Miranda's Lessons Read online

  Miranda’s Lessons

  Maggie Carpenter

  (c)2010 Maggie Carpenter Blushing Books

  Copyright (c) 2010 by Blushing Books(r) and Maggie Carpenter

  All rights reserved. No part of the book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system, without permission in writing from the publisher.

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  Carpenter, Maggie

  Miranda’s Lessons

  eBook ISBN: 978-1-60968-457-0

  Cover Design by Blushing Books

  Blushing Publications thanks you wholeheartedly for your purchase with us!

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  This book is intended for adults only. Spanking and other sexual activities represented in this book are fantasies only, intended for adults. Nothing in this book should be interpreted as advocating any nonconsensual spanking activity or the spanking of minors.

  Chapter One

  It was late spring and a warm sun beat down on the city streets as the young nineteen year old dancer hopped off the city bus and walked down a street lined with posh Victorian residences. It was a simply perfect day, with the sun and a hint of a breeze to keep it pleasantly cool.

  Reaching her destination, Miranda d’Angelo stood on the steps of the elegant house, listening to a soft Tchaikovsky play from within. It was music that could lift her off her feet, transporting her into that other world she loved so well, where her body seemed to fly across a wooden dance floor, soaring on wings. On this day however, her knees were knocking, and her legs were trembling as if they were made of jelly.

  Mario Diego was a premiere dance instructor, sought after by hundreds of aspiring students, though he took only a few new ballerinas each year. Miranda’s audition for him began as the most exciting turn of events in her ballet life. The fact that Mario had actually remembered her, out of dozens of fine dancers at the City recital, put her on cloud nine for weeks. That he agreed to the audition was enough to make her practice long long hours in preparation for this day.

  But now, as her entire life seemed to hinge on this fateful moment, her exhilaration vanished, fear replacing it with the memory of the hundred rumors that regularly circulated about Mario Diego, and his unorthodox methods.

  “He’s a tyrant.” She’d heard that comment a thousand times.

  “A genius!” most old line dance aficionados would contend.

  “He’ll charm the pants off you one minute, make you cry the next,” was the oft heard assessment of students who’d recently graduated from his grueling training.

  “Watch out for his temper!” was the most often heard warning. It made Miranda tremble inside, knowing that she wasn’t used to emotional tirades, and was uncertain how she’d handle one from a dance instructor. Yes, she’d had temperamental coaches in the past, but Mario’s reputation was altogether different from the typical high strung instructors she was used to.

  “I wouldn’t go near him again for anything in the world!” said one former pupil. Though hearing this vow, Miranda wondered why the woman had stayed under his tutelage for nearly two years. Something didn’t add up.

  Miranda hoped that all the talk was simply war stories for the benefit of the uninitiated. A lot, she knew, was just blatant gossip by the ones that had never made it under his wing.

  Despite all the hearsay, when Miranda had seen Mario Diego eyeing her at the recital, her heart skipped a beat, and then another. She didn’t know why she fluttered so with excitement. Was it just the thought that he was interested in her dancing, or was it something more? It might just be the mystery behind the man and her own curiosity to see for herself what everyone found so darkly fascinating about him.

  Mario Diego did have a special grace and elegance that likely came from his European roots. He was nearly forty, though no one knew for sure; speculation about his age was another rumor that was never completely resolved. Age aside, he was a formidable man in many ways. Handsome in a rough sort of way, he had a stocky but trim body, massive arms, a barrel chest and a dancer’s thick legs. His hair was unruly, often falling in his face as he worked with a student. And his eyes were wild like a tiger’s, changing on whim and fancy and the excess of emotion that exuded from his stunning aura.

  “He’s the best,” Miranda’s former couch Julia Adams told her, when Miranda mentioned the possible audition.

  “I heard he took a switch to Regina Neville,” Miranda objected.

  “Regina Neville could use a switch, her plies are something out of a nightmare,” Julia retorted. “You go ahead and audition. The training will be tough, but you have the kind of temperament to work well with Mario.

  “What do you mean, ‘temperament’?” Miranda asked.

  “You’re very willing, not the argumentative type. He’s demanding, controlling, arbitrary at times. It takes someone that can adapt, be a little submissive, and not too high strung. Listen,” she continued earnestly, “Mario’s dancers always outshine anyone else, you can’t afford not to audition.”

  Julia should know, Miranda thought. She was one of Mario’s girls, one of the best newcomers five years before, until a nasty broken ankle sidelined her permanently.

  With Julia’s encouragement, Miranda arranged the audition.

  Now, ringing his doorbell, Miranda heard a lovely chime from within the house. With no answer, she wondered if it weren’t just proper to enter. After all, the house was arranged as a studio, his place of business. Through a side window, she could see a receptionist’s desk just inside the foyer. With a tentative turn of the knob, the door gave way.

  Stepping inside, Miranda found the foyer reception area to be empty. A timid “hello” roused no one as she waited, hoping someone would arrive to make her hesitant beginning a little easier. She called again, but still no one answered. She waited for some moments listening to the music, though the strains of Tchaikovsky that had earlier eased her fear, now seemed a little ominous to her ear.

  When the music suddenly stopped, she jerked, startled, thoroughly expecting Mario Diego to bolt through the door seconds later. However, instead of a warm welcome, the lovely counterpoint of the music was replaced by the sound of angry voices, coming from the studio behind the receptionist’s desk. Though she was not able to detect the reason for the argument, a woman’s voice rose in desperation, while a man’s, equal in passion, rose to counter her fiery outburst.

  To have called again for someone seemed foolish under the circumstances. . Her interruption would hardly be welcome. She had no idea what she should do. But leaving was not an option. She’d waited too long for this moment, and she was not going to give up her opportunity for the audition.

  Miranda waited for some minutes; then hearing the voices diminish in volume, she tiptoed forward and pushed the studio door ever so slightly. It gave way easily, remaining ajar just inches, so that Miranda could see inside. Beyond the foyer, there was a small office, and beyond that the practice studio with the expansive dance floor. The French doors to the studio stood wide open, so that Miranda could see the scene inside. The student, dressed in a pair of short stretch pants and a small crop top, had her back turned toward Miranda, but even at this distance, Miranda could see a degree of anguish from the dancer. Her chest was heaving
_ as if she’d been crying … or enraged. She seemed to be calming down from the confrontation, and Mario Diego waited restlessly while she did.

  “Do you suppose you can listen now?” he finally asked.

  The dancer didn’t answer.

  “Your line is dreadful, Miss Reault!” Mario exclaimed. “You’re going to have to work harder with the exercises I gave you.”

  “I have!” the dancer blurted out angrily.

  Miranda saw the instructor shake his head in disgust. The whole scene seemed so shocking because the young woman was the wellknown Cassandra Reault. Miranda thought of the twentyyearold dancer as flawless; and that her own dancing skill had a long way to go to catch up to her talents.

  “I’d suggest you take care with your tongue, Miss Reault. You’ve already said enough today.”

  “But I can’t get it!” the dancer shouted back at Mario, ignoring his warning.

  “That’s very obvious,” Mario replied, his voice beginning to rise again, just as his student’s had. “By now your line should be perfect, impeccable. Exquisite!” His eyes darkened. “Have you done any practicing since your last lesson?”

  “How dare you say that, you know I have.”

  “Aw, but it doesn’t show,” he answered sarcastically.

  “You’re a bastard!” the girl shouted. Miranda watched Mario’s eyes; even from across the room, she could see them flash, as if he were firing sparks.

  “Your attitude, Miss Reault, as well as your dancing is unacceptable” he said. He turned having made some decision.

  “Oh please no!” the dancer cried, sounding very penitent. “You can’t do that!”

  “Oh, can’t I?” Mario Diego was almost whimsical with scorn.

  “I’ll try again?” she repeated. “Please.” She looked positively desperate.

  “We’ve already been over this a dozen times Miss Reault. You’re getting worse, not better.”

  “But please … not the leather, not today. How is that going to help?”

  “It always helps, Cassandra,” he said taunting her. “It settles you down, you know that as well as I do. To the bar.” He pointed to the bar at the far wall, while the frustrated Miss Reault looked at him with a mixture of anger and fear. She hesitated a moment too long.

  “To the bar, Miss Reault, or I’ll double it!” His voice was steely cold.

  Mario Diego’s manner was not unlike what Miranda had witnessed on a number of occasions in the past. Yet what was to follow held her spellbound. She watched intrigued, as Mario disappeared from view, returning seconds later with something odd in his hand. A trembling Miss Reault moved cautiously to the bar at the far side of the practice floor in front of the mirrors.

  “Please Mario, please.”

  He ignored her appeal. Keeping his distance, he waited for her to obey his instructions. It took her some moments, as if she couldn’t bear the thought of what was to happen. She looked at him with a contrite face, but her look did nothing to move him from his purpose.

  “Miss Reault,” he said sternly, pointing to the bar again.

  Her glance was a defiant pout that Mario chose to ignore. Then acquiescing, though hardly happy about it, the dancer turned and bent over, grabbing the bar in her hands.

  To Miranda’s horror, the object in Mario Diego’s hand was a leather instrument some eighteen inches long and two inches wide. It was obviously intended for one purpose only. And it was clear that the instructor intended to spank the petulant Miss Reault, for her bottom was poised and ready for an anticipated paddling. No wonder the poor girl was so distraught.

  Miranda watched in shocked horror as the scene unfolded. She knew she was eavesdropping on a most private moment, yet the sight was so fascinating that she couldn’t take her eyes off of it. She gazed dumbfounded, as Mario brought his hand back and briskly whisked the leather through the air.

  SMACK!

  The leather landed on Miss Reault’s rear end, the sound echoing through the hollow rooms of the studio, assaulting Miranda’s ears, so that she jolted even as Miss Reault jolted from the blow.

  After the first blow, Mario paused, and then with a firm measured stroke, he spanked his student with one firm smack after another. Miranda could see his muscled arm flex and relax and flex again. She was astonished by his forceful command; it made her shiver in her own dancing shoes.

  At first Miss Reault tried remaining stoically silent, but by the sixth smack it was too much to bear in silence, and she let out an impassioned wail.

  “Yeoooowwww!” she cried.

  Then with each new smack, the dancer let out another wail more anguished than the last; though Mario wasn’t fazed by her cries. Rather, the instructor continued on, peppering the young woman’s bottom from top to bottom. Miranda could see the determined expression in Mario’s eye, and the hard as granite set of his jaw. Even more of his unruly dark locks fell across his forehead, as he put his entire being into the task. Mario Diego was a man of a hundred faces. Some were exceedingly bright and charming. His flashy eyes could incite terror and thrill in the same degree. But on this occasion, Mario was completely ruthless.

  Having observed the instructor at many recitals and performances, Miranda had seen him in many moods; but never had she seen him quite so single minded. The effect on her was alarming. If she was utterly shocked by this bizarre scene, she was also utterly stimulated in the most amazing way.

  Mario continued on as Miss Reault began to wiggle and squirm, her long dancer’s legs doing an uncharacteristic tap dance, where they were used to more graceful steps.

  It must hurt like hell! Miranda thought. But as terrifying as it was, Miranda soon realized that the leather was only a warm up to the real punishment, for when Mario stopped abruptly and disappeared out of Miranda’s sight for an instant, he returned with a long white cane in his hand.

  Miranda thought she shrieked aloud when she recognized the nasty thing, though she had only gasped to herself. Even so, she stepped back from the door for an instant, afraid she might have been heard. When it seemed safe to look again, she returned to the opened door, remaining an undetected witness as the punishment progressed.

  “Eight,” Mario announced.

  “Oh, God no!” the dancer wailed.

  “You only get what you you’ve earned.”

  “But I can’t take anymore,” she pleaded again, though even as she objected she didn’t remove her hands from the bar. There seemed something inevitable about this rite. They’d been through the ritual before. Even the quality of Miss Reault’s protests seemed part of a ceremony, just as the outcome was also written. “Your pants, Miss Reault,” Mario said. The dancer shivered. She looked back at her instructor. For empathy? For some compassion? Mario Diego looked immovable. That chilling aura of dominance was set in stone. Seeing no recourse, the young dancer turned back to the bar and fingered at the elastic waistband of her stretch pants. With a simple tug, she pushed the garment over her hips to her thighs, where they remained bunched at her knees. What remained were small pale blue panties that barely covered her.

  “Everything Miss Reault,” Mario demanded.

  The girl sighed deeply, but said nothing. She complied, lowering her underwear too; the routine obviously not unfamiliar to her. With no protection whatsoever, Cassie Reault’s rear end gleamed in the bright studio lights, the flesh a blushing pink from the paddling she’d just received. And in her exposed posture, there was no hiding any of her private feminine charms, as every detail of her rear cleft, from the tight bud of her rear hole to the soft pink pussy lips, were on display.

  What a horribly humiliating turn of events, Miranda thought to herself.

  She watched awe struck as Mario Diego viewed the quivering target with the cane in hand. It looked as if he were carefully planning the eight cuts, before he began. After what seemed like an eternity, he drew the instrument back, and then bridged the two foot space of air in a flash. A sudden hiss, and then the impact. The cut itself was nearly silent wh
en it struck; and Miranda wondered how much it hurt, until she heard a shriek that made her want to climb from her skin.

  “One,” Mario announced flatly, as the sound of Miss Reault’s anguish died away.

  A second cut swished through the air. “Yeeeeeawwwwwwww,” the dancer howled again.

  “Two,” Mario declared with the same calm voice. Calm though he was, there was a furious determination in his manner.

  Each cut in turn was met with the same even count from Mario, and a miserable cry from the dancer. Each cut traced a new line on the young woman’s naked rear, just above the last, even as her feet danced as if they’d dance away by themselves.

  By the fifth cut, Miss Reault’s wails became one long tortured sob. Yet, though she still wriggled with a spirited shimmy, she seemed less agitated than at first. Perhaps she realized that the punishment was almost over.

  Miranda watched the ordeal, with her eyes fixed in fascination. When the last cut landed there were eight distinct lines on Miss Reault’s bottom, though at Miranda’s distance they seemed to blend into one horrid blur of fiery red. The poor girl continued to sob long after Mario finished; apparently she was too distraught to worry about quickly restoring her pants.

  While Mario waited for his pupil to recover, he disappeared again, and Miranda was suddenly reminded that this unexpected episode was not intended for her eyes. What if he discovered her watching?

  Moving quietly, she gently pulled the door closed and tiptoed to a chair by the front entrance. There she sat primly, as if she’d been sitting there all along anticipating her appointment and unaware of what had just transpired beyond the studio door. While she waited for Mario to appear, Miranda was struck by the odd coincidence of events. If she had a 2:00 p.m. appointment, why the would Mario Diego choose that moment to discipline a student? Did he think Miranda wouldn’t hear the sounds of Miss Reault’s distress? Was it intentional, serving some unknown purpose?

  Miranda continued to wait in the strange eerie quiet, with only her perplexing speculations to keep her company. Miss Reault sobs still echoed through her mind, even if the dancer was now quiet. Nearly fifteen minutes passed, before Cassandra Reault finally walked through the door where Miranda had stood as witness to the dancer’s spanking. She carried her dance bag and her shoes in hand, practically sprinting out the door. The results of the confrontation with Mario were distinctly written on the delicate features of her face. Her eye makeup was smudged and her nose was puffy and red.