Tethered: A Story of Three -- Part 02

The cuffs clicked shut with mechanical finality, leather biting into her wrists as Sir fastened each one without a word. No gentleness. No ceremony. Just the brutal elegance of restraint, cool and inescapable.

She flinched at the last cuff--barely, but I saw it. Watched the muscle twitch in her thigh, the flicker of uncertainty in her eyes, quickly masked by the stiff lift of her chin. She was trying to be brave. Foolish, maybe, but beautiful for it.

She was fully exposed now, arms wide, legs parted, chest rising and falling too fast. The St. Andrew's Cross creaked softly behind her as she shifted, but there was nowhere to go. Her skin glowed under the dungeon lights--already flushed, nipples taut, slick beginning to glisten along the seam of her thighs. And yet she held my gaze like she thought she could defy this.

Sir moved behind her, silent as smoke, eyes sharp with intent.

I lounged on the throne, still aching from my own time under his hand. The sting of welts warmed my skin in a way that made me feel alive, claimed. I was a mess and a masterpiece, sweat drying on my thighs, the taste of surrender still on my tongue.

I watched her with the calm hunger of someone who had already survived the storm and now wanted to see someone else swept away.

He reached for the flogger--the big one, the one with thick leather falls knotted at the ends. It was heavy and unforgiving. He gave it one slow swing through the air, letting it hiss like a warning.

She didn't flinch this time. She just closed her eyes. Praying, maybe.

Then the first strike landed.

The sound split the room--sharp, brutal, a flat thwack that seemed to echo in her chest. She cried out, raw and immediate, hips jerking forward instinctively, breasts jolting from the impact. Red bloomed across her skin in a perfect arc, nipples peaked tighter, breath fractured.

Sir didn't pause. He struck again, lower, across the tender line of her stomach, then once more directly over her pussy. The sound of wet flesh meeting leather rang out like applause.

Her scream this time was hoarse and high, and I felt it vibrate in my chest, a lightning bolt of arousal shooting straight to my core. She bucked hard against the restraints, her feet struggling for purchase. No use. He had her. Every inch of her.

Sir continued, methodical and merciless, lashes falling in measured rhythm--across her nipples, her cunt, her inner thighs. Each strike stripped away another layer of resistance, until her body sagged under the weight of it all. Her skin glistened, marked and glimmering with sweat, tears carving trails down her flushed cheeks.

But still, she hadn't broken. Not fully. She screamed, sobbed, begged with her breath, but some small, trembling part of her held on.

He dropped the flogger without fanfare. It hit the floor with a soft finality, and she flinched like she'd been struck again. Her chest rose and fell too fast, the cuffs pulling taut as she sagged deeper against the cross.

Sir moved to the table, surveying his tools like an artist considering a palette. His fingers brushed across metal, rubber, silicone--so many ways to speak without words. He selected something smaller. A finer flogger--thinner strands, with tips that could kiss or cut.

When he returned, he didn't give her time to register it. The first strike landed clean and sharp across her clit, and her scream cracked in half. It wasn't just pain anymore--it was overload. Her body jerked wildly, thighs trembling, toes curling against the floor. He struck again, cruel and deliberate. Another lash, right across her ruined, glistening cunt. She cried out again, wrecked and raw, voice rasping from too much screaming.

I shifted in my seat, thighs pressing tight. The scent of her filled the air--sharp, sweet, feral. Her suffering was a sacrament, and we were the ones devouring it. I wanted to grind against the plush cushions and ride out the orgasm I so desperately wanted.

Sir took his time. He marked her breasts, her belly, and the inside of her thighs. Her body danced beneath every blow, suspended between agony and something else--something more profound. She was slipping past herself, caught in the current of it all.

She was ready.

Sir paused. Admiring. Measuring.

Then he turned to me, voice calm, steady, full of quiet authority.

"Sort her out."

The words lit me up.

I stood slowly, my legs shaky, not from fear but from the delicious ache still blooming across my skin. I moved to her side and leaned in close, my lips brushing her ear, my breath warm against the sweat and tears.

"You're doing so well," I whispered, and she whimpered, a slight, desperate sound that made me want to bite her and cradle her in the same breath.

"So ready. So fucking pretty like this."

I dropped to my knees between her legs and kissed her thigh, slow and reverent. Her cunt was swollen, bright red, trembling. Even the heat of my breath made her twitch. I licked her once--slow, gentle, barely a taste--and she sobbed.

Then I took her clit into my mouth and sucked.

She screamed.

Her body jolted hard enough to make the cross creak, but I held her there, arms wrapped tight around her thighs, my mouth working her relentlessly. Her slick was a flood, sharp with pain and pleasure, and every cry she made went straight through me. I tongued her fast, merciless, dragging her up into the spiral, pushing her toward the edge of something wild and bright.

She was close. So close. Her legs shook. Her breath shattered into pieces.

"Stop." Sir's voice cut through the moment like a knife.

She tried. I felt it in her body--how she tensed, locked up, clung to the edge with every ounce of will. But it was too late. The orgasm ripped through her, broken and unfinished, more sob than scream. She shattered in my mouth and then crumpled, breathless, whimpering.

I pulled back and looked up at her, savouring the ruined beauty of her body--slick, marked, undone.

Sir took her chin in his hand, tilting her face to meet his gaze.

"Pathetic," he said softly. Almost fond. "You couldn't even hold for her."

She sobbed, and I felt it in my chest. Not pity. Something hungrier. Something reverent.

Sir turned to the table again. Selected a harness and a thick, gleaming black strap-on.

He held it out to me.

"Fuck her," he said. "Break her."

And I would. With love. With ruin.

Because she was ready.