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Obedience: The Sketchbook

The door clicked softly behind her. Ashley was gone.

Andrew stood in the silence of the apartment, sipping his coffee. The same morning routine: eggs, laptop, emails. His event clients were quiet today -- good. That meant a slower day, more time to relax.

She'd left early for a multi-leg international loop, gone for at least three nights. It was a strange living arrangement, this two-bedroom split between him and Ashley -- but cheap, easy, and clean. And Ashley?

Ashley was sweet. Polite. Obsessively neat. She always giggled nervously when he said anything even remotely authoritative, like "close the door properly," or "next time knock." Something about her flinching made him pay attention. Something in how she obeyed, instinctively, without argument.

He hadn't thought about it too deeply.

Until now.

His second coffee in hand, he passed the living room -- and paused.

Something was on the couch.

A black sketchbook. Leather-bound. Thick. Expensive-looking.

He raised an eyebrow. That wasn't there last night.

He glanced down the hall. Her door was shut, but he knew she was gone -- flight 221, out at 6:25 a. m. She'd be halfway across the country by now.

Still, he hesitated.

A moment passed. Then another.

Then he sat down.

He opened the cover.Obedience: The Sketchbook фото

The first page was blank.

So was the second.

Then he turned one more.

And stopped.

It was pencil -- soft graphite, crosshatched and detailed like something out of an art gallery. The figure was unmistakable: a girl, nude, kneeling on a hard surface. Her wrists were bound behind her back with rope, palms up, arms straight. Her head was tilted down, her chin lifted by a hand that wasn't fully drawn -- just fingers gripping her jaw.

There was tension in her body. Shame. Her knees were red. Her hair matted to her cheek.

She was crying.

He blinked.

This wasn't just a drawing.

This was... vulnerable.

He flipped again.

Another scene: The same girl, it seemed, from behind. She was bent over a low table, a plug visibly lodged in her ass, the faint trace of a tail drawn with just a few flicks of the pencil. Her back was arched, and the shape of a flogger hung over her shoulder, just the tips of it drawn mid-swing.

In the margin:

"Only allowed to cum after she cries."

Andrew inhaled slowly.

He turned the page.

Another. And another.

A girl on her knees in a restaurant bathroom, a cock drawn pressing against her lips, her arms behind her again -- this time cuffed to a pipe. A crowd of silhouettes could be seen in the mirror, the door clearly ajar.

Beneath it:

"Left her gagged during dinner. No one knew."

He flipped again.

A full two-page spread: A woman blindfolded and ball-gagged, hogtied across a mattress. Her legs were spread by a bar. Her toes curled in tension. Her holes sketched in tight detail -- stuffed, obscenely, with what was clearly meant to be two separate toys. The kind of drawing someone does only when they've lived it. Or needed to.

His cock twitched.

He didn't stop flipping.

Page after page -- each more shocking, intimate, and raw than the last.

One page simply read:

"Free Use Toy"

With a drawing of the same girl sitting on a bed, wrists tied to her ankles, head tilted back, cum sketched across her chest, her expression... serene.

The page after that?

"Training Day One"

A collar being locked around her throat. The same girl. Blank eyes. Tears streaking her cheeks.

Andrew leaned back.

He ran his hand through his hair, staring down at the sketchbook like it had bitten him.

He shouldn't feel aroused.

But he did.

Deeply.

Fiercely.

Unapologetically.

Because this wasn't porn. This wasn't fantasy.

This was Ashley.

She'd left it out.

He flipped to the back cover -- inside the leather, a small pouch was visible. He opened it.

More drawings. But not just sketches -- practice poses. A list in pencil, half-erased, barely readable. He squinted.

• Kneel, thighs spread

• Sit on heels, palms up

• Mouth open, hold until told

• Crawl to him

• Gag practice

• Cry quietly

It was organized. Methodical.

Andrew stood. Closed the book. His cock pressed against his waistband.

He walked into the kitchen, turned on the tap, then off again.

Then back to the couch.

The sketchbook was still warm.

He stared at it for several more minutes, then picked it up.

And walked to her room.

The door was unlocked.

It always was.

He stepped in slowly.

Everything was perfectly placed: makeup, uniform bag, jewelry. Her bed was made.

He stepped around to the nightstand.

And there -- just barely peeking out beneath the frame -- was a small black zipper.

A bag.

He knelt.

Pulled it free.

His hand hovered over the zipper.

Then he opened it.

And smiled.

Andrew sat back on his heels. The black duffel lay on the floor beneath Ashley's bed, the metal zipper just barely glinting in the light.

He reached under, slow and deliberate, and slid it out across the carpet.

It was heavier than expected.

He unzipped it halfway -- then paused.

He could stop.

He could zip it up, put it back, and pretend he hadn't seen her sketchbook, hadn't felt the sharp pull of his cock twitching against his waistband while he stared at those dirty little pencil lines.

But he didn't.

He opened it fully.

Right away he smelled her. That soft, warm scent of lotion and fabric softener and something unmistakably human -- her arousal, soaked into the bag, the toys, the straps.

He exhaled.

At the top was a soft velvet blindfold, folded neatly, creased at the bridge. Well-used. Underneath, a pair of pink leather cuffs, still looped together. One had worn scratch marks at the notch holes, the metal dulled from friction.

Then he found the collar -- black, slim, clean, with a worn-in D-ring and a tiny silver tag. It was blank on one side. On the other?

"TOY."

He blinked.

It wasn't a joke.

This girl -- this polite, blushing, well-behaved roommate -- was not just fantasizing.

She was submitting.

To someone.

Or worse -- no one yet. Which meant she was waiting for someone to find her.

Andrew felt something primal twist low in his gut.

He pulled the collar aside.

There, neatly packed beneath it, were the toys.

A pink wand vibrator, rechargeable. A glass plug with a rose gold stem and silicone gem. Next to it, a silicone dildo with a suction base -- soft pink, still slick around the lower shaft, dried in patches.

He smirked.

She hadn't cleaned it.

Next: a small metal spreader bar, about 16 inches wide, with polished hooks at both ends. Clamps. A blindfold. Ball gag. A leash.

The last item wasn't a toy. It was a folded sheet of paper, creased four ways, edges smudged in purple ink.

He opened it and read the title at the top:

"Punishment Ideas ???????????? -- I want to be FILTHY."

Her handwriting was round, exaggerated. Some words were underlined. Some had checkmarks. Some had hearts. Some were scratched out.

He read them slowly.

[✓] "Hold the vibe against my clit until I cry. Then five more minutes."

→ (Polaroid taped nearby: Ashley's thighs trembling, wand pressed against her soaked panties. A wet spot visible. Tear streaks under her eyes. Caption in Sharpie: "#4 -- I lasted 13 mins.")

[✓] "Go to Trader Joe's braless. No jacket. Smile at the cashier."

→ (Polaroid: Ashley in a tight tank top. No bra. Hard nipples. Wide smile. Caption: "You have no idea, do you?")

[ ] "Sit plugged in first class. Serve drinks with it buzzing. No flinching."

→ (Note: "Need to find right plug. Risky.")

[✓] "Drink from the dog bowl. On camera."

→ (Polaroid: Ashley kneeling over a pink bowl, tongue out, hair tied back. Caption: "Good girl? ????")

[ ] "Edge 10 times, no cumming. Film the last three."

→ (Crossed out. "FAILED. Try again. No cheating.")

[✓] "Write 'USE ME' on my stomach. Stay that way for 24 hours."

→ (Polaroid: Her shirt lifted in bed, marker bold across her skin. "Still wet from hour 18.")

[✓] "Slap count. Hard. Between thighs only. Say thank you each time."

→ (Note: "Got to 17 before crying. Soaked. Needed more.")

[ ] "Order Starbucks with clamps on. No bra. No eye contact."

→ (Star drawn. "DO THIS NEXT.")

[✓] "Record myself gagging on dildo. Caption: 'Am I trained yet?'"

→ (Note: "Almost puked. Rewatching made me wetter.")

[ ] "Be told to bend over by a stranger. Say 'Yes, Sir' and walk away."

→ ("Might cry. Save for later.")

[ ] "Crawl to Sir's room with plug, leash, and note in mouth."

→ (Underlined. "Only if he finds this.")

[✓] "Send voice recording of begging. Keep it under 60 seconds."

→ (Checkmark + heart. "Was soaked just recording.")

[ ] "Kneel in public park for 10 mins. Act like it's normal."

→ ("Do early. Don't make eye contact.")

[ ] "Wear vibrating panties to the airport. No underwear. Setting at 2."

→ ("Need better batteries.")

[ ] "Serve coffee to male guest in robe only. Hair tied. Gag hidden in pocket."

→ ("Maybe next layover.")

Andrew turned over the last Polaroid.

It was different.

Ashley on her knees in her bedroom mirror. No makeup. Tear-streaked. Holding a sign in both hands, arms shaking:

"I'm ready to be broken."

Written beneath it, in the same purple pen:

"I just need someone who won't be gentle."

He stared at the photo for a long time.

No smile. No filter. No performance.

Just surrender.

He set the photos and list back in place with care.

Then walked to the kitchen. Opened the drawer. Pulled a blank index card and pen.

And wrote:

You can pretend you're not aching to be owned,

but next time you hide your collar,

clean the dried lube off your dildo.

I almost believed you'd forgotten how to beg.

You haven't, have you?

Try harder.

I'm watching now.

He folded the card once.

Returned to her room.

Slid it gently into the open toy bag, right over the collar and punishment list.

Zipped the bag closed.

Slid it back under her bed -- exactly as it was.

Then he left her door open.

Just wide enough for her to know: someone had seen.

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