The Wages of Sin

By Kivutar Amy Koski

Witness protection can be dull, but Cummerton Priory, tucked away in a remote corner of England is exclusively composed of those fleeing retribution. More intriguing still, the area is governed by a council of women, whose men are trained to obey at the sinister, secretive convent called 'All Souls.' Behind the walls the cannabis-growing 'Sisters of Guidance and Enlightenment' break those who resist the regime, producing subservient males for the local women to abuse and enjoy. Failure to keep to 'the code' means a return to high risk and probably death for the men who shelter there: But the idyllic existence is threatened by the arrival of a series of London gang members, who will need to be broken from their greedy and corrupt ways. The local 'Hell's Angels' only complicate matters further by selling cannabis obtained in London. Then there is the unique arrival of Samantha, the gangland 'accountant.' Samantha has a secret code that can provide millions from an offshore account, but her ex-boss wants his millions back and will hunt her relentlessly. As a female, Samantha will be granted special status, but will she take the deal on offer, or will she prove to be an even bigger threat to Cummerton Priory? The council and the sisters of 'All Souls' will go to work with canes, paddles, the rubber tawse and the frightening rubber bullwhip called 'Belinda.' The Wagesof Sin is a convoluted trip into discipline, rubber and leather fetish, manipulation, and the occasional dose of good fortune, allied with punishments inflicted on the unworthy male. Yet another dose of delectable discipline form the pen of Kivutar Amy Koski.

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kivutar Amy Koski
• Release date: Sep 22, 2017
• ISBN: 9781370837380

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 Wages of Sin

Kivutar Amy Koski

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First published in Great Britain by PLP Books, 2017.

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 2017

ISBN: 9781370837380

THIS BOOK CONTAINS ADULT MATERIAL OF A SEXUAL NATURE INCLUDING SCENES OF DOMINATION, FETISH, 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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Prologue

1: Breaking the Code

2: Testing Testing...

3: Tough Nuts to Crack

4: Learning the Ropes

5: The Chasing Pack

6: A Special Kind of Torture

7: Planning and Discipline

8: Baiting the Trap

9: For Your Own Good

10: By Whatever Means

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Prologue

Lewis Rennie eyed the detective chief superintendent across the wide desk and blinked, unsure of what he’d just heard. Lewis was used to hearing what he wanted to hear, especially from women. The woman opposite him simply sighed softly, her firm eyes holding his gaze until he looked away towards his counsel, who raised an admonitory hand of caution: too late however to prevent the vehement torrent of words from his client’s mouth.

I’ve offered you Albie Stephens on a plate love, and this is the best you can do? You’re having a laugh... I’m not going on any protection scheme. I need to be here to take care of my... investments. London is my home, where I have all my business contacts, where it all happens. No deal.

"What my client actually means is that there is much for him to consider, detective chief superintendent: If I might ask for a few minutes, so my client may digest this offer?" The cool, cultured tones of the expensive lawyer calmed Rennie’s ire and the woman across the desk rose from her seat.

"I can let you have fifteen minutes – no more. May I suggest, Mr Caswell, you stress to your client that we have enough circumstantial evidence to lift Stephens without his help. In fact I’m pleased to inform you our team is already on its way. Albie Stephens is no fool, and with his resources he’ll almost certainly get bail. He’ll put two and two together and your client, along with the accountant, will be the only names in the frame. The man who controls London’s gangland south of the river is hardly going to let your client walk away with only a slapped wrist. We have the accountant in custody already – it’s where we obtained the financial details and so forth. The same offer is extended to both your client and the accountant, but to make it work I need to know your answer: soon. Fifteen minutes..." DCS Sue Spicer walked through the door, closely followed by the burly constable who had been positioned next to it.

I’m not going to some God-forsaken outpost in the middle of nowhere to rot gently while competitors take over my business. Get me out of this. You’re being well paid, sort it!

"I’m afraid there is little choice, Lewis: this time it’s not simply a question of money. It seems the police have enough information to arrest Mr Stephens, and in fact are in the process of doing just that. Under the circumstances Mr Stephens can draw only one conclusion. I fully expect his reaction to be one of extreme and deadly violence, in keeping with his reputation and past history. I must urge you to consider most carefully the offer on the table. The police ask only that you make sworn statements in support of the accountant, and that you attend court to give evidence, if and when required."

"The accountant won’t talk: the accountant knows better..."

"I believe the accountant already has, Lewis. A number of UK bank accounts have already been frozen, and the police are looking for means to seize several more abroad, in those countries with the relevant treaties."

But that means Albie will want...

"Exactly, Lewis. I’m not aware of the finite detail but I tell you this: the witness protection program has never lost a single client so long as they stayed in the scheme. Two have fled: both were found dead within a short space of time thereafter. Better to be quietly breathing than go out with a bang: or a whimper, even?"

But where is it? What’s it like? Will I have money to spend?

I have no idea, Lewis, but as I understand it women carry out the day to day administration of the area: the same women who govern, and lay down the regulations to make the whole thing work.

I’ve never met a tart yet who was worth more than a night’s partying and a few quid in the purse...

Then this may be an opportunity to extend your education and broaden your horizons, Lewis. I’m led to believe the fishing and boating is excellent, the pubs and restaurants first rate and the rural environment outstanding. There is, however, a zero tolerance policy regarding lawbreaking.

That sounds fantastic! Can’t bloody wait: can I feature on the cover of the brochure?

The expensive lawyer, in his hand-made suit, smiled at the frustration writ large across the face of Lewis Rennie: drug distributor, peddler of stolen consumer goods and general fixer. If the wretched gangster wanted to stay alive there really was no choice. The police knew it: which is why they’d played hardball: putting the pressure on Rennie, who would sing like a canary to save his own hide. That Detective Chief Superintendent Sue Spicer was a hard-nosed piece of work, though. Good looking too, about his own age: the lawyer found himself wondering, not for the first time, if she was single. He’d always been attracted to the strong, dominant type...

1: Breaking the Code

The wooden bench-like structure was being wheeled across the hardwood parquet flooring of the large council chamber from the curtained recess where it was housed. Paul Brightwell watched, with slowly mounting dread, as it was fastened to the floor with steel clamps that pulled it down tight, folding the spring-loaded wheels up. The two muscular men who locked the clamps with a chilling snap were freeing a set of attached restraints from the dainty rubber bands that held them, shaking them loose, readying them. Paul’s eyes boggled at the shiny chrome buckles.

You can’t be serious... I’m not a child... this can’t be happening!

It’s the way we deal with all transgressions against the code here. We don’t ask for your life history: we give you shelter from your past misdeeds, as we are asked to do by... government agencies. All new residents are warned, as you were yourself. Our rules are simple: harsh sometimes, but fair.

The voice was cool and cultured with that upper-class private school polish: the attractive middle-aged woman was frowning slightly at Paul’s petulance, her thin lips compressed into a straight line that could easily have been grim enjoyment or deep disapproval, but was probably a cocktail of both. She was the leader of the parish council, wife of the vicar and chair of the board of governors for the local school. Additionally she chaired the local police authority and the friends committee at the convent just outside the village. She was Giorgiana Antonia Rowland (née Rossi), but the only person who had ever called her Giorgiana was her father. The women who knew her called her Gigi, and the men who came into contact with her fierce, dark, typically Italian looks addressed her as ma’am if they knew what was good for them. Clearly Paul Brightwell was not in that category.

I came here because I had to. I had no choice, you’re supposed to be helping me: this is a joke, right?

You came here as part of the witness protection scheme. You came here for a place of safety, which is what we’ve given you. You have a choice, Paul: you can go back to London and resume your old life and identity, or you can stay here, enjoy safety and our hospitality, but abide by the code. It’s your call.

That’s no choice at all – if I go back they’ll kill me!

Problems, problems. Perhaps you should have thought of that before you cultivated cannabis in the church glasshouse. Gigi’s face was strict, unbending, enforcing the code they all lived by. You took cuttings or seeds from the glasshouses at the convent and used them for your own ends: do you deny it?

Those nuns have acres of weed under glass – I took my own little slice of the action, there’s nothing wrong with that, they must be making a fortune!

You were supposed to be working in the glasshouses as part of your rehabilitation. You used a position of trust for personal profit. Have you learned nothing? Gigi’s tone was crisp and hard – a warning that should have been heeded. Instead, Paul Brightwell just grinned and winked at her. It was quite possibly the worst thing he could have done: except for his next words.

Look: I know what’s going on up there; I could call the police, then there’d be loads of trouble for everyone. You don’t want that, now do you?

I tire of your nonsense, you have offended: do you wish to be expelled?

No, of course not...

Gigi’s head inclined softly and Paul felt strong hands fasten around him, propelling him towards the wooden frame with its padded leather top. He struggled, but in vain: Mark Selwick and Jay Woolcote were both part-time special police constables, and two of the biggest, strongest men in the village. They were regularly selected for this duty precisely for that reason. The pair held him as though he was a child. He felt his wrists being shackled, then his trousers and underwear being pulled down. His ankles were restrained next: the thick leather cuffs holding him firmly as his legs widened under their pull.

The ladies who made up the parish council looked on with nothing more than mild amusement. All four were women. The only males present, Mark and Jay, were just leaving through the door, their function at an end. Gigi was seated in the left-centre of the tall-backed, leather-padded chairs and she nodded to the woman on her right, who stood. This was Vivienne Caulson the district nurse, married to the doctor. Her crisply starched blue uniform crackled softly as she moved around the tall, judicial-style bench with its sloped top and stood next to him. Paul could just make out her delicate perfume as the pretty nurse lifted a pair of thin rubber gloves from her pocket and drew them across her delicate hands, the pink rubber stretching as she worked it over the skin. Vivienne bent forward and let her hands roam across his flesh, around the firm buttock cheeks, down, down, to the inside of his thighs. The light stroking made him shudder as he felt his exposed penis harden. He felt her lean forward: her tone was low but firm.

It’s quite alright, Paul, I have to check you’re medically fit to be punished. The council has sentenced you to quite a severe caning so I have to be thorough. Don’t be embarrassed: it’s quite normal for young men to become aroused when they’re inspected. Some even ejaculate as they’re being punished...

Vivienne’s hands danced over his skin and he saw with horror the ladies at the bench watching his erection with interest. They could all see it, beneath the open framework of the punishment horse. Gigi was grinning and Rhiannon Owen, the blonde bombshell bank manager, was positively chuckling at him and licking her lips. In the meantime Vivienne stood to face her fellow councillors.

"He’s quite fit for a judicial, ladies; shall I?"

Please do, Vivienne: I’m sure Sister Sarah is champing at the bit to begin her duties.

The trim figure of the nurse moved smartly to one of the side doors behind the council bench and opened it, before stepping through. There was a short pause then she was back: followed by a black-shrouded nun who was carrying a long dark cane with a wickedly curved handle. Paul felt his heart lurch and his pulse race with fear. He had never received corporal punishment in his life – he was from a generation protected from such savagery by law – and he wailed in his apprehensive misery.

This is illegal... you can’t... there are rules against this, I’ll bring a case before the European Court... I have rights!

The pretty nurse placed herself at his head, the faint trace of her perfume wafting to his nostrils in a surreal taste of normality. The nun had padded silently to the other side of his head. Her face – shaded by the black wimple – was plain, yet carried a forceful conviction that made him halt his tirade and drop his gaze. The nun bent the cane, letting him see the flowing elasticity, the promise of unendurable agonies to come. Her voice was surprisingly soft, her tone low but with no hint of doubt in it.

The European Court of Human Rights cannot help you here. You have sinned; you have broken the code we all abide by. Not an accidental or thoughtless crime, but a planned and wickedly conceived evil that could have led to drugs being made available in our community. I will let the rod of repentance show you the error of your ways.

The nun was gone, and he could chart her progress by the glances in the nurse’s eyes as she followed the nun with her gaze. Another pause and a noise like a tearing sheet of silk: rasping and whining but short - very short. The truncated hiss ended with a sharp dull crack, rather like a dry twig snapping.

Thwicckk. Paul felt a line of pressure for a split second before a scalding biting fire sliced into him, making him cry out in shock. It hurt: it hurt like nothing he had ever felt in his life, the white-hot line of stinging agony burning, the heat building unbearably with each second that passed.

Thwicckk. The sister had waited, timed her stroke to arrive just as the first had peaked, or as he thought it had peaked. The biting sting was almost in the same spot – perfectly placed in fact – and it re-ignited the pain from the first stroke. A solid wall of fiery biting agony marched across his flesh and he howled loudly. Still the nun waited patiently, her face impassive as she made her count inside her head. He heard the terrible ripping as the cane flew towards his vulnerable flesh and his whole body clenched as one huge muscle, in fear.

Thwicckk. It landed an inch above the last, perfectly positioned and taking the burning, searing, band of agony through his pain threshold and out the other side. His howls were higher in pitch and his whole body strained at the leather cuffs, ankles and wrists held firm as his hands and feet thrashed desperately, attempting to rid his body of that terrible stinging fire.

The implacable features of Sister Sarah watched and her count continued remorselessly, quietly biding her time, waiting for the perfect moment to deliver the next cracking bite of the dragon cane. There were three perfectly parallel lines of incandescent red agony across his pale buttocks, and inside the rubber safety knickers she always wore for these occasions Sister Sarah could feel her heat and wetness. She positively glowed in the warmth of her love lips as they slipped and slid against each other, the juices trapped by the rubber knickers. Sister