My French Student Asked Me for the Crop

I give riding lessons at an equestrian center on the outskirts of Granada, at the foot of the first hills. It’s a big place, with two indoor arenas and half a dozen stalls, and there are three of us instructors to cover all the demand. Mornings are for training show-jumping and dressage professionals; afternoons are for children who arrive still wearing their school uniforms.

That center has produced riders who now compete on international circuits. It’s our pride and, also, our best advertising. So when Andrés called me into his office, I assumed he was about to stick me with another afternoon student, and I was ready to tell him no. I already had four classes in a row and ended the day with my back broken and my patience used up.

I was wrong. In his office there was a blonde woman sitting across from the desk, her back very straight and her hands in her lap. I guessed she was a little over twenty. Another rich girl with a new whim, I thought, learning to ride so she won’t look out of place in her circle.

—This is Margaux —Andrés said—. She’s semiprofessional in France. She’s moved to Granada for family reasons and wants to keep training. She comes highly recommended.

She stood up to shake my hand. The grip was firm, dry, almost a challenge.

—I have a meeting about some horses and I’m running late —my boss added, picking up his keys—. Sort out the schedules between you and then tell me.

When we were alone, I suggested we take a walk around the facilities while she told me about her experience. Ten minutes were enough to make my prejudices fall away. She spoke about seats, bits, and transitions with the natural ease of someone who had spent half her life in the saddle. If she rode half as well as she knew her stuff, training her would be a privilege.

We went down to the stalls and I showed her the two horses best suited to her height and weight. I wanted to see her approach them, to check whether the animals stayed calm with her, something you can’t fake. She went up to the first one, stroked its neck, and spoke softly to it in French, and the horse lowered its head as if it had known her forever. We agreed to start the following Monday.

***

On Monday she showed up in riding pants two sizes smaller than was reasonable. She was young and liked to show off, and she certainly had the goods, but that outfit wasn’t suitable for working: you ride loose, so you can move freely. I said nothing. I just watched her do a few laps around the sand arena before asking her to stop.

I had her sit on a saddle placed on a wooden stand and corrected her posture. The flaw was the usual one in people coming from another school: she hunched.

—You need to grow upward —I explained—. Tuck your pelvis forward, lengthen your torso, open your chest. Keep your body long, shoulders back.

She got back on and we practiced the correction. Every time she passed in front of me sticking her ass out, I tapped her with the crop so she’d fix it. She did it right for the whole circuit and, when she got to my level, stuck it out again just to get the tap. The first few times I took it for coincidence. By the fourth I knew she was provoking me.

She’s playing with me, I thought, and she thinks I don’t realize it.

I started hitting a little harder, as if I were following a legitimate correction. And, strangely, that was when she really started riding, focused, impeccable. We finished the lesson without either of us mentioning a thing.

***

The following Monday she arrived with a smile that boded nothing good.

—I’ve been practicing at home —she said as she put on her helmet—. I’ve been giving myself a few swats so I can learn to keep my ass in the right place. When I let it slip, it stops itching, and then I know I have to correct it.

I was speechless. Once up on the horse, she rose in the stirrups and held out her hand to me.

—Give me the crop.

I handed it over without thinking. She brought it over the top of her pants and gave herself two sharp blows on the ass, staring straight at me without blinking. This kid is openly challenging me, I told myself, my pulse racing and a feeling I didn’t want to name taking hold of me. I took the crop back and we continued.

Every time she passed by me, she shifted her body on purpose, and I hit her a little harder than the time before. It got to the point where I was alarmed by my own hand. This was still a paid lesson, in a facility with people around, and one complaint from her would be enough to get me fired, or worse.

When she dismounted, I saw that the front of her pants was damp. I thought something had slipped out with the jostling of the trot and looked away so as not to make her uncomfortable.

—Look what you’ve done to me with all those good-boy swats —she said, and pulled her pants up to show the stain, which was bigger than discretion had led me to suppose.

Embarrassed, I apologized. I assured her that I had never meant to hurt her. She looked at me with bright, wide-open eyes.

—You didn’t hurt me —she said—. That’s the problem. There’s only one way for me to forgive you, and it isn’t for hitting me. It’s for doing it so lightly.

***

She asked me to hit hard, really hard, while she leaned over one of the saddles resting on the stand. I should have sent her to hell and walked out of there. Instead, I kept staring at that posture, the taut curve under her pants, the waiting, and I knew I wasn’t going anywhere.

I gave her the first lash of the crop and her whole body jolted. It had landed.

—More —she said, her voice rough—. Harder.

She lowered her pants and left her skin bare, crossed only by the thong strap. The red marks appeared and stayed. She brought one hand between her legs and started touching herself without even pretending to hide it. Almost without deciding to, I unloaded several strokes in a row, and the welts bloomed on her skin like lines of fire.

She turned and pressed the small of her back against the edge of the saddle, her legs open, pelvis forward. She yanked her shirt and bra up in one motion.

—Here too —she begged, offering her breasts—. Hit me here.

—This is over —I said, and took a step toward the door.

—Don’t go. Please. —She said it softly, like a real plea—. Keep going.

The idea was as tempting as it was dangerous, and seeing her enjoy every blow finished unmaking me. Instead of leaving, I turned back, locked the room door, and went to her again with my arm raised. I brought the crop down on one breast, more out of fear than conviction, and she moaned and asked for another. I left a pink mark below her nipple and then another, symmetrical one on the other side.

With her skin burning from the blows, she pulled down her underwear and stood completely exposed.

—There —she said, pointing between her legs—. Slowly. Right on the tip.

By then I had a tension I couldn’t ignore, and all I could think about was making this lead to something that would relieve me too. I calculated the gesture, measured the force, and let the leather tip fall exactly where she wanted it, three times, four, until she arched her back, clamped her thighs against my hand, and came with a long shudder that ran through her whole body.

***

Before I could catch my breath, she turned around and offered herself up braced on the saddle, her body raised and ready.

—Now you —she said over her shoulder—. Put it in like this.

She was soaked, ready. I went in in one stroke and started moving, gripping her hips, with the crop marks still alive beneath my hands. She pushed back, setting a faster rhythm than mine, commanding even that.

—It stings —she panted after a while—. Better from behind.

I moistened my fingers in her wetness and prepared her slowly, without rushing, listening to her breathing break up. When I went in again, this time from another angle, she did it with a low moan that echoed through the empty room. She moved like she was possessed, marking every thrust, until she dragged the end out of me with her whole body.

—Don’t pull out yet —she murmured.

She pinched her nipples with two fingers and, without my doing anything else, came a second time, clenching around me.

***

When my head cleared and I realized what had just happened, I dressed in a hurry and left the room without looking back. I spent the next few days waiting for a phone call, a complaint, Andrés’s face appearing in the stallway door. Nothing came.

A week later, it was my boss who came looking for me.

—The Frenchwoman canceled her lessons —he told me, frowning—. Do you know why? It surprises me; she seemed delighted.

—No idea —I lied—. Maybe she got embarrassed. She knew a lot of theory, but she didn’t have much riding time under her belt, and after the show she put on the first day... you know how people are.

He looked at me for a couple of seconds longer, as if the explanation didn’t quite add up. But he didn’t press it. He turned around and left me alone in the stallway, with the crop hanging back in its place and an itch in my memory that took a long time to go away. I never heard from Margaux again.