Chapter 1: The Pit’s Call

Steel Bites – Shadows Grip

By Restrained4U

The bitter cold of a November night gripped the air outside Marcus’s cabin, secluded deep in the woods. Inside, a grand fireplace roared, its polished stone mantel casting a golden glow across the cedar-paneled room, mingling with sleek, warm lights recessed in the ceiling.

Four friends lounged across top-tier furniture – Marcus sprawled in a tufted leather club chair, Jamie, 31, wiry and sharp-featured with a short, carefree black mess of hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of a storm, a glint of restless naivety in eyes that had seen scraps and storms without learning the scars, sprawled across the plush depths of a charcoal-gray sectional.

Leo, a lean, 25-year-old surfer who chased waves and thrills with equal reckless abandon, his sun-bleached blonde hair catching the firelight as he perched on a cushioned barstool by a gleaming marble kitchen island.

Ryan leaning against a wall beside a towering abstract artwork – a six-foot strip of molded black leather, its taut curves framed in glinting stainless steel, stretching vertically in a silent challenge against the wall.

Marcus, 32, broad and muscular with short black hair styled in a fade cut, cracked open another beer and took a swig. His black Henley clung to his gym-built chest, the fabric stretching slightly as he moved, leaving little to the imagination. “You guys happy just sitting around here and doing nothing, or you ready for something real?” he asked, leaning forward with a wild, knowing glint in his eyes. “How would you like to take a trip to ‘The Pit’s Edge’?”

Leo tilted his head, sun-bleached strands shifting as he squinted at Marcus. “The Pit’s Edge? What’s that – some badass snowboarding run I haven’t shredded yet?”

Jamie snorted, propping himself up on the sectional with a skeptical grin. “Sounds like a dive bar or a shitty hiking trail.”

Ryan’s brow arched, his Marine frame squaring up as he gripped his beer like a weapon, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. “The Pit’s Edge? What, some backwater hellhole only a grunt would crawl out of? Better be worth the trek, Marcus, or I’m not leaving this wall.”

Marcus grinned wider, feeding off their confusion. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jeans pocket, smoothed it on the table with a practiced flick, and read aloud, his voice rough and deliberate, like he was unearthing something primal. “‘The Pit’s Edge pulls you into a raw chasm that drags you into shadowed depths, igniting your wild and untamed feral soul. Shadows cloak this game of unraveling – each card drawn from the dark sets skin trembling, a trove of dares that peel away more than just the surface. Flesh meets the bite of cunning shadows, a pulse-pounding tease of power and ruin, while every roll drags you deeper into the haze. Vetoes dissolve like ash, leaving you raw as the stakes twist in a reckless blur. Rewards dangle dominance – a fleeting grasp at freedom – while punishments sting with a cruel, unspoken edge. For the one who crumbles, a shadowed abyss looms, quivering and perverse, too raw to name. This is a razor’s edge of sweat and surrender. Roll the dice, taste the edge – will you bend the game to your will and come out on top, or crumble under a trembling, inescapable fall, fucked into oblivion?’”

He slapped the paper down, the sound sharp against the table, and leaned back with a grin that dared them to flinch, the fireplace’s crackle filling the charged silence.

Leo froze mid-spin of his bottle, his surfer ease giving way to a jagged grin. “That’s some dark shit, Marcus. I’m hooked – let’s tear into it and see who’s left standing.” His blue eyes burned with a restless spark, already tasting the chaos.

Jamie bolted upright, bottle clattering to the couch. “Jesus, that’s a fuckin’ gut-punch – gimme the dice, let’s rip this bastard open!” His smirk flared, wild and a little too eager, a guy who’d chase a storm blind just to feel the thunder.

Ryan tensed against the wall, 28, his Marine Corps frame – broad shoulders, thick arms, auburn hair buzzed short under a faded cap – rigid as steel. His dog tags shifted under a tight T-shirt as he gripped his beer, knuckles whitening. “What the hell is this, Marcus? Sounds like a goddamn trap – some twisted game to shred us apart. I’ve crawled through worse in the Corps, but this ain’t about breaking – it’s about knowing the battlefield, and this is no battlefield I’ve heard of. I’m not sure I’m buying this feral soul bullshit.”

Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his grin twisting into a taunting snarl. “Oh, come off it, Ryan. You’re a Marine hardass – chewed through combat and came out swinging. What’s this compared to dodging IEDs or staring down some sand-blasted insurgent? You’re not scared, are you? Big tough jarhead, trembling at a little dice game? Thought you’d eat this shit for breakfast and spit out the bones. Prove it, man – show us that feral soul ain’t just boot-camp swagger.”

Leo jumped in, leaning over the counter with a mocking laugh. “Yeah, soldier, what’s the holdup? You’ve stormed bunkers, dodged bullets – don’t tell me you’re choking on the edge of this savage grind. Thought you Marines thrived on crazy.”

Jamie chimed in, flicking his bottle cap at Ryan’s boots. “Come on, Rambo, live a little. You’ve got the build for it – show us those war stories aren’t just hot air. Bet you’d own this if you quit playing cautious.”

Ryan’s jaw tightened, the taunts stacking like a full clip. His breath hissed out, a low growl rumbling beneath it, then his lips curled into a hard, arrogant smirk. “It’s not fear – it’s sanity. This shit’s uncharted, and I don’t rush blind. But you wanna see teeth? Fine, I’m in – I’ll play your little game. You’ll all be trembling in that ‘shadowed abyss’ while I’m still standing, kings of the rubble. Good luck, boys – you’re the ones who’ll be fucked into oblivion, not me.”

Marcus clapped his hands, the crack bouncing off the cabin walls. “That’s the spirit. Then it’s settled – us and the edge, all the way down.” He strode to the bar, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and four shot glasses, his eyes flicking to the paintings with a quick, knowing smirk before pouring, the amber liquid glinting under the warm lights. Raising his glass, he locked eyes with each of them, voice dropping low. “To the pit’s edge of sweat and surrender.”

Leo lifted his shot, repeating with a feral grin, “To the pit’s edge of sweat and surrender.” He slammed it back, the burn fueling his spark.

Jamie followed, glass high, echoing, “To the pit’s edge of sweat and surrender,” and downed it with a sharp hiss, eyes alight.

Ryan raised his, smirk steady, intoning, “To the pit’s edge of sweat and surrender.” He tossed the shot back, then snatched the Jack Daniel’s bottle from the bar, taking a long, defiant swig straight from it, the liquid gleaming on his lip. “You fuckers won’t know what hit you.”

Marcus taunted “Show me you’ve got the spine to bend this game or get crushed by it. Follow me.”

He stood, a smirk curling his lips, and strode toward a heavy wooden door tucked in the corner of the cabin. The group trailed him, Ryan clutching the bottle, their bravado flickering as Marcus turned the rusted knob. The door groaned open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into shadow. Cobwebs clung to the corners, swaying faintly as they brushed past, the wooden steps creaking under their weight.

The air grew stale and thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and neglect, as they reached the basement below. Dim lights flickered, casting long shadows over stacks of old furniture – splintered chairs and a sagging couch – piled in a corner. Marcus paused at a thick industrial door, its surface pitted with rust, and yanked it open with a loud, grating creak. “Step into the pit, boys – I’ll watch you squirm from the throne,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance as he ushered them through, lingering as the last one in. As they crossed the threshold into the black room beyond, red lights pulsed dimly, casting eerie shadows, until sharp, bright accent lights snapped on, illuminating the space.

Leo froze, his grin faltering into wide-eyed shock. “What the hell is this?”

Jamie let out a low whistle, his smirk twisting into disbelief. “No way – this is some next-level shit.”

Ryan’s jaw clenched, his Marine stance stiffening as he muttered, “You’ve gotta be fucking kidding me.”

Marcus turned, and the industrial door slammed shut behind them with a heavy click, locking tight. Arms crossed, his grin now a dare writ large across his face.

The bright accent lights stark and unyielding, unveiling a 50-by-20-foot dungeon that twisted the cabin’s plush comfort into a cold lie.

To the left, a St. Andrew’s cross loomed in the corner, its cold steal wrist and ankle restraints gleaming under a white spotlight. Beside it, a formidable cage squatted low – thick bars and a heavier frame sealed by a double-padlocked door – topped by a thick, leather-padded bondage bed, silver eyebolts studded around its sides as obvious tie-down points.

The back wall, the longest stretch, bristled with menace – low metal cabinets topped by a stainless-steel counter, hooks above displaying leather cuffs and collars, from 2-inch bands to posture collars, then shelves of hoods – leather, rubber, latex, gas masks – perched on steel head forms. Further down, more hooks showcased handcuffs and ankle irons, their shine a quiet threat, while an open door spilled dim, indirect light into a bathroom’s shadowed depths: a large shower framed by three concrete walls overlaid with stainless steel, its clinical sheen baring multiple showerheads that loomed in the murk, eyebolts studded across all three walls at staggered heights – tie-down points swallowed by the gloom, stripping privacy bare.

To the right, a built-in rack bristled with gear – leather, rubber, latex suits, motorcycle leathers, other gear too wild to name – flanked by a leather straitjacket and sleepsack prominently displayed on either side, each bold under its own spotlight.

The door wall bristled with silver hooks, whips, floggers, paddles, chains weighted with menace, and a surplus of rope that whispered promises of silent ends in the shadows, all swaying under their spotlight.

Across the center, a scarred table anchored four gothic metal chairs – dark, ornate frames with eyebolts glinting at precise points, poised to trap one to their thick leather seats – bathed in a cold pool of light.

Off to one side, a formidable leather sling hung suspended by thick silver chains, its own spotlight carving it from the room’s heart, separate but commanding.

The black-painted concrete walls swallowed the edges, the raw cement floor warmed by hidden heat breaking the chill underfoot. As the industrial door slammed shut with a heavy click, a faint chain clink echoed from the sling’s links, stirring in the sealed air – thick with leather musk flooding the senses, raw and relentless.

Marcus stood by the door, arms crossed, his grin widening as he watched them take it in. “Welcome to the pit, boys. Told you it’d cut raw.”

Leo’s wide-eyed shock melted into that jagged grin as he stepped toward the sling, fingers brushing a chain, its cold bite making him laugh low. “Holy shit, Marcus – this is fucked. Look at this thing – bet it swings like a damn wave.”

Jamie’s whistle turned shaky as he edged toward the clothing rack, eyes tracing the leather suits – his wild smirk faltering, then flaring with a hungry glint. “Next-level don’t even cover it – this is insane.” He ran a hand over a latex bodysuit, voice pitching low. “Shit, this stuff’s hot – where’d you score it?” He spun toward the table, spotting the whip’s coil, and let out a nervous chuckle. “That’s gonna sting.”

Ryan’s stance stayed rigid, his jaw locked tight as he lifted the bottle for a hard swig, whiskey glinting on his lips. His gaze swept the room – cross, chains, hoods – then locked on Marcus, voice low and edged with steel. “Thought this was a game, not some fuckin’ torture bunker – you’re one sick fuck.”

Leo spun from the sling, grinning at Jamie. “Sting? Bet you’d squeal like a pig with that whip – you’re already shakin’, man.”

Jamie shot back, smirk twitching as he glanced at the rack again. “Fuck off, wave-boy – at least I ain’t drooling over that swing set.”

Ryan snorted, wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, bottle still clenched. “Both of you’d be cryin’ in five minutes – this ain’t a playground, it’s a fuckin’ meat grinder.”

Jamie laughed, sidestepping to the massage table and kicking at the cage beneath, its steel rattling. “Meat grinder? Shit, Rambo, this cage could lock down even your ass.”

Leo smirked, eyeing the cross with a tilt of his head. “Yeah, jarhead – that St. Andrew’s cross would tame your ass before you’d even dent it. Still think you’re king of this rubble?”

Ryan took another swig, his smirk curling slow, defiance softening just a notch. “Keep talkin’, clowns – I’ll outlast this freak show yet. You’re one sick fuck, Marcus, but I’ve faced worse and walked away.”

Marcus uncrossed his arms, stepping forward with a low chuckle, his grin cutting sharper. “Outlast it? You fuckers’ll be begging – cage won’t save you, jarhead, and that whip’s got your name on it, pig-boy. Time to see how deep the pit bites.”

Leo yanked the chain hard, grinning wilder as it rattled loudly, his laugh barking with a surfer’s rush. “Bring it on – I’m ready to surf this fuckin’ wave.”

Jamie bounced on his heels, lingering near the rack a beat longer, smirk flickering lustily as he glanced at the straitjacket, then back at Marcus. “Yeah, let’s go – ready to see how crazy this shit gets.”

Ryan lowered the bottle slowly, his smirk hardening into a snarl, eyes glinting with steel. “Fine – bring your worst. I’m ready to gut this fuckin’ pit.”

Marcus tilted his head, a glint sparking in his eyes as he leaned in, voice slithering low and taunting. “Let’s see if you boys can survive the pit’s bite. Have a seat, boys.” He gestured to the table, his grin daring them to move.

Leo muttered, “Fuck it – let’s ride,” dropping into the seat right of Marcus, leather creaking as he sprawled, fingers drumming. Jamie slid in next, smirk shaky, lust flickering at the straitjacket across the room – black, strapped, waiting – his breath hitching. Ryan sat last, bottle clenched, snarl tight, slamming the whiskey down with a clink, steel in his glare meeting Marcus’s taunt. His boots thudded once, grounding him.

Marcus lifted the whip from the table, snapping it once, the crack slicing the air, making Jamie flinch. “You’re not ready for this… yet,” he said, laying it on the counter with a thud. He grabbed a black velvet bag and a rich leather box with silver accents, flipping it open – sixteen silver dice on black satin. “This pit’s gonna break you – one crack at a time.” He dropped four dice before himself, belt buckle glinting as he leaned.

He tossed four to Leo, teasing, “Gonna twist you up, wave-boy.” Four clinked to Jamie, “Every dare’s a taste, pig-boy.” To Ryan, he leaned close, breath hot, “You’ll fight, jarhead, but it carves to the bone.”

Ryan locked eyes, silent, swigged hard, then slammed the bottle down, a challenge in his stare. Leo grabbed it, pulling quick, wiping his mouth with a shaky laugh. Jamie motioned for it, swigging with a smirk, eyes darting to the straitjacket. Marcus snatched it back, finished it with a swig, and set it down empty. “Let’s drain you dry,” he said, sitting, grin daring.

Silence stretched, eyes flicking – dice, bag, Marcus’s grin. Leo tapped faster, Jamie rolled a die on his knuckles, Ryan’s fist clenched.

Marcus broke it, reaching for the bag, pulling a red velvet one and a golden card holder. “Roll two dice – highest goes first. Winner draws from this,” he tapped the black bag, “follows it. Clockwise next. Dares here, punishments there.” He nudged the red bag.

He slid out eight golden “VETO” cards, dealing two each. “Here’s how it works: dares twist you from the black bag, punishments in the red bag – two vetoes, skip a dare for a punishment or burn both to dodge clean; only one player can play a veto card per round – no overlap, so choose wise, ‘cause once they’re gone, you’re fucked. Turns roll clockwise, set by a roll-off. Game ends when only two stay unrestrained – not caged, tied, or stuck. Whoever’s got the most vetoes left bends the pit, crowned king – reward for toughing it out. If vetoes tie or they’re all gone, a runoff challenge settles it. Losers fall fucked into oblivion. Questions?”

Marcus’s grin sharpened, voice dropping low as he leaned back, eyes glinting. “This pit’s gonna twist you ‘til a king rises – ready to break?”

Leo snatched his dice, rolling them between fingers. “Let’s ride this wave – see who wipes out.”
Jamie’s eyes darted to the red bag. “Shit’s real – how deep’s this hole?”

Ryan slammed his vetoes flat, growling, “Roll your fuckin’ game – gonna gut it.”

Marcus swept his gaze. “Roll two dice – let’s start the show.”

He tossed his—four and three, seven. “Seven’s a start – gonna watch you squirm.”

Leo flicked his – six and five, eleven. “Eleven – wave’s crashing first!”

Jamie rolled shaky – five and three, eight. “Eight – deep enough to taste it.”

Ryan slammed his – five and five, ten. “Ten – gonna leave your pit in rubble.”

Marcus stood, voice sharp. “Eleven – Leo’s first, then Ryan, Jamie, me. Move – sit clockwise.”

They shifted – Leo at the head, Ryan left, Jamie next, Marcus last – chairs scraping. Marcus shook the black bag. “Wave-boy’s busting his cherry,” he taunted, holding it open.

Leo reached in, hands trembling. “Gonna face this – better be worth it,” he muttered, pulling a black card, jaw tightening as he read, wild glint fading to a stark stare.

…to be continued

Metal would like to thank the author, Restrained4U, for this story and welcome him to the prison library!