Secret Sketchbooks No. 3

The girl does like drawing sex and animals. Not as directly as one might, because the girl is not that way, but she does dabble a little curiously. Bad, wicked thing. But not so wicked.

Secret Sketchbooks No. 2

Kay, so you sort of liked my last ones so I thought I would show a little more. Such a tease am I and in need of a spanking (jerkie and bobbyg, this means you two. Grin.). So, do enjoy the following um, five...shall we say?

Secret Sketchbooks

Lola got a scanner!! Lola got a scanner!! (Borrowed, but still.)

So, I'll be lazy and rather than post, I'll put some of my sketchbook drawings up. Love you guys!! See whatcha think.

$36,500

I told my boss that I'm not going to take my contract on Thursday afternoon. I told 31 and E Thursday morning. They know where my allegiance and priorities lie. I told some of the faculty on Friday and we all went out after. I'm going to miss the Mexicali Crew. We do need tee shirts.

I tell the students tomorrow. I'm actually pretty sad. I liked most of those little mutants. Sigh.

Town House Part I

“That woman!” she spit, angrily. The soles of her shoes clicked against the last few steps vigorously, the echo through the house communicating her displeasure without hesitation.

Behind her, an older woman with graying blonde hair and a sour face followed, shaking a dirty rag. She was dressed in layers—a tea brown dress, heavy like drawing room curtains over a petty coat. A thick, stained apron and a sweater with fat fingers of yarn cabling down her short arms. Her shawl was falling from her shoulders as her pace quickened to catch the mistress of the house before she could flee to her secret alcove.

“What was that, Miss?” she scowled, voice cracking like her hands. Laney wanted to pity her, but that old hag had it out for her since the first day at the townhouse. Beatrice Pigeon and her husband Archibald had come with the property. Laney had been thrilled to learn that it was her husband’s desire to spend springs in the quaint little home, have breakfast in the beautifully secluded garden, spend cold evenings in front of the hearth in their bedroom.

When she had first met the Pigeons, she thought them a charming couple. They had quarters in the rear of the house and had kept the place for years. Laney hoped her own marriage would be that endearing; Jack was mysterious man, but easy to love. She paced the drawing room in the evenings, waiting for him to arrive, scoop her into his arms and…

“Miss! Miss! You oughten leave your wet petty coats on the lounge. They’ll tint the fabric!” Beatrice called Laney out of her daydream.

“Yes, yes, Beatrice. I know. I’ll see to them in just a moment,” Laney sighed irritably, her fingers rolling into tight fists.

“The Master wouldn’t be pleased to have to replace another piece of—”

“Yes, FINE, Mrs. Pigeon!” she gasped, turning to the older women with a frown. With a few mumbled curses, she shoved Mrs. Pigeon aside and stomped back up the stairs; she didn’t need that ancient bat telling tales on her again. Jack had not been happy when her wet towels had ruined his family’s beautiful antique maple bureau. He had promised that it would be the last time she would make that mistake.

Laney muttered to herself as she scooped her under garments from the chaise, dragged them into the hall, and pitched them over the stairwell; she called out below her, “See that you have those hung in the yard promptly, Beatrice. We know how the Master hates wet clothing.”

She stuck her tongue out at Mrs. Pigeon’s stooped back, grinning and wiping her hands of the whole fiasco. Jack was taking her out that evening and she was still deciding which dress to wear—the blue made her eyes sparkle, but the red transformed her into the bell of the ball. It was such a maddening situation.

She sat at her vanity and swept her dark brown hair back from her face, examining her appearance arrogantly. Eyes or lips tonight? It would depend on the dress. Everything came back to the dress. She turned on the stool and scrutinized them for the hundredth time; the blue was a wide, square cut with capped sleeves. It had a high waistline and fit snugly against her hips and thighs before flaring out around her ankles. It was a gorgeous, rich lapis hue, and an unconventional look. The red was shorter, flirty, a fitted bodice with a plunging neckline. The bottom was weighted and twirled a bit; if she skipped the petticoat, there was a flash to it, subtle, inviting. It was strapless and to be worn with the mink wrap Jack had bought her last Christmas.

Oh, I can’t decide! she thought. She rose and removed her dress, her slip, standing before the mirror and running her hand down her belly, over her thighs, eyes narrowed, lips pursed. She turned and looked at her backside, glancing over her shoulder.

“You ever get tired of that, Miss?” came a voice from the opposite side of the room. Laney looked up abruptly, startled. Beatrice had returned with the sheets from the line; Laney blushed and turned, hotly, thunking her pantied bottom down on the cushion.

“Why do you sneak up on me like that, Beatrice? It’s in poor manners,” Laney snapped, not bothering to cover herself. Beatrice had seen her in less than her garters and brassiere before, when she had been sent to draw Laney’s baths. Laney watched her, blue eyes sharp, as she pulled a cigarette from her silver case and set it between her lips.

Shrugging, Beatrice shook out the sheets and started to fold them, “If you weren’t so enamored with yourself, Miss, you might have heard me call through the door.”

Laney scowled then shook her head, “Never mind, Beatrice. I wanted to ask you something, anyway.”

Mrs. Pigeon snorted, but gave a curt nod.

“It’s about my dress this evening,” she began, standing and dropping her cigarette into the ashtray. She walked over to the wardrobe and ran her hand over the blue dress, sifting the delicate fabric between her fingers, “Which one for tonight, Beatrice?”

Mrs. Pigeon pursed her lips and narrowed her eyes, clearly annoyed, “I don’t rightly care, Miss. But I think that red one is far too short. It would scandalize the poor Master...his wife walking around town like a common harlot.”

“Get out! Get out, you old hag. You’re wretched!” Laney screamed, stomping over to Beatrice and shoving her bodily out the door, “You’re wretched and I hate you! You cow!”

“Why, I nev—”

“I would fire you in half a second, if I could. You’re a hateful,mean-spirited troll,” she sputtered, squealing, her face flushing as she shoved the woman out the door. She could see Beatrice’s smile and it infuriated her. She was going to tell Jack.

“The Master would tan your backside so that you couldn’t sit for a month if you even tried, Miss,” Beatrice reminded her, nodding at the large wide belt that hung on the front of the closet door. Laney paled a bit, refusing to turn and look at the vile stretch of leather. She groaned, pushing against the woman; she was in trouble now.

“Tramp. Strumpet. Tart!” Beatrice whispered heatedly, throwing the linens on the bed and glaring at the younger woman. Laney’s eyes grew wide and she growled; without another word, she kicked Beatrice as hard as she could in the shin. The woman yelped, winced, and slapped Laney across the face, hard, fast, her palm rough and cracked. She turned and hobbled away.

“He’ll hear about this, Miss. You’re in trouble now,” she promised, her loud voice dropping low, “Spoiled, miserable brat.”

Laney knew her night was ruined. She wanted to cry. That horrible old crone had done it again! I hate her, I hate her! Her fingers itched and without thought, she picked up the nearest thing—a China pitcher for her basin—and flung it at Mrs. Pigeon. Heavier than she thought, it crashed to the floor a good four feet behind the woman’s receding back.

Laney’s hand flew to her mouth, her eyes wide and terrified. What have I done? What have I done?

Beatrice turned around slowly. What has she done? What has that nasty child done now? She gasped, the pitcher in a hundred shards across the landing; her voice cracked, “His m-moth…his mother’s antique Gloire-de-Dijon…you stupid girl! You stupid, selfish brat! Irreplaceable. You wicked thing. Get in your room while I clean this.”

Laney fled into her bedroom and threw herself across the duvet, sobbing. That woman! I hate her. She did this on purpose! She wanted to see me get—

She looked up quickly; his belt hung on the back of the door for a reason. She was a brat, he had said. He wouldn’t tolerate it, not from the very first moment they had begun seeing each other. He had promised her that her spoiled behavior would be met with exacting punishment. It was horrible.

She loved him though, and despite the pain and humiliation of having her bare bottom exposed and spanked, cropped, whipped, paddled, lashed viciously, she had agreed to his stipulation.

Laney curled her fists into the blanket and cried harder. She had just wanted to dress up prettily, drape herself in her furs and jewels, and be his princess for the evening. Now, though…everything was ruined. She howled into the cloth, kicking her legs angrily, panty-hose twisting around her firm thighs. Her hair spilled loose and she shook with sobs.

An hour later, after she had finished crying her useless tears, she got up and went back to her vanity, rinsing her flushed and tear-stained face in her basin. She powdered her skin, straightened her stockings, and tried to forget about her impending punishment. The thick belt made it nearly impossible; every moment was filled with dread. She couldn’t ignore the memories of her soft, snowy skin being licked by that glowing leather, the sound of it cracking across her upturned backside as she struggled desperately to stop kicking, stop crying, stop whining, stop moving.

Be a good girl, Laney. Stay. Don’t move. You wouldn’t want me to have to start over, would you?

He demanded that she be obedient, that she prove her submission through accepting punishment with resolve—that she not cry out, that she alter her normally bratty and indignant attitude while he disciplined her. It was so hard.

She got up miserably and walked to their window, looking out onto the street below. It was nearly dark out and she could barely make out the cars through the falling snow and drapes of fog. He would be home shortly; if only there were a way to apologize enough.

There is no apology this big.

She closed the curtains and moved to the crackling hearth, realizing just now that she was still unclothed. Her dresses hung forgotten on the wardrobe, her hair in loose rings around her puffy face, her lip curled into a fat pout.

Beatrice had not been back to change the linens, but Laney was glad. She hated that woman passionately and wished her kick had done more damage. The fire was warming her front and she was painfully aware of what would be warming her back. When the front door opened, she flinched.

She could hear Jack downstairs, stomping snow from his boots. She could hear the keys drop onto the bureau in the front hall, she could hear him enter his study and set down his briefcase. She imagined him sliding his jacket off his broad shoulders, and arranging it over the back of his chair. He would look so handsome in his suit pants and button-shirt, a long black tie, his platinum cufflinks. How much she wished to be gliding down the stairs at this very moment, swathed in red, her hair in a lovely tuck behind her ears. He would smile, wide, appreciating the trouble she had gone to, holding out his arm to her, spinning her around and kissing her full red lips.

She sighed.

He would have some little gift for her—a flower, a tiny glass figurine, new stationary tied with a silk ribbon. He would help her with her wrap, tucking it around her shoulders, pulling her close to him, whispering in her ear secret things that would make her blush, would make her glow, tingle…

She heard him shout her name, “Laney!”

Beatrice had told him, had shown him the pieces. He took the stairs quickly, his footsteps echoing through the quiet house. She was terrified; her eyes scanned the room for something to put over her naked body. She grabbed for her slip and yanked it over her body, smoothing the short, thin crème material over her bare flesh. His hand was on the doorknob.

She swallowed shrinking behind the chaise and pressing herself against the drapes. The door swung open and he was there, filling the frame, just as she had imagined him. His dark hair was slicked back, his handsome face furious; he scanned the room and found her quickly. Without a sound, he entered, turned and locked their door, dropping the key in his pocket. He was the only one allowed to lock doors in their house. This was not good.

She stammered, “J-Jack, Jack…I-I’m sorry. I-I didn’t m—”

“Enough,” he said, motioning for her to come closer, to sit on the chaise. She shook her head slightly, lip trembling. She couldn’t move.

“Excuse me?” he asked, incredulously, “You will not say no to me, Laney. You know better than that. Come here, now.”

She groaned, willing herself to move toward this. Please, one step, one step. She closed her eyes. It was easier to obey, to trick herself into compliance. Her heart was thumping fast and hard, blood rushing in her ears, breath too short. She wondered if she would faint. She hoped she would.

Her fingers slid over the stitching on the lounge, she felt her way to the front, dropping onto the edge of the furniture, opening one eye, then the other. He was not happy. She watched him remove his cufflinks, one and then the other, drop them on the bureau. He rolled up his sleeves, just below his elbow, before turning to her. She was twisting her fingers nervously in her lap, her mouth agonizingly dry. She blinked at him, shoulders curling in, chewing on her lower lip.

“Well?” he asked, his hand on his hips, eyes narrowed on hers. She opened her mouth to answer, but before she could, he shook his head, “Shut your mouth. Let me see if I’ve understood Beatrice correctly. You nearly ruined the fabric on this chaise in the exact same manner that you destroyed the bureau. You were horrible to a woman who is nothing but good and kind to you, calling her na—”

Her mouth swung open and her face was hot. He glared at her, a look she knew too well. She bit her lip angrily, but stayed silent.

“Not a word. Not one. You called her names—you kicked her? You kicked her?!?” he continued with disgust, “And if that weren’t bad enough, you threw my mother’s antique pitcher at her? You could have hurt her…you could have killed her!”

He was fuming. She felt horrible; she could have really hurt that woman. Somehow, she just never thought of those things before making decisions. It didn’t seem to matter now that she had been called a harlot, a brat, nor that she had been slapped. She was out of control and she deserved whatever punishment he chose for her. Her shoulders slumped and she slid her fingernail between her teeth, chewing nervously and not meeting his eyes.

“You are spoiled and selfish. I have to attend this party tonight, and now I will be late. I can see that my efforts to cure you of your childish impulsivity and tantrums have been a waste. I shall have to come up with something new, something more exacting for you. Get up, Laney. Get up and get me my belt from the door."