Chapter 4: The Pit’s Leather
Flesh Quivers – Hide Bites
By Restrained4U
The air sat thick; pit’s pull heavy.
Jamie slumped, briefs damp, shifting with shame. Ryan’s breaths rasped from the cross, clamps biting.
Marcus smirked, sliding the bag to Leo. “Second spin, wave-boy.”
Leo’s hand hovered over the bag, his sun-bleached hair falling into his eyes as he met Marcus’s stare. The cocky grin from his first turn – when he’d stripped to his briefs and strutted like he owned the place – was gone, eroded by the pit’s grind.
Ryan’s ongoing strain, Marcus’s shadow-clawing whisper, Jamie’s shredded clothes in the pit’s trove – it was all hitting home, the intensity sinking deep. He paused, then grabbed the half-pound weight Marcus had set beside the bag, his fingers tightening around it as he rose and crossed to Ryan.
He stopped in front of the cross, eyes tracing Ryan’s scarred torso, the clamps digging in, the weights tugging mercilessly. For a beat, he just stood there, taking it in – Ryan’s sweat-slicked chest heaving, the faint tremble in his thick arms. A pang of pity twisted in Leo’s gut, but something else stirred too, a faint heat, a twitch in his dick under his black briefs.
The pit was brutal, and damn if it didn’t pull at him both ways. He hooked the weight onto the chain with a soft clink, the added pull yanking a shudder from Ryan’s frame. “I’m so sorry, man,” Leo muttered, voice low and rough, barely above a whisper, his eyes flicking up to Ryan’s face. Ryan’s head jerked slightly, a gritted growl slipping out – “Fuckin’ save it” – his body tensing hard as the clamps bit deeper, a fresh line of strain carving into his jaw.
Leo lingered a second longer, then turned back to the table, the weight of Ryan’s growl sinking in with his own mixed buzz. He slid into his chair, fingers brushing the velvet bag again, hesitant now, no quip ready. He pulled it closer, dipping his hand in with a slow breath, and fished out a thick black card.
He held it close, reading it to himself first, eyes narrowing as the words hit. His brows twitched, a flicker of disbelief crossing his face – No fuckin’ way – before he swallowed hard, lips parting. He read it aloud, voice low and unsteady. “Take the whip – roll all four dice. Four to sixteen lashes, the pit decides your count.” He dropped the card on the table – WHIP AND ROLL in white – and stared at it, the numbers spinning in his head, his earlier swagger nowhere to be found.
Marcus leaned forward, his smirk widening into something sharp and predatory. “Wave-boy’s catching the real wave now – gonna ride it ‘til you break, huh?” The taunt hung in the air, and across the room, Ryan choked out a rough chuckle, loud enough to cut through his own strain – a dark, knowing sound that said he wasn’t alone in the pit’s jaws anymore. Leo’s eyes flicked to Ryan, then back to the card, his throat tightening.
His mind snapped back to when the whip had sat coiled on the table like a sleeping snake. Jamie’s voice echoed in his head – “That’s gonna sting, fucker” – casual then, but heavy now. Then Marcus had picked it up, testing it with a sharp crack that split the air, the sound bouncing off the dungeon walls.
Leo’s fingers slid to the two veto cards stacked on the table beside him, fiddling with their edges as his mind raced. Best case – four lashes. He might take that, might grit it out, feel the bite and keep standing. Worst case – sixteen, or if he vetoed and drew a punishment, something uglier from that blood-red bag Marcus dangled like a loaded gun. He traced the rules in his head—if he remembered right, playing one card would kill the dare dead, let him walk free, but then he’d be out, no security left, bare to the pit’s next bite. His stomach twisted, skin prickling – Can I handle this, or do I bail?
Jamie shifted in his chair, glancing over with a half-smirk, voice low but carrying. “Sixteen’s a long dance with that thing.” It wasn’t a jab, just a flat observation, but it sank into Leo’s skull like a stone, piling onto the whip’s crack still ringing in his ears.
Ryan’s eyes locked on him from the cross, intent and unblinking, watching to see if Leo’d stand tall or fall small, his own strain a silent bet on the outcome. Leo’s fingers tightened on the veto cards, flipping them between his hands, the numbers – four, sixteen, or worse – looping tighter, his breath shallowing.
He looked up, voice tight. “Marcus – both vetoes, that’s a full out, right? No draw, no nothing?” Marcus tilted his head, eyes glinting with a cold edge. “Yeah, both cards, and you’re off the hook, no whip, no roll, just sittin’ pretty ’til the pit calls again. But you’re out of lifelines then, bare-assed for the next round. One card swaps the whip for the blood-red bag – a new draw, no dice needed. Pick your poison.”
Leo’s hand hovered over the cards, his eyes darting to Ryan again, the weights pulling, clamps biting – He’s still up there, taking it. Me? – then pictured the whip, that crack, the sting Jamie called out. Four I could maybe do. Sixteen? Would I even have a back left? His gaze flicked to Jamie, bare and slumped, then to Marcus, smirking like he already knew the answer, then back to the veto cards.
His hand trembled, edging both cards toward the table’s center, the move slow, deliberate – Out, done, safe – but he froze, fingers hovering. No, all my security gone? He pulled one card back, leaving just one in the middle, a single veto laid down, his pulse hammering as he locked eyes with Marcus. One card meant the punishment bag – he knew it, prayed it wasn’t worse than the whip, his mind screaming Please, not something I can’t take.
Marcus snorted, a low, mocking sound, leaning back as he scooped up the blood-red punishment bag from the table. “One card, huh? Guess you’re too chickenshit to face the whip, wave-boy – let’s see what the pit’s got for you instead.”
He gave the blood-red bag a taunting shake, the faint rustle of cards inside rattling Leo’s nerves, and held it out. Leo’s hand twitched forward, reaching for it, but Marcus yanked it back with a grin. “Hold up – since you’re taking the punishment anyway, why not roll all four dice first? See what fate you dodged with that little veto of yours. Go on, give it a spin.”
Leo’s eyes dropped to the four dice scattered on the table, their silver edges glinting under the dim light. He glanced at Jamie, slumped and watching, then at Ryan, still strung up, his stare cutting through the haze.
His hand hesitated, hovering over the dice, then slowly closed around them, the cool metal pressing into his palm. He rolled them in his hand, clinking softly, drawing out the moment, as if stalling could shift what was already done. Finally, he let them spill onto the table – 3, 2, 4, 2 – eleven lashes staring back at him.
Jamie let out a low whistle, leaning forward slightly. “Eleven’s no picnic – good call dodging that.” His tone was flat, almost impressed, but it twisted the knot in Leo’s gut tighter. Marcus chuckled, a dark, rolling sound. “Not bad, eleven would’ve striped you up nice. Pit’s still got your number, though.” Ryan muttered to himself, voice low and ragged through clenched teeth, “Fuck, pit’s got us all lined up now.” His words rasped out, heavy with weariness, a grim nod to the shared grind.
Marcus gave the blood-red punishment bag another shake, the rustle louder now, and held it out again. Leo’s hand trembled as he reached in, fingers brushing the edges of blood-red cards, the white lettering stark against the crimson. He pulled one free, his breath catching, the pit’s next move clutched in his grip.
…to be continued
