A treatise on discipline #wipitup

It’s 2017 and a new book is progressing to completion. Welcome to WipitUp Wednesday, hosted at a new website and many thanks to Meredith O’Reilly for hosting the blog hop. Participants share their latest works in progress or newly published works across a range of erotic romance and spanking romance. I hope you’ll stop by and read a few more excerpts.

Mine is at the start of as a yet untitled work.  A Victorian Romance with a twist. My heroine Kelly isn’t from that era, she’s a modern girl working in an old house converted into a museum. She’s found herself back in the 1880’s in the library of the building she works in. She’s trying to find out how she’s travelled back in time and who lives in the house.

***

Sitting down at the desk, she opened the top drawer. Inside were a few blank sheets of paper and pens – proper fountain pens with smooth wooden handles. Further down was a drawer filled with ledgers. She opened one and deciphered the complex lettering – an account of a business. A shoe factory. The Yarlswoods had made their fortune in shoes. As far as she was aware, these ledgers were lost, thrown out by the family before it bequeathed the house to the trustees. The last date on the ledger was January 8th 1881. It gave her a chilling tingle down her spine – had she moved through time? Impossible. Yet, everything around her told her differently, including the smell of smoldering embers in the fireplace and lamp oil. No, it couldn’t be possible; she had to find a logical explanation.
The bottom drawer was stiffer and she tugged on it. Something gave. She grimaced. It might have been locked and she’d probably broken into the drawer.
Inside and pushed to the back of the drawer was one solitary bound notebook. She listened again and heard nothing, no footsteps or voices. Just as it should be, as far as she was concerned she was the only one in the house. At least, she had been before she was dragged into the mirror.
The handwriting in the book was different to the ledger. It was a journal of some kind with dates and jottings, some more lengthy than others. What caused her to snatch her breath were the drawings.
Whoever had authored the journal wasn’t simply recording a diary, they were describing incredible scenes of discipline and drawing pictures to accompany the descriptions. Kelly gasped at the sketches of naked bottoms, which included the creases above the thighs, and the deeply shaded cleft as if to hide what lay between the buttocks. The figures were bend over and on many of the bottoms were tramlines. Written in the margins were detailed descriptions of the number of marks; the bruises and welts. Scanning the words, it was apparent the tone wasn’t profane or ugly, but rather scientific and thoughtful. The accounts were made more remarkable by the graphic intricacies the author had provided about the manner of the punishments, including the implements used and number of strokes.
Kelly thumbed through the pages. Ten, no, a dozen or more accounts of spankings. All on women’s bottoms and each page written in the same handwriting. The tone remained the same – impersonal and factual, and not once was the name of the woman provided, only their ages, which ranged from eighteen to twenty-two, and a summary of their disposition.
A pervert? Some ghastly, deranged individual who took pleasure in having young women spanked and wrote down the details of their punishments. Why the hell would anyone do such a thing?
Kelly returned to the front page, and it’s title.

A treatise on discipline, in particular the characterisation of bare bottom spanking and its pervasive response on ill-mannered young women.

It appeared to be a genuine study, as if it were possible to study such a thing as spanking. She slammed the book shut, then unable to resist the temptation, she opened it again and continued to read.
Kelly’s fascination with spanking born was in minutes, not days or months. She couldn’t stop reading, pouring over the pictures. Her heart fluttered with excitement and her nipples tingled, hardening into pebbles under the padded cups of her bra.