Another erotic story from the FLOGMASTER!Copyright 1995-2009 by the Flogmaster. All Rights Reserved. Free distribution via electronic medium (i.e. the internet or electronic BBS) is permitted as long as the text is _not_ modified and this copyright is included, but _no_ other form of publication is allowed without written permission. This document _may_ contain explicit material of an ADULT nature. ***READ AT YOUR OWN RISK!*** Anything offensive is your own problem. This story is for **entertainment** purposes only, and it does _not_ necessarily represent the viewpoint of the author or the electronic source where this was obtained. All characters are *fictional* -- any resemblance to real people is purely coincidental.
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Riding Lessons II
(***, F/f, Intense, Teen cropping)
More adventures with Miss Arler. (Approximately 1,590 words. Originally published 1998-02.)
If I had thought my first cropping from Miss Arler was to be my last, I was sorely mistaken. Soon I was to learn first-hand that the rumors were true: Miss Arler always carried her riding crop but no one had ever seen her use it on a horse.
On our second Saturday riding session, we arrived a full fifteen minutes early and we made certain our outfits were spotless. Miss Arler greeted us and we all breathed a sigh of relief when she said our clothing passed inspection. We quickly followed her to the stables where we each found our horse and prepared for riding.
After we had saddled and bridled our horses, Miss Arler inspected our work. Unfortunately two of our group made critical errors: Shelly did not cinch her saddle tightly enough, and I had gotten a couple pieces of the leather equipment in the wrong positions. It was still more or less functional, but I had forgotten my instructions from the previous week. As I reminder, Miss Arler gave Shelly and I four strokes from her crop.
So it was that I began my first riding experience with a slightly sore and stinging bottom. Not an auspicious beginning.
We rode into the countryside, through empty fields and into the hills. It was a beautiful spring day, slightly cool but with blue sky of large puffy white clouds drifting overhead. The fresh country air was wonderful, and all of us girls were delighted.
When we'd reached a small stream Miss Arler had us dismount and offer our horses some water. This wasn't so much because they needed it as it was to give us practice caring for our animals and mounting and dismounting. Shortly after this we reached a flat field and Miss Arler began to teach us the different walks of the horse, from trot to canter. (She saved gallop for later.)
After instructing us, we each got to practice a bit, riding our horses around, learning to guide and instruct them. She rode around in the midst of us, watching and calling out suggestions or instructions when she saw problems. After a half hour of this she called us together and had each of us, one by one, put our horse through its paces.
Ariana went first and her stallion performed perfectly, obeying every soothing command from her voice. Next was Julie, and she had troubles. She hesitated too much, and as a consequence the horse also hesitated. Miss Arler was not pleased. Shelly was better, but she nearly fell off the horse during the canter, and Miss Arler had to ride off after her in case she needed assistance.
I was next, and nervous as a mother hen. Everyone was watching me. Though I'd performed the same routine just moments earlier on my own, I now discovered my speech was hesitant and overly-cautious. Growing angry at my weakness, I blocked my mind of other things and concentrated on my horse, Dusty.
In the short time we'd known each other I'd grown very fond of Dusty. She was a wonderful horse, strong and intelligent, and very friendly. I had already learned how to interpret various signals from her, and I knew she'd have lots to teach me. (This is one of the truths Miss Arler taught us: horses teach you how to ride, not you teaching the horse how to be ridden. As she put it, "The horse already knows how to walk.")
Thinking of Dusty, I patted her neck and whispered to her until I saw her ears prick up and I knew she was listening. Quietly and calmly I gave her a whispered command and a soft nudge with my heels. Instantly she began to walk. Soon it was a bumpy trot, and then a rapid canter. When I finished, I circled around and rode up to Miss Arler. She was smiling broadly and I grinned back, my smile threatening to split my face I was so happy.
"Excellent job, Erin," she said.
I blushed and looked down at my horse, rubbing her neck. "It was Dusty, not me." Miss Arler seemed pleased by my comment, but she was already issues orders for Monica to ride.
Monica also had problems. She was not a very skilled rider, I saw, trying to control her horse by sheer loudness of voice and anger instead of convincing the horse to obey. She got her mare to walk and trot, but instead of cantering, the horse came to complete stop. Monica burst into tears and cursed the horse. Miss Arler approached her and though her appearance scarcely changed I could tell she was livid. She ordered Monica to dismount and promptly gave her girl six strokes from her crop. This really made Monica cry but the stern riding instructor seemed to have no compassion for the girl.
Miss Arler asked for Julie to dismount, and gave her four strokes with the crop for her failure to complete the assignment properly. I expected that was it, but Miss Arler had each of the girls mount up and she walked them each, one by one, through the steps again. It took nearly a half hour, but we did not leave the glen until both girls could guide their horses perfectly.
I was amazed at Miss Arler's mixture of stern correction and gentle guidance. It was obvious while she was teaching that she cared for Monica and Julie, and yet just moments earlier she had been thrashing them soundly. It gave me much to think about.
We rode back to the stables via a different route, and it was during this ride I made my mistake. We had to descend a large hill and the going was quite steep. The horses wanted to run but Miss Arler had made it very clear that we were to walk our horses or face the wrath of her crop.
Monica, still used to her mount, could not prevent her horse from going into a trot. The more she tried to stop it, the more the mare resisted. Finally, the horse took all initiative and went her own way, riding under a tree with low branches causing Monica to fall off! The girl was terrified and frantic, and though I'm ashamed to admit it, I could not help laughing at her predicament. I laughed loudly and openly, even pointing at the girl to the others. I soon stopped, however, when I realized no one else was laughing.
Miss Arler rode up behind me and glared at me. "Get off your horse and help her. She could be seriously hurt!"
I obeyed, stung by her rebuke, and went to Monica. She wasn't hurt, of course. The ground was as soft as a bed. But the brush-off had frightened her very much. At first she refused to get back on her horse, but Miss Arler talked with her and eventually she agreed.
Miss Arler took out her crop then and pointed at me. "Get in position," she commanded. I thought the woman must have meant Monica, who was standing right next to me, so I didn't move.
"Erin? Are you listening to me?"
"Me? But Ma'am!" I was shocked.
"You now have two extras. Would you like to go for ten?"
I shook my head and got into position, gripping my boots. My face burned with shame as Miss Arler berated me for being so callous as to giggle at another rider's misfortune.
"This is not a game," she said sternly. "Monica could have easily been injured. It could have been you in her position. Falling off a horse happens to everyone sooner or later, and I'm sure you wouldn't appreciate it if others laughed at you when you took a dive."
"No, Ma'am," I said guiltily, feeling awful for what I'd done. There was no more talk but the swish of the crop and the quiet _thwack_ as it struck my tightly presented bottom. Again and again it came down, very hard, I cried bitter tears and gasped at the fierce sting. She cropped me very low on my bottom, just above my thighs, keeping all of the blows in that same areas. It was excrutiating. I was humilated and humbled, and I thanked Miss Arler and sincerely begged Monica to forgive me the second the whipping was finished. Monica shrugged and gave me a hug.
We rode back to the stables in near silence after that, the ride most uncomfortable for me. Miss Arler had placed the blows well--there was no position in the saddle that provided me with relief from my sore bum. During a flat stretch Miss Arler urged everyone into a trot, the most awkward gait of the horse, and as I bounced up and down I would swear she glanced at me with a soft smile of satisfaction on her face. She had ordered the trot on purpose, knowing exactly how it would make me feel!
I was angry at this. How could she treat me so cruelly? But when we were in the stables Miss Arler came and spoke to me in a whisper. She said, "Wasn't that ride delightful, dear?" And she gave me a broad wink and patted my sore behind with her hand. I blushed crimson and glanced around but no one had seen. When I turned back around, the woman was off helping Julie. I immediately decided this woman needed watching.
More to come next week!