spring there was a change. It seemed a minor nuisance at first, an interference in my life. But quickly it became a significant landmark in the map of my childhood.

The change was this: my father enrolled me to take riding lessons. Several other girls were also required to go, as this was a special program offered by the school, and so every Saturday for four months a small group of us trudged off to the riding stables about two miles north of St. Esther to spend the morning learning to ride.

I was somewhat excited. Being a city girl I had never had the opportunity to ride and I had often begged by father to let me go. My problem at this juncture was the timing; I was satisfied with my life as it was. I felt threatened by any change, even a potentially positive one.

My reluctance changed to joy, however, upon learning that my mistress and "personal prefect" Ariana was also to take lessons. We both were up early the first Saturday, and dressed ourselves in our splendid new riding outfits our fathers had purchased and sent to the school. We wore leather riding boots, tan riding pants that hugged our bodies delightfully, and snow-white blouses with long sleeves and frilly colors. We loved them and spent a good half hour parading in front of Ariana's long mirror admiring ourselves, though of course I was concerned about how the pants accented my large bottom, a portion of my anatomy I've always been a bit subconscious about.

I think that's why we were late. The other girls had gathered by the front door and were growing frantic. "Were have you been?" asked Julie, a thin redheaded girl who was renowned for her nervousness. "We mustn't be late for our first lesson!"

"Yeah," added Monica, the youngest of our group. "I've heard that the riding instructor is very strict." Her eyes were wide with alarm as she said this, and Ariana and glanced at each other and giggled.

"Don't be a baby," Ariana said gruffly to the girl. "If we run we'll make it on time. Besides, I know a shortcut."

Ariana's shortcut did indeed save us distance, but not time. It was through an empty field, across a small stream, up a hill, through a thick grove of trees and bramble, and finally, back to the main road. The riding stables were just a quarter mile away, but we were an exhausted, raggedy bunch at this point, our new clothes scuffed and stained, our boots dirty, our hair loose and coming undone, and our faces drenched with sweat. We arrived at the stables ten minutes late, panting and breathless.

Our riding instructor was waiting, and she was not pleased. From the first moment I saw her I was enthralled. She was stunningly beautiful. She was tall and thin, and graceful as a cat. She stood before us dressed in an elegant riding outfit similar to our own, but on her the tight-fitting pants seemed far more shapely and attractive, almost constraining the swelling of her hips. She wore a vest, too, which seemed to hug and shape the large mounds of her breasts, and I felt a twinge of guilt at my own overly large breasts that bobbed within my blouse.

She stood bold and stern before us, her lips grim but her eyes soft and gentle. An enormous black riding crop was gripped her right hand and crossing in front of her chest, the tip resting in the palm of her left hand. She tapped this as she stared at us, slowly passing her eyes over each of us, carefully appraising and evaluating her new students.

Her hair was a breath-taking platinum, obviously long, but done up in a tight bun behind her head. A few random strands were loose and curled around the sides of her face giving her a slightly wild appearance.

Oh, how can I describe her face? It changed as often as her mood. Her face had been carved from ice: a sharp, rigid nose, thin lips that usually were pursed into a stern frown, a slightly curved chin that softened her angular features and made her seem a touch friendlier. Her large eyes were a deep blue that was all the stronger in contrast with her pale skin.

But the truly astonishing thing about Miss Arler was not her physical beauty, as charming as that was--it was her attitude. She was at once commanding and stern, and yet she had a friendly, youthful demeanor that was almost a complete contradiction. Even when she disciplined us girls she seemed to being enjoying life, to be having fun.

Understand that I saw all this in Miss Arler within the first few seconds of meeting her--and I was astonished, both at her remarkable character and at my own perception. I'd never before noticed how well I sized up people on first meeting. Yet my very first thought upon seeing this awesome woman was the realization: "She's _amused_ that we are late!" This struck me as surprising, for in my entire life I had yet to meet anyone in authority who was pleased when I misbehaved.

"Welcome," was her first word, and her voice was as graceful as a song, but as determined as a bullet. She spoke in short precise sentences, every word designed for meaning with no excess. I felt a chill pass through me as her eyes briefly caught mine.

"My name is Miss Arler. I am to be your riding instructor for the next several months. I take no nonsense and I offer none. You children are tardy and filthy. You shall be punished. One by one step forward and tell me your name."

"Shelly Todler," said the girl on the far end, after Miss Arler glanced at her expectantly. She stepped forward and bowed slightly.

"Touch your toes, Shelly."

Shelly's pink mouth opened slightly in surprise and she hesitated, tears springing to her eyes, and then obeyed, clutching at her ankles. Her riding pants gripped her arse tightly and presented to the world two globes of silky smooth flesh. Miss Arler did not waste a second but immediately brought her crop across those cheeks.

I was half-expecting the loud CRACK of a cane, but the crop was a muted _thwack_. From Shelly's sharp intake of breath, however, the crop was certainly effective. Again it struck, and again. On the four blow Shelly began to cry, a loud blubbering moan that was embarrassing to listen to. I resolved at that moment that no matter how much the crop hurt, I would not make such a fool of myself.

After the sixth stroke Miss Arler told Shelly to straighten up and stop her whining. She waited for the next girl. Finally, after a fierce glare from Miss Arler, Julie stepped forward.

"J-Julie M-Monroe," she whispered hoarsely, and began to cry. I was pleased to note that Miss Arler did not react at all to the redhead's silly performance but cropped her quickly and thoroughly without any hesitation.

"Ariana Richards."

I watched as my friend bent over, her smooth bottom so vulnerably displayed. I realized with a shock I'd never seen Ariana punished before, and I grinned and determined to enjoy it. Ariana never made a sound during her entire cropping, but calmly took each stroke with scarcely and lift of her head. When it was done she stood, her movements stiff, and thanked the riding instructor for the lesson. Miss Arler was pleased.

"Erin O'Grady," I said bravely, stepping forward and immediately grabbing my ankles. I blushed with shame at my exposure but I felt a wonderful warmth in my belly as I saw that Miss Arler was pleased with me. She did not speak but simply cropped, lifting that leather instrument high above her shoulder and striking me with such force I nearly fell forward. A fierce stinging attacked my bum overwhelming me for a few seconds. It wasn't as deep and bruising as the heavy wooden cane, but the stinging was worse.

Unlike a caning, Miss Arler did not wait for the first blow to fully sink in before giving the next. I had noticed this with the others and it had pleased me, because it meant the punishment was over quickly, but now as I experienced this technique I discovered that the intensity of pain coming in such rapid succession almost broke down my will to resist. By stroke number four I was in such acute agony that when the fifth hit I cried out in pain. I bit my tongue during the sixth to keep from screaming, and stood silently, tears dripping down my cheeks.

Miss Arler was eying me intently, and I saw the corners of her lips curling slightly with satisfaction. She had broken me and knew it, though she said nothing. I went back to my place in line with my heart thumping loudly and wondering why the woman's gaze affected me so.

Monica was the last girl to be punished. Though only thirteen, she made less fuss than Julie. She did cry out loud, however, though I noticed that Miss Arler was gentler with her strokes.

After we'd all been punished, Miss Arler took us on a tour of the stables. We learned with sadness that we wouldn't actually get to ride this first day-our initial lessons would consist of learning to care for our horses and equipment. As Miss Arler lectured us on various aspects of equestrianism, it was obvious she knew her subject well and loved horses passionately.

Miss Arler emphasized safety a great deal, explaining that riding a horse was nothing like riding a bicycle. "You must remember at all times that you have living animal underneath you," she said. "Animals are often unpredictable. _You_ must be prepared for that. If there is a riding accident it is _always_ the rider's fault, never the horse, for it is the rider's job to understand the animal and prepare for any unusual behavior."

Near the end of the lesson each of us were allowed to select a horse of our own for the duration of the lessons, and it would be our responsibility to prepare and care for the horse before and after each day's lesson. I found a beautiful dusky mare that was very friendly, nuzzling me and almost begging me to ride her. Her name was Dusty.

Ariana chose a huge Arabian stallion named Whirlwind, and I could see Miss Arler was shocked and a little worried at such a selection for a first-time rider, but Ariana showed her how the horse instinctively obeyed her, fearlessly climbing into his stall and leading him in a circle without even a bridle to guide him with. The instructor finally consented to the match, and Ariana was thrilled.

The other girls made their selections and everything was written down in a large black notebook in the main office of the stables, and we were promised our choices would be ready the following Saturday. We left shortly after twelve thirty, elated by our interesting morning and the exciting prospects ahead in our future. Our memories of the cropping had faded into nothing but a minor inconvinence.

More to come next week!