Shadows of the Tundra
Copyright© 2026 by Dilbert Jazz
Part II – The Household of Three
Erotica Sex Story: Part II – The Household of Three - In the remote, snow-buried mountains of Eldridge Peak, Alaska, Lyra Harlan returns to claim what her wicked stepmother Seraphina stole—her father's life. Through a dark, possessive BDSM triad with rugged guide Cade, Lyra transforms revenge into total ownership, collaring Seraphina in leather and steel. As rival dominant Isolde threatens to reclaim her past conquest, the three face isolation, storms, and raw surrender. A chilling tale of power, pain, and unbreakable devotion—where choice becomes
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Fa/Fa Mult Blackmail Coercion Consensual Reluctant Lesbian BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Cheating Mother Daughter BDSM DomSub MaleDom FemaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Sadistic Spanking Torture Group Sex Harem Polygamy/Polyamory Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Masturbation Oral Sex Pegging Sex Toys Squirting Tit-Fucking Voyeurism BBW Body Modification Public Sex 2nd POV Caution ENF Violence AI Generated
Cade’s Submission
The first thaw of the season had come early and vicious—three days of relentless rain turning the ridge road into a slurry of mud and ice, then a hard freeze that night that locked everything in place like glass. The cabin felt smaller in the aftermath, the walls pressing in with the smell of wet wool, woodsmoke, and the faint musk of bodies that had spent too many hours together without enough air.
It was the fourth night after the Winter Solstice gathering. Seraphina had been quiet since then—more obedient, more watchful, the memory of the public paddling and forced orgasm still burning behind her eyes every time she moved. The steel plug had been removed the next morning, but the collar remained, heavier than ever, a constant pressure against her throat.
Tonight, Lyra had decided it was time for balance.
They were in the basement dungeon. The candles had been replaced with low-voltage LED strips along the beams—cool white light that made everything look clinical, unforgiving. Seraphina knelt naked in the corner, wrists cuffed behind her back, ankles bound together, a thick leather bit gag between her teeth. A short chain connected her collar to a ring in the floor, forcing her head down, ass presented, but not close enough to touch anything. She was there to watch. Only to watch.
Cade stood in the center of the room, shirtless, jeans unbuttoned but still on. His broad chest rose and fell steadily, the silver in his beard catching the light. He looked at Lyra with the kind of quiet intensity that had always made Seraphina uneasy—respectful, hungry, completely unafraid.
Lyra circled him slowly, barefoot, wearing only black lace panties and a cropped tank top. In her hand, she held a thin, flexible cane—black rattan, no thicker than a pencil, the kind that sang before it bit.
“You’ve been away too long,” she said softly. “You forget who you belong to when you’re out there.”
Cade’s voice was low, rough. “Never forget, Mistress.”
Lyra stopped in front of him. Reached up. Hooked a finger under his chin and tilted his head down so their eyes met.
“Then prove it.”
She stepped back.
“Strip. Everything.”
Cade obeyed without hesitation. Jeans, boxer briefs, socks—gone in seconds. He stood naked, cock already half-hard, muscles taut under scarred skin from years in the field. Broad shoulders, thick thighs, the faint white lines of old injuries across his ribs.
Lyra pointed to the padded spanking bench.
“Over it. Hands on the floor. Legs spread.”
Cade bent forward, palms flat on the concrete, legs wide. The position left him vulnerable—ass presented, balls hanging heavy, cock pointing toward the floor. Seraphina’s breath caught behind the gag; she had never seen him like this and never seen anyone dominate him.
Lyra selected a pair of leather wrist cuffs from the table, lined with soft suede. She fastened them around Cade’s wrists, then clipped them to the rings bolted into the floor in front of the bench. His arms stretched forward, shoulders straining slightly. She added ankle cuffs, spreading him further, chaining his ankles to the bench legs.
Now he was locked—immobile, exposed, powerful body rendered helpless by choice.
Lyra ran the tip of the cane lightly down his spine, from neck to tailbone.
“You’ve been good to me,” she murmured. “You’ve taken care of me. You’ve taken care of her when I told you to.” The cane tapped Seraphina’s thigh once, lightly. “But tonight you remember who owns you first.”
Cade’s voice was steady. “Yes, Mistress.”
The first stroke landed across his upper back—sharp, whistling, a thin red line blooming instantly. Cade exhaled hard through his nose but didn’t flinch.
“Count.”
“One. Thank you, Mistress.”
Again. Lower, across the shoulders.
“Two. Thank you, Mistress.”
Lyra worked methodically—back, shoulders, ass, the backs of the thighs. Each stroke precise, controlled, raising welts without breaking skin. By ten, Cade’s breathing had deepened, sweat beading on his skin. By twenty, his cock was rigid, leaking steadily onto the floor.
Seraphina watched, wide-eyed, gagging, mouth watering around the bit. She had never imagined Cade submitting—never imagined the quiet giant who could carry a wounded man out of a crevasse now bent and striped, thanking Lyra for every stroke.
Lyra paused at thirty. She knelt in front of Cade, lifted his chin.
“Look at me.”
Cade raised his head. His eyes were glassy, pupils blown, but clear.
“Do you want more?”
“Yes, Mistress.”
Lyra smiled—small, fierce. She stood, walked behind him again, and selected a heavier implement from the wall: a wide leather strap with a wooden handle, the kind that thudded rather than stung.
“This is for being away so long,” she said.
The strap landed with a meaty crack across both ass cheeks. Cade grunted, body rocking forward against the restraints.
“Count.”
“Thirty-one. Thank you, Mistress.”
Again. Harder.
“Thirty-two. Thank you, Mistress.”
Lyra built a rhythm—profound, thudding impacts that turned Cade’s ass dark red, then purple. His cock jerked with each strike, pre-cum dripping in long strands to the floor.
When she finally set the strap aside, Cade was shaking—muscles trembling, breath ragged, but still hard, still leaking.
Lyra knelt in front of him again.
“You’ve earned a reward.”
She reached between his legs, wrapped her hand around his shaft, and stroked once—slow, firm.
Cade groaned.
“Not yet,” she whispered.
She moved behind him, slicked her fingers with lube from the table, and pressed two inside his ass—slow, careful, stretching. Cade’s head dropped forward, a low moan escaping.
“You take this for me,” she said. “Because I want you to feel owned tonight. Just like she does.”
She worked her fingers deeper, curling, stroking his prostate. Cade’s hips jerked involuntarily. His cock throbbed, untouched now, dripping steadily.
Seraphina whimpered behind the gag, hips shifting uselessly.
Lyra added a third finger, stretching him wider. Cade’s moans turned guttural.
“Beg,” Lyra commanded.
“Please, Mistress ... please let me come ... please fuck me ... please...”
Lyra smiled.
She withdrew her fingers, replaced them with a thick silicone dildo—ridged, curved, attached to a harness she quickly strapped on. She slicked it, pressed the head against Cade’s entrance, and pushed in slowly.
Cade groaned long and low as she filled him, inch by inch, until she was buried to the hilt.
Lyra began to thrust—slow at first, then harder, deeper, hips snapping against his welted ass. Each thrust rocked him forward against the restraints. His cock swung heavy, untouched, leaking profusely.
Seraphina watched, transfixed, her own pussy throbbing in sympathy, wetness slicking her thighs.
Lyra reached around, wrapped her hand around Cade’s shaft, stroking in time with her thrusts.
“Come for me,” she ordered. “Show her how beautifully you break.”
Cade’s body seized. A raw, guttural sound tore from his throat as he came—thick ropes of cum splattering the concrete beneath him, body convulsing around the dildo, muscles locking and releasing in waves.
Lyra kept thrusting through it, drawing out every shudder, every drop.
When he finally sagged, spent and shaking, she withdrew gently, unclipped the restraints, and helped him to the rug.
She removed Seraphina’s gag, cuffs, and chain.
Seraphina crawled forward immediately, pressing soft kisses to Cade’s shoulder, his back, the fresh welts.
Lyra knelt between them, pulling them both close—three bodies tangled, sweat-slick, breathing hard.
“You’re both mine,” she whispered. “Always.”
Cade’s voice was wrecked. “Always, Mistress.”
Seraphina’s was softer, reverent.
“Always.”
Outside, the frozen rain tapped against the windows like quiet applause.
Inside, the balance had shifted again—deeper, darker, and more unbreakable than ever.
The Wilderness Bondage
The Alaskan spring was a treacherous beauty—mudslides carving fresh scars into the slopes, wildflowers pushing through thawed Earth like defiant wounds, and the air sharp with the scent of melting snow and pine sap. Lyra had chosen the site deliberately: a secluded clearing ringed by towering spruces and sheer granite cliffs, miles from any marked trail, accessible only by a brutal cross-country hike through dense Forest and knee-deep meltwater.
They left at first light, packs heavy.
Lyra carried the tent, sleeping bags, cooking gear, and most of the implements.
Cade shouldered the heavier load—steel stakes, long chains, the collapsible suspension frame, ropes, floggers, the birch switch, hot wax candles, lube, and a small battery-powered vibrator.
Seraphina carried the lightest pack—tent stakes, a coil of hemp rope, a first-aid kit—but Lyra had stripped her of everything else before they left the porch.
She hiked in nothing but sturdy leather boots, thick wool socks, and the permanent collar.
No coat. No underwear. No pants.
The cold bit at first—sharp enough to raise gooseflesh across her breasts and belly, make her nipples harden to painful points—but the exertion warmed her quickly. Her skin flushed pink from effort and exposure. Every step made her breasts bounce, made the collar shift against her throat. She felt every inch of vulnerability: wind on her bare ass, sun on her shoulders, the occasional branch brushing her thighs, the mud sucking at her boots.
Lyra and Cade walked ahead and behind—two silent predators herding their prey deeper into the wild.
They reached the clearing by early afternoon.
It was perfect: a flat bench of ground ringed by old-growth spruce, a sheer granite cliff rising on one side, a small creek gurgling fifty yards away. No trails. No footprints. Only the ravens circling high overhead and the distant rumble of a glacier shedding ice into the valley.
Lyra dropped her pack.
“Strip the boots too,” she said. “Everything.”
Seraphina obeyed. Naked now, feet in the cold mud, she stood shivering as Lyra and Cade set up camp with practiced efficiency—a small two-person tent, Fire pit, tarps for gear.
Then they turned to her.
Cade drove four thick steel stakes deep into the soft Earth—two for wrists, two for ankles—forming a perfect spread-eagle frame. Lyra clipped heavy carabiners to each stake. Together they positioned Seraphina on her back, arms and legs stretched wide, body staked open to the sky. The mud was cold against her spine. The sun warmed her breasts and belly. The wind kissed every inch of exposed skin.
Lyra knelt beside her head, stroking her hair almost tenderly.
“You’re going to feel everything today,” she murmured. “The sun. The wind. The dirt. The pain. The shame. No cabin. No walls. Just you, naked and owned, in the middle of nowhere.”
Seraphina’s breath came fast. “Yes, Mistress.”
Cade retrieved the birch switch—fresh-cut that morning, still green and flexible. He swished it once through the air. The sound alone made Seraphina whimper.
Lyra nodded.
The first stroke landed across Seraphina’s breasts—light, testing. A thin red line appeared instantly. Seraphina gasped, back arching against the stakes.
“Count.”
“One ... thank you, Master.”
Again. Harder. Across the stomach.
“Two ... thank you, Master.”
Cade worked down her body—thighs, inner thighs, the tender skin just above her pussy. Each stroke drew a cry, each cry echoed off the cliffs. By ten, her skin was striped red from collar to knees. By twenty, tears streamed down her temples into the mud.
Lyra took over with a heavier tool: a short-handled flogger with thick suede falls. She targeted the breasts again, then the pussy—light slaps that made Seraphina’s hips jerk, then harder ones that left the swollen lips flushed and throbbing.
“Look at you,” Lyra murmured, kneeling between Seraphina’s spread thighs. “Dripping in the middle of the wilderness. The ravens can see how wet you are. The trees know what a whore you’ve become.”
She leaned down, dragged her tongue once along Seraphina’s slit—slow, deliberate. Seraphina moaned, hips straining against the stakes.
“Not yet,” Lyra said, pulling away.
Cade produced the hot wax—several thick pillar candles from the pack, already lit. He held the first high above her breasts.
“Beg for it.”
“Please ... drip it on me, Master. Mark me. Burn me. Let the wilderness see.”
The first drop fell onto her left nipple. Seraphina screamed—sharp, high, echoing. Another on the right. Then, down the center of her torso, a slow trail of red wax hardens on her skin.
Lyra straddled Seraphina’s face.
“Eat me while he marks you.”
Seraphina’s tongue dove eagerly, lapping at Lyra’s clit, sucking, desperate to please. Lyra ground down, riding her face, while Cade continued the wax—breasts, belly, thighs, even a few careful drops along the outer lips of her pussy.
When Lyra came—sharp, shuddering, flooding Seraphina’s mouth—she dismounted.
“Now the real fun.”
Cade freed Seraphina’s ankles only to reposition her—flipped onto her stomach, wrists still staked, knees pulled up and chained to new anchors so her ass was high, face pressed into the mud.
Lyra straddled her back, facing her ass, using Seraphina’s body like a bench.
Cade took her first cock, sliding into her pussy in one long thrust. Seraphina moaned into the dirt. He fucked her hard, deep, hips slapping against welted skin.
Lyra reached under, fingers finding Seraphina’s clit, rubbing in tight circles.
“Come when I say,” she ordered.
Cade switched—pulled out, pressed against her ass, pushed in slowly. The Earth muffled Seraphina’s scream. He fucked her ass with long, punishing strokes while Lyra kept rubbing her clit.
When Seraphina’s body began to shake, Lyra leaned down.
“Come, slut. Scream for the mountains.”
Seraphina shattered—body convulsing, ass clenching around Cade, pussy gushing onto the ground. She screamed until her voice broke, the sound bouncing off the cliffs, swallowed by the vastness.
Cade followed with a deep groan, filling her ass, cum leaking out as he pulled free.
They left her there—staked, spent, covered in wax, welts, mud, and cum—for nearly an hour. The sun moved across the sky. A raven landed nearby, cocked its head, then flew off.
When they finally released her, Seraphina collapsed into Lyra’s arms, trembling.
“Thank you,” she whispered, over and over. “For exposing me. For owning me. For letting the wilderness see.”
Lyra kissed her forehead.
“The mountains know your name now,” she said. “And they’ll never forget.”
That night, around the small Fire, three bodies curled together under the stars—Seraphina in the middle, collared, marked, owned.
The wilderness watched in silence.
And somewhere far off, an avalanche rumbled—distant, indifferent, eternal.
The Threesome Ritual
The rain had finally exhausted itself by midnight, leaving the ridge wrapped in a heavy, dripping silence. Fog rose from the warming Earth like slow smoke, curling around the cabin’s eaves and pressing against the windows until the glass fogged from the inside. Inside, the Fire had been fed until it roared—flames licking high, heat rolling off the river-rock hearth in waves that made the air shimmer.
Lyra had said nothing all evening.
No commands at dinner.
No pointed glances.
No whispered threats.
She waited until the last dish was dried and put away, then rose from the table and walked to the basement door. She opened it without looking back.
“Downstairs. Both of you. Everything off. Now.”
Cade and Seraphina moved as one—clothes shed in the living room, left in neat piles on the rug. Seraphina crawled down the stairs first, knees already aching from the rough wood. Cade followed, footsteps heavy and deliberate. The permanent collar around Seraphina’s throat caught the light from the single bulb at the bottom of the stairs, the small padlock glinting like a dark promise.
The dungeon had been transformed while they ate.
Every available candle in the cabin had been brought down—dozens of pillars, tapers, votives—arranged in loose concentric rings across the concrete floor. Their flames burned low and steady, painting the room in shifting gold and shadow. The St. Andrew’s cross stood empty in one corner like a silent sentinel. The spanking bench waited dead center, freshly padded with a dark fleece throw. From the ceiling beams hung new chains—thick, stainless, swaying gently in the rising heat. On the metal table beside the bench: a bottle of warmed lube, a vibrating wand already plugged in, a set of nipple clamps with small weights, a thick leather strap, ropes of different diameters, ice cubes melting slowly in a silver bowl, and several toys still in their packaging—ribbed dildos, anal beads, a strap-on harness.
Lyra waited at the foot of the stairs, completely naked except for the black leather harness already strapped around her hips. The thick, curved silicone cock jutting from it—nine inches, ridged, glistening with fresh lube—caught the candlelight like wet obsidian.
She looked at them both, eyes dark, pupils blown wide.
“Tonight,” she said, voice low and rough, “there are no rules except one: we use each other until the sun comes up. No edging. No denial. No counting strokes. No begging for mercy. Just bodies. Just need. Until we’re empty.”
Seraphina’s breath hitched audibly. Cade’s cock twitched, already thickening.
Lyra pointed to the center of the candle circle.
“On your knees. Face to face. Close enough to taste each other.”
They knelt—Seraphina and Cade, inches apart, knees touching, eyes locked. The heat from the candles licked at their skin. The scent of melting wax and arousal filled the air.
Lyra circled behind Seraphina first. She knelt, pressed the head of the strap-on against Seraphina’s entrance, and pushed in slow—inch by deliberate inch—until she was buried to the hilt. Seraphina’s head fell back, a long, broken moan tearing from her throat.
Lyra gripped her hips and began to thrust—deep, controlled, setting a punishing rhythm that rocked Seraphina forward with every stroke. Seraphina’s breasts bounced, nipples already hard, collar jingling softly.
Cade watched, stroking himself slowly, eyes dark with hunger.
Lyra pulled out abruptly, slick and shining.
“Now you,” she ordered Cade.
He moved behind Seraphina without hesitation, lined up, and thrust into her ass in one long, smooth stroke. Seraphina screamed—raw, ecstatic—body arching as he filled her, stretching her wide.
Lyra straddled Seraphina’s face.
“Eat me while he fucks your ass.”
Seraphina’s tongue dove eagerly, lapping at Lyra’s clit, sucking, desperate to please. Lyra ground down hard, riding her face, fingers knotted in dark hair, while Cade pounded into her from behind—hips slapping against welted skin, balls heavy against her.
The room filled with wet, obscene sounds: the slick thrust of cock in ass, muffled moans vibrating against Lyra’s cunt, the creak of the floor under their weight, the soft drip of wax from an unsteady candle.
Lyra came first—sharp, shuddering, flooding Seraphina’s mouth with a low, guttural cry. She dismounted, breathless, eyes glittering.
“Switch.”
Cade pulled out. Lyra took his place behind Seraphina, sliding the strap-on back into her pussy while Cade moved to Seraphina’s mouth. Seraphina took him deep, gagging, drool running down her chin and onto her breasts as Lyra fucked her from behind and Cade fucked her throat.
They rotated again—positions shifting fluidly, bodies slick with sweat and cum.
Cade lay on his back on the padded bench. Seraphina straddled him, sinking onto his cock, taking him deep into her pussy. Lyra knelt behind her, pressing the strap-on into her ass—double penetration, stretching her impossibly wide. Seraphina screamed, head thrown back, tears streaming as they moved in counter-rhythm, filling her, bodies slapping together in wet, rhythmic violence.
Lyra reached around, fingers finding Seraphina’s clit, rubbing hard and fast.
“Come,” she commanded. “Come on, both of us. Let us feel you break.”
Seraphina shattered—body convulsing, pussy and ass clenching around them in violent spasms, squirting hard onto Cade’s stomach and chest. She screamed until her voice cracked, waves crashing through her, leaving her limp and shaking between them.
They didn’t stop.
Cade flipped her onto her back on the rug, took her missionary—deep, slow, possessive—while Lyra straddled her face again, grinding down. Seraphina licked and sucked frantically, desperate to please, while Cade fucked her through another orgasm, then another, until she was sobbing, overstimulated, begging incoherently between Lyra’s thighs.
Hours blurred into a haze of flesh and need.
Cade fucking Lyra doggy-style while Seraphina lay beneath them, tongue working both of them—licking Cade’s balls, Lyra’s clit, tasting their mingled wetness.
Lyra pegging Cade while Seraphina rode his face, grinding against his tongue until she came again, flooding his mouth.
Seraphina bound spread-eagle to the cross, flogged lightly across breasts and thighs, then taken by both in turns—mouth, pussy, ass—until cum leaked from every hole, pooling beneath her on the fleece.
Ice cubes pressed against overheated skin, followed by hot wax dripped in slow patterns, followed by tongues soothing the burn, followed by fingers and cocks pushing her over the edge again and again.
By three in the morning, the candles had burned low, many guttering out. Bodies glistened with sweat, cum, wax, and tears. The air was thick, humid, saturated with the scent of sex and exhaustion.
They collapsed together on the thick rug in the center—three bodies tangled, breathing ragged, limbs heavy.
Lyra pulled Seraphina against her chest, one arm wrapped around her, the other reaching to stroke Cade’s sweat-damp hair.
“You’re both perfect,” she whispered, voice hoarse from hours of commands and cries. “Completely, utterly mine.”
Cade’s arm banded around them both, heavy and protective.
“Yours,” he murmured, voice wrecked.
Seraphina, barely audible, face pressed to Lyra’s neck:
“Yours ... always...”
The last candle guttered and died.
Darkness settled over them like a blanket.
Outside, the thaw continued—drip, drip, drip—like the slow, steady beat of three hearts now beating as one.
Inside, the ritual had done what it was meant to do: bind them tighter, deeper, beyond words, beyond pain, beyond anything that could ever pull them apart again.
Community Whispers
The thaw had turned the entire ridge into a rumor mill of its own—creeks rushing louder than conversation, wind carrying voices farther than usual, every footstep in the mud leaving prints that took days to disappear. Word moved fast in Eldridge Peak even without cell service. A glance held too long at the general store. A whispered comment at the gas pump. A sudden silence when someone walked into the community hall. Small things. Sharp things. Things that cut deeper because no one ever said them aloud.
It started the week after the Solstice gathering.
Someone had seen the way Seraphina walked the next morning—stiff, careful, like someone who’d spent the night on hardwood instead of a mattress. Someone else noticed the high collar of every sweater she wore now, the way she kept tugging it up even when the hall was overheated. And then there was the chain.
Lyra had ordered it custom from an Anchorage jeweler: thin stainless steel, delicate enough to pass for fashion at a distance, heavy enough to feel every second up close. A small, engraved tag hung from the center link: Property. The chain circled Seraphina’s neck beneath the sweater, the tag resting exactly where the permanent leather collar’s lock sat underneath. When she turned her head, the chain caught the light—just enough.
The whispers began.
“She’s wearing something under there. Did you see the glint?”
“Maybe it’s just jewelry. She’s always been fancy.”
“Fancy widows don’t walk like they’ve been horse-whipped.”
“Lyra’s been keeping her close. Too close.”
Cade heard it first—at the fuel depot, filling the truck while two old miners leaned against the pump island.
“She’s got that girl on a short leash,” one muttered.
The other chuckled. “Or maybe the other way around.”
Cade paid cash, said nothing, and drove home.
That evening, Lyra called Seraphina into the living room.
“Strip.”
Seraphina obeyed instantly—sweater, jeans, boots, socks—until she stood naked except for the collar and the new chain. The tag gleamed against her breastbone.
Lyra walked around her, studying.
“They’re talking,” she said quietly. “About the chain. About how you move. About how you don’t meet anyone’s eyes anymore.”
Seraphina’s throat worked. “I’m sorry, Mistress. I didn’t mean—”
“You didn’t do anything wrong,” Lyra interrupted. “They’re noticing what I want them to notice. And tomorrow, they’re going to notice more.”
She stepped close, hooked a finger under the chain, and tugged.
“You’re going into town with me. No coat. Just a thin blouse—white, sheer enough that the chain shows. No bra. No panties. The collar stays visible. You’ll walk beside me. You’ll smile. You’ll speak when spoken to. And when we reach the store, you’ll kneel. Right there at the counter. While I pay.”
Seraphina’s knees nearly buckled.
“In ... in front of everyone?”
“Yes.”
Lyra’s voice was calm, almost gentle.
“They already suspect. Let them see. Let them wonder. Let them know, without ever saying a word, that you belong to me.”
The next morning was market day—small, informal, held in the parking lot behind the general store. Tables set up with smoked salmon, knitted hats, jars of jam, used tools, and the usual gossip.
Lyra dressed herself: a thin white silk blouse, nearly transparent in the right light, no bra—nipples already peaked from the cold morning air. A high-waisted black pencil skirt, knee-length but slit high on one thigh. Underneath: crotchless black lace panties that framed her pussy and left it completely accessible. Thigh-high stockings with lace tops. The permanent leather collar is visible above the blouse’s open top two buttons. The thin steel chain draped over it, the Property tag resting between her breasts.
No coat.
No panties in the conventional sense.
And the small, stainless-steel plug—slightly larger than the one from Solstice—already seated deep in her ass, warmed by body heat, a constant, shifting pressure with every step.
Lyra inspected her like a sculptor with marble.
“Perfect,” she murmured. “They’ll see everything they need to see without seeing anything at all.”
Cade drove. Seraphina sat in the passenger seat beside Lyra, thighs pressed tightly together, hands folded in her lap. The plug shifted with every bump in the road, sending small, humiliating jolts of pleasure-pain through her core. Lyra’s hand rested casually on her knee, thumb stroking the inner seam in slow, threatening circles.
The parking lot was already busy—twenty or thirty people milling between tables, coffee cups in hand, breath fogging in the cold.
Heads turned when they stepped out of the truck.
Lyra walked ahead, casual, hand resting possessively on the small of Seraphina’s back. Seraphina followed half a step behind, eyes down, cheeks burning. The thin blouse did nothing to hide the dark outline of her nipples against the silk. The chain tag glinted with every breath. The blouse’s high collar framed the leather collar perfectly.
They moved through the crowd. People nodded. Smiled. Some stared openly. A few whispered.
At the general store counter, Isolde Moreau was working the register—dark hair in its severe bun, ice-blue eyes flicking up as they approached.
Lyra set a small bag of coffee beans on the counter.
“Good morning, Isolde.”
“Lyra.” Isolde’s gaze slid to Seraphina. Lingered on the collar. The chain. The tag. The faint outline of nipples through silk. “Seraphina.”
Seraphina’s voice was barely audible. “Good morning.”
Lyra’s hand pressed firmer against her back.
“On your knees.”
The words were quiet. Intended only for Seraphina.
But the store was small. And the door was open.
The market crowd outside could see through the glass.
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