by Frank Martinet
Almost before the white Suburban came to a halt near the stone building, the lithe blond hopped out of the back and charged down the path to the stables. The girl ignored the cries of her chauffeur crying, "Miss Ashley! Oh, Miss Ashley, you forgot your bag!"
The running girl, clad in riding jacket, knee-high black boots, and skin-tight white jodhpurs, typically cared more for her purse - or even her discarded tissue for that matter - than for any person. But this was a special situation. Traffic in the city had been dreadful, with a construction project requiring a time-consuming detour, and though she'd left with a good thirty minutes to spare, she was convinced she was going to be late.
Ashley rounded the corner and saw with despair that the class was already mounted and leaving the paddock. Nearly groaning with grief, the girl came to a halt before the imposing figure on the lead horse, a grand stallion of midnight black.
The woman was Miss Bridot. She was thirty-two years old and terrifyingly beautiful. She was tall and slender, with a feminine figure that was glory to all women. She had long auburn hair that depending on the light and viewpoint could look like dark chocolate or a burnished red or anything in between. The strands hung free down her back and not a hair ever dared get out of position. She was dressed entirely in a white so dazzling she seemed to glow. Even her boots were white, long and tapering elegantly along her graceful calves. Her smile as she gazed charitably down at her tardy pupil was the kind that made you want to fall in love with her and also fall on your knees and worship her.
"Ah, dear Ashley, I see you've decided to join us after all."
"I'm sorry, Miss Bridot. There was traffic, you see-"
A white gloved hand waved for silence. "No excuses, my dear. A lady never apologizes. If she is wrong she admits her fault and takes her medicine without a whimper or complaint."
The standing teenage girl began to tremble. Behind the teacher five other teens tensed and sat straighter in their saddles, eyes bright with focus.
"It'll just take me a moment to fetch Clever Dancer, Miss. I'll catch right up with you."
"Of course, my dear. But first... you know there must be a penalty for not being here on time."
"But it's not my fault!"
A shadow darkened the woman's face, her brow furrowing and her jaw tightening with displeasure. Her voice dropped an octave as it whispered coldly, "What did I just say regarding excuses?"
Ashley paled, gulped, and stared at the toes of her boots.
"You shall have two extras for ignoring my words just seconds after I issued them," said the woman, sliding from her horse. Though the well-trod earth below was soft, not a spec of black approached her boots, which gleamed as though just polished.
In Miss Bridot's left hand was a black leather trainer. All of the girls knew it well. Its core was a narrow spine of steel, wrapped in a rubber sheath and then rigidly bound with Argentinean leather. It was a merciless weapon, an instrument that had brought many a young woman to tears just seeing it. Ashley was one such girl, so weak-willed she was sobbing long before the lady arrived.
She did, however, instantly obey when ordered to the nearby railing. Mounting the lowest rung, her hips were bent at the top of the fence, leaving her rounded buttocks poised in a perfect curve for beating. The trembling buns were attractively shaped, somehow managing to appear both delicate and plentiful. The petite young woman gripped the top rail with a hand on either side and waited.
Miss Bridot was renown for her swift justice. She wasted no time, punishing infractions the moment they occurred, and this was no exception. The trainer went up and descended in frightful fashion, repeatedly striking the plush melons of the woeful girl. Each stroke was full force, the crack echoing like a gunshot. Five pairs of watching eyes winced at every blow. The recipient moaned and shook her golden mane in keen suffering. The tautly clad cheeks quivered as though possessed, fatty shivers running through the whipped flesh.
After six sonorous lashes, Miss Bridot paused briefly to mutter, "Two extras, now."
Ashley let out the faintest cry, tears glittering in her eyes as she struggled to stay in position on the rail. Her bottom jerked and simmered, like the lid of a boiling pot. The riding instructor slowly drew back her leather rod and whisked it in with devastating force. The heavy leather indented the white buttocks furiously for a moment, and the suffering girl couldn't help but yelp in agonized dismay.
Ignoring the girl's frantic reactions, Miss Bridot calmly drew back the trainer and delivered another withering blow. The teenager howled openly, her back writhing in vigorous agony as pain rocked her body. The display lasted only a moment before she regained control and stood gasping, tears trickling down her pale and delicate cheeks.
"Th-thank you, M-Miss Bri-Bridot," she coughed out slowly.
The teacher's expression throughout the beating could be described as polite, for her smile was perfunctory and she showed no reaction to any event in the process. Even now, at the conclusion, only her eyes gleamed a little brighter and her cheeks were slightly more rosy than at the start. She merely nodded to the distraught Ashley as she tucked her crop under her arm and in a single graceful motion rose up into the seat of her mount.
"We'll be in the south pasture today, Ashley. I shall expect you within a quarter hour."
The simple statement loomed with implications. Every student knew, without being told explicitly, that if Ashley were even one second late to join her classmates, the lashing would be repeated. But there was no need to worry about such an event. A hurricane blocking her path would not have prevented Ashley from arriving on time. She headed toward the stables, the freshly beaten rounds of her little rump waggling from side to side as she trotted with haste. Riding after a whipping was murder.
Miss Bridot's pupils were the elite of the elite. They were the children of the wealthy and the powerful. Some were heiresses to billion-dollar empires. Some were actually princesses in foreign lands. They were the daughters of senators and international leaders. All were beautiful, the product of superb breeding and limitless money, and every single one was subject to the strict teacher's regime of training and discipline.
Complaints to parents went unheeded. Indeed, few were even presented, for all the girls knew that training with Miss Bridot was a privilege and an honor, and that a certain amount of suffering was an acceptable price, no different from the painful sacrifices of an Olympic athlete. If you wanted to be the best, you had to pay. Parents of such class knew the priceless value of such training and didn't mind the riding school's exorbitant fees, nor the toll on their daughter's tender bottom.
Most of the girls accepted their punishments bravely. Emmanuelle was one such young lady. The daughter of one of the wealthiest barons in Argentina, she was a stunning vision of beauty and grace. She was petite and slender, with pert breasts and a plump little rump. Such an elegant body showed well on a horse, causing jaws to drop when she trotted by in full riding regalia. She rode erect with her back as straight as a board, her jet black hair neatly pinned back and her big tits magnificent in a tight white jacket. Her narrow legs were encased in gleaming black trousers that were so tight they molded to every curve of her flesh. The bobbing of her proud round ass as she rode was a sight that few could forget.
On her face was a radiant smile that completely masked the suffering she was enduring. For not more than half an hour earlier, this young woman of nearly eighteen had been in Miss Bridot's office for correction. Her fault was one of particular shame for her, for the teacher had overheard the teen in the restroom. The sounds of pleasuring had been distinct and Emmanuelle, when confronted, had been too mortified to deny it. She bowed her head and accepted her sentence with humility and grace. Due to the personal nature of the offense, the punishment would be held in private, though, of course, the strokes would be doubled to compensate for that generous compromise.
Thus this proud young lady, the heir to millions, willingly stripped off her jacket and top and gripped an overhead rail in her instructor's office. With her lean brown body stretched to tiptoe she was whipped with a tangle of leather tails, a dozen lashes from each side. Each blow left a cruel imprint of crimson lines across her naked back so that when it was finally over, her flesh was sore, with hundreds of crisscrossing marks.
Emmanuelle bravely took the whipping in hissing silence, biting her lower lip and wincing and shaking her head at the awful pain. After a few minutes rest to catch her breath and reflect on her suffering, Emmanuelle obediently touched her toes as a stiff wooden rod was applied in a vigorous fashion across the seat of her black trousers. It was twelve from each side for two dozen scarlet weals that clustered across the base of that peerless rump. Her tears were bountiful and it took tremendous force of will for her to remain in such an unnatural position, bent with her buttocks exposed so vulnerably. She shook and trembled, her hips swaying, but it was a sign of her character that she was able to endure the punishment so stoically.
When the application of the cane was complete, Miss Bridot had the girl peel down her pants so she could examine the results of her handiwork. Emmanuelle didn't dare disobey, though she blushed hot enough to start a fire. The sweetly curved orbs of her rump were heavy with swollen weals of burgundy and rust. Many of these overlapped forming darker blotches of rich red at the intersections.
The teacher studied these marks intently, touching and pinching welts with her long elegant fingers. She petted the tan flesh of the upper flanks, silky skin that had not been chastised with whip or rod. Finally she pronounced herself satisfied that justice had been served and she sent Emmanuelle on her way with a hearty slap to the teen's bottom.
Though given little time to compose herself, Emmanuelle gave no sign to the others that she had just been flogged. She smiled and laughed, and bounced on her horse as though her bottom wasn't a raging inferno. Nor did she wince when she guided her mare through jumps and turns, though every jarring movement twisted her back and caused dozens of throbbing welts to stir into irritated life.
While Emmanuelle's calm attitude to correction was common, not every girl accepted her discipline with such grace. It was usually the older girls who struggled the most, and that was never more clear than a certain young blond named Alicia. She was eighteen and as haughty as a rich spinster. She resented Miss Bridot's corrections and never took them well, though she'd had considerable practice.
On one particular occasion, Alicia arrived for riding training with a wad of chewing gum distorting her pretty lips. This crime, according to the strict moral code of the Tartan teacher, merited a thrashing with her riding crop. She ordered the teen to dismount and assume a bent position for punishment. Alicia, terrified and desperate, swallowed her gum and frantically tried to prove her innocence by showing her empty mouth.
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