The Rubber Milkmaid

The Rubber Milkmaid

Kivutar Amy Koski

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First published in Great Britain by PLP Books 2023.

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. All characters are over the age of 18 years.

 Kivutar Amy Koski 2023

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Emma turned to Kate and smiled sweetly, her red lips curved into a wicked hint of a smile. Most men fear the pain of the whip, the bite of the schoolmistress cane or the raging fire of the punishment strap. They are right to do so – pain is an exquisite and formidable tool for teaching obedience and providing discipline – but I promise you this: if you have him locked in chastity and keep him horny for weeks, then use rubber gloves to make him cum, then the vibrating milker to give him post orgasm torture beyond his ability to cope with the pleasure, he will remember it, fear it, and yet crave it again, until his dying day…

Contents

1: Mistress Emma’s Academy

2: Suffering is Good for the Soul

3: Knowledge is Power

4: A Single Throw of the Dice

5: The Spider and the Fly

6: The Dating Agency

1: Mistress Emma’s Academy

The man was dressed in a completely nondescript fashion and drove a small Mini with plain paint. He was expert at following without being seen – indeed he was paid largely for doing so. Robert Benson was sole proprietor of the Select Investigation Agency and had been following Brian Trent for almost a week. Trent’s wife, Kim, had employed Benson (‘Benny’ to his friends) to find out if her suspicions were correct and her husband was having an affair. So far the trail led nowhere and even Benny’s ever suspicious and cynical mind was beginning to think Trent was clean.

He was stopped at a junction, with one other car between him and Trent, when Trent took the opportunity of the smallest of gaps in the traffic. His Gti leapt forward, bemusing the elderly driver between them and causing a real problem for Benny, who swore softly to himself. It was almost half a minute before Benny managed to get his Mini out of the side road and he gunned the motor hard, passing the elderly chap in front and scanning rigorously for any sign of Trent’s lime green Gti. If Trent had seen him and gone for it he would be way out of sight. He grumbled quietly: he’d been so sure he’d not been clocked.

He was so intent on what was ahead he almost missed it: a lime green Gti just going through a large set of wrought iron gates that were electrically closing behind it. He grinned to himself: gotcha! The area was a select one, with lots of CCTV and high walls and it took him several minutes to find a discreet parking spot and walk back to the gates. He peered nonchalantly through the ironwork and was rewarded with a perfect view of trees and shrubs, and a curved drive that kept the house beyond hidden from view – no doubt deliberately. There were two CCTV units visible and he purposely maintained his nonchalance until he was around the corner. His quick mind took in the lack of parking restrictions and he returned to the car, driving round the block and stopping very quickly right opposite the gates. He scrambled for his mobile phone, making it obvious he was answering a call, and let his mouth move in a pretend conversation as his eyes swept the property on the other side of the road.

The house was a sprawling Victorian property, judging by his limited view, which was restricted to the roof beyond the trees. The name was on a large engraved brass plate on the left-hand brick gatepost: Weir House. He packed his phone away and casually drove off: there was no more to be gleaned here and he deliberately stayed away for several minutes, returning to park at the end of the road, beyond the view of those CCTV cameras.

The wait was a long one – almost three hours in fact – and he tailed the Gti back to the smart town house in the suburbs, which was the marital home. Benny now had something to chew on, but what was inside the high brick walls of Weir House? Why was Trent driving through electrically operated gates? It was his job to find out, and he would make sure he did. The fee would be a fat one.

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Emma Pearson adjusted her white rubber dress, smoothing the creases away with her petite hands and grinned at the other woman in the room. Both were dressed almost identically in a white shiny rubber tunic dress and a white steel-boned rubber corset that was cinched to perfection in order to accentuate the natural beauty contained beneath the gleaming rubber. Both women had white, calf-length, flat-heeled rubber boots that shone wickedly and complemented the overall clinical ‘look’. Emma Pearson was preparing Kate Rixon for the 2-30pm appointment booked in for Milking Parlour 1 of Weir House. Kate would be acting as milkmaid in her own right for the first time and was just a little nervous, although concealing her nerves quite successfully.

Remember, Kate, you’ve seen it all and done it all before, and superbly well too. The only change today is that you’ll be the mistress – you are the rubber milkmaid and whatever torment and suffering you choose to inflict will be at your own discretion. You are completely and utterly suited for this role and you’ll love it.

"You’re right, Emma – I’ll be fine; I’ve done this with you in the lead hundreds of times. I’ll be OK once he’s strapped into the milking stool."

The buzzer interrupted the chatter and Emma took in the screen on the desk, scrutinising the vehicle and occupant before thumbing the large flat button. The iron gates opened and the blue Ford Focus drove through the gates, which closed promptly behind it. Outside the house the driver parked next to a red Porsche, casting admiring glances as he locked the Ford.

Off to paint your face, Kate: are you hooding up for this one? You know how sinister you look in a rubber hood!

I wasn’t going to, but, I suppose… It always seems to intimidate them!

"That’s fine then. Ludmila can book him in, then I’ll bring him to milking parlour 1 for you. Enjoy…"

Adam Selworthy stood nervously as the sound of stiletto heels grew ever nearer from the other side of the door. He’d been through the vetting procedure to join the Academy – a highly select and exclusive establishment that catered for the ‘special requirements’ of the discerning fetishist and submissive male. Absolute discretion was assured, appointments were timed and even the parking arranged so that clients remained completely anonymous to each other. The fees were scandalous of course, but the quality of the service was – apparently – beyond compare. Adam was a junior credit controller but a junior at an investment firm wasn’t a millionaire. The fees were noticed from his salary, yet it wasn’t the fees that made him skittish; he was nervous because he didn’t know what to expect.

Adam had filled out the questionnaire, detailing some of his fetishes and fantasies but withholding the really critical ones. He’d been assigned a number – his name at that stage not required – and he’d waited, and waited, and waited. It had been almost six months before he had been notified by email he had been accepted into the Academy. A representative had called at a mutually convenient time to take his deposit via credit card and to fit him with a shiny, black, neoprene rubber chastity device. He’d protested, only to see the attractive young lady in the gleaming black rubber mackintosh stand, ready to leave. He’d relented, naturally, and the woman had produced a flask of ice; rapidly making his penis soft and compliant enough to easily slide into the tube. He’d not heard of or seen anyone from the Academy for three long weeks. He’d been so horny he could have exploded, and when his appointment came he counted the hours away. Now here he was on the doorstep, facing the wide doors, one of which opened silently.

The woman who had fitted his chastity tube stared him in the face. His penis was hardening beyond his control as he surveyed her finely-boned, delicate Slavic face framed so beautifully by the bobbed blonde hair that fell finely into place about her neck. Her deep blue eyes sparkled with life and her blood-red lips glistened as they smiled at him thinly. Her statuesque figure was poured into a gleaming rubber catsuit of deepest liquid black that shone like a mirror of hell. Her waist was shaped by a red leather waspie corset, and she wore matching red leather thigh boots with five inch heels. She was absolutely gorgeous and he would have known her for a Russian anywhere with those fine doll-like features. She carried a long red riding crop and she gestured him through the door with it impatiently. His heart hammered as the door closed behind him like the slamming of a vault.

This way.

He followed meekly, watching her shapely bottom wiggle from side to side as she walked, his penis straining against its rubber prison and aching, partly because of her and her gleaming rubber catsuit, partly because his imagination was running riot; wondering what use these women had for the detailed sexual questionnaire he’d filled out. The Russian doll took him to an anteroom with deep comfortable chairs, but there was no time to sit. The woman awaiting him was a shapely dream poured into a white rubber dress with a corset that gave her figure a stunning shape. She carried a black rubber-coated riding crop which she twirled nonchalantly. As his imprisoned penis went nuclear so she simply turned and beckoned him to follow, speaking as she went.

Come with me, your treatment has been decided. I’m Mistress Emma, but Mistress Kate will be training you today.

Training? What training? As he understood it, he was paying for kinky fun, playing an expensive game that pandered to his fetishes and fantasies. Mistress Emma spoke as though this was for real, and he was completely under her control. His heart thumped in both excitement and dread: the idea was a fantastic fantasy, but not attainable in real life, surely?

She led him into a room with diamond-white walls that reflected the medical lights on their movable arms, giving an impression of a hospital, but there were giveaways. A solid structure in the centre of the room was the first indicator this was not a doctor’s surgery or nurse’s clinic. It was a short bench seat, set at ninety degrees to a heavy frame bearing three sets of padded stocks. The lower set, clearly for ankles, sat parallel to the rubber-tiled area around the frame, like an island in the flagged floor. The upper set, with apertures for wrists and head, seemed to be adjustable for both height and angle. The centre stocks were unlike any he’d ever seen in museums and books. One simple aperture, adjustable for height only, rigid vertical alignment, currently set about halfway between the more conventional stocks. The whole frame was padded in white rubber, except the upholstered cut-outs which gleamed in blood red rubber.

Strip. Mistress Kate will be here shortly. Meanwhile prepare yourself for your first monthly interrogation and discipline. You will sit on that seat, facing the door when you’re naked.

OK.

Bend over when you’re naked, and touch your toes.

Why? His pulse raced.

"Because I told you to. You will address all women in this establishment as ‘mistress’ or you’ll regret it."

He removed his socks last before bending over, as instructed. He felt vulnerable, and the weight of the chastity belt seemed more pronounced than when it was covered by his trousers.

Stand or break position and we begin from the start. Six should teach you to show respect to a woman.

THWIPP.

THWIPP.

THWIPP.

The slicing whine of the crop was like a miniature buzz saw, but there was nothing miniature about the agony that exploded across his backside. It bit deep, stinging with burning fire, and he yelped.

THWIPP.

THWIPP.

THWIPP.

He was whining as the cutting strokes seared his flesh, biting deeper until he had trouble keeping his position. He almost toppled over in his agonies, but the six were complete.

"You may rise. On the milking stool with you."

Her crop pointed at the frame and he went to it, seating his throbbing sore bottom on the cool rubber padding. The door facing him opened and another woman clad in identical white rubber came towards him. This woman’s head was covered in a white rubber hood that revealed only the cruel red lips and the deep eyes that surveyed him coolly. The effect was sinister, commanding, and darkly erotic. Mistress Emma left, exchanging a grin as she went through the door.

"I’m Mistress Kate. I am the milkmaid who will teach you to behave correctly and to obey. You are to be trained and disciplined by me. You will also be interrogated to ensure ALL your sexual fantasies were included on your disclosure form, and you WILL tell me ALL you know when you’re in the milking stool. Then we can discipline you for any omissions before we go to work."

Omissions? Go to work? There was a pause for a nanosecond before he ended with Mistress Kate.

You’re learning. Remain still.

Her petite skilful hands adjusted the upper stocks, placing his wrists and neck into the cutouts and closing the heavy padded timbers. The soft rubber padding was strangely comforting, but possible movement was out of the question. Mistress Kate had