Chapter 3: The Pit’s Blade
Scissors Shear – Flesh Pays
By Restrained4U
The room hung heavy with Marcus’s words, air unsteady.
Jamie’s mutter and Leo’s strain echoed, swallowed by the pit. Ryan stayed pinned, head low, clamps biting, weight tugging, tags a faint glint.
Marcus slid the bag to Jamie, staring hard. “Your go, pig-boy – add a weight, then draw.”
Jamie grabbed the weight, stepping to Ryan, breath shaky. Ryan’s chest heaved, ragged. “Lookin’ rough, jarhead – pit’s got you,” Jamie taunted, hooking the weight – clink – yanking a shudder.
Ryan growled, “Fuck you,” as Jamie brushed his sweaty abs, licking his fingers slow, eyes locked, lust warring with bravado.
He drew a card, voice cracking, “Wrists cuffed – hoist ‘em up, shred your threads, or offer flesh as tribute.” He dropped it – LIFT OR LOSE – freezing, eyes flicking up, then to Marcus.
Marcus leaned forward, his gaze unyielding. “Up you go, pig-boy – the pit’s claiming its due,” he ordered, voice a low, authoritative rumble. “Maybe you’d rather taste a punishment instead,” he taunted, his tone sharp and biting as he picked up the blood-red punishment bag from the table, dangling it with a slow sway.
Jamie’s eyes darted between the bag and Marcus, his breath hitching as he wavered, Marcus’s whisper still clawing at his mind. Lie or truth, it gnawed at him, a splinter of doubt twisting tighter with every second.
Slowly, he rose, muttering, “Hoist ‘em up,” his voice a shaky mix of resignation and bravado. Marcus crossed to the wall, grabbing a thick leather posture collar – black, rigid, with a steel lock – and a pair of locking leather wrist restraints, their straps creaking faintly.
He locked the collar around Jamie’s neck with a sharp snap, the leather forcing his head upright, immobile, eyes stuck forward, then seized his wrists, fastening the restraints – left, then right – the locks clicking shut, chaining them together in front of him, relaxed at his waist.
Jamie stumbled slightly, his breath hitching as Marcus led him across the dungeon, boots scuffing the heated floor, the collar keeping his gaze fixed ahead, unable to look down. They stopped beneath a steel beam overhead is an electric chain hoist.
Marcus crossed the room and grabbed a remote hanging on the wall, its cord stretching long enough to reach the middle where Jamie stood. He pressed a button, the motor whirring as a thick rope wire with a heavy steel hook descended, lowering slowly to Jamie’s waist level.
Marcus attached the hook to the chain linking Jamie’s cuffs, his face set as he hit the remote again. The hoist groaned, pulling Jamie’s arms upward, the rope wire tightening as his wrists rose taut above his head, stretching him until his heels lifted, balancing precariously on his tiptoes, chest heaving, a faint flush creeping up his neck. That damn dare – lie or truth – looped in his skull, fraying his nerves as the pit closed in.
As Marcus returned the remote to its holder on the wall, he summoned Leo to the center of the room where Jamie hung, his voice a low, unyielding directive. “Get over here, wave-boy – start with his boots.” “Yes Sir,” Leo muttered, voice tight and submissive, a shaky nod to Marcus as his grin faltered, his sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes.
He froze for a beat, Marcus’s voice still slicing through his mind: “I once watched a man claw his own shadow off the wall – whispered my name as he bled out.” It lodged there, a cold, jagged shard, twisting his gut with unease – is this the pit’s endgame?
His hands shook harder now, a nervous edge clashing with a faint, sick thrill as he stepped forward. He crouched at Jamie’s feet, fingers clumsy on the scuffed brown leather boots, the laces slipping under his sweaty grip. That image – clawing shadows, bleeding out – made this feel too real, yet the pit’s pull sparked something raw in him. He tugged at the laces, too hard at first, then slower, hesitating as they snagged, until he finally yanked the boots off one by one, tossing them aside with a dull thud.
Marcus crossed to the stainless-steel drawers, pulling out a pair of safety scissors – sharp-edged yet designed to avoid cutting skin – and presented them to Leo, holding them out with a steady hand, his tone cold and commanding. “Provide the pit its tribute.” Leo’s eyes flicked to the scissors, a slight hesitation stalling his reach as that shadow-clawing image flashed again – Jamie strung up, helpless, ripe for shredding.
Something twisted inside him, a dark, almost evil lust blooming at the thought of tearing Jamie apart, piece by piece, feeding the pit’s hunger. His fingers trembled as he took the scissors, their weight solid in his grip, and he murmured, “Yes Sir,” soft and low, the words slipping out with a faint, wicked edge. He started with Jamie’s navy hoodie, the fabric tearing with a jagged rip as he sliced upward, his hands unsteady at first, then steadier, the sound sharp in the silence. Jamie, locked in the collar, couldn’t look down – only feel the sudden yank and shred against his skin, the helpless tug of each cut stripping him bare, Marcus’s dare still spinning in his head, unraveling him further. Lie or truth – what did Marcus know? The question burned, his vulnerability spiking with every snip he couldn’t witness.
Leo moved to the black T-shirt next – a faded skull and crossbones stretched across the chest – slicing through it, the worn cotton splitting easily and dropping in shreds. Ryan’s eyes flicked up from the cross, his jaw tight, watching the pit claim Jamie strip by strip, his own chest straining under the clamps. “Pit’s gonna love this mess,” Leo muttered, voice low and uneven, shifting to the dirt-streaked white socks and snipping them apart with the scissors instead of pulling them off, adding under his breath, “Gotta cut deep for the pit – fuck just tugging ‘em.” The olive-green cargo pants took longer, the tough fabric resisting as he carved through the loose legs and pockets, pieces scattering across the floor. Each cut echoed in Jamie’s ears, the sensation of cold steel brushing his legs amplifying his exposure, his breath quickening as he stood powerless, forced to stare ahead, that lingering doubt – lie or truth – twisting tighter with every shred.
As Leo’s scissors hovered near the waistband of Jamie’s plain gray boxer briefs, Marcus stepped forward, his voice cutting through like a blade. “The pit’s tribute is satisfied.” Leo froze, blades poised, then pulled back, a flicker of disappointment in his eyes swallowed by obedience. “Yes Sir,” he said softly, handing the scissors back to Marcus with a faint tremble, the dark lust still simmering beneath his submission, his head bowing slightly as he stepped back.
Marcus took them, his gaze sliding to Jamie, catching the subtle bulge straining against the gray fabric, a small, dark spot of pre-cum soaking through. “Looks like pig-boy’s feeding the pit more than his threads,” he said, a smirk tugging his lips, the words tossed out casual and sharp.
Leo’s eyes flicked to the wet spot briefly, registering it with a blank stare before looking away, no reaction stirring his face. Jamie’s breath hitched, a flush of shame burning up his neck, his body betraying him as he hung there, taut and exposed, the tatters piled at his feet.
Marcus turned to Leo, his tone flat. “Back to your chair, wave-boy.” Leo nodded, head still low, and shuffled back to his seat, the thrill lingering in his veins.
Marcus crossed to the wall, grabbing the winch remote again, and pressed a button. The hoist whirred, lowering Jamie slowly, the rope wire slackening until his feet hit the floor, unsteady but grounded.
Marcus stepped over, unhooking the steel hook from the chain linking Jamie’s cuffs, leaving his wrists bound and the hook dangling low, swaying faintly. “Keeps the pit ready,” he muttered, smirking as he returned the remote to its wall holder with a faint clatter.
He sauntered back to Jamie, eyes glinting as he reached for the collar. “Held up nice, didn’t you, pig-boy?” he said, voice low and mocking as he unlocked the steel clasp, peeling the leather off Jamie’s neck with a slow drag. “Pit got a good taste of you.”
He set the collar on the stainless-steel counter with care, then gripped Jamie’s wrists, unlatching the restraints one by one, the locks clicking free. “Not bad for a first run,” he added, a faint chuckle under his breath as he placed the cuffs beside the collar on the counter with a dull thunk.
Jamie rubbed his wrists, the flush still hot on his face, and started toward his chair, legs shaky, figuring the dare was done. Marcus’s voice snapped out, stopping him cold. “Not so fast, pig-boy—complete your tribute. Get those rags in the pit’s trove with the rest.” Jamie froze, then glanced at the scattered shreds – hoodie, T-shirt, socks, pants. As he bent to scoop them up, a sharp thought cut through: Fuck, that’s it – nothing left to wear after this. The realization sank in, heavy and bare, the damp spot on his boxers glaring as he trudged to the pit’s trove, tossing the tatters in with a quiet thud, the pit’s due fully paid.
He shuffled back to his chair, sinking into it with a shaky breath, one hand dropping low to adjust his dick, the lingering ache a quiet sting. Marcus watched him settle, then strode to his own seat, dropping into it with a casual lean. He slid the black velvet bag to Leo, his voice a low drawl. “Your turn again, wave-boy second spin at the pit’s edge.” Leo’s head lifted, eyes flickering as he reached for the bag, the room thick with the pit’s pull.
…to be continued
