By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter Three: Bound and Branded

Peter sat frozen in the barber chair, the buzz of the clippers still ringing in his ears, his scalp raw and exposed. The twin with the deeper voice stood behind him, thick hands gripping his shoulders, while the other crouched in front of the steel collar resting on the table.

“Let’s get the rivet ready,” the shotgun twin said.

The collar was a brutal piece of craftsmanship—two-inch-wide forged iron, hinged on one side, lined inside with dull spikes meant for pressure, not blood. The shotgun twin slid it around Peter’s neck. The weight alone made Peter feel like he was being yoked like livestock.

Then came the hammer.

The deeper twin held a hot rivet with tongs, taken from a forge glowing orange behind a steel grate in the wall. He slotted it into the collar’s open eyelet. The shotgun twin stepped forward with a heavy iron hammer and a steel backing block, sliding it between Peter’s throat and the collar’s inside rim.

“Hold still,” the deeper twin murmured beside his ear. “Or you’ll rattle for life.”

The red-hot rivet flared bright as it was placed.

CRACK. The hammer hit hard.

Peter flinched, the heat searing close, the metal pressing, molding shut. The second strike drove the rivet flush. It hissed as it cooled. The collar was sealed.

Permanently.

Peter panted. The weight around his neck felt impossibly real now—thick, tight, inescapable.

“Looks right on him,” the deeper twin said, dragging his fingers slowly around the collar’s edge. “Good and snug.”

But the shotgun twin wasn’t done.

“Now we make him ours.”

He gestured toward the far wall, where a heavy bench sat beneath a spotlight—a brutal hybrid of furniture and bondage fixture. Dark, polished oak. Steel-reinforced frame. Thick leather padding worn smooth from use. It was shaped to force the body into full vulnerability—hips raised, back arched, legs spread wide.

And it was covered in straps.

Peter barely had time to react before they hauled him up from the chair, the collar biting into his throat as they yanked him forward. They marched him naked across the concrete floor, dragging him like an animal toward the bench. One of them pushed his chest down onto the thick leather pad.

“This part,” said the deeper twin, “is gonna stay with you. Forever.”

The strapping began.

Neck strap: A wide, stiff band wrapped over the base of Peter’s collar and was bolted into the frame of the bench, pinning his head down tight. He could barely lift his chin.

Shoulder straps: Two heavy belts crossed his upper back, buckled tight, flattening him to the bench. No wriggle room. No escape.

Elbow straps: Each arm was pinned beside his ribs, bent tight, locked with double-layered belts that groaned when pulled taut.

Wrist cuffs: Thick, padded leather shackles snapped over his wrists and were clipped to anchor points beneath the bench.

Waist strap: This one was broad as a weightlifter’s belt, cinched just above his hips. It pressed him downward so hard he could feel the bench padding indent into his skin.

Thigh straps: Two massive belts—one for each upper leg—lashed his thighs open and down. His legs were completely immobilized.

Knee and ankle cuffs: Final restraints bound his lower legs tight, stretching him into complete stillness. Every inch of him was helpless, open, displayed.

The collar, the straps, the exposure—it overwhelmed him. Peter should have been terrified. He should have screamed.

But instead, he felt a heat bloom in his core. Something primal. Erotic. Arousal rising not in spite of the fear—but because of it.

The shotgun twin stood beside him now, holding the branding iron.

“It’s hot,” he said simply, lifting it from the forge. The metal glowed red, the curve of the cowboy star-and-hat sigil menacing in its brightness.

Peter’s fingers curled involuntarily. His heart pounded. He felt the sweat roll down his ribs.

“Right hip,” said the deeper twin. “Where our mark always goes.”

Peter let out a shaky breath. “Do it.”

That stopped them.

The deeper twin crouched, meeting his eyes. “Say it again, boy.”

Peter’s throat worked against the weight of the collar. “Do it. Mark me.”

The shotgun twin gave a low whistle.

“Well, look who just submitted.”

He stepped around to Peter’s right hip, the iron clutched in his gloved fist. The heat shimmered off the metal. Peter felt the air shift before it touched him.

And then—

SSSSSSSSSS—CRACK.

The searing iron kissed his flesh.

Peter screamed—but not in pure pain. It was a cry that twisted into a moan, the agony laced with surrender. The burn was fire and shame and ecstasy all at once. His muscles seized, then relaxed as the iron was pulled away.

The twin held up the glowing tip, admiring the darkened brand now curling and blistering on Peter’s hip.

“He’s ours now,” the deeper twin said softly, brushing Peter’s sweat-matted hair. “By fire, steel, and strap.”

Peter felt the echo of the pain, still sizzling in his nerves, but something in him had changed. He no longer pulled against the straps.

He rested in them.

He belonged to the bench. To the collar. To them.

And deep in his gut, he knew this wasn’t the end.

It was only the beginning.

To be continued …