Miss Helena's Ballet Academy for Immature Mothers - Chapter One (Patreon)

It was a hot summer morning when Helena arrived at her ballet academy.

She worked hard the entire year to market her brand-new little girls’ division. Her method was new and innovative and would take those little girls to become the best ballet dancers in the world. But, as the day of the grand opening drew closer, she discovered one simple truth about living in a first-world country.

People, especially mothers, can be assholes.

Classes hadn’t even begun, and she already had dozens of complaints of preoccupied mothers with nothing better to do with their lives than micromanaging their daughters. Not to mention the helicopter trend everyone in America eagerly jumped into. She couldn’t believe she was missing the days of hard work in Belarus.

But it didn’t matter. It was the first day, and she was going to enjoy it. No matter how difficult parents were, she knew she had it in her to deal with the mothers. She had even gone as far as to use makeup that morning. Not as if she needed it. The twenty six-year-old’s fair skin was impeccable. Her body was something to marvel at. Her fashion sense was beyond what most people in America could even comprehend. And all of it combined with her methodic and pragmatic mind.

Nah, few things were out of her control, and if parents thought they could come and press her into giving their daughter special treatment, they had something else coming.

She opened the door to the academy.

The place had cost her a lot of money, but it was worth it. Her husband was willing to invest, and she had proven resourceful. Beautiful as she was, her mind and dominant personality actually got Robert to marry her. She knew that. And she knew that whatever she decided to do with her life, she would succeed.

“Good morning, Miss Helena,” said her assistant.

“Morning, Greta.”

Greta was an older woman, around forty-five. Very husky and stern. She dressed the part and intimidated the shit out of most people that met her. However, Helena found her presence comforting. Greta reminded her of her old ballet teacher. The one that had turned her from a scared little girl into the woman she was now.

“Are you ready for the kids?”

Greta nodded.

“I will need your help, uhm, dealing with the parents. They can be, uhm, a little out of touch with reality.”

Greta nodded again, “I’ve got just the thing to deal with immature girls.”

“Perfect,” said Helena, “Then let’s begin the day.”

Chapter One

Marissa couldn’t believe how bad traffic was that morning.

She left an hour earlier ‘cause she knew that taking Camille to her ballet lessons was important for the girl. Her husband was not going to do it, and even if she had an important meeting that morning, Camille was her life. Her own mother never took her to any type of lesson, not even to school.

Marissa was not going to be like her mother.

Camille looked so much like Marissa herself. The girl had the same perfect eyebrows and hazel eyes. Although, obviously, Marissa was taller and with massive breasts, even for someone with a kid. Still, she kept herself in shape. Some would call her a MILF. She would call herself a sexy and powerful woman.

“Mom, it’s already started.”

“It’s okay, darling. We’ll be there in no time.”

Camille nodded.

Marissa speeded up so much that she didn’t notice the biker next to her, which crashed against her driver’s mirror, ripping it off immediately.

“You mother fucker,” she shouted, lowering the window, “I’m going to fucking sue you into oblivion. You dumb cunt.”

“Mommy,” said Camille, “We are not supposed to say bad words.”

Marissa turned to see her daughter.

“Darling, let mommy deal with this.”

“But my classes.”

Marissa breathed in slowly, as her therapist had told her to do.

They were just two blocks away now, and there was no point in filling the biker that had disappeared already. Her car had a built-in camera specifically for this type of situation, so she would just have to deal with the insurance company.

“Alright, let’s get you there,” said Marissa, kissing her daughter’s forehead.

Camille nodded.

She drove straight to the academy, thinking she would take a long sabbatical one day. No more responsibilities. No more driving. No more anger management therapy sessions. Just her, a mimosa, and some massages.

When they arrived at the academy, classes were already on their way.

Marissa knocked at the door of the room where Miss Helena was teaching. The tall woman with beautiful blonde hair and a physique that made her feel ashamed of her own turned to face her. A cold glare that would’ve fulminated anyone. But Marissa wasn’t anyone. She was the regional manager of one of the most respectable companies in the country. She had a two-hundred-dollar salad the night before, and there was no way she would lose against a slav bitch.

She knocked again.

“Mommy, it’s okay. We are late. We can come back tomorrow.”

“I didn’t come all the way here just to have that pretentious Russian asshole send us away.”

She knocked again.

But it wasn’t the ballet teacher that opened the door. Instead, it was a very rough-looking woman with a clear German background. Strong and menacing didn’t begin to describe her presence.

“No lateness in ballet,” she said with a clear foreign accent.

“Excuse me?” Asked Marissa.

“No lateness in ballet. No punctuality, no classes. Now get out. You blocking door.”

“Who the fuck do you think you are? I’m paying for these classes, and I don’t like your tone, you old cow.”

Camille grabbed her mommy’s hand, pulling it away.

“Not now, sweetie. Mommy is talking.”

Greta got closer until the mother was now face to face with the teacher’s assistant. The tension could be felt in the cold air around the two of them, but before either could say anything else, Miss Helena herself stepped out.

“What’s going on?” Asked Helena with another clear foreign accent.

“This woman is being very disrespectful,” said Marissa.

Helena scanned the mother and turned immediately to smile at the little girl beside her, “Hello, sweetie. Would you like to join us?”

Camille nodded.

“Greta, would you please take the lady to the waiting area? I’d like to have a little chat with her after classes.”

“I can’t stay. I have things to do,” said Marissa, holding her phone in one hand as it rang, “An important meeting.”

Helena grabbed the phone.

Marissa was shocked.

“Look, Misses…Not important. I’m allowing your daughter in my classes even when she broke the rules. But if you want to leave with your daughter, never to return to my academy again, I see no problem.”

Marissa felt a chill traveling through her spine. The tall teacher, though almost ten years younger than her, was towering over her personal space and glaring at her, like Marissa’s own mother had done when she was a kid. She could choose to leave. But the disappointment in Camille’s eyes made her reconsider.

“Give me my phone back, and I’ll wait,” said Marissa, not wanting to cause a further scene.

“No phones allowed. Rules,” said Helena, giving Marissa’s phone to her strict and rough-looking assistant, “Take her with the others, Greta, please.”

“Ya, Miss Helena,” said Greta, “Follow me.”

Helena and Camille returned to the practice room, and the door closed. Marissa, on the other hand, followed the rough-looking assistant through some halls and corridors until they reached a mundane door on the other side of the academy.

“In,” said Greta, opening the door, “Wait there. Miss Helena will be with you after classes.”

Marissa went in, and the door closed. But she wasn’t alone.

The room was painted pastel pink with cartoon characters from the shows and movies that her own daughter was already too old to watch. Even the chairs were colored and too small for adults, yet three other women were sitting in them.

She made eye contact with the one closest to her.

A beautiful woman with dark skin and an elegant presence. She was having a hard time fitting into the chair she had been given. Smartly dressed, with heels and a suit. She smiled at Marissa.

“Another one?” Asked the adult woman sitting next to the tall and beautiful dark-skinned one.

This one was the opposite. A bit short, funny-looking, with one of those boy haircuts that was trendy amongst lesbians. The way she dressed was also rough and boyish. If the word tomboy was a person, it would be her.

“What chu do?” Asked the tomboy woman.

“Late,” said Marissa, “You?”

“I might have insulted ballet as a whole in front of that weird-looking assistant of hers,” said the Tomboy woman, “The name’s Stella. You?”

“Marissa.”

“Candace,” said the tall and beautiful dark-skinned woman, “The one in the corner is Brett.”

Marissa turned to see the last woman in the room.

It wasn’t much of a woman but a young adult. She looked barely twenty, maybe some girl’s sister. She was hot, young-fucking hot. Marissa had never done anything with another woman, but she felt tempted. The girl’s body was definitely the extreme version of femininity that one would attribute to Aphrodite herself.

Although, unlike most girls her age, she didn’t have a phone in her hands.

“Why are you here?” Asked Marissa to Candace.

“Had a little argument with one of the kids.”

“With a kid?”

“She was being disrespectful of my daughter. And, I may or may not have made her cry.”

“No judgment,” said Marissa.

“Same,” said Stella.

“What about her?” Asked Marissa, turning to see the young woman on the other side of the room.

“She had her phone with her. And that Russian lady was angry.” Said Candace.

“So, is this like detention?”

Candace nodded, chuckling, “Yeah, and the warden is that awful woman. The one with the little mustache.”

Marissa knew she meant the assistant.

Minutes passed as they sat there, waiting for Miss Helena to come back for them. Had Marissa not wanted to make her daughter’s life better than hers was when she was a kid, she would already be gone. Dealing with her insurance company and working hard to make more money than her husband eventually. But alas, she didn’t want to disappoint Camille. Not again.

“That’s so fucking insensitive. I’m a proud married member of the LGBT community,” she heard Stella say, “You can’t just read that in front of me.”

“Why not?” Asked Candace.

“Because it’s homophobic, racist, transphobic, and anti-woman.”

Marissa turned to see what the argument was about and realized immediately what was happening. Candace, tall and beautiful as she was, was reading the new Trump biography. One of them black republicans, perhaps.

“I find it so funny when a white woman tells me something is racist,” said Candace, standing up and towering over Stella.

Stella did the same, “I’m one-sixteenth Cherokee. Just so you know. I’m not white.”

Candace laughed in her face.

“You wanna fight?”

“Bring it, you hobbit.”

“Hey, girls,” said Marissa, standing up too, “Let’s not get into any more trouble today.”

“Shut the fuck up, you cis white woman,” said Stella.

“This doesn’t concern you,” said Candace, “It’s between his libtard and me.”

Marissa didn’t want to do it. But all the rage she had been holding inside her couldn’t be kept buried any longer. She went straight to Stella and slapped her right on the left cheek. But Stella wasn’t shocked. The little woman with the boyish haircut gave Marissa a big ol’ punch in the face, and that’s when Candace got in the fight.

The other woman, the young one, stood up too. Though, unlike them, she went straight to the door.

“What are you doing?” Asked Marissa, pulling away from the fight while Candace and Stella kept going at it.

“Need to pee,” answered the young woman, “But I can’t seem to open the door.”

“That’s impossible. They wouldn’t keep us here without a way out,” said Marissa, walking towards the door, “You probably aren’t doing it right.”

She turned the doorknob over and over again, but nothing happened.

The door was definitely locked from the outside.

“Hey,” said Marissa to the two women that were still trying to fight each other, “We’ve got a problem.”

They stopped.

“We are locked.”

“No way,” said Stella and Candace in unison.

Brett started banging on the door, “Get me out of here. These old people are fighting. Please, let me out. I need to pee.”

“Stop that,” said Marissa, annoyed at the young woman’s antics, “Why are you even here?”

“I brought my stupid stepdaughter to this stupid class.”

“Stepdaughter? Are you some sort of trophy wife?”

She nodded proudly.

Brett stomped on the door again, “Let me out, you old cows. Let me out. I need to pee.”

Marissa was about to say something, but then the door opened. The rough-looking assistant walked inside the room.

“I heard one of you girls needed the potty.”

Brett raised her hand.

“Come with me,” said Greta, glaring at the other three mothers in the room, “Have you been fighting?”

No one said a word.

“Very well, Miss Helena will know about this.”

“What?” They asked in unison.

But the assistant didn’t answer.

“Hey, you can’t just lock us here!” Said Marissa, but Greta and Brett were already gone, and the door was closed again.

…

Brett rushed behind Greta.

She had always had a problem with making it to the bathroom if she waited too long, but it was okay. She should be able to hold for some more minutes. Even though a few drops had already found their way into her panties.

But then, she felt pain in her wrist. Before she knew it, the assistant grabbed her, pulling her not to the bathroom but to the room where all the little girls were dancing.

“Wait, I need to pee. Leave me alone,” she complained, but she could do nothing.

The woman was not only older than her, but her superior strength meant Brett couldn’t even fight back.

“Please, don’t. I truly need to pee.”

The door to the ballet room opened, and she was greeted by her stepdaughter, her friends, and Miss Helena herself.

“What’s the meaning of this, Greta?”

“We have a big girl that likes to whine and complain.”

“And what do you recommend?” Asked Miss Helena.

“Punishment.”

All the little girls in the room began chuckling, especially Brett’s stepdaughter.

“What say, you girls? Does this big girl need to be taught a lesson?”

“Yes,” they all said in unison.

“Go to the corner, darling,” said Miss Helena, towering over the stepmother, “You will remain there until the lessons are over.”

“But.”

“No buts. Or should I call your husband and explain you are the reason his daughter was not accepted into my academy.”

Brett wasn’t scared of many things, but she did fear her husband’s rage. He was not abusive, but as a trophy wife, she couldn’t just displease him.

“To the corner,” said Miss Helena.

And Brett obeyed, sobbing and avoiding eye contact with the girls. She just hoped she could hold it for ten more minutes.

“Thanks for your help, Greta. How are the others doing?”

“Nasty little girls that require punishment too.”

“I see,” Mis Helena paused, smiling, “I think I have a good punishment in mind for them.”