The Discipline Factory

By Kivutar Amy Koski

THE DISCIPLINE FACTORY

Brackenbrae prison - the most notorious and forbidding of Scotland's old Victorian prisons has been sold into private hands. The forbidding walls and CCTV cameras guard a new type of prisoner - the paying guest who is subjected to the firm discipline of the strict women who run the prison with rigidly enforced rules. The mysterious owner has turned the old jail into a special place where fetishists and submissives can be trained - if they can afford the prices. Floggings, canings, sexual training and chastity belts are only the tip of the iceberg, and Adrian Harris, big shot reporter wants to blow the lid off the whole scene. He may have to go undercover to find out which A-list celebrities are using the facilities. He wants to get to the bottom of it all, but if he's discovered there's a good chance the rubber-clad wardresses will get to his bottom first. But possibly his biggest mistake was mistreating his previous secretary then firing her...

Another scintillating novel fresh from the pen of Kivutar Amy Koski, the ‘Queen of Kink:’ of strictly enforced discipline and female domination in a new and entirely fresh environment that makes the spine tingle in that special way as the torments and punishments are handed down without mercy. A sentence at Brackenbrae is harsh, delicious and memorable...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kivutar Amy Koski
• Release date: Dec 13, 2016
• ISBN: 9781370839414

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

The Discipline Factory

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: 9781370839414

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

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1: The Prison

2: The Secretary

3: The Sting

4: The Reporter

5: Admissions

6: Cell Number Three

7: Training Regime

8: Endgame

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1: The Prison

The high wall that surrounded the buildings was hewn from blocks of solid stone, smoothed to a glass-like finish so as to afford the minimum of grip to anyone desperate enough to attempt to scale its towering height. It was topped with coils of razor wire, and so high it concealed all but the roof of the three-storey building within its confines. The surrounding countryside was bleak, with hills and the occasional small country road hidden in the folds of the empty land that seemed to stretch for miles around the stark grey wall.

HMP Brackenbrae: notorious as Scotland’s hardest prison and housing some of the most violent men imaginable. The Victorian structure had seen riots, murders, attempted – and three successful – escapes and a catalogue of rumoured abuses in its century-plus of history. The mystique surrounding the prison lived on past its closure some six years previously, replaced by the sparkling new facility almost thirty miles away. HMP Highland had been built to the highest standards at huge cost, but still the ghostly name of Brackenbrae remained: obdurate, stubbornly defiant, a landmark and reminder of a harsher and less tolerant time when punishment meant punishment. The little village that the prison took its name from had suffered from the closure terribly at first. The loss of trade from the prison staff and visitors had closed most of the small businesses in the area and there was no apparent cure. The remote location of the prison, surrounded by Scottish Highland moors, meant there was little interest from outside investors. Even worse, the building was listed and therefore any alterations permitted were minor – limited largely to interior fixtures and fittings, or rewiring the extensive workshop facilities: there was no opportunity for the developer here. Brackenbrae would never be a golf hotel or leisure spa.

The saviour had appeared from nowhere almost five years ago. Fabulously wealthy best selling author A. K. Browning had purchased HMP Brackenbrae for an undisclosed sum, understood to be nominal. Browning was reclusive and mysterious: known by her sobriquet of Kalashnikov both because of her initials and her opinions on societal behaviour in the modern era. It was widely believed that the prison would be turned into a museum with an attached visitor centre, bringing much needed employment to the area. The truth was, however, obscured behind a steady drip of well-paying work to many of the local businesses. The prison had stood empty for almost two years and teams of locals were employed cleaning, renovating, installing new heating and ventilation systems and bringing the facility back to a habitable state. The CCTV cameras mounted on the walls, around the yard, at the gates, were all refurbished and checked. The gatehouse itself had benefited from a brand new control console and an electric outer gate that slid silently on greased runners, neatly concealing the original – now inner – gate with its heavy iron studs and providing a hidden secure airlock zone for visiting vehicles. The razor wire atop the wall and the outer perimeter chain-link fence were all checked, and restored as required. It seemed the security of the facility was to remain a top priority. The former prison officers’ quarters were given the full treatment with special attention paid to lavish bathrooms with power showers, sumptuous kitchens with top branded appliances, and the installation of an elevator to service the three-storey granite building. The ground floor had been extensively reworked into a light, airy space containing a communal lounge and lecture hall, and a fully equipped gym with heated swimming pool. There was, however, no sign of a visitor centre. The rumours slowly abated as something akin to a normal routine vested itself onto the local populace, and the novelty value and speculation died down.

The gossip had been rekindled with the arrival of the staff, their cars parked in the now tastefully landscaped gardens that surrounded the separately enclosed officers’ quarters. Initially four, all women, the number had risen to six, then eight, and finally twelve as the speculation mounted once more. The staff were still all female, prompting theories that it would be a conference centre or health spa. Some said a private health centre, a fat farm for the rich and famous where they could work and sweat and lose weight away from the media’s prying eyes. In a way they were right: but in the way that matters most they were wrong. Very wrong.

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The large white van bore no logo: no private security firm operated this vehicle. Nevertheless it was easily recognisable for what it was. The small blackened square windows in the sides marked it as a prison van. The take-away-van had not been seen in the village since the closure, and the gossip flared like a forest fire before the van had even travelled the winding road up the hill to the prison. It disappeared behind the electric gate and didn’t return for over an hour. When it did finally drive back out, it went straight through the village and on towards the main road south, the two uniformed occupants in the front impassive. The eyes that followed it couldn’t know it was on a long journey to Edinburgh to collect another intake. A small nondescript garage acted as a collection point for those who had booked the ultimate disciplinary experience. The van drove through an automatic roller shutter door into a secluded covered yard, not three minutes walk from Waverley railway station. The sign above the shutter door read simply Custodial Vehicle Repair and Maintenance (Scotland) Ltd.

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Stand straight, or you’ll regret the day you were born: where do you think you are, a holiday camp? The woman was a curvy forty-something, short bobbed blonde hair with a firm but attractive face. She appeared to be the one in charge, and Guy Brookes felt his cock harden as he took in her svelte figure. He’d booked this special three-month sabbatical through a private club for BDSM addicts and fetishists who wanted that special experience and could, of course, afford to pay the premium rates. It promised not only the discipline and fantasy play he craved, but also the benefit of weight loss and improved fitness through the regime’s strict routine. Looking at the other seven or eight men he reckoned they could all do with some improvement on that score. The woman allowed her weight to shift slightly onto the other foot, the gleaming black rubber of her uniform jacket rippling in the fluorescent ceiling lights of the reception room. The wardresses were dressed alike, and he’d caught his breath with excitement the moment he’d seen them in the reception, beyond the sight of the delivery drivers.

Black shiny rubber knee-length riding boots, with gleaming ivory rubber jodhpur pants that were clinging to every curve, displaying the ample womanly charms and making him tremble with his desire. A coal black uniform blouse of the finest thin latex with red rubber tie lying across the prominent breasts beneath the black rubber jacket, which shivered in that magical rubbery way as she moved or adjusted her stance. In her case there were three red stripes across each shoulder epaulette denoting her seniority. The bright red riding crop she held in her right hand cracked against her gleaming boot with a sharp snap.

"I said stand straight. The crop sliced across his backside with a crack, the pain lancing into him, burning, stinging, making him yelp in shock. It was followed by another, if anything harder. You’re on report, Brookes – you will be made to regret that show of defiance."

Er... I’m sorry, I didn’t know...

"That’s another offence - you didn’t address me as ‘miss,’ would you like to try for a third?"

I’m sorry miss, if I’d known I wouldn’t have done it.

"You’ll need to learn faster than that, Brookes, if you want to keep any skin on your backside. For the education of the rest of you pitiful specimens, a third disciplinary infraction equals a judicial punishment, to be sentenced by the Governess herself and carried out before the whole prison. You will learn in time to avoid those. The blue eyes fixed unwaveringly onto a shorter, stockier man several places to the left. Stand still, did I give you permission to fidget?"

No, miss.

Well done – you learn faster than Brookes, don’t you, Wells?

Yes, miss.

"Is that an erection, Wells? Oh dear me, that’s a disciplinary offence too. Unapproved erections are a very serious matter indeed." She walked to the man’s side and lifted his chin with the tip of her red, rubber-coated crop. The man was clearly trembling, probably with a mixture of fear and desire.

We have ways of treating that problem, Wells – I’m sure you’ll appreciate our little cure. Right: listen to me very carefully. I am Mistress Olivia, the Head Wardress of the facility. You are here for punishment, to be corrected, and some of you are to be trained to the requirements of your owners. You will obey all and every command given by a wardress without comment or delay. Failure to obey will bring severe punishment. If a wardress feels it necessary she may punish you on the spot. She might not give you a reason: in fact a reason is not required. You will now have your photographs and fingerprints taken, before you shower. You will be issued with your uniform and your PT kit for gym and outside exercise. There will also be work clothing and boots. Your cell has a place to hang your clothes and bedding, which will be inspected each day. As with all things, failure to please will be punished. Carry on, Miss Suzanne.

Thank you, Miss Olivia. Right you lot, strip: we need to measure you for your clothes and your chastity belts...

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Guy Brookes surveyed the small cell with a sinking feeling as the heavy steel door slammed behind him. The walls were whitewashed brick and the floor a light blue cement texture. There was a tiny window with nine thick, obscured glass panels, through which could be barely made out heavy iron slats, closely spaced and set into the stone walls. The centre panel of the lower three was hinged so as to admit fresh air as required. There was a small tubular steel bed frame with a mattress, and a wooden open-front clothes press in one corner. Opposite sat a hard wooden chair tucked under a small writing table, upon which was a copy of the prison regulations. There was a call button set into the wall next to the door, and a sliding Judas hole through which he could be observed by the wardress on the landing.

He heard the rubber soles of the wardress’ riding boots as they squeaked along the highly polished floor. The noise was eerily erotic to one with a rubber fetish, and he found his penis straining against the rubber tube of the chastity belt they had all been fitted with in reception. His hardened flesh throbbed for several minutes, which became a dull ache of frustration. It was almost enjoyable, in a tormenting way, but he wondered idly if he would be permitted relief. He dreaded the thought of being kept chaste for a long period of time: especially by attractive guards clad in shining rubber. A few days of this would drive him insane. His eyes rested on the little collection of books stacked neatly on a shelf over the table. He groaned inwardly as he took in the titles. They were all erotic titles with female domination, rubber and corporal punishment as their common theme. Some even looked as though they had photographs and illustrations. Guy Brookes knew he shouldn’t, but he just had to; he picked up a copy of The Borstal Mistress by Kivutar Amy Koski and began to read the