Oliver's Twist: Oliver Twist with a twist!

By Kivutar Amy Koski

Oliver's Twist

A gripping and riveting full length novella, chock full of madness and hot historical fem dom in a world gone mad. Fresh from the pen of the 'Queen of Kink,' Kivutar Amy Koski.

Victorian London, and Lem Grippit steals a pie. Lem Grippit gets caught and is taken into service at Discreet Accounts. Lem is taught to pleasure ladies of quality with his tongue, in return for two and six a week and his keep. He rapidly discovers he has a phenomenal talent – better than all the other boys. The downside is he’s locked in a chastity belt, and if he wants relief from the 'Duchess' each payday he must surrender two shillings of his money. Oh yes, if he's reported for poor service he will be beaten. But hopefully not by the fearsome Izzy Inch.
Meanwhile Oliver Bindweed and Turpitude Spoade find a gentleman’s life enjoying the pleasures of deviant flagellation is about to bite them in the... er... backside. Izzy Inch is not what she seems, and Molly and Kitty Pinchpacket will do absolutely anything to get their sadistic rocks off. It is a demanding job servicing the likes of Lady Clockmansworth and Lady Hipplewhyte. And as for Mrs Chiselhurst, she is the most depraved, sadistic and feared of all the customers at Discreet Accounts. She has spent a small fortune at Clampitt Lockham and Spurtholttar... A Tale of Dickensian mayhem and perversion, of canes, leather straps and birches, flogging horses, martinets and chastity belts. Oh, and the humble leather bootlace... Don't forget to visit Kivutar Amy Koski's Facebook page for extended excerpts and details of upcoming new releases.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kivutar Amy Koski
• Release date: Jun 15, 2016
• ISBN: 9781311043252

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

Oliver’s Twist

Oliver Twist with a… twist!

Kivutar Amy Koski

-oooOO0OOooo-

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 9781311043252

THIS BOOK CONTAINS ADULT MATERIAL OF A SEXUAL NATURE INCLUDING SCENES OF DOMINATION AND 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.

1: TAKEN INTO SERVICE

2: ON THE JOB

3: A LADY OF QUALITY

4: MAN OF THE LAW

5: THE PRICE OF FOLLY

6: THE POINTS SYSTEM

7: THE FULL WEIGHT OF THE LAW

8: THE ROD OF THE GOVERNESS

9: DOMESTIC BLISS

Dedicated to the memory of Victorian governess Theresa Berkley, inventor of the Berkley Horse. Truly a dominatrix extraordinaire along with her associates: Miss Ring, Hannah Jones, Sally Taylor, One-eyed Peg, Bauld-cunted Poll, and a black girl called Ebony Bet. Her premises at 28 Charlotte St in the City of London – modern day 84-89 Hallam St – were world famous, frequented by aristocracy and the wealthy, and equipped like no other. The implements and devices portrayed in this tale were quite commonly used in that era, giving authenticity to these pages. In the BDSM community of today Theresa’s spirit lives on...

London 1853

1: TAKEN INTO SERVICE

The cane sliced though the air with a wicked hiss and landed across the bare backside of the young man who was fastened securely to the whipping stool, bent forward across the padded edge, and helpless to resist the strokes of fiery discipline biting so painfully into his bottom cheeks. The young lady wielding the cane watched as the white stripe slowly transformed into a livid red across the lad’s flesh, which made the juices flow warmly into her knickers. The youth’s crime had been a fairly common one within the firm of Discreet Accounts. He had failed to please a regular customer; a wealthy woman of some standing who had booked a treble orgasm and had received only two of those deliciously shattering moments. The plain brown envelope had arrived, in the hands of a young postman, that afternoon: the very same day of the offence.

The young lady had been born as Rosemary Bowlam although those who knew her – and there were many – called her Duchess because of her regal bearing, and naturally authoritarian air. She pulled at the frilled lace edges of her purple silk knickers, adjusting their fit, and surreptitiously stroking her moist and warm crotch as she did so. She adjusted her stance once more, moving the leather riding boots she wore over her charcoal silk stockings, making the leather heels squeak delectably on the polished wooden floor tiles of the punishment room.

You ’ave bin very careless Jack; most remiss and I would be failin’ in my duty if I did not punish you. I don’t do this because I like to do it; I do it because you need it. You must learn to apply the tongue when an’ ’ow the customer wants it.

The slicing whine was followed by another pistol-shot crack, a low half-muffled yelp of pain, and once more Duchess watched with fascination. The white line of the initial impact started to turn red as the thin strip of bloodless flesh the cane had created started to refill with blood beneath the surface of the skin. It was always the same, yet it never ceased to arouse her, or hold her attention magnetically. Libby, the owner of Discreet Accounts had put forward the idea that the customers might punish the boys themselves, on the spot, but Duchess had fought tooth and nail to keep all punishment in-house. It was a perk she would never surrender without a fight to the death.

You must learn to give service o’ the required quality, or you’ll ’ave to suffer until you do, Jack. Her words were followed by yet another whining hum and a sharp crack. This time the boy sang out loudly in his misery, the fiery stinging pain making him howl. Duchess felt the familiar glow in her groin and the warm wetness as her slippery flow increased. She would need to have the boy practice on her afterwards with his tongue - just so she could check his technique of course.

What’s the matter with you, Jack? That’s only seven strokes o’ the eighteen you are goin’ to receive. If you continue to make a fuss I’ll add strokes so’s you’ve got somethin’ to complain about!

Yes, mistress. The reply was muted through tears as Jack Tiggler sobbed quietly under his breath.

-oooOO0OOooo-

The barrow had been doing a brisk trade at the wharf, generating the delicious wafted scent of baked potatoes, pies and roasted nuts. The crews from the tall sailing ships frequented the barrow, with its faded signs, which read Lucas Crabtree General Purveyor of Foodstuffs. The writing was quite wasted on the teenage lad sauntering casually alongside the heavy wooden barrow with its iron charcoal oven. The youth may not have been able to read, but he was watching the old boy from the corner of his eye as the man lifted a portion of sizzling chestnuts from the brazier he was tending, with a scoop. At the side of the brazier an iron hot-shelf held several large, round, mutton pies which were the prime object of the young man’s attentions. He watched and waited, biding his time, as the old boy dropped the roasted nuts into a brown paper bag from the metal scoop, twisted the neck, and passed them into a pair of waiting hands. The youth’s grubby fingers moved with the speed of a striking cobra; the top pie was lifted and the youth was away. He was running for the alley connecting the stone-paved wharves at the riverside with Upper Thames Street which would be crowded with horse-drawn traffic, giving the young man enough cover to escape any pursuit.

Oi, you some back ’ere wiv that pie you thievin’ little streak o’ piss… The old white whiskers were shaking with rage, but the youth had chosen well. The elderly man would be no match for his sprightly limbs, and in any case the man would not choose to leave his barrow unattended – the area was well known for its thievery. The young man hurtled towards the alley, his mouth already salivating at the thought of that pie.

The lady was well-dressed, in a showy sort of way, and attractive despite her middle age. The youth saw her at the final moment and veered to one side in an effort to avoid knocking into her. He never saw the shiny leather boot with the gleaming steel tip as it slid nonchalantly outwards. The lad never expected it and didn’t stand a chance. He went sprawling headlong to the grimy uneven cobbles and in a trice the well-dressed lady was seated across his back. With a mounting sense of horror he felt a small but firm hand grip his testicles with a wiry strength, and he froze in panic.

Move an inch and you’ll be wearing petticoats for the rest of your life. Understand me, boy?

Yes, miss. I’m not movin’ am I?

No you’re not – that’s very wise of you. She raised her voice. It’s all right, Lucas, I’ve got him for you. Your pie’s all squashed though. Did you want the constable, then?

Lucas Crabtree allowed his wrinkled features to split into a grin as he saw the boy’s situation and he nodded sagely, his rheumy eyes suddenly glinting with deep craftiness and more than a hint of malice.

I reckon so, Miss Libby, I reckon so. He owes me tuppence fer the pie, which lookin’ at ’im is tuppence I aint ever gonna see…

But your pies are only a penny-halfpenny each, Lucas…

Yeah, but there’s wear an’ tear on the barra’ an’ the shoe leather from chasin’ after ’im…

The old man tried to meet the direct and forceful stare of the woman and failed, opting instead to gaze into the distance, as the little knot of people started to drift away, the show seemingly at an end. The woman’s focus seemed to have shifted to the youth, to whom she delivered an almighty crack across the ear.

Ow…what’s that fer? I aint done nuffin’ ’ave I?

That’s just in case you try anything stupid. What’s your name?

Lem Grippit miss. I was ’ungry miss, that’s all. Didn’t mean no ’arm.

Lem is not your given name, what is your Christian name, boy?

"Lemuel, miss. Lemuel Horace Grippit, but me dad, God rest ’is soul, used to call me pisspot…"

That’s quite enough, Lem. Show me your tongue.

Beg pardon, miss?

Don’t you speak Queen Victoria’s English, boy? I said show me your tongue. If I have to ask again I’ll make you regret the day you were born!

There was something in the tone of voice, the commanding manner, that warned against any further cheek or delay. Lem Grippit opened his mouth and let out his tongue. The woman moved it to one side contemptuously with her kidskin-covered finger and surveyed it, along with the good straight teeth and the generally pleasing facial appearance. She seemed to reach a decision.

You’ll do, I suppose, how old are you?

Seventeen or eighteen I think…

What do you do for food and keep?

Aint got none, miss, just a few of us kips under the fish wharves by Limehouse Reach. We sometimes goes over to the Isle o’ Dogs to carry water an’ rubbish.

Any family?

Me sister lives over Stepney way wiv ’er husband. Name of Pluckley, Edwin and Theresa Pluckley, miss: ’es an apothecary.

Would you like to learn a new trade?

Yes, miss.

There will be harsh rules; rules you must live by or you will be punished!

What’s the pay?

Two and six a week plus your food and keep, and good clean clothes.

Cor, I’ll do it, miss! What ’ave I got to do?

I’ll show you. Get up and follow me. Stay quiet and you might not be carted off by a constable; do you understand me, boy?

Yes, miss.

Very well. Lucas! Lucas, do you have my envelope for the weekend?

Yes I got ’er, Miss Libby, right ’ere. The old man slid a sealed buff envelope into the ivory kid gloves and the woman pocketed it in a flash. There’s fourteen in total, six for Sunday.

Miss Libby produced a purple leather purse, and counted out a few silver coins, which she passed to Lucas with a grim smile. On top of the pile of silver she placed a penny and a halfpenny.

That’s the pie covered, Lucas.

As you say, miss. You’re takin' ’im on, then?

We’ll see, time will tell. He has promise; I’ll know more when he’s been trained. Her gloved hands were carefully wrapping the battered pie in one of Lucas’s paper bags, before passing it to Lem with a nod whereupon he placed it inside his shirt like a mother cosseting a favoured child. No point in waste – I loathe waste. You may eat it as we walk. Good day, Lucas!

The old, knowing face split into a sly grin and Lucas Crabtree showed a crooked smile full of missing teeth. He seemed to be laughing as the boy was led off unceremoniously by the ear.

-oooOO0OOooo-

The tall three-storeyed building was in a reasonably prosperous neighbourhood that spoke of stolid respectability without the recourse to excessive affluence. The ground floor was a double-fronted shop which had the glass windows partitioned into tiny squares. The sign above the shop read