Matron's Rubber Gloves

By Kivutar Amy Koski

Strict and severe, and as usual chock-full of delicious torment and discipline inflicted on the unworthy male, hot and throbbing straight from the pen of the "QUEEN OF KINK" herself, Kivutar Amy Koski...

MATRON'S RUBBER GLOVES

Marion Wilson is Matron of St Onan's. Marion Wilson has day to day control of the young men of upper school. Marion Wilson likes this. The young men are subject to her rule outside lesson time, and she has particular views on cleanliness and masturbation. She inspects the boys regularly for dirt and evidence of "excitement" or "emissions" for which she has the power to punish. When Marion inspects she uses her favourite pair of soft rubber gloves, much used and very thin and grippy. Marion uses them to play games, to check for uncleanliness by rubbing lightly back and forth. If a boy should stiffen he is getting excited, which is not permitted. If he remains soft he must have been abusing himself which is not permitted...
Marion is only allowed to punish boys suspected of self-abuse with her slipper or rubber strap. She can however put them on "Matron's Report," dreaded by all the boys. It means the following day they will be sent to the study of Miss Allison Shakespiere, the gorgeous headmistress. She will take them to be fastened across the flogging horse, to receive the special punishment reserved for boys who play with themselves...
The fourth delightfully severe novella from the pen of Kivutar Amy Koski, a journey of 40,000 words into a world of canes, slippers, rubber punishment straps and the crusade against male misbehaviour and masturbation. If you thought your school was strict, wait until you experience the regime at St Onan's...

Don't forget to visit Kivutar Amy Koski's Facebook page for exclusive samples and updates on forthcoming titles...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kivutar Amy Koski
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781310693441

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

Matron’s Rubber Gloves

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 9781310693441

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: INSPECTION OF THE UPPER SCHOOL

2: ON MATRON’S REPORT

3: THE PRICE OF DISOBEDIENCE

4: A HORSE OF HER OWN

5: TEACHING THE YOUNG LADIES

6: THE ASSISTANT MATRON

7: A TREASURE LOST

8: THE CANE AND THE SLIPPER

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1: INSPECTION OF THE UPPER SCHOOL

The new term was about to start and the school was rapidly filling with young men, who conducted themselves in the age-old way of youths all over the world: running, laughing, and exhibiting that boisterous behaviour so synonymous with the young male student. The corridors were echoing with brisk footsteps and many shouts, yells and raucous laughter. At the head of the main stairwell leading to the upper school dormitories there was a sudden silence, and some kind of magic seemed to be in evidence. The careful observer would have noted the trim figure of the headmistress standing at the middle landing balustrade, the cause of the sudden and scrupulously observed civility. Miss Allison Shakespiere was a very attractive but severe looking woman with ash blonde hair and deep hazel brown eyes. There was a firmness to her jaw and expression that boded ill for any boy rash enough to play the fool with her. She wore a deep kingfisher blue twin set with a substantial row of pearls, but most of that frippery was covered with a black shiny silk gown. Not that the gown concealed her curvy body so adored by most of the boys, covertly for the most part of course.

The new fifth formers were mounting the wide stone stairs, for so long forbidden territory to them when they were members of the lower school. They approached the middle landing with a sense of awe, and it never failed to make Allison Shakespiere smile: even though she had witnessed this very thing many times. They would learn, shortly, that their newly discovered lofty station came at a price, however. St Onan’s College and Reformatory was well-known as an institution capable of extracting every last ounce of performance from those to whom effort did not come naturally. In this new and challenging decade, St Onan’s had been voted best independent school for the under-achieving in 1950, 1951 and 1952. The school had a long and proud history all the way back to its founding in 1803 as a school for the recalcitrant offspring of naval and army families; the difficult to handle and lazy boys who needed extra motivation and firm discipline. The fee payers in this modern era were essentially no different; parents continued to send their awkward sons for the conditioning polish applied by the regimen here. St Onan’s even had special coaching classes for the entrance exams at both Sandhurst Military Academy and Dartmouth Naval College - and the success rate was outstanding. This long tradition was upheld with high standards of workrate and fearsome discipline. The thought made Allison Shakespiere smile, and snapped her from her reverie.

Edmunds, what do you think you’re doing, boy? Do you imagine it is acceptable behaviour to kick the cap of a junior, just because he happens to have dropped it?

No, ma’am; sorry, ma’am.

Edmunds was one of the new upper school boys: lower fifth form, just eighteen and about to mount the stone stairway for the first time, when he’d been unable to resist the dropped cap lying invitingly at his feet. He hadn’t looked up to see his headmistress on the middle landing until he’d heard her dreaded cool but authoritative tones. Now he quailed, praying her mood would be soft because it was first day back, and he was new to upper. He had been made to sing for the poet several times before beneath her cane: an expression the boys used at others with glee, and it was not something he wished to repeat. Her voice was low, but firm and distinct, and made his heart sink.

Clearly you need to be reminded of the responsibilities that sit upon a senior’s shoulders Edmunds. Wait outside my study.

Yes ma’am.

The youth trudged miserably off, no doubt dwelling on the very sore bottom he was about to experience. Allison smiled grimly, a private smile. The punishment of the seniors was a personal perk: something she always found exciting as she wielded the cane, its hissing slice cutting the air as it flew to its target, always with unerring accuracy in her petite but skilled hand. She never awarded punishment solely because she wanted to - the rules here were strict enough that there were always punishments in need of infliction. It was one of several reasons she remained at this school - her school - despite many, often lucrative, offers from elsewhere. She decided Edmunds would take six strokes, a set in school terminology, just as soon as she was ready. Until then he would stand outside her study and wait, stewing in his own juice, knowing what was to come. It was all part of the punishment, the ritual, the approaching doom viewed by the sinner to help him savour the thought of those stinging burning stripes...

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In the dispensary, the matron of the school had been making up tubes of aspirin and strips of sticking plaster for the coming term. Marion Wilson was a blue-eyed brunette with a fulsome, attractive figure that was brimming to the edge with curves. In her late thirties, she had every gaze in the upper school glued on her as she swayed and rippled her way along whatever corridor she might be travelling. Marion was single-handedly responsible for ninety percent of the upper school’s erotic dreams, and that was fine by her. Marion’s primary responsibility was the health and hygiene of every boy in the school, but she left lower to her assistant, Yvonne Hicks. Marion had found her niche, her own perfect occupation, when she had retired from nursing at a county hospital to take up this post nearly eight years ago. She had complete authority to inspect, check and punish the boys in all matters except the use of the cane: that privilege was reserved for Miss Shakespiere, the head. In compensation Mrs Wilson - she had once been married - had recourse to the slipper as a means to maintain discipline, and for more heinous offences her Borstal-issue heavy rubber punishment strap. The slipper she habitually used was one of a pair - black school plimsolls - kept hanging on pegs in her office. She was not averse to removing those she wore on her feet in extremis, and dispensing justice on the spot, although she preferred the privacy of her office, or in the evenings her rooms. Marion Wilson had a particular penchant for the older boys: a sadistic streak that gave her much enjoyment. Her target was the masturbatory habits so common to all male youths, and she played upon that weakness with a fearsome skill and persistence.

It was a rare night indeed that matron did not patrol the twin dormitories of upper school, always at irregular intervals, looking for furtive under-blanket activity. Her most eagerly anticipated treat was inspecting for stains and filth: an expression that could cover a multitude of substances, but usually meant either dirt or - more intriguingly - evidence of sexual activity or excitement. This would produce her ace card from her cupboard; a pair of thin smooth glossy brick-red rubber gloves, which she would knowingly smooth across her hands, easing them over her fingers, stretching the rubber to remove all the creases.

The young man unfortunate enough to be undergoing the inspection at this time was kneeling, legs wide apart, on the rubber-covered examination table, his hands on his head and a rapidly stiffening penis as his mind took in what was about to happen.

Don’t move a muscle, Jennings, or I shall have to punish you. I am going to inspect you for cleanliness and good self-control. I hope you have been behaving yourself.

Yes, miss.

Yes, you have been behaving yourself, or yes, you have been having lewd thoughts and touching yourself?

I’ve been good, miss. Jennings’ face was a mask of misery, yet strangely expectant of some promised enjoyable thread woven into the ordeal about to unfold. He watched as matron took her gloves from the cupboard, his eyes glued to that gleaming red rubber as it trembled and shook as only rubber can – almost as though it was alive in its own right. Matron’s gloves were revered, much dreamed about, yet feared. Matron let her fingers brush over the boy’s skin, rubbing those gloves over the foreskin to pull it back softly, before letting her rubber-encased fingers gently surround the by now swollen and desperate head and rub maliciously. Jennings had not only been forbidden to move or make noise as the inspection was carried out, he also knew how severe his punishment would be if he should be foolish enough to ejaculate.

Penalties varied enormously, along with matron’s will to force the issue, in both senses of the word. Much would depend on matron’s mood, her recent successes, and the boy in question. Marion had her favourites, naturally, and those in her good books would be brought to orgasm then told to go into the toilet cubicle to wash themselves. Upon their return the fact they had spurted would be held as proof that they had not been abusing themselves, although there would be the matter of their movement and gasps, their groans and cries, as they approached that delicious but forbidden moment. This could usually be dealt with by means of a sound slippering, administered to the bare bottom while the recalcitrant youth was bending across the end of the exam table. If her mood leaned that way she would inflict a strapping, usually reserved for those she held in less esteem, or those boys she felt were deserving of a more severe chastisement.

Jennings was not a favourite: he’d been selected simply because he was the first to arrive in the dormitory and Marion had foregone her fun during the whole length of the holidays. Those soft rubber gloves were dragging so lightly across his rapidly hardening shaft, making him tremble and shake in an agony of pleasure. Matron was superbly expert in torturing those hard throbbing shafts, making her pussy wet and excited inside her soft red rubber knickers which were her everyday wear beneath the starched linen dress. They were the same burgundy colour as the rubber apron she would always put on for her inspection duties in case of accidents.

Oooooh pleeeeease missss... The youth was trembling with the effort he was making to keep himself in check. The gloves were dry at the moment, but he knew well enough that matron would often apply oil to make the test – and the flesh – harder still. Marion’s eyes