Chapter 11: The Pit’s Whip
Dice Doom – Lashes Fade
By Restrained4U
Leo sat with Ryan’s leash slack, having traded any potential rewared for Jamie’s two veto cards and burned all three to dodge his last dare. Ryan knelt, cuffed and collared; head bowed beside Leo’s chair. Jamie perched in soaked briefs, eyes glinting with restless hunger.
Marcus, shirtless in jeans, snatched the black velvet bag from Leo, boots planted firm. (Pit’s mine to bend.) He reached in, fingers brushing the thick cards, and pulled a black dare – white text slashing against the dark.
He read it slow, jaw tightening, voice a rough drawl – “Everyone rolls the dice, you roll a dice – whoever rolls the same as you gets to choose a previous dare or punishment. If no numbers match, you take a punishment.”
He slapped the card down – ROLL OR RULE – its thud sharp against the scarred table, eyes glinting with a predator’s edge. (Leo’s cane, Ryan’s clamps, Jamie’s shred… someone’s picking – or the pit’s got me.) His mind ticked fast – (Match, and they choose. No match, and it’s the red bag… could be anything.)
He glanced at the discard pile – caning with a dice roll, clamps with weights, the hoist—then to the blood-red bag, its faint rustle a taunt. (Two vetoes… roll the dice, or burn ‘em later?) His grin flickered, boots scuffing the concrete – (Let’s play.)
“Roll,” he snarled, grabbing a silver die and tossing it hard – clatter, spin, a 4 stared up. “Four,” he growled, leaning back, arms crossing over his chest, daring them to match. (Come on, fuckers – pick my poison.)
Leo’s hand twitched, surf drawl low as he flicked a die across the table – 5 skittered to a stop. “Five,” he rasped, eyes flicking to Marcus – (No match… he’s still in it.) His cage pulsed, a flicker of relief cutting through the haze.
Jamie smirked, snatching a die with a wild twist – (Match him, I’ll stripe him raw.) It rolled – 3 glared back. “Three,” he spat, voice edged, dick twitching in his briefs – (Fuck… missed.) His gaze narrowed, hunger simmering beneath the miss.
Ryan shifted, hands cuffed tight behind his back, steel clinking faintly as he knelt under Leo’s leash. He lifted his head slightly, voice a low, meek grunt. “Master, my hands… would you roll for me? And choose the punishment if it comes?” (Fuck… gotta beg him like some kid – pathetic.) His eyes flicked up briefly, embarrassment burning beneath the submission, then dropped again.
Leo’s grin curled under Ryan’s cap, surf drawl thick. “Yeah, slave – I got you.” He grabbed a die, tossing it with a flick – 6 bounced and settled. “Six,” he said, locking eyes with Marcus – (No hit… pit’s still his.) Ryan dipped his head deeper, steel cuffs quiet – (Can’t even roll my own… done.)
Marcus’s eyes swept the table – 4, 5, 3, 6. (No match… shit.) His chest tightened, breath hitching as the pit’s jaws loomed. (Punishment’s coming… what’s it gonna cost?)
He leaned forward, yanking the blood-red bag closer with a rough tug, its rustle slicing the silence. He dug in, pulling a thick card – Red, white text stark – “Everyone rolls a lone die, its verdict carved in fate – each number summons a lash from the single-tail’s cruel kiss. Bound tight to the St. Andrew’s cross, you’ll feel the pit’s hunger stripe by stripe” – WHIP’S TOLL – stamped in white.
His jaw locked, grit faltering – (Whipped by each… Leo’s four, Jamie’s three, Ryan’s six… thirteen at least.) His mind raced – (Single-tail’s a bastard… cuts deeper than Leo’s cane, flays wider than Ryan’s crop.)
He pictured Leo strapped to the table, sobbing at nine cane strikes – Marcus had swung the first six himself, each crack a lesson in breaking; Ryan’s clamped screams as weights piled on – Marcus had hooked the first half-pound, grinning as he tugged the chain; Jamie’s trembling hoist, clothes shredded – Marcus had locked the collar tight, watching Leo cut him bare. (I didn’t go easy on ‘em… they’ll fucking carve me—thirteen’ll bleed me raw, more’ll break me.) The whip hung on the wall, black and sleek, six feet of leather coiled tight – its tip a silent promise of blood.
(Leo’s soft but pissed, Jamie’s itching to swing, Ryan’s got Marine steel but he’s Leo’s slave now… will Leo let him take his turn, or swing for him? They’ll carve me up either way.) His dick pulsed hard in his jeans, a twisted heat flaring low – (Fuck… not now.) He glanced at his two veto cards, gold glinting beside the bag – (Burn ‘em, dodge this… pit’s too damn close.)
His grin vanished, eyes hardening to steel. “Pass,” he growled, voice low and edged, slamming both vetoes down – gold flared bright, then crumbled to ash under his fist. “No punishment… pit’s not tasting me yet.”
He leaned back, boots thudding the floor, chest heaving – (Safe… but I’m naked now.) Leo’s eyes narrowed, surf drawl rough. “Fuck… both cards? Ballsy, man – damn shame, I was itching to stripe you up. Still, I’d have burned ‘em too, that whip’s a bastard.” His chaps creaked as he shifted – (He’s wide open… pit’s gonna chew him next.)
Jamie’s smirk faltered, envy flashing sharp – (Dodged it… bastard’s still standing.) “Smart move, chief, I’d have done the same – pit’s too fucking mean – but shit, I wanted a crack at you.” His voice tightened, dick jumping in his briefs – (He’s got nothing left.) His gaze lingered, scheming.
Ryan lifted his head a fraction, steel cuffs clinking, voice a low rasp. “No lifelines… pit’s got you cornered now. Was hoping Master’d let me swing it, watch you squirm under me.” (I could’ve handled that whip – I’m a tough Marine.) His bare head tilted slightly, a faint smirk curling – (He’s mine to snap next.)
Marcus’s jaw clenched, eyes glinting through the haze – (Thirteen lashes dodged… gut was right to burn ‘em, they’re itching to tear me up.) Relief flickered, trusting his instincts, but dread coiled tight – (I made this fucking game… that red bag’s got shit I know too well – breath control, electro, isolation… fuck, what was I thinking?) His hand flexed, scars catching the dim light – (Still my game… bent, not broken, but it’s waiting.)
He grabbed the black velvet bag, tossing it to Jamie with a rough flick—Your turn, pig-boy. “Go,” he rasped, voice steady but strained, grin creeping back.
…to be continued
