Chapter 2: The Pit’s Clamps
Threads Snap – Flesh Yields
By Restrained4U
Leo’s fingers clutched the thick black card, the size of a business card, its crisp white letters stark under the dim light as his grin faded to a stark, silent stare. He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, his eyes dropping to the card with a slow, deliberate heaviness. Jamie leaned forward, smirk wiped clean, his breath catching as he stared at Leo’s hands, fingers twitching nervously on the table’s edge. Ryan’s snarl faltered, his steel gaze narrowing intently, a ripple of tension creasing his brow as he leaned in slightly, trying to read the moment. Marcus lounged back, his grin curling slow and predatory, a glint in his eyes like a wolf circling a wounded catch, dice clinking softly in his palm as he savored the thickening air.
The silence stretched, taut and heavy, the room holding its breath. Then, like a switch flipping, Leo’s lips twitched, a shit-eating grin splitting his face as he looked up, eyes wild with mischief. “Gotcha, fuckers,” he said, voice dripping with glee as he read the card aloud, barely holding back a laugh. “Roll a single die – remove that number of clothes. Socks count as one, shoes count as one. If your roll’s higher than the pieces you’ve got on, you take a punishment.” He flicked the card onto the table with a sharp snap – SHED OR SUFFER stamped in white – and leaned back, crossing his arms with a smug nod. “Easy peasy – thought I’d make you squirm first.”
Jamie barked a laugh, shaking his head as he slumped back, smirk creeping back. “You tricky bastard – had me thinking you were fucked. That’s a cakewalk ‘til you roll big.”
Ryan’s snarl twisted into a rare, grudging smirk, his voice a low growl. “Nice one, wave-boy – gonna laugh less when you’re naked and pulling punishment.”
Marcus tilted his head, his grin sharpening as he tossed one of Leo’s dice back to him with a slow flick of his wrist. “Smart play – luck’s a cruel tease, though. Roll too high, and the pit’s got you bare and bleeding.” His voice slithered, dark and taunting, as he leaned forward, elbows digging into the table, daring Leo to roll.
Leo snatched the die, rolling it between his fingers with a cocky grin, then gave it a wild toss. It skittered across the table, bouncing twice before settling – a five. He barked a laugh, loud and jagged, clapping his hands. “Five – gonna ride this wave bare-assed if I have to!”
Marcus stood with a slow, deliberate stride, crossing to the corner where a stainless-steel hamper glinted faintly in the shadows. He dragged it closer, the metal scraping the floor with a low screech, and set it beside the table with a dull thud. “Put your clothes in here, wave-boy,” he said, voice curling dark and possessive as his grin twisted. “Your threads belong to the pit now – game’s keeping what it takes.”
Leo’s grin flickered, then flared brighter as he kicked off his worn black sneakers, the rubber soles scuffed from pavement and sand, one thudding into the hamper, then the other, laces dangling over the edge. He peeled off his gray crew socks next, the fabric slightly damp with sweat, tossing the pair in with a flick. Standing, he grabbed the hem of his faded green T-shirt – threadbare at the shoulders from too many washes – and yanked it over his head, revealing a lean, tanned chest. He balled it up, aimed at the hamper like a jump shot, and flicked his wrist, sending it arcing through the air. It landed with a soft thump, hanging half over the rim. “Three points, fuckers,” he crowed, then unbuckled his cracked leather belt, the metal clinking as he slid it free from the loops of his dark jeans, tossing it into the pile. Finally, he popped the button on his jeans, shimmying them down with a grin – faded denim pooling at his ankles – before stepping out and kicking them into the hamper, leaving him in tight black boxer briefs that hugged his frame. “Still in the game – pit’s gotta try harder,” he said, dropping back into his chair with a smug lean.
Marcus’s grin twisted tighter, a low chuckle escaping as he leaned back, eyes glinting under the dim light. “Wave-boy’s riding high – cocky little shit thinks he’s still got the reins,” he said, voice curling with a taunting edge, his fingers tapping the table like a predator sizing up its next move.
He let the silence settle, his gaze lingering on Leo’s lean, tanned form, a flicker of something sharper cutting through his usual menace. His mind drifted back – a few years ago, to that stretch of sun-bleached sand on Oahu, his condo perched above the waves. He’d been out there, board under his arm, vacationing from the grind, trying to catch a break on the swells. The water had been rough, the surf kicking up more than he could handle, his amateur strokes clumsy against the tide. That’s when Leo had rolled in – bronzed and brash, carving the big waves like they were his bitch, all swagger and wild grins. Marcus remembered the way Leo had spotted him floundering, paddled over with that same shit-eating smirk, his taut body sheathed in a tight black wetsuit that hugged every curve and ridge, accentuating the flex of his shoulders, the cut of his hips, the way his thighs strained against the fabric as he sliced through the water. He’d tossed out a line: “Need a hand, city boy? Those waves’ll eat you alive.”
They’d hit it off fast – Leo showing him the ropes, his hands brushing Marcus’s arm to adjust his stance, the salt spray and sun blurring the lines between banter and something electric. Hours turned into beers on the shore, then late nights at the condo, the air thick with unspoken heat. Leo’s cockiness had hooked him, that reckless energy pulling him in like the undertow. Now, watching him strut through this game, Marcus felt that same pull, laced with the thrill of breaking him down, piece by piece.
His grin sharpened, snapping back to the present as he slid the black velvet bag to Ryan with a slow push. “Your turn, jarhead – let’s see what the pit’s got for you.” His voice slithered, smooth and predatory, the glint in his eyes carrying the weight of that old spark, now twisted into the game.
Ryan grabbed the bag, eyes locked on Marcus as he dug in and yanked out a black card with a rough tug. He scanned it, jaw clenching, his snarl fading to a tight, uneasy line as he read it out, voice low and clipped. “St. Andrew’s cross – shirt off, clamps on, tied ‘til your next turn. Half-pound weight added each round before the roll.” He slapped the slip down – CLAMP OR CRUMBLE in white – and stood, his steel gaze flickering with something less certain. He gripped the hem of his military green T-shirt, the “Don’t Tread on Me” slogan stamped boldly across the chest with a coiled snake beneath, faded from wear but still sharp. He yanked it over his head, dog tags clinking against his chiseled chest as he tossed the shirt into the hamper with a heavy thud, exposing broad shoulders and a torso etched with scars.
Marcus’s grin widened, a low chuckle escaping as he leaned forward. “Gonna carve that grunt pride right outta you, jarhead – pit’s got your number now.” His voice curled, dark and taunting, as he rose and crossed to the wall where a St. Andrew’s cross loomed – dark wood and steel cuffs glinting faintly. He gestured Ryan over with a taunting flick of his hand. “Step up, jarhead – pit’s claiming you. Oh, and you’re gonna have to lose the boots too – restraints won’t fit over ‘em, or keep ‘em on and take a punishment, who knows, maybe it won’t be as harsh.” His grin sharpened, eyes glinting as he dangled the choice, the casual twist of “maybe” slithering into Ryan’s head like a taunting whisper, leaving him to wrestle with the unknown.
Ryan froze for a beat, his jaw tightening further, a muscle twitching in his cheek as his eyes flicked from Marcus to the cross. His chest heaved once, a sharp breath, then he bent down, fingers working the laces of his scuffed combat boots with quick, jerky movements – defiance in the speed, resignation in the slump of his shoulders. He yanked one off, then the other, the heavy soles thudding as he kicked them toward the hamper – one landing inside, the other missing by an inch, rolling to a stop on the heated floor. Still in his socks, his stance shifted, the soft fabric muffling his steps against the warm surface as he straightened, his glare dimming but still fixed on Marcus. He moved, the faint shuffle of socks replacing the scuff of boots, crossing the room to the St. Andrew’s cross. He turned to back against it, jaw clenched tight, fists clenching as he braced for what came next. Marcus’s voice cut through, cold and absolute.
“Hold it, jarhead – don’t slight the pit. Finish offering your boot.” Marcus’s tone was steel, no mockery, just command, as he pointed at the stray boot lying a foot from the hamper. “Pit doesn’t take half-assed tributes.”
Ryan’s shoulders stiffened, his head snapping toward Marcus, eyes narrowing for a split second. His lips pressed into a thinner line, a faint flush creeping up his neck as he turned, trudging back across the room. Each step was slow, deliberate, his socked feet slapping the heated floor like a reluctant march, his posture rigid with defiance but sagging slightly at the edges – a walk of shame under their stares. He bent, snatching the boot with a rough grip, and jammed it into the hamper, the metal rattling as it landed. He straightened, shoulders squared but head tilted low, avoiding their eyes as he shuffled back to the cross, a steel-eyed grunt now bound to the pit’s mercy, his dog tags glinting faintly against his scarred chest.
Marcus stepped in close, his grin unwavering as he reached for Ryan’s left wrist first, grabbing it with a firm grip and pulling it up slow and deliberate toward the cuff at the top left corner of the St. Andrew’s cross, stretching his arm high and wide. Ryan’s eyes locked onto Marcus, intense and unblinking, tracking every move as the steel clicked shut around his wrist with a sharp snap, the sound bouncing off the walls and lodging in his ears. Marcus pulled a small screw from his pocket, inserting it into the cuff’s lock with a slow twist, the faint grind of metal threading through echoing in Ryan’s head. He moved to the right wrist next, seizing it with the same deliberate grasp, dragging it up to the top right cuff – Ryan’s gaze followed, hard and steady, as another click rang out, crisp and final, followed by the screw’s slow turn, the metallic rasp drilling deeper into his skull. Marcus stepped back for a moment, and Ryan’s arms flexed, tugging hard against the cuffs, testing their strength. The steel held firm, unyielding, a faint creak of wood the only give, his jaw tightening as his resistance met its match.
Then to the ankles – Marcus knelt, his grin unwavering as he took Ryan’s left leg, gripping it firmly and pulling it outward to the bottom left corner of the cross, spreading it wide to align with the restraint. Ryan stared down, eyes fixed on Marcus’s hands, the intensity unbroken as the steel snapped shut with a sharper click, the screw twisting in with a slow, deliberate grind that reverberated in his ears. He shifted to the right leg, seizing it with the same methodical grip, tugging it apart to the far bottom right corner, forcing Ryan’s stance into a broad, helpless sprawl – Ryan’s gaze tracked every motion, unwavering, as the final cuff clicked into place, the screw turning with a lingering rasp, each sound a hammer against his fraying ego. Marcus rose, and Ryan’s legs shifted, pulling against the ankle restraints, testing them with a hard flex. The cuffs didn’t budge, locking him spread-eagle, his body stretched taut across the massive X, utterly exposed and pinned. His shoulders tensed, his breath shallowing as the widespread stance left him defenseless, his dog tags glinting with each uneven rise of his chest.
Marcus lingered a moment, letting the weight of the trap sink in, then turned to the metal cabinets along the wall. He opened a drawer with a slow pull, the faint screech of metal on metal cutting through the silence as he surveyed the array inside – rows of clamps glinting under the dim light, some sleek and simple, others jagged or weighted already. His fingers hovered, tracing the options, his gaze steady as he weighed which pair would suit Ryan best. He settled on a set of silver clover clamps, their design promising a deeper, tighter bite that would intensify with each added weight, perfect for dragging Ryan’s resolve down notch by notch. He plucked them from the drawer, the chain dangling with a soft clink, turning back to Ryan with a measured tilt of his head.
He stepped in close, holding the clover clamps up, the silver catching the light as he let Ryan see them, the moment stretching taut. Marcus took a moment to pinch Ryan’s left nipple between his fingers, tweaking it with a slow, firm twist, drawing a sharp wince from Ryan, his breath catching as his chest tensed. Then, with deliberate precision, he pinched the first clamp onto the tender flesh, the steel biting in hard as he released it, the chain swaying faintly. Ryan’s breath hitched, a sharp hiss slicing through the silence, his shoulders stiffening as the deeper grip took hold. Marcus moved to the right, his fingers lingering again to tweak the nipple, another wince flashing across Ryan’s face, before applying the second clamp with the same methodical care, the metal sinking in, the chain settling between them. Ryan’s jaw clenched tighter, lips pressing into a thin line, his eyes flickering with a mix of defiance and strain as the clamps’ bite settled in, poised to sharpen with the weights to come. Marcus gave the chain a light tug with his fingers, testing its hold with a steady pull, the soft clink of metal underscoring Ryan’s fraying control.
Marcus stepped back, his face unyielding, then returned to the metal cabinets. He opened the drawer again, selecting three half-pound weights, their dull gleam catching the light. Turning back, he approached Ryan, his grip firm as he roughly hooked one weight onto the clamp chain, the sudden pull yanking a sharp grunt from Ryan, his body jerking slightly against the restraints. Marcus turned without pause, striding to the table, and set one weight in front of Leo with a heavy thud, then another before Jamie, his movements precise and commanding. He took his seat, his stare cold and expectant, watching the tension ripple through the room.
Sitting at the table, Marcus said, “My turn,” reaching for the black velvet bag and pulling a thick black card. He scanned it silently, eyes narrowing, then read aloud with a low, commanding growl, “Whisper a lie, or is it the truth – make ‘em believe it or take a punishment.” He flicked the card onto the table with a sharp snap – WEAVE OR WILT in white – then rose, stepping between Leo and Jamie, pacing back and forth with measured strides. His voice dropped to a chilling, measured hiss aimed at Jamie. “I once watched a man claw his own shadow off the wall – whispered my name as he bled out.” His words slid out smooth, his expression unwavering, a cryptic edge lacing the tone as he returned to his seat.
Jamie’s smirk faltered, a flicker of unease in his eyes as he muttered, “Fuckin’ hell, man…” Leo’s grin froze, his voice tight as he forced out, “You’re shittin’ me, right? That’s too fucked, even for you,” his eyes darting to Marcus, searching for the guy he thought he knew.
…to be continued
