#beta art

As you might've known, CR33P was in beta all throughout 2024 before being scrapped and re-created for Otome Jam 2025. This obviously includes the character designs! We were initially going for a different style for the game, although the characters' personalities have relatively remained the same.

ugly ass uniforms..genuinely what were they thinking. but this old art holds a soft spot in my heart 🩶

The Rounds Part 4: The Art Teacher

Number eight on the list.

Her name is Julia Lake. She teaches fifth grade at Weston Elementary. Art electives on weekday evenings. A community drawing class — women only, Tuesday nights, the school's art room repurposed after hours into something softer and more serious than finger painting.

You know all of this because the Confessor knows all of this. And the Confessor knows all of this because she does her homework.

What you told her — what you wrote on the list — was simpler. Your niece had a school open house last spring. You went because your sister asked. You walked through the hallways looking at construction paper butterflies and lopsided self-portraits and you were bored in the way adults are bored at children's events — politely, invisibly, counting the minutes.

And then you saw Ms. Lake.

She was crouched beside a table of kids, pointing at something on the wall — their mural, their project, the thing they'd been working on for weeks. She was wearing a loose blouse. Dark green. And when she leaned forward to point, the neckline fell open and you could see down her top — the pale curve of her chest, the edge of a black bra, the shadow between.

You should have looked away. You were standing in a hallway decorated with children's artwork, surrounded by parents and grandparents and small sticky hands, and a teacher was doing what teachers do — crouching to a child's height, making a child feel seen — and you were looking down her blouse.

You didn't look away. You looked longer. You repositioned yourself — moved to the other side of the display, pretended to study a crayon drawing of a house — so the angle held. So you could keep watching while she pointed and explained and had no idea that a man three feet away was collecting what the neckline offered every time she leaned.

You carried those images home like stolen film. Developed them in the dark. Your hand on your cock that night, replaying the angle, the fabric falling, the black bra, the way her collarbone caught the hallway light.

And then you found her Instagram. Nothing explicit — she's an elementary school teacher, her feed is art projects and coffee and weekend hikes. But you studied every photo the way you studied the neckline. A tank top at a farmer's market. A sundress at a friend's birthday. A swimsuit at a lake — one photo, posted and forgotten, that you saved and returned to over and over until the image was worn smooth in your memory like a river stone.

The Confessor listened to all of this. She wrote it down. She didn't flinch at the open house detail — she never flinches — but she held your gaze a beat longer than usual when you said the word crouching.

"She was helping children," the Confessor said. "And you were shopping."

That's what she wrote next to Julia Lake's name in the folio. One word. Shopping.

Tuesday evening. 6:15pm.

The school is quiet — that particular after-hours quiet of a building designed for noise. The hallways smell like floor wax and old paint. The overhead lights are off in the main corridors but the art room at the end of the hall glows warm through the glass panel in the door.

The Confessor walks beside you. Her heels echo on the linoleum. She's carrying the folio and a garment bag you haven't asked about.

"Julia knows we're coming. I spoke with her yesterday."

"You told her?"

"I told her a former visitor to the school needed to speak with her about a personal matter. I told her I'd be accompanying you. She agreed to meet before her drawing class starts."

"Her drawing class."

"Tuesday nights. Women's community figure drawing. Twelve regulars. They start at seven." The Confessor glances at you. That warm, patient expression. "We'll have forty-five minutes."

She opens the art room door.

Julia Lake is setting up easels. Twelve of them, arranged in a wide semicircle facing the center of the room where a low wooden platform stands — about two feet square, draped with a white sheet. A model's platform. Around it, the easels wait like an audience.

She looks up when you enter. Mid-thirties. Dark hair in a loose bun, a pencil pushed through it. Paint-stained jeans. A flannel shirt with the sleeves rolled to the elbows. She's prettier than her Instagram — everyone is, in person, when they're in their own space doing the thing they do.

She recognizes you. You can see it — the slight narrowing, the search through memory. Then it lands.

"You're Amy's uncle. The open house."

"Yes."

"I remember. You spent a long time looking at the mural." She sets down an easel. Wipes her hands on her jeans. Looks at the Confessor. "You're the woman who called."

"I am. Thank you for seeing us, Julia." The Confessor extends her hand. Julia shakes it. Studies her. Studies you. The same calculation every woman has made so far — two strangers, one of them unable to meet her eyes, the other radiating the calm authority of a woman who has done this before.

"What's this about?"

"It's about the open house," the Confessor says. "And what he was actually looking at when he said he was looking at the mural."

Julia goes still. Her hand, reaching for another easel, stops mid-motion.

"Sit down, sweetie," the Confessor says to you. She pulls a student's chair from a table — a small chair, child-sized, the kind with tennis balls on the legs. You sit. Your knees are almost at your chest. Julia stands over you. The Confessor stands beside her.

You're looking up at both of them. A boy in a small chair in a classroom. The architecture of the room has already done half the work.

"Tell her."

You tell her. The open house. The hallway. The mural she was showing the kids. The blouse — dark green, loose neckline — and what you saw when she leaned forward. The angle you held. The way you repositioned yourself to keep it. The images you carried home. What you did with them.

Julia's face changes as you speak. Not anger — not yet. Something more precise. The expression of a woman who is doing arithmetic she didn't expect to do today.

"You were watching me help Keegan with his section of the mural," she says. "He was so proud of that section. He painted the river."

"I know. I wasn't — I wasn't looking at the mural."

"No. You were looking down my shirt while I helped a ten-year-old feel proud of his painting." Her voice is level. Teacher-level. The register of a woman who manages rooms full of small humans and does not raise her voice because she has never needed to. "And then you went home and touched yourself."

"Yes."

"And my Instagram."

"Yes. I found it and I — I saved some photos. A swimsuit photo from a lake. Some others."

"The lake photo. From Sarah's cabin." She says it flatly. "My friend Sarah's bachelorette weekend. That's me in my friend's borrowed swimsuit on a dock being happy."

"I'm sorry, Ms. Lake. I took something that wasn't mine. Multiple times. I—"

"You took a lot of things that weren't yours." She's looking at you in the child's chair. Looking down at you. "You took my open house and you took Sarah's dock and you took my Tuesday coffee and made them all into — what? Fuel?"

"Yes."

"For your hand."

"Yes."

The Confessor reaches into her bag. Produces the laminated specification card. Slides it to Julia the way she slid it to Megan, to Petra, to every woman on the list. Julia takes it. Reads the pink ink through the plastic. Her lips move.

"Four and a half inches."

"At his best," the Confessor confirms.

"And forty-four seconds."

"Timed."

Julia looks at you. At the specification card. At you again. Something recalibrates behind her eyes — the same recalibration you've watched happen in every woman's face, the moment the threat they were calculating dissolves into something smaller and sadder than they expected.

"Forty-four seconds," Julia says. She sets the card on the easel ledge beside her. Looks at the Confessor. "What's the penance?"

The Confessor smiles. Glances at the semicircle of easels. At the model's platform draped in white. At the clock on the wall — 6:38. Twenty-two minutes until the drawing class arrives.

"You run a figure drawing class, Julia. And you need a model tonight."

Julia follows her gaze to the platform. To the easels. To you, sitting in the child's chair with your knees at your chest and your face on fire.

"Oh," Julia says. And the sound she makes isn't surprise. It's recognition — the sound of a teacher who has just been handed the perfect lesson plan.

6:55pm.

The garment bag the Confessor carried in is empty now. Its contents — a white cotton robe, thin, the kind you'd find in a hospital — are on your body. Beneath the robe, nothing. Your clothes are folded in a paper bag behind Julia's desk.

You're standing beside the platform. The robe is tied loosely at the waist. Your cock is half-hard underneath it, pressing against the cotton, visible as a soft ridge if anyone looked closely enough. No one is looking yet. But they will be.

The women begin arriving at seven. They come in ones and twos — carrying tote bags and travel mugs, chatting, settling into their easels the way regulars settle into any weekly routine. Twelve women. Ranging from twenties to sixties. They clip paper to their boards. Arrange their charcoals and pencils. A few glance at you standing beside the platform in the robe and look away without curiosity — they're used to models. This is what happens in drawing class. Someone stands on the platform and you draw them.

Julia closes the door at five past seven. Walks to the front.

"Evening, everyone. We have a guest model tonight." She gestures to you. Twelve faces turn. "He's new to this, so let's be patient with him. We'll start with a few quick gestures — two minutes each — and then move to a sustained pose for the second half."

She turns to you. Her voice drops. Not a whisper — just the private register, the one meant for the person standing closest.

"Robe off. Step up."

Your fingers find the belt. Untie. The robe falls open. You shrug it off your shoulders and it drops to the floor in a white puddle and you are naked in a room full of twelve women and a teacher who knows exactly why you're here.

Your cock is soft. Shrunken. The cool air and the exposure have conspired to reduce you to your smallest possible version — hanging close to your body, retreated, the honest dimensions of a man with nothing left to hide behind.

You step onto the platform. The wood is cool under your bare feet. The white sheet crumples beneath your toes.

Twelve women look at you. At your chest, your arms, your hips — and then, inevitably, at your cock. A few gazes linger. A few move on quickly. One woman in the back row tilts her head slightly, the way you'd tilt your head at a still life that contained fewer objects than you expected.

"First pose," Julia says. "Standing. Weight on your left foot. Right hand on your hip. Turn your body slightly toward the window."

You pose. Your body angled, your hand on your hip, your cock hanging in the open air — soft, small, the subject of twelve charcoal pencils beginning to move across twelve sheets of paper.

The sound of drawing fills the room. The soft scratch of charcoal. The whisper of pencil on paper. You can hear the women working — quick, practiced strokes, capturing your shape in two minutes. Your shoulders. Your ribs. The line of your hip. And between your legs, the small soft truth of you being translated into art by twelve pairs of hands.

"Time. Next pose."

Julia moves you through three gesture poses. Standing, seated, kneeling. Each one a different angle, a different exposure. Each one captured in charcoal by twelve women who are drawing your body with the same focused, professional attention Julia gave to a child's mural on a spring evening — only now the subject is you, and every line they draw includes the thing you spent a year trying to keep secret.

"All right," Julia says. "Sustained pose. Thirty minutes." She walks to you. Stands close. "Lie on your side. Left arm extended. Head resting on your arm."

You lie down on the platform. On your side. The white sheet beneath you. Your body stretched out, your left arm extended, your head resting on your bicep. Your cock lies against your thigh — soft, small, resting. From this angle the women have a clear view of your full length. Every inadequate inch of it, rendered in repose.

"Now," Julia says. She addresses you but her voice carries to the room. "The sustained pose requires that the model maintain his composition for the full thirty minutes. The figure should remain consistent." She pauses. Looks at you. At your cock, lying soft against your leg. "And the figure needs to be complete."

She reaches down. Her hand — the same hand that adjusted Keegan's paintbrush, the same hand that pressed your hip in the open-house hallway of your imagination — wraps around your cock.

The room doesn't gasp. A few pencils stop moving. A few don't.

Julia strokes you. Three times. Four. Firm, efficient, the purposeful grip of a woman adjusting a prop on a stage — straightening a vase, repositioning a lamp. Your cock thickens in her hand. Swells. Stiffens. She holds you at the base until you're fully erect — four and a half inches pointing away from your thigh, rigid, pulsing — and then she releases.

"There," she says. To the class. "That's our composition. I need him to hold this for the sustained pose, so I'll be maintaining him periodically. Don't adjust your drawing when I do — just continue working from the established form."

She steps back. Twelve women look at your erect cock — small, hard, straining — and begin to draw.

The charcoal moves. You can hear it. You can feel their eyes — measuring, estimating, translating the shape of you onto paper with the objective attention of artists engaged in the ancient practice of seeing a body exactly as it is.

Seven minutes in, your erection begins to flag. The adrenaline fading. The cool air. The sustained stillness. Your cock softens — not fully, but enough that the angle changes, the rigidity loosens, and the composition Julia established starts to drift.

Julia notices. She walks to the platform. Kneels beside you.

"Hold still," she murmurs. Her hand wraps around you again. Strokes. Slow, firm, deliberate — not pleasure, not cruelty, just maintenance. The way you'd re-tune a guitar between songs. Your cock stiffens in her grip. Returns to full attention. She holds you there for a moment — ensuring the angle, the firmness, the position matches what the women are drawing — and then releases.

"Continue," she says to the class. She stands. Walks back to the front.

The charcoal resumes.

This happens three more times across the thirty minutes. Each time your cock begins to soften — retreating toward its honest resting state — Julia walks to the platform, kneels, and strokes you back to attention with the same professional efficiency. Each time the women continue drawing, adjusting for the brief interruption the way they'd adjust for a model shifting weight or scratching an itch.

By the fourth maintenance, a dark bead of pre-cum has formed at your tip. Julia notices. Wipes it with her thumb. Casual. The way you'd blot a smudge on a canvas.

"Almost there," she says. To you. Softly. "Ten more minutes."

You hold. Your cock holds. The women draw. The room is filled with the quiet industry of creation — twelve women making twelve portraits of a man who came to their teacher's open house and looked down her shirt while she helped a child, and who is now lying naked on a platform with his small hard cock pointing at the ceiling while she keeps him erect with her hand every seven minutes.

"Time," Julia says.

The charcoal stops. The room exhales. Women lean back from their easels, stretching, looking at their work. A few look at you — still posed, still erect, still lying on the sheet with everything visible.

"You can relax," Julia says. She hands you the robe. You sit up. Pull it over your shoulders. Your cock tents the thin cotton. The evidence of the last thirty minutes still plainly visible.

Julia walks the room. Looks at each drawing. Nods. Compliments a line here, a shadow there. She stops at one easel — a woman in her fifties with reading glasses pushed up on her forehead — and smiles.

"Beautiful work, Diane. You really captured him."

You can see the drawing from the platform. Your body, in charcoal. Your cock, rendered precisely — the exact dimensions, the modest length, the way it points slightly to the left when erect. Permanent. Diane's version of you. The version she'll take home in her portfolio and keep.

Twelve drawings. Twelve versions of your body with your cock at its meager best. Twelve women walking out into the Tuesday night carrying a portrait of the man who spent a year secretly consuming their teacher's image — and who has now been consumed in return, translated into art, every inch accounted for.

The class packs up. Women file out. A few say thank you — to Julia, not to you. You're the prop. Props don't get thanked.

When the room is empty, Julia turns to you. The Confessor, who has been sitting in the back corner with her folio open the entire time, stands and joins her.

"Get dressed, sweetie," the Confessor says.

You dress behind Julia's desk. Pull on your clothes. Your cock is still half-hard. It doesn't know the session is over. It may never know the session is over.

When you emerge, Julia is holding one of the drawings. Not Diane's — her own. She'd been sketching from the front of the room while she taught, and the drawing is spare and precise — just your torso, your hips, and your cock. Rendered with a teacher's clean, economical line. Minimal. Accurate. Devastating.

She pins it to the corkboard behind her desk. Beside the children's artwork. Beside the crayon houses and the watercolor sunsets and the construction paper butterflies.

"I'm going to leave this up for a while," she says. "Nobody will know who it is. But I'll know. And now — every time you think about coming back to look down my shirt—" She taps the drawing. "—this is what was on the other side of that neckline, sweetie. This."

The Confessor opens the folio. "Correction score, Julia? I'd suggest five — the open house context, the sustained nature of the fantasy."

Julia considers. Looks at you. At the drawing on the corkboard. At the twelve empty easels.

"One," she says.

The Confessor pauses. Pen hovering. "One?"

"The penance served its purpose. He won't look down another woman's blouse without remembering tonight." She folds her arms. Teacher's posture. The posture of a woman who has assessed the lesson and found it complete. "I don't pile on when the learning has already happened. That's not how I teach."

The Confessor smiles. Writes it down.

"One. Thank you, Julia. That was remarkable."

Julia nods. Begins collecting the remaining drawings from the easels, stacking them neatly — twelve charcoal portraits of your naked body, your erect cock, your full and permanent specification.

"He can keep the robe," Julia says. "Consider it a graduation present."

Outside. The sidewalk. The evening air cool against your burning face. The Confessor walks beside you. Her heels on the pavement. The mint, produced from her bag, placed in your palm.

"For the nerves," she says. Smiling.

You take it. Your mouth is dry. Your cock is still pressing against your jeans. Your body remembers Julia's hand — the firm, professional grip, the four corrections, the bead of pre-cum wiped away like a smudge on a canvas.

"One point," the Confessor says. "I suggested five. She gave you one." She opens the folio. Writes the number. Closes it. "Teachers. They always surprise me."

She takes your arm.

"Number eight on the list."

Spanks assigned so far: 12.

This is the fourth in a series about a boy, his list, and the women who deserve to know what he's been doing. Each post, the Confessor takes him to a door. Each post, he tells the truth. Each post, his cock confesses what his mouth has been hiding.

Previous: The Rounds #01 - List | The Rounds #02 - The Barista | The Rounds #03 - The Yoga Instructor

Next: Number eleven on the list.

Princess・Story

My personal favourite magma doodles of the AUs! There's a bunch more, but they're in Echo's hands :p

I only have my personal favourites saved I fear

Echo additions

Day 3. Mirror

It's funny that one of Rouge's original names was Shadow. No idea what concept art Omega looks like, so he's sitting this one out.