Miranda Vann 3 - Amanda 
by Near Fatal Neville, komkev@hotmail.com
Mixed fighting: a teacher bites off more than he can chew when he agrees to look after his lady colleague's daughter.

   "This is Amanda." A colleague had asked me to sit with her daughter one
evening, and I had learned that Miranda Vann was not the type to argue
with. I looked around the large main room which - considering Miranda's
position and her single-parent status looked, frankly, opulent. She taught
games under contract to the college, rather than working full-time, but I
was fairly sure that her rate was not much better than my salary. I would
have to investigate. Miranda had certain after-school interests, including
tonight's, but I had the impression that these were sports-related, rather
than necessarily bringing her extra cash.
   In looks, Amanda clearly was Miranda's daughter (I began to wonder what
a later addition to the Vann brood might be named: Veranda, perhaps?) The
offspring was a miniature version, with the same dark, shoulder-length
hair, in a slightly wavy style flicked out at the sides; and the same dark
-eyed attractiveness. Amanda looked eleven to fourteen years old (I am
hopeless with people's ages), but could have simply looked young. I
understood that Miranda paid for her daughter's secondary education at a
small local school for young ladies -- another expense.
   "Back in three." Miranda let herself out, and I assumed that she meant
hours, rather than minutes.
   "What do you think of these?" Amanda had already fetched a large album
and sat down on the sofa beside me, close enough to be bothersome. She
opened the tome to reveal photographs. This was the kind of book with
transparent film to protect the photos and hold them in place. The
younger Vann flipped the large cover open so that the right-hand half of
the album rested on my knee, making the contents difficult to ignore.
The pictures generally covered Amanda's early years and conformed to the
epithet, "There's nothing more boring than other people's photographs"
Amanda standing up, Miranda sitting down, and the rest. There were a few
of Miranda with former partners, including one whom I took to be Amanda's
father.
   I had begun to stare blankly as the similarity increased from page to
page, when suddenly my attention was taken. Here was a shot of her mother
around the age of 26, in a close-fitting dark leotard, and holding an
ornate belt of the type won in championship boxing. She looked extremely
fit. Superbly toned, without the over-pronounced muscular look that
undisciplined weight training can produce, her flesh a healthy colour as
opposed to the worrying orange that some people display after holidaying
abroad. (Although Miranda would be now into her thirties, she generally
appeared to have sustained her peak condition, so that her age seemed
immaterial.)
   "What's that picture?" I ventured quickly, before Amanda had a chance to
turn the page.
   "That's Mum in her fighting gear."
   I felt an inner thrill. "Soooo - what's that belt, exactly?"
   "That's her continental belt, for mixed fighting."
   "Mixed? What, like karate mixed with judo?"
   "No, like men fighting women. She won the European title; but that was
some years ago. She's even better, now." This was good stuff. I had heard
that Miranda insisted on teaching her girl pupils to take care of
themselves, railing against the present laddish culture and atrocious
practices like date rape; and I had heard the folklore around Miranda's
prowess in the ring, but had assumed much of this to be exaggerated or
apocryphal.
   My interest was aroused. The next page was better still. Here was a
full length shot of Miranda, feet slightly apart and firmly planted,
wearing only black gloves, socks and briefs. The topless look accentuated
her excellence. She stood firm and proud, without the mannish pecs that
over-exercise can bring to some females. The black socks were rolled down,
in the style of savate fighting. I began to wonder what a shot like this
was doing in a family album. I would have to find out more about these
wrestling sessions. It might be worth a slight kicking, simply for the
chance to roll around with this fantastic older woman. I was embarrassed
to feel myself nudging at the underside of the album.
   In the picture, Miranda's gloves appeared to have built-in
knuckle-dusters - black spikes. "Er, those gloves: are those spikes metal?"
I enquired, somewhat warily.
   "No, they're only rubber," the younger Vann assured. "Quite hard,
though. Can still mark you up, sometimes. She only wears those against men
who really need teaching a lesson. " I wondered whether Amanda had detected
my slight shudder, and turned the page quickly.
   "There's me." Amanda pointed to a five-year old in the first of the next
two pictures. Miranda appeared to be twenty-something, and had the toddler
by the arm, flipping her. Both were dressed accordingly. Amanda had her
hand to the floor, expertly steadying herself. "Mum has been training me
since I was four." The second picture of the pair showed Amanda returning
the favour, her mother rolling with the throw.
   Almost instantly, the next two-page spread was before my eyes. The shots
showed Miranda in the ring fighting men, plus a few muscular women who
looked masculine. In all cases, Miranda was dealing mayhem. Here was a
Boston crab with the games instructress almost bending her male victim
double; there, a full pile-driver, with none of the "let-up" allowed in
professional television wrestling. The next two-page spread showed a
middle-aged but tough-looking man wound into the ring ropes, being peppered
by Miranda's spiked gloves. These were not the kind of shots I would have
expected Amanda to be familiar with, but she seemed unmoved by the display.
I closed the album firmly and resolved not to purloin the Christmas crepe
paper if Miranda ever wanted to decorate the college gym. "That's enough.
Let's watch television," I ventured.
   "No -- there are only gardening programmes on." She began to tinker with
some video equipment beneath a wide-screen television, which certainly
looked more expensive than the portable job at my own flat. "Want to see a
DVD? There are some good Korean ones with MA."
   "Not really." I assumed she meant martial arts, rather than people
studying for a degree. "Got any Harrison Ford?" She hadn't, and the other
vids were space-opera, animated features or computer games-related, so I
declined. Amanda moved to the doorway. "I'm going to my room."
   Good, I thought, and began to study the TV listings.


   After only a few minutes, I was alerted by the lounge door being opened,
rubbing on the substantial pile of the crimson carpet. Someone came in and,
for a second, I was taken aback. It was as though Miranda's image had
leaped from the page of the photograph album and come into the room. Then I
realised that this was Amanda, dressed in black, as though in homage to her
parent. Her crop-top, gloves and trainer socks were complemented by a
cheerleader's skirt. The initial effect was fairly formidable -- an obvious
trick of the eye. At second glance, though, she looked like any youngster
whose dance-school teacher had dressed her beyond her years, as they tended
to do.
   "Amanda - I thought you were going to your room."
   "I'd like to show you my outfit, first." The girl moved across to where
I was sitting, strutting with an affected, cat-like grace.
   "Yes - very pleasant. Is it for dancing?"
   "No, for fighting in." She feigned a few kicks and punches, moving
deliberately slowly. "Want to try me?"
   "What do you mean?"
   "I told you. Mum has been training me since I was little. Bet I can
match you."
   This was getting silly. I could easily be this girl's English master.
Male teachers needed to tread a cautious path, without tussling with
younger girls. "So what if you could. Please go and change."
   She sprang up on to the cushions of the sofa, next to me. "Come on, you
big softy. It's fun." Without my having a chance to protest further, she
perched on the back of the sofa and wrapped her legs around my neck in a
head scissors, using her weight to take me down so that I was lying along
the seat. This was a fair display of skill, and the contact at this point
was not entirely unpleasant.
   "Okay, you win," I jested. "Let's get up."
   "We haven't begun," she laughed. "Come on - fight back."
   "I've told you. I've no wish to fight. I'm supposed to be looking after
you." Since she persisted with the hold, I reached my hands up to remove
her thighs from my neck.
   "That's more like it," she urged, and rolled off the cushions on to the
carpet. I had no option but to go to the floor with her. She increased her
pressure on the hold, which was becoming rapidly less comfortable. She had
evidently inherited some of her mother's skill, enhanced by appropriate
training.
   She kept on the scissors from behind, but had turned to face away from
my head. Her clothes felt soft at the back of my neck. "This is beyond a
joke." My voice sounded comical, like a pensioner who can't control an
errant grandchild. "I'd like to get up, please." I had rolled on to my
front in an attempt to use my knees to clamber to my feet, but my legs were
trapped beneath a heavy coffee table. Amanda had moved with me and was now
sitting on the back of my head, keeping the scissors in place. She kept her
feet off the floor so that her weight was too much for my neck and my head
went to the carpet, bumping my forehead.
   "Temper, temper," cooed the youngster, and seized the chance to grab an
arm and twist it upwards behind my back. I recalled from my schooldays that
this was never an easy hold to extricate myself from, and tonight was no
exception.
   This was farcical. The kid I was supposed to be babysitting had me
seemingly at her mercy, a feeling which was only accentuated by her next
ploy. "I'll have to teach you a lesson," she jibed, and began to roll from
side to side. My head moved left to right with her smallish butt, rubbing
my nose and face into the rough red carpet. "Perhaps this will calm you
down." After ten or twelve of these humiliating undulations, she relaxed
her grip and I automatically squirmed on to my back; but she merely
tightened her hold again, with her backside planted on my face. My legs
were still under the coffee table. Her skirt had flapped over my head, and
I felt as though I was in a dark cave.
   She allowed her capability to sink in, then sprang to her feet. I
struggled to my knees and tried to righten the coffee table, which had
moved at an angle with my struggling.
   "These socks are for fighting, too," she added straight away. "La
Savate." The girl began softly to aim kicks at my back and shoulders. As
she increased the pressure, I stood up to try to avoid the blows, but she
merely kicked at my thigh muscles, producing the combined effect of a
succession of "dead-legs" so that, eventually, I sank to my knees.
   "Please, Miranda, stop." My pleading sounded more pitiful than I had
meant it to.
   "I'm Amanda," she snapped, now jabbing her feet at my shoulders and
chest. "Miranda's my Mum." Freudian slip, but I think I knew why. "You're
no fun," she concluded, and effectively finished me off by landing one on
my jaw, not hard, but enough to rock me back. The soles of her socks
boasted some form of rubber studs, which stung slightly. I swooned
gratefully to the carpet, more for respite than in defeat.
   When I struggled to my feet, she came at me off one of the armchairs
and hit me with a drop kick. Looking back, I have to concede that this was
beautifully placed, and I don't know how she managed to land safely among
the furniture. One sock had hit me high on the chest, the other in my lower
face. I slumped to the sofa, again desperate for a break from this
whirlwind attack from one so young. She left the room, and I gratefully
accepted the opportunity to regain my composure and my wits.

   After less than five minutes she was back again, and I stood up,
probably as part of an automatic defence mechanism. I detected that she was
carrying certain items. She had also donned a pair of black wrist-bands
which complemented the rest of her attire. I wondered what she might be
planning, now. "I've fetched some of Mum's things," she explained. "These
should pep it up. " I wondered what "it" might mean, but was through with
debating. She tossed me a long, black rod, which I impulsively caught. She
deposited the rest of the items in a chair, except for a rod of her own
which she held in front of her with both hands, like a staff. "Come on,"
she said. As I started to complain that I did not wish to continue like
this, she rapped my knuckles with one end of her staff, goading me into
striking the same pose as hers. This was a mistake, as it simply prompted
a flurry of motion from my antagonist. She caught me with each end of the
stick alternately -- not hard, but enough to be irritating. My defence was
futile. Each time I raised one end of my rod to try to block her, her own
staff whipped in from the other side and caught me.
   "Robin Hood and Little John," she recited, an out-of-date and childlike
rhyme which seemed ironic under the circumstances, "They've both gone to
the FAIR-oh!" With her penultimate syllable she changed her attack and
rapped me between the legs. "One of the first things to learn," she
lectured, "maintain your guard." My defence was, in fact, in tatters and
she changed her grip, swinging the whole length of her staff to swipe me
round the side of the head.
   I dropped my own stick and my hands went to my ears. Another round to
Amanda. This stinging insult was one too many. She had leaned her rod
against the chair and picked up a black rubber paddle, with stubby spikes
emerging from one side. I had seen such questionable implements in films
and magazines and had always thought them obscene. "What do you think of
this?" Amanda slapped my thigh with the flat side.
   "I think that's enough," I snapped, and suddenly redoubled my effort,
snatching the thing from her hand and piling the child over my knee,
ready to spank her with the flat side of her own weapon. For the first time
tonight, I appeared to have the edge; but she merely laughed, and I
suddenly froze with the realisation of what I had been about to do. Suppose
Miranda were to return at this moment? Given how easily the offspring had
been handling me, what power might her instructress have over me?
   When I paused, Amanda somersaulted clear, skilfully and with ease. Her
skirt remained in my lap, though, and I had the impression that this had
come away naturally, as though fastened with Velcro. She was wearing black
exercise briefs which went with the rest of her attire. Her mood appeared
to change, although I detected that she was feigning anger. "O-ho! You've
done it, now. You've torn my favourite skirt." She seized a handful of
items from the armchair where she'd left them and, while I was sitting on
the sofa, she came at me hard, seizing both sides of my face and bringing
her head up under my chin in a "jaw-breaker". My bottom teeth rammed into
my top set and -- if she hadn't deliberately held off -- most of them would
have surely been lost or broken. As my head reeled, she got behind me on
the sofa and whipped something about my neck, like a black leather strap,
but softer and narrower. My hands automatically came up to try to loosen
the snug item, but she was again lightning quick and simply bound the
leather several times around each wrist. My arms were now doubled and I
could do nothing -- to move my wrists would only tauten the leather about
my neck.
   Totally in control, the girl could now again apply the head scissors,
governing my movements with her thighs. I went face down on the cushions
and wondered why I did not choke. Her backside was again behind my head
and her pants were soft at the back of my neck. She lifted my head and
tucked her feet underneath, my face resting on those studded soles of her
socks. "This is one of Mum's specialities," she warned, before repeating
the cheeky side-to-side roll from earlier, moving her captive's head and
this time rubbing my face against the studs, my head held down by the
diminutive rear. The studs were of a medium-soft rubber, so that the
feeling was of discomfort, rather than of pain.
   After an eternity of this disrespect, Amanda released the pressure and
allowed me to roll on to my back; but she merely switched her position so
that she was on my chest, facing my head in schoolgirl fashion. Immediately
she set about my face with the studded wristbands, rubbing these into the
loose flesh of my forehead and cheeks. Once more, the studs were more for
show than pain and the ordeal was humiliating rather than hurtful.
   When she stopped, I looked up to see that she was preparing something
further, pulling on the dreaded spiked gloves. "Okay -- now you're gonna
die," she offered; but her mood was light-hearted. "That's one of Mum's
catch-phrases." Underlining her capability to treat me exactly as she
wished, the smaller girl went for my already-tingling face with the gloves;
but she slapped and cuffed me, as though to state, "I could use the spikes
if I wanted to."
   She again released her grip and I squirmed on to my back on the sofa,
only for her again to assume a reverse pin, kneeling on my seemingly
ineffective arm muscles, facing down my body and sitting on the lower part
of my face. The black V of her briefs filled my vision. She pummelled my
ribs with the spiked gloves before moving further back so that more of my
face was beneath her.
   "Amanda, please -- I can't breath. I Can't Breathe. I CAN'T BREATHE!"

   When I awoke, I was lying on the sofa with a couple of the scatter-
cushions on my face. I fought my way upright, as though recovering from a
nightmare. The room appeared to be to rights, with Amanda nowhere in sight.
There was no trace of leather straps, nor of other questionable implements.
All a dream -- how pathetic. Some baby-sitter, I was. I looked at my watch.
It was 9.45.
   There was a long mirror in the hallway and I checked my appearance,
straightening my clothing and putting my hair to rights with my fingers. I
ached all over, but realised that this was a possibility after the tension
of a longish dream. I showed no other after-effects of my fantasy skirmish
with my charge. I limped to the bathroom.
   There was a small strip-light above the bathroom mirror, and this gave a
clearer view of my face. I spotted one or two red marks around my jawline
that the softer lighting in the hall had not betrayed. The cushions on the
sofa had metal zips. I concluded that I may have rubbed my face on these
while asleep.

   When I returned to the lounge, my foot brushed against something. I
picked up Amanda's black cheerleader's skirt. So it had been real! The
waistband fastened and unfastened easily with Velcro, so the girl's
annoyance had been an act.
   Now I spotted a small, plastic eye observing me from on top of the
television. A web-cam? Surely not! My mind was gripped by a sudden panic.
If my antics with Amanda -- or, more precisely, vice versa -- had got out
on to the net, it would take no time at all for my literate pupils to click
on to them; but my fears were dispelled. A wire from the small camera led
downwards, into the back of the equipment beneath the TV, all of which was
switched off.

   "Why is Amanda's skirt downstairs?" The elder Vann had let herself into
the house silently, and had come into the room. Miranda was now folding the
telltale item of apparel with a stern air. I gave a start.
   "Ah -- Amanda was showing me some moves," I stammered. "Dancing," I
added, euphemistically.
   "I suppose that's one way of putting it." Miranda's mock disapproval had
given way to a smile. She added, "You mustn't feel too bad about yourself.
Amanda may look young, but she's actually eighteen years old." I felt
better, but only very little, to learn that I'd been turned over by an
adult rather than a teen. "My daughter stopped developing at age twelve,"
explained the mother. She turned to attend to the video recorder beneath
the TV. There had perhaps been the trace of a tear at the corner of her
eye. Had I located the chink in the great woman's armour?
   Then, a mental double take: "If Amanda's eighteen, why did you need a
babysitter?"
   "Neville, I asked you to be with my daughter during the evening,"
grinned Ms Vann. "I never asked you to baby-sit." Miranda removed a
videotape from the equipment. "I asked Amanda not to rough you up too
much. You should see the dilapidated state of some men who go out of here."
It was a sobering realisation. I was merely the most recent in a series of
attendees who had been cannon fodder for the trainee fighter.
   "That small camera," I ventured. "Please don't tell me we were visible
over the Internet."
   "No, you weren't," confirmed Miranda. "I need to review the tape,
first!"

   The enigmatic lady teacher had gone upstairs, uttering something about
payment; but I was reluctant to accept cash for such strange goings-on this
evening.
   "Could you come up?" she requested, softly.
   On arrival at the first floor, I was surprised to see that Miranda had
changed, and was wearing a large, dark T-shirt which allowed a generous
view of her excellent legs. The legend, 'Now you're gonna die', was
emblazoned on her front in gold capitals. I hoped this would be in the
Shakespearean sense, only.
   "Amanda is asleep," she said. "She always rests well after a workout."
Miranda pushed open one of the doors from the landing to reveal that a
medium-sized bedroom had been equipped like a small gym. On the floor was
a professional-looking wrestling mat. "I thought I'd pay you in kind," she
continued -- although "kind" was not a word I would have applied to the
treatment that both Vanns were evidently capable of dishing out.
   Now, I spotted the items in Miranda's hand -- the leather straps and
rubber paddle which her daughter had used, earlier -- and my heart sank.
   "I've asked Amanda not to use these." Miranda tossed the forbidding
weapons into a bin. "She keeps salvaging them from the dustbin. They were
sick 'Thank You' gifts from a man whose title I took."
   She pulled on a pair of white wrist bands, which complemented white
trainer socks she was already wearing. I was pleasantly surprised to hear
her giggle when she saw my continuing look of concern. "Don't fret," she
laughed, pulling the T-shirt over her head. "I'll make it enjoyable."
   She moved to the centre of the mat. Apart from the socks and wristbands,
Miranda Vann was wearing only a pair of immaculate white briefs. She looked
superb. For the second time tonight, I experienced arousal mingled with
trepidation. I wondered what "it" might be, and I trusted that she meant
"enjoyable" for me, as well as for her.


   [DO YOU KNOW A "MIRANDA VANN"? I AM LOOKING FOR PICS OF WOMEN WHO
RESEMBLE THE GREAT WOMAN AS DESCRIBED ABOVE, TO HELP ILLUSTRATE THE STORIES.
THIS CAN BE A SHOWBIZ PERSON OR ONE OF YOUR ACQUAINTANCES. MUST BE FAIRLY
ATTRACTIVE. NO HARD-CORE STUFF, PLEASE. komkev@hotmail.com]