“Twelve,” he stated.
“Oh no! Please!”
“Twelve,” he stated again.
But, I can’t . . . “ She turned around imploring him.
“Miranda, I’m not going to mince words with you. You’re on the verge of being fired from the City Ballet. You’re dancing is a pale comparison of what it should be, and the liveliness which I’ve always associated with you is missing. This session is an attempt to get the anxiety out of your system and perhaps put us back on track. You might say it’s a last ditch effort. If it doesn’t work, I don’t think I can save your job. I don’t think going lightly on your bottom is going to do you any good. Now get back in position.”
Put in her place, she did as she was told. Holding on to the bar again, her raw bottom swaying before him, she waited.
For Mario, the mome
