By Peter B. and Art Intelli

Chapter Four: The Long Night

The bunkhouse was built like a frontier barracks — thick timber beams, stone floor, heavy iron fixtures bolted to the walls and ceilings. There were no windows, only small vents near the roof and a single industrial fan turning lazily in the corner. The room was dim, lit by a single bulb hanging above the twin beds that filled half the space.

But Peter wasn’t given a bed.

He was mounted to the post.

A heavy wooden pillar rose from floor to ceiling at the room’s center, with rings set at shoulder, waist, and ankle height. The twins had stripped him bare again, save for his collar, and bound him standing with thick leather cuffs to each ring. His arms were pulled back and up, shoulders flexed, chest forward. His legs were spread wide and locked at the ankles. His brand still throbbed on his right hip, raw and blistered.

The collar chafed when he tried to shift. The restraints creaked.

He wasn’t going anywhere.

Behind him, the shotgun twin—Sheriff Wade—watched from the edge of his bunk, shirtless now, chest dusted with dark hair, his muscles hard and shadowed in the low light. He slowly unlaced his boots, eyes fixed on Peter like a man watching a horse settle into its new stable.

His brother, Sheriff Colt, stood near the sink, pouring two glasses of water and a measure of bourbon into each. Shirt off. Belt still on. The glint of his badge shimmered against his bare chest as he walked back across the room.

They looked like war gods. Texas lawmen turned executioners, and Peter their marked property.

“You’ve got the look of a man who’s been broken in,” Wade said, rising to his full height and stepping behind Peter.

Peter swallowed. “I—I feel…”

“Owned,” Colt said, handing his brother a glass. “And you are.”

Peter’s voice was hoarse. “Yes, sir.”

Wade grinned behind him. “Didn’t even have to beat it into him.”

“We haven’t even started,” Colt replied.

Wade sipped his drink, then set it down, eyes roaming over Peter’s bound form. “You ready for your first night, chain-gang pup?”

Peter’s pulse pounded in his ears. “I’m yours.”

Colt stepped forward, placing one hand on Peter’s chest, the other trailing down to his thigh. “That you are.”

The night descended into pure control.

The twins didn’t need to speak often—they moved in rhythm, practiced, coordinated. One restrained Peter’s head against the post with a thick strap across his forehead, while the other tested his body — touching, stroking, claiming.

Wade knelt behind him, hands gripping Peter’s hips like reins. Colt stood in front, one hand threading through Peter’s freshly buzzed hair, the other tracing the brand with a possessive thumb. They didn’t ask permission. They didn’t need it.

Peter moaned into the dark, trembling in his bonds as the twins took their time, exploring every reaction, every breath. They marked him with more than iron and fire—they marked him with sensation, with discipline, with total, erotic authority.

It was no surprise to Peter when he heard a voice low in his ear: “Open up, boy”; followed by the pressure on his hole that blazed into a searing pain followed by a wave of euphoria.  Which Sheriff was it?  It didn’t matter.  And when it happened again right after the first assault, Peter knew they both had taken him.

And somewhere in the haze of pain, pleasure, and leather, Peter surrendered completely.

He no longer wanted freedom.

He wanted to serve.

The Next Morning

The sun rose red and ruthless over the Texas plain.

Peter stood outside the bunkhouse, sweat already collecting on his brow. They had literally dragged him out of bed with a short leash clipped to his collar, and pushed him back against the wall.

Irons hung from hooks; not the standard police or jailhouse kind of shackles, but much heavier, wider. Peter couldn’t help but stare at them.

“Yup”, Sheriff Wade drawled.  You’ll be wearing those all day.”

And before he knew it, he was in irons—thick chain-gang restraints with heavy ankle cuffs linked by a yard of solid steel. A second chain looped from his collar to a wide heavy leather Transport Belt padlocked around his waist, then down to wrist shackles that kept his arms low and wide.

His posture was forced, awkward, submissive.

The brand on his hip peeked out just above the waistband of his coarse prison trousers—standard issue, rough cotton, faded gray. No shirt. No shoes. No shade.

Colt stood in front of him, adjusting his mirrored sunglasses. Wade loomed nearby, slinging a coil of chain over one shoulder and chewing on a toothpick.

“This is how it works, boy,” Colt said, walking in a slow circle around him. “We don’t use fences out here. We don’t need ‘em. Your chains are your walls. And we are your wardens.”

“You’ll dig,” Wade said, pointing to the nearby stretch of dirt, “you’ll haul, you’ll sweat like a dog. And when we tell you to crawl, you crawl.”

Peter looked up, the rising sun painting gold across the Sheriff’s belts, badges, and bodies.

He nodded once. “Yes, sir.”

The collar shifted on his neck as he bent to pick up the spade laid at his feet. The weight of the iron pulled at his limbs. The heat pressed down.

But Peter no longer resisted.

The chains were his uniform now. The sun his overseer. And the twin Sheriffs?

They were everything.