Hardacre

By Kivutar Amy Koski

Another full length novella from the "QUEEN OF KINK" full of hot lust and domination, seasoned with strict punishments. Sizzling...

HARDACRE: Love, Lust and Punishment

It is 1964 and Philip Russell is studying for his exams in his final term at school. His parents are going to South Africa for 7 weeks and he must stay with his aunt at her remote house called Hardacre on the Yorkshire moors. The last time he saw his aunt he was very little, but he remembers she is strange – odd, with a fixation for rubber and very very strict. He is selfish, petulant, rude and lazy, and this time his parents are on the other side of the world. His aunt will introduce him to the strict discipline she inflicts, with her cane and her rubber tawse. His aunt will ensure he obeys the instructions of the females in the house at all times, or the consequences will be painful in the extreme. Philip hates the regime enough to attempt to run away, to escape the rigours of Hardacre. Then there is Julia: Julia is gorgeous, about his own age and like his aunt has a strict view on discipline with the same strange addiction to rubber. Julia cares more for her horses than for any male. Julia it is who will eventually break Philip across the flogging horse in the punishment room...
Another gripping tale of female domination, discipline and rubber from the pen of Kivutar Amy Koski. Don't forget to visit Kivutar Amy Koski's facebook page for extended excerpts and details of new releases.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kivutar Amy Koski
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310260278

Kivutar Amy Koski

It's been a long journey from the young girl starting out as a new legal graduate, fresh from university. My father was Finnish, and I was brought up in Birmingham. I met Bruno my future husband when he was stationed in Poole many years ago. I moved often in those days, the requirements of the service being paramount, and we ended up here in Scotland at Arbroath. Together we we found a beautiful 10-acre croft (farm) that needed renovation. It overlooks the Moray Firth in the scenic Scottish Highlands. We bought it, and Bruno being very practical and skilled we restored the house and barns, stables etc.It is no accident I write the things I do: both Bruno and I have a terrible weakness for BDSM, femdom and rubber (especially rubber). We have converted one of the haylofts into a fully-equipped punishment/play room, with a flogging horse, vacuum bed, milking stool and restraint spider to name but a few. I can assure you I have the best behaved husband it is possible to imagine! His face is a mixture of fear and desire when I tell him to fetch the key, unlock the playroom and await my pleasure.I write a good deal; it's hard work but I love it and there are those who say I have a talent. I write other more conventional historical romances (with a twist), under another name - it serves to keep the literary establishment at bay. No one who writes the way I do, about the subjects I do, would ever be taken seriously by the publishing industry as the author of a 'literary' piece so that's the way it has to be unfortunately. Both Oscar Wilde and D H Lawrence would have been better served heeding that dictum. I have both a volume of contemporary poetry and a WW1 novel available, as well as another couple in the pipeline. I have so far been discovered by three readers, who have uncovered my nom de plume, (I have no idea how) and I suppose it makes for a bit of fun - no doubt there will be other sleuths who make the discovery.We are considering moving to the sun - it may come off, we have seriously looked at small villas in the quiet mountain areas of Cyprus, Spain, Greek islands and so forth, and the idea of writing in that environment appeals. If it happens it won't be for a year or so, due to personal complications, but we have our fingers crossed. I am always available to chat - I love ideas and swapping personal experiences, but I am often busy and don't get the time I'd like to talk with those of a like mind. I do go on my facebook page regularly, and that is normally the best place to get an instant response. Email is slower, but I check my mails normally every day, so it's a sure process. I love fresh ideas and perspectives, occasionally I work them into my books, and in the past I have included the names of readers in little cameos (you know who you are lol) which I find makes for a piquant little taster of mischief. I hope I provide the kind of book rarely available elsewhere - all my work is of a professional well-edited standard: I have to say not all the indie books I've seen can say that, there are some shocking examples out there, but also some good ones. As ever beauty is in the eye of the beholder I suppose. xxx

Book preview

Hardacre

Kivutar Amy Koski

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First published in Great Britain by PLP Books, 2016.

The moral right of Kivutar Amy Koski to be identified as the author of this work has been asserted by her in accordance with the copyrights designs and patents act of 1988. All rights reserved. No part of this publication may be reproduced, stored in a retrieval system, or transmitted in any form or by any means, without the prior permission of the copyright owner. The names, characters and incidents portrayed in it are fictional. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental.

 Kivutar Amy Koski 2016

ISBN 9781310260278

THIS BOOK CONTAINS ADULT MATERIAL INCLUDING SCENES OF DOMINATION AND PUNISHMENT. AS SUCH IT IS NOT INTENDED FOR MINORS OR THOSE COUNTRIES WHERE SUCH MATERIAL IS ILLEGAL. PLEASE DO NOT READ THIS BOOK IF YOU MAY BE SHOCKED OR OFFENDED BY EXPLICIT MATERIAL.

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1: DEAD MEN TELL NO TALES

2: SAME COIN, DIFFERENT SIDES

3: DESPERATE MEASURES

4: BENEATH THE SPELL

5: THE ENDURANCE TEST

6: SELF DISCIPLINE

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1: Dead Men Tell No Tales

Don’t look so miserable, Philip, it’s only a few weeks, for God’s sake. Why must you always look as though you’ve been abandoned in the wilderness?

Why do I have to stay with Aunt Dorothy?

We’ve been through all this, Philip, why won’t you just accept it for once? Your father has to survey a route for a new railway in South Africa. It’s a huge contract, for the bauxite mines, and we’ll be gone for seven weeks. We’ve arranged it to coincide with the summer holidays from school. You can use the time to revise; it’s your final term, after all, and your exams are looming.

But why Aunt Dorothy? She’s not even a real aunt, and she’s strange.

"You should be grateful she’s agreed to put you up, Philip. Aunt Dorothy loathes visitors at the best of times. She is not strange, just a little unusual and set in her ways. She’s my very best friend from our school days, and very firm in matters of discipline. She was head girl and senior prefect. In fact a few weeks under her supervision will do you the world of good!"

She’s still strange. Why would I be happy going to stay at her reclusive, draughty old house in the middle of the Yorkshire Moors? It’s not as if there’s even anything to do there. Just miles and miles of woods and lakes and bloody grass…

Philip! Do you have to swear like that? Make him stop it, Bernard. It’s not right a young man of seventeen using that sort of language.

Especially at breakfast, eh, my love? Bernard Russell grinned at his wife and winked, putting down his paper and lifting his coffee mug as he did so. Dorothy won’t let him speak that way. She’ll soon sort him out tout-bloody-sweet!

"Bernard, please! How can I reprimand Philip when you say exactly the same thing within thirty seconds of him? Sometimes I think I’ve wasted my time!"

He’ll be absolutely fine, Christine; will you stop harassing the boy? He’ll have lots of time to relax and revise. The peace and quiet will do him good.

Yes, you’re probably right, Bernard. Julia will probably be there too. That will be company for him. Someone his own age to talk with, and Dorothy says she’s quite the young lady now. She might be a civilising influence on him; your cousin’s only three months younger than you, Philip.

"Mother, she’s not my cousin – not really! And from what I hear she’s only interested in horses in any case. Not a promising start, is it?"

You can be so ungrateful sometimes, Philip. I hope you don’t behave this way as the guest of your aunt.

"She’s not my bloody aunt…"

Bernard, stop him, please!

I can’t stop him, but we both know somebody who will. Is that why you arranged this, my love? There was a pregnant pause in the conversation, full of meaning and loaded with nuance. It was quite lost on Philip Russell, but he did catch the look that passed between his mother and father. He also caught part of a silently mouthed phrase not meant to be intercepted. He thought his mother formed the words just you wait until later on, but he wasn’t sure, and wasn’t particularly interested anyway. He hadn’t clapped eyes on either his aunt or his cousin in years, and wasn’t looking forward to his stay in Yorkshire.

-oooOO0OOooo-

The train had taken hours to arrive at York and there had been two changes since, and an interminably long, boring journey with nothing but scenery. Not the ideal start for a teenage boy used to London and the bright lights. He’d almost missed the station, lost in a world of reverie; only the station porter’s yelling had galvanised him, sent him scurrying for the luggage rack.

Sheardale Halt, Sheardale Halt: all passengers alight here for Sheardale, Wisby, Mossinghough and Weltingham.

He stood on the smooth damp concrete slabs with his suitcase, surveying the grubby brick walls and grimy office windows of the tiny country station with distaste. He’d been told he would be met, but he saw only an empty platform with strands of grey mist rolling across the tracks and the ghostly outline of the metal footbridge that crossed to the other side. The porter had legged it: done a runner into what appeared to be a waiting room with a tiny office cubicle attached to one side. He saw the line of smoke lifting from the tan chimney pot and made his way to the door, feeling the warmth of the coal fire as he entered.

There was a well-built man in his mid-twenties, sitting on one of the benches that lined the walls; a solid country type of man with Edwardian style whiskers that seemed to have been patiently cultivated as though he wanted to appear older, more mature somehow. Allied to his shining black waterproof cape, hat and gumboots he seemed to belong to another age entirely – certainly not the modern era. Perhaps no one had told him this was 1964, the age of science and discovery. In any event he stood and took in Philip Russell, complete with suitcase and damp hair.

Should ’ave put hat on young ’un, you’ll catch thas death o’ cold eer wi naw hat on tha knows!

I assume you’re here to meet me?

Aye, th’ car’s outside in’t lane. I’ll tek thee t’ Hardacre but should ’ave put hat on: as thee got nowt t’ cover thas head lad?

I er… don’t think so. I didn’t realise a hat was obligatory.

Eh up, hat’s not o-blig-atory, but only a daft bugger leaves head bare in a mist.

Well, let’s get going shall we? I dare say a hat won’t be necessary in the car, will it?

Depends on thas constitution, lad; I’ll let thee have me spare scarf if tha wants.

All this time Philip had been following the man along the platform and through the little white wicker gate into the lane beyond. It was with a mixture of foreboding and horror that he saw the car. It was an aged Morris 8, at least thirty years old and open-topped. There was, however, a grimy windscreen. The black upholstery was gleaming with wetness from the fog and he groaned inwardly. He registered the wet seating and took a white towel from his case before depositing it on the back seat. He wiped the seat carefully and placed the towel at his back before seating himself, watching idly as the man sat in the driver’s seat. The man was chuckling at him and shook his head.

Tha’s not so daft after all, lad. Me name’s Reggie Todd, but them as knows me calls me Toddy. I work fer Miss Langham at th’ ’ouse, fetchin’ an’ doin’ an’ such.

My name’s Philip Russell; I’m from London. He’d said it as though it was a statement of intent rather than his home, but Toddy simply grimaced.

Aye, ahm aweer. Went t’ London once; bloody place was full o’ people an’ no room t’ put ’em all. Better off ’ere I reckon.

The car was moving briskly and Philip affected temporary deafness due to the fresh breeze hitting him over the low screen. There was no more conversation for the next twenty minutes or so as they passed through the two small villages of Mossinghough and Wisby, before arriving at the tiny hamlet called Weltingham. The place was really just a main street with a collection of a couple of dozen stone cottages beyond, most sporting small gardens and white wooden gates. It was picturesque and quaint, but smacked of being hidden in a time warp. The car passed through, and shortly made a turn into a gravelled area before two huge iron gates. Beyond them the drive curved between trees and shrubs, effectively screening any view of the house and grounds. Toddy hopped out and was unlocking the gates, before driving the car through and re-locking them behind. During this interval Philip noticed the dried upholstery seemed to grab at him with a familiar but unnamed feel. It took several seconds before he recognised it.

This seat’s been upholstered in rubber!

"Aye, Miss Langham ’as