Edgecombe Manor. Taken in Hand

By Kivutar Amy Koski

Edgecombe Manor: the domain of Lady Devereaux, her daughter Helen, and her special friend and lover, Stephanie Craddock. The women have a penchant for domination, and in the case of the girls, a love of 'switching' too. Added to Helen's fetish for latex rubber and the maid Kannika's love of submissive sex, the big house is a man-free oasis of fun and love. That is, until Alan Bancroft climbs over the wall and gets caught stealing pears from the orchard. Alan will be drawn into the all-girl family in a way he never envisaged in his wildest dreams. Meanwhile, Wendy Thorpe becomes accidentally involved with the dominant district nurse, Sue Channing. Slowly she is tutored and coached into a world of submissive males, chastity belts, canes, tawses, and a delightful array of toys. When local 'bad lad' Ben Wright commits a series of acts of vandalism and an assault, it's clear he must be punished. Wendy is happy to oblige, but with a personal twist...

Enter a world of female domination, lesbianism, punishment and torment of the unworthy male, and a series of special fetishes including rubber, chastity, teasing and torment, post orgasm torture, and a predilection for the plimsoll - the humble school 'pump' used for generations to slipper bad boys on the bottom... pain and obedience have never been so delicious...

• Language: English
• Publisher: Kivutar Amy Koski
• Release date: Jun 22, 2019
• ISBN: 9780463725719

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

Edgecombe Manor

Book I: Taken in Hand

Kivutar Amy Koski

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First published in Great Britain by PLP Books, 2019.

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 2019

ISBN: 9780463725719

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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1: From Little Acorns

2: No Pleasure without Pain

3: Learning Curve

4: Ward of Court

5: The Prison Strap

6: The Natural Order of Things

7: The Road to Damascus

1: From Little Acorns

Summer seemed to have stretched past reckoning, improbably sultry for the English moors. The day had been a long hot one beneath a cloudless sapphire sky, and Alan Bancroft had spent most of it in the woods of the Edgecombe estate, wandering the pathways under the trees in the valley; revelling in the shade from the blistering sunshine. The estate was private land: forbidden territory (of course) and surrounded by a high stone wall, neither of which posed an obstacle to a fit and strong seventeen-year-old. Alan had removed his trousers and tee shirt to climb one of the pear trees that grew within sight of the big house. He knew he’d be caned when he returned to the children’s home if his clothes were soiled or ripped; the orchard’s proximity to the house, the chance of discovery, simply added spice to the challenge.

Arriving at the lake, Alan paused by the wooden summerhouse with its slate roof and heavy log picnic tables nearby. His superfluous folded sweater held a dozen or more pears, enveloped neatly inside. Shunning the tables with their attached benches, he sat on the soft warm grass by the lakeside. He finished a pear, the sticky juice trickling down his chin, clinging and irritating. Alan weighed the core, made to throw it in the water, thought better of it, and lobbed it softly in the direction of the tables. He studied the cool clear water, judging his next actions: why not? He was hot and sweaty, the pear juice was sticky, and the soft water was enticingly inviting – plus he was half-undressed already. Edgecombe Manor was a huge, rambling country estate and he’d never seen any gamekeepers or staff in the grounds on his occasional visits. This was the summer holidays, and he didn’t need to be back at the care home until seven – plenty of time for a swim. He piled his clothes in a heap, the pears still wrapped in the sweater, and eased into the water with a sigh.

Alan was congratulating himself on his decision, his body absorbing the coolness, when two horses came into view on the far side of the lake. In the distance his horrified gaze identified two female riders, the horses casually trotting around the hard shale pathway at the lake’s perimeter. With hurried strokes he made for the bank, seeking concealment beneath the overhang in a bed of rushes. His heart thumped as the horses neared the grassy area he’d chosen to undress – the only obvious area convenient for such a purpose. The horses reined in at the summerhouse, and both the young women dismounted. He moved his head beneath the edge of the grassy bank, his body contracting involuntarily in an effort to become invisible. He prayed they would move on, as he listened in dread to the upper-class accents.

What a glorious hack, Steff – the scent of the grass, the flowers, I wish this holiday could never end! Both the girls had dismounted and the furthest away – Steff – was removing a flask and some sandwiches from her saddlebags. Steff was a curvy but graceful blonde, clad in a pair of tan jodhpurs and black leather riding boots that complemented the loose-flowing silk blouse, and seemed to accentuate her figure as though she’d been poured into them. Her blue eyes were ablaze with her pleasure in the day, and her companion chuckled before replying.

Let’s relax for ten minutes – the horses could do with a break; you gave Caesar a right old gallop before the woodland path. Helen Devereaux placed her bundle onto the nearest table and the pair sat, allowing the trembling Alan to watch them more avidly. Helen was a bob-haired brunette, with a pale, slightly freckled face and piercing grey eyes that seemed to flit about her, alive and intelligent. She was very slightly taller than her friend Stephanie Craddock, slightly less curvaceous, more willowy, clad in the same type of riding jodhpurs, although of a chocolate brown. The brown tops of her hunter boots almost disappeared against the cloth background, her left boot having her riding whip tucked inside the top as she passed sandwiches and a cup of orange juice to her companion.

Alan was mortified; the pair gave every appearance of settling in for a while, something he could well do without, and he watched the attractive pair much as a rabbit might view an approaching stoat. He’d been in the water quite a while now and although the day had been a scorcher, the evening was drawing in and with the loss of the blistering heat the water became cooler; Alan started to gently shiver.

The pair seemed to have finished: certainly they both rose. Helen buckled the saddlebag and Stephanie made towards the bank. Alan held his breath, as the girl dipped her hands in the water, washing them, shaking them dry. She was on her way back to the horses when she stopped dead, stooping to lift the pear core he’d so casually thrown away.

Helen, look at this: how curious! Not the work of an animal, it would have eaten the whole thing and besides...

Besides, what?

The orchard is almost half a mile away, and there are some clothes over there in a bundle. I think you have a trespasser, darling; a trespasser stealing your mother’s fruit, come and see!

Both young women were astride his clothes, the sweater’s folds opened and the pears clearly visible. Helen’s vivid eyes scanned, casting back and forth, her mind clearly reaching the only viable conclusion. Alan cringed as her gaze passed over him, and again, then returned and held him.

Get out.

Er... I can’t, miss... my clothes...

Stop stuttering, boy, and do as I say. I won’t tell you again; next time I shall send Stephanie for a keeper from Far Lodge, or perhaps the police. Now get out. Her tone was cool and unflustered, completely in control. With dreadful embarrassment Alan found himself rising to his feet and walking parallel to the bank towards them in shame. He paused before the pair, the water still concealing his private parts, and a look passed between the girls. Their faces seemed eager, gleeful almost, but again Helen took the lead.

"If you’re not out by the time I count five I’ll have the keeper and the police. No second chances. One... two... three..."

Alan waded, his face crimson, and scrambled for the grassy bank, mud sucking at his feet, making him slow and clumsy.

Four...

Please, miss, I’m out; can I get my clothes? Alan was already making for the pile of shabby worn garments, but with casual arrogance the tip of Helen’s riding whip halted him. He stood trembling, his hands covering his genitals and an expression of total horror across his features.

I think not... let’s have a good look at you, boy. The leather loop at the tip of the crop seemed to glide over him, making him flinch and cringe as Helen examined him, made him turn and stand like an animal, finally pressing his hands away from that awful shame between his legs. Stephanie gave a light chuckle and the pair grinned at each other.

What’s your name, boy?

Alan Bancroft, miss.

I take it you’re from the town?

Yes, miss.

Whereabouts?

I’m sorry, miss?

Where in the town do you live? I suppose you’re from that horrible Woodgate estate...

Er... no miss, I live in Mossdale.

Mossdale... not Mossdale House?

Yes, miss.

So you’re in council care: my mother’s a magistrate and deals with that sort of thing all the time; what did you do? Did you run away from home or are you a criminal? The grey eyes bored into him and his hands involuntarily returned to cover his crotch in a gesture of vulnerability. His trembling had increased now. They would think him one of the bad lads and send for the police immediately. He’d be locked in the secure wing, beaten, and restricted to the home for months.

I... I’m not in the secure wing, miss... my parents were killed in a car accident when I was very small. I’m sorry I stole your mother’s pears, miss, it was only meant in fun.

I’m sure it was, Alan: but all misbehaviour comes with a price, you know. The eyes had softened, were ranging over his firm young body, assessing, calculating, making him feel even more exposed if that were possible. If you go back with the police to the home, what will happen to you?

Er, I’ll be caned, miss, and locked in the secure wing for a while until my social worker decides what should happen. They’ll keep me in, in any case. I won’t be allowed out for ages.

Have you been caned before, Alan? The question seemed loaded: it was delivered with a catch in the voice, and Stephanie seemed to watch him with a predatory gleam in her eye too.

Sometimes, miss, and slippered too.

Which hurts the most?

Er... I... not sure, miss.

Come come, Alan, it’s a perfectly simple question: I’ve decided you need punishment for today’s performance, and I need to know about how you are punished at the home!

"Well, the cane hurts more, miss – it bites, like – but you never get more than six, whereas the pump stings, and you get loads more, so the pain goes on for longer: especially if Mrs Harris does it."

"The pump?" The girls looked askance at each other, blankly.

The gym shoe, miss – the school slipper?

Ah, you mean the plimsoll – I see; why would Mrs Harris hurt you more than the others?

"Mrs Harris is the head of the house, miss: Miss Yarrow makes you sore, but Mrs Harris slippers on the bare. She wears pumps all the time, in case she needs to punish on the spot."

Very sensible of her, does she cane on the bare, too?

No, miss.

I see: well put your clothes on, Alan, while I decide how to deal with you. Clearly you’re not a delinquent or criminal, but you are in need of firm guidance.

The youth fairly flew to the little pile; partially concealing himself behind a bush, before dressing himself at a speed not normally achieved by young adolescent males. Beyond his earshot the two girls conversed quietly.

He’s very good looking, so well proportioned, and quietly respectful, too. I think he’s perfect; I’ll speak to mother later and see what can be arranged.

But what do you have in mind, exactly?

I’m not sure myself, but I do know he makes me frisky! The two pairs of eyes met, and Helen leaned forward to kiss Stephanie full on the lips. Their tongues entwined briefly, teasing each other before the girls parted, Helen slapping Steff’s bottom and grinning. Don’t worry darling, you can come to my room after dinner.

You can bank on it! He’s finished, by the way.

The boy stood hesitantly, eyes lowered to the ground. He’d left the pears in a heap on the grass, which made Helen smile. The girls mounted and Helen walked her horse to Alan’s side, her slim, flexible whip raising his gaze from beneath his chin.

You may take the pears with you, Alan: you’ll be paying for them shortly in any event! Helen’s eyes held his and he blushed. You can be punished tomorrow, Alan: either at the home, or by me at this place. If you accept my punishment the home will not be told of your misdemeanour, and that will be the end of it. Do you agree?

Yes, miss. Alan knew he had no real option, and it would be preferable by far to have one punishment, and make an end to the episode.

Very sensible of you. Now; what time do you get up in the morning?

Seven o’clock miss, with chores from 7-30 until 8-15; any punishment we’ve been awarded is given after that, before breakfast.

So if I told you to be here at 12-30 pm sharp, that wouldn’t be a problem for you?

No, miss:

Excellent; off you go then, don’t be late tomorrow or there will be consequences. If you change your mind I shall send the police. Don’t forget the pears!

Both horses moved off briskly, followed by the confused gaze of