Self Improvement Contract

I've been preparing a contract of sorts, a list of expectations, of things that I know that I should naturally do as a responsible adult.

Arriving at the realization that there is someone out there who can and will help be the best person I can be is so exciting...

I find myself weighing the difference between a good girl spanking and a bad girl spanking - if I don't have clean panties every day, I think, what should that earn me? It seems a kind of trifling offense, but it's one of my especial issues - having laundry done and in general having everything tidy. 

I have fantasies of a mysterious mentor showing up to do a white glove inspection. Though I've been warned ahead of time of his arrival, I don't quite know what to expect.  I've never really been properly trained in how to clean a home...in my fantasy it unfolds this way:

He arrives, and quickly I can see his dismay. He doesn't even bother to put on his white gloves, as it seems obvious to him that my housekeeping is sadly lacking.

"Libby," he begins, in his Scottish brogue that makes me go all furry inside, "are we really going to do this?"

"Yes, Sir," I giggle, "I'm sorry, Sir, I do want to do this."

"Then why are you giggling, Girl?" His disappointment makes my giggling stop.

"I'm sorry."

He shakes his head. For a moment I wonder if he's going to leave.

"Please, then, Libby, you must cooperate." I bow my head at his chastisement.

"All right then, let's begin. You're wearing nice clean panties, I'm sure?"

"Absolutely." This was something upon which we'd been absolutely clear I was to do.

"Good. Off with your jeans, then, Girl." He said the words offhandedly, and I wasn't sure that I'd heard him right. He was opening the brown leather satchel that he brought, the one I'd seen him carry on campus.

"Problem?" He asks me, eyebrows raised.

"No, Sir." Quickly I unbutton and unzip my jeans. I cannot wait to get them off, truly, and challenge myself to have them fully off and have myself posed demurely by the time he turns around to see me. I don't succeed.  I'm hopping a little, struggling to free my left foot of my Levi's as he turns around. He tries to hide his bemusement, and I blush. He's a gentleman.

Finally I'm free of my jeans, and, trying to cover for my little humiliation, say proudly, "yes, Sir," and stand coolly, arms behind my back, in my little black briefs.

He barely affords me a glance.

"Good girl," he says, but it's offhanded. Not the meaningful Good Girl that I crave.

He hands me a red spiral notebook, the kind one buys for .39, and a pen. I peek within the cover. In big black letters, he has written "Libby's housekeeping book". When I feel that he's watching me, I quickly close the book.

"It's alright, Libby, you may look at it, though you were correct to think that you should ask first. What a little brat you are to look without asking!" I blush. He seems more amused than angry. "You should have asked, shouldn't you have?"

"Yes, Sir. I'm sorry, Sir." I find myself shifting involuntarily from one foot to the other.

"It's alright. We're just starting. Have a seat, Libby," he gestures toward the stacked pillows on my floor. Just then, he notices my jeans in a heap on the floor, and looks at me with a question in his eyes. "You just leave your clothes on the floor like that?" I feel myself blush deeply.

"No Sir. I'm sorry, Sir." I scramble to pluck them from the floor and fold them.  Even more nervous, now, I hold the jeans across my lap.

"Put them down on the floor beside you, Girl, and open your book. That's yours. Since it's what you need, I'm going to tell you what a man expects in a clean home. You're to take notes in that book I brought you. You must keep it and study it and always be ready to present it to me in good shape, with notes and reports and questions, if you have them. Are you going to be able to do that, Libby?"

"Yes, Sir," my hands are shaking as I take the cap from the pen and get ready to write.

"You make keep the book as you see fit, Love, but you need to always be able to explain my expectations, and to demonstrate that you've fulfilled them. I mean, for God's Sake, Libby, you're a grown woman. You should at least be aware of HOW to keep a home, do you understand?"