Tethered: A Story of Three -- Part 01

This is the beginning of a shared journey between a Dom, his Alpha submissive, and their little sub--each bound by choice, by trust.

A lesson begins: how pain forges devotion, how obedience shapes desire, and how every bruise can become a crown.

This story is raw, consensual, and built on respect.

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The club pulsed around us, low and relentless. Bass thudded like a second heartbeat beneath my skin, laced with the sharp punctuation of leather cracking against flesh. Heat clung to the air—sweat, breath, something darker. Want, maybe. Surrender.

But all of it blurred. I couldn’t hear the music anymore. Couldn’t register the sea of eyes or the hush that always follows something new and ripe walking in.

All I could feel was him.

He stood just to the left of the St. Andrew’s Cross, tall and still, with that kind of stillness that draws everything toward it like the air had weight around him. Like the world bent just a little.

He wasn’t mine. Not yet. But I was already his.

It started low, deep in my belly, a tension that curled in on itself, heat chasing it, blooming through every nerve. I didn’t fight it. I couldn’t. I stepped forward, every inch deliberate. Every step a promise.

The cross was rough beneath my palms, cool wood scraping against overheated skin when I touched it. My nipples tightened the second I leaned in and brushed the grain. Raw. Real. I hadn’t expected that. It made me gasp—just a little—and that slight sound echoed too loud.

I lifted my arms without being told. Offered myself, wrists high, like it was instinct. Like I’d done this a thousand times instead of never, not like this.

He took my right wrist first. His fingers wrapped around it slowly, warm and firm and maddeningly gentle, like he had all the time in the world. Like this wasn’t the beginning of something sharp and brutal and unforgiving.

His thumb stroked across the inside of my wrist, right over the frantic thrum of my pulse.

I wondered if he could feel how fast I was unravelling.

The cuff clicked closed with a soft metallic bite. And still, he didn’t rush.

His hand lingered, fingertips grazing the delicate underside of my arm. I couldn’t help but shiver, breath catching, and I heard the low growl rumble from his chest, his mouth finding the soft curve of my neck. Teeth grazed me—just enough to make me flinch, just enough to make my thighs clench around empty air. He laughed, a dark, satisfied sound.

The heat of his breath on my skin, the scrape of his teeth, the rough bite of leather keeping me in place—I was trembling before he even moved on. It was like he was savouring the slow burn of this torture.

He crossed behind me, slow and deliberate, his presence leaving a trail of not-quite-touch down my spine. His hands wrapped around my left wrist, lifting it to meet the other, pulling me tighter against the cold, unyielding wood. I could feel it dig into my chest, my nipples tightening against the coarse grain.

Another cuff snapped closed—final. Unyielding. There was no going back now.

He tested the restraints, pulling just enough to make the leather bite deeper, ensuring I felt every inch of the helplessness creeping up my spine.

My back arched instinctively, my hips tipping forward to find balance—and that’s when he stepped in. His body pressed into mine, hard muscle against my soft skin, the heat of him unmistakable. His cock—heavy, thick—pressed against the curve of my ass, the slow, deliberate grind of his hips sending a rush of heat through me.

I gasped, the sound sharp as it bounced off the wood. My body strained in the cuffs—not to escape, but to get closer.

I could feel him—how hard he was, how tightly wound his hunger had become, barely leashed beneath the surface. His breath brushed my neck as he leaned in, his mouth grazing the shell of my ear.

“Feel that, little one?” he murmured, voice low and thick with promise.

He stayed there just long enough to make me ache—his cock grinding once more against the curve of my ass, his breath a humid brand on my skin—and then he stepped away.

The absence hit like a slap.

Cold air rushed in where his heat had been, and I strained helplessly in the cuffs, my whole body aching for his weight, warmth, and subsequent move. A whimper slipped from my lips before I could stop it, shamefully loud in the charged air.

I was completely exposed now. On display.

My breath came shallow and fast. My hands flexed in the cuffs. My thighs pressed together, trembling, aching for the friction I couldn’t reach.

Then—

without warning—

CRACK.

The first strike landed hard across the roundest part of my ass, the sharp, obscene sound cutting through the club’s low murmur like a whipcrack in church.

Pain erupted—sharp, bright, electric—racing up my spine and coiling low in my belly. I cried out, the sound raw and startled, more from shock than pain. I hadn’t expected it—not so soon. Not so hard. No warning touch. No whispered threat.

He hadn’t given me the luxury of anticipation.

The second strike came faster, cleaner, slicing across the curve of my ass with cruel precision. I gasped, my body jerking against the cuffs—hips trying to tuck away, shoulders curling in, instinct begging for retreat.

That instinct was wrong—and I knew it. Heat rushed to my cheeks, a flash of shame licking hotter than the sting across my skin.

She was watching. The little one. Learning. This wasn’t just for me. It was her lesson. I drew in a breath, deep and steady.

Forced my body back into position:

Arms stretched high.

Hips out.

Legs steady.

Ready.

Exactly how he wanted me. Exactly how she needed to see me.

I tilted my hips back deliberately, offering myself again. Proud. Open. Owned.

A low, approving growl rumbled from behind me.

I heard him shift his weight, the leather of his trousers creaking with the movement, and felt the air change around me as he raised his hand again.

Another pause—agonising—while he let the lesson sink in.

Good girls correct themselves.

Good girls take what’s given.

Good girls show others how to break beautifully.

The next strike landed lower, catching the tops of my thighs, sharp enough to steal the air from my lungs. I cried out, helpless, but held my position. I had to. For him. For her. For me.

Another strike landed, angled low across the underside of my ass, and the sound it tore from me was sharp—raw. I writhed against the cuffs, the cross creaking under my weight, but I fought the urge to pull away.

Good girls stay still.

The next spank came harder—thwack—the sting resonated through my body, leaving me momentarily breathless. My thighs shook, nerves set on fire, but I didn’t break position. I couldn’t, not with her watching.

There was a long moment of silence.

It engulfed me, punctuated only by my ragged breathing and the distant, muffled cries from another scene across the room.

Then I heard it—his breathing.

I felt him at my side, towering over me, then stepping slightly away.

His voice cut through the fog, low and commanding "Come here, little one."

A hesitation. A rustle of movement. Then, her presence was closer, trembling, hesitant.

He positioned her just off to my left, so close I could smell her arousal—fresh fear and growing need mixing into something heady.

"Closer," he murmured, and she obeyed.

Now, she was just a breath away from me—close enough to see the flush burning in my cheeks, the wet glint in my eyes, the way my mouth hung open on desperate, gasping breaths. Close enough to see what surrender looked like. I barely held her gaze, letting her see every tremor, every broken edge of composure.

I wanted her to see it. She needed to see it.

Raw. Wrecked. Beautiful.

And when he moved again, I knew it would be worse.

The air changed.

Heavy.

Electric.

He didn’t speak right away—he didn’t have to.

I stayed braced against the cross, wrists straining against the cuffs, hips pushed out, legs trembling with effort and anticipation.

Little sub stood beside me, so close now that I could feel the brush of her trembling arm against mine when she shifted, nervous. Her breathing was shallow and unsteady. She could see the things I could not. She knew what my fate was.

He stepped behind me, shifting his weight, letting the leather strands trail lightly across my exposed back, testing, teasing.

I shivered; it was what I had expected would be next, every nerve stretched taut.

Then his voice, low and absolute: "Count for her, little one. Twenty. Loud enough that I know you're paying attention."

I felt her stiffen beside me.

A tiny, broken whisper "Yes, Sir."

The first swing came—not brutal yet, but heavy—leather thudding across my shoulders with a thick, spreading sting.

The impact rocked me forward against the cross; I gasped but held position.

Before I could gather my breath, little sub's voice piped up, high and shaky "One, Sir."

Another swing, faster this time—air hissing as the leather carved through it—and I felt the brush of displaced air fan across my side before the strands bit into me.

The breeze of the flogger grazed little Sub's bare skin too—I could feel her flinch from it, even without looking.

The flogger landed again, and again, each strike measured, building. Each crack sent heat searing deeper into my back, my ass, the tops of my thighs.

Little sub counted:

"Two, Sir."

"Three, Sir."

"Four, Sir."

By the time she reached "Ten," I was shaking—sweat slicked along my back, muscles trembling, breath coming in shallow pants. Pain layered on pain. Each strike blurred into the next, until my whole world narrowed to the burning of my skin, the pull of the cuffs, the soft, desperate sound of her counting.

"Eleven, Sir."

"Thirteen, Sir."

The flogger kissed my ribs next—high, stinging—and I cried out, sharp and involuntary.

"Fourteen, Sir."

I was sinking—floating—falling into the pain, into the rhythm he gave me, into the sound of her trembling voice grounding me to the world.

"Fifteen, Sir."

"Sixteen, Sir."

Another strike—lower, heavier, across the tender crease where ass met thigh—and I sobbed, knees buckling slightly, wrists pulling hard against the cuffs.

I forced myself upright again—shaking, hurting, burning—but I held. Held because she was still there. Watching. Counting. Learning. Held because I was hers to watch. Held because I was his to break.

"Seventeen, Sir."

"Eighteen, Sir."

"Nineteen, Sir."

The final blow landed with a brutal crack across the middle of my back, sending shockwaves down to the very tips of my toes.

I hung there, shuddering, gasping.

Her voice, soft but sure:

"Twenty, Sir."

Silence. My body hung limp in the cuffs, every nerve ending screaming with heat. My whole body vibrated with the aftershocks, my skin alight, my mind blank with pain and pride and need. I knew I must have looked wrecked—red-faced, teary, trembling—but I didn't turn away.

Little sub's final count still echoed in my ears— "Twenty, Sir."

But something was wrong. I could feel the small tension in the room and the slight shift in his breathing. He let it hang there for a moment longer, giving no sign, no comment.

Instead, he moved behind me, the flogger dropping from his hand to the floor with a heavy, final thud. I felt him step closer, so close I could feel the heat of his body against my ruined skin, and the pain it caused. His fingers traced along the welts blooming across my back, light, assessing, sending shudders racing through me.

"Good girl," he murmured, low enough that only I could hear.

"You took that so well."

Pride swelled in my chest, sharp and aching. I whimpered, my knees shaking, the praise sinking into me like heat.

Then he turned slightly, voice commanding "Little one," he said.

"On your knees between her legs. You'll reward her for being such a good girl, and thank her for showing you how a good submissive takes her lessons."

A pause. I could almost feel her trembling.

"Bury your mouth in her cunt," he ordered, voice like velvet dragged over steel. "Make her come. She's earned it."

For a moment, she froze. Then I felt the tentative brush of her hands on my hips—small, shaking. She lowered herself between my spread legs, the scent of her fear and arousal thick in the air.

I barely had time to brace myself before her tongue found me—hot, soft, hesitant at first—and I whimpered, sagging against the cross, the pleasure so sharp against the lingering burn of the flogging that it nearly broke me apart.

She licked, deeper now, more desperate, clumsy but eager to please. I bit my lip, trying to hold back the sounds tearing from my throat. For a few glorious, agonising minutes, all there was was her mouth on me, the cross under me, and him—owning us, both of us.

Just as the pressure began to crest inside me—coiling, unbearable—he bent down beside her.

His voice was colder this time.

"You missed a count."

The little sub froze, tongue stilled against my throbbing cunt.

"Twelve," he said, voice deceptively mild.

"You skipped twelve."

I felt her flinch against me. I opened my eyes, breathless and dizzy, just in time to see him reach down and grip little Sub's hair, tugging her head gently but firmly back.

He didn't look angry. Worse. He looked disappointed.

"She took every strike for you," he said, voice low, almost clinical.

"And you couldn't even count properly."

He released her, stepping back.

"Your turn," he said simply.

He pointed to the cross.

"Strip."

For a moment, she hesitated.

"Well?" he snapped.

Scrambling, she pulled at her tight black underwear. A scrap of a bra—black lace, sheer enough that her nipples were fully visible, hard and pebbled against the delicate mesh. Tiny matching panties cut high on her hips, a slim band of black framing the wet sheen already blooming between her thighs. Her body was built for sin—young, soft, supple—and she looked every inch the offering now: trembling, exposed, beautifully terrified.

She stood there naked—eyes wide, chest heaving, legs quivering—waiting for his judgment.

He didn't say a word. Just let her stand there, trembling in the heavy silence, feeling the full weight of what she was about to submit to.

He let her stand there for a moment longer—naked, trembling, exposed—before turning his attention back to me. I was still pinned to the cross, arms stretched high, legs quivering from the strain, skin burning with welts and pride. He moved in close, his fingers brushing lightly over my raw wrists, testing the tension, feeling the trembling strength still left in me.

A soft noise of approval rumbled from his chest.

Without a word, he unclipped the first cuff—the leather snapping open with a sharp, final pop—and my arm sagged instantly, heavy with exhaustion. He caught me, steadying me with a firm hand at my waist, keeping me from collapsing entirely.

Then the second cuff released, and I was free— free but not really, because my body still belonged to him, shaped by his will, marked by his hands.

His grip tightened at my hip, grounding me. He leaned in, mouth brushing my ear, voice a low rumble meant only for me "You did well, little wolf."

The praise sank into me like heat, like victory, and I shuddered under it.

The orgasm I had been so close to still pulsed stubbornly at the edge of my awareness, my clit throbbing at his words.

He guided me—slow, sure, possessive—across the floor, leading me a few steps away from the cross.

Waiting, there was a chair. Not just any chair. It was massive, dark, decadent—built with scenes in mind. The black wood gleamed under the low lights, polished to a deep, liquid shine. Purple velvet cushions, thick and inviting, lined the wide seat and high back. It was a throne not of fantasy, but of purpose— designed for voyeurs, witnesses, and those tasked with watching and being watched.

A seat meant not just for resting— but for owning. For cuckolds forced to watch. For spectators rewarded for obedience. For those elevated just high enough to be a symbol... but never allowed to forget who truly ruled the room.

He lowered me onto it carefully, his hands firm but respectful. When I was seated, he tipped my chin up, so I had no choice but to look at him.

"Sit and watch," he murmured, voice a caress which wrapped warmly around my body.

"You've earned it."

He turned to walk away, then paused, looking back at me, smirking slightly:

"Get some energy back," he said. "In a minute, you will take her."

A flush of heat crawled up my spine—not shame, not this time, but pride, sharp and aching.

I sat there, naked, marked, thighs pressed tight together to ease the pulsing between my legs— a living monument to the lesson she was about to endure.

He moved back to his new victim, trembling, naked, waiting by the cross. She turned wide, terrified eyes toward me for just a moment— and found no mercy there.

He positioned her differently, turning her so that her back pressed against the cool wood, her front exposed to the room, to him.

Breasts bare. Thighs trembling. Face flushed with fear. Arms lifted high, wrists buckled into the cuffs one after the other—each strap tightened until she was stretched taut and helpless.

Vulnerable.

Her chest rose and fell in rapid, shallow gasps, every inch of her offered up to whatever he chose to do to her.

He stepped back once, surveying his work.

No words of comfort. No whispered encouragement. She hadn't earned it yet.

She had to take it now—the way I had.

But with one crucial difference: Her shame would be visible. Her tears would have nowhere to hide.

And I would watch every second of it— marked and wrecked on my throne.

A reminder to her of what true surrender looked like.