Chapter 6: The Pit’s Gold 

Cage Locks – Power Shines

By Restrained4U

The air clung thick, winch hook echoing.

Jamie slumped, flushed, eyes darting. Leo sat hunched, striped ass raw, wincing sharp.

Ryan settled stiffly, chest heaving, nipples throbbing, socks scuffing where boots once sat.

Marcus slid the bag to Ryan. “Pit don’t take breaks – your go.”

Ryan’s hand froze over the bag, his buzzed auburn hair damp with sweat, eyes narrowing. Fuck this – not again, not yet, he thought, the memory of weights tugging his chest still clawing at him, nipples screaming from Marcus’s tweak. He’d endured – grit held – but the pit’s jaws lingered too close, his breath shallow as he hesitated.

Marcus tilted his head, a faint smirk curling. “What’s the hold-up, soldier? Pit’s waiting.”

Ryan grunted, low and rough, and dipped his hand in, fingers brushing the cards – black dares heavy with dread – then pulled one free, slow, reluctant.

The card gleamed gold, black lettering stark against it.

Jamie shifted, his dick twitching again in his briefs, pre-cum stain flaring as he leaned forward, voice tight. “Gold? What the fuck’s that – some new kinda torture?” His eyes narrowed, a nervous edge cracking his flat tone – Pit’s pulling somethin’, we’re fucked – his gut twisting at the shine, fearing worse than stripes.

Leo shifted again, the leather creaking under him as his briefs stuck to the welts, pain flaring with a fresh wince. “That’s no black card – what’s it gonna do, huh?” His voice quavered, low and ragged, staring at the gold – More shit comin’, pit’s not done – nine’s echo throbbing in his flesh, his body braced for the next hit.

Ryan stared, eyes widening as he read it to himself – Will you bend the game to your will and come out on top? Dress the part – the pit’s your store, choose what you desire to rise – disbelief slamming him. No fuckin’ way – after that shit, I get this? he thought, his chest tightening, torn between the pit’s grind and this sudden stroke, fingers trembling as he held it, luck too good to trust.

Marcus’s smirk widened, a knowing glint in his eyes – he recognized the gold’s weight, though the card’s words stayed hidden, his grin a silent taunt as he watched Ryan wrestle with it, his gaze flicking briefly to Leo, noting the wince, the briefs chafing those raw stripes.

Ryan’s throat worked, then he read it aloud, voice rasping but steady. “Reward card – ‘Will you bend the game to your will and come out on top? Dress the part – the pit’s your store, choose what you desire to rise.’” He dropped it to the table, gold glinting under the dim light. Marcus leaned forward, elbows on the table, voice low and commanding.

“Pit’s giving you a shot, jarhead – a chance to bend this game to your will,” he said, eyes locked on Ryan. “To do that, you gotta dress the part. Clothes rack’s over there -” he pointed to a shadowed corner near the entry door, where leather straps and harnesses hung in uneven rows, a straitjacket swaying faintly among them. Jamie’s gaze flicked to it, his eyes catching the straitjacket – a flash of envy cutting through his dread, that lusty smirk reminding him of when they first stepped into the dungeon and he saw it, still sexy as fuck pulsing in his mind. “Cabinets there -” Marcus’s finger swung to a line of steel drawers along the far wall, glinting faintly, stuffed with gear. “Rope’s on that wall -” he nodded to the tangled rows of chains and cords by the door, floggers and whips dangling beside paddles. “Cuffs and restraints there -” his hand shifted to a hook-laden stretch near the table, metal and leather gleaming. “Shelves with hoods up top -” he gestured to a high ledge above the cabinets, dark shapes of masks and hoods looming. “And drawers got the rest – pick what you desire, soldier. Take your time, choose wisely.” He leaned back, arms crossing again, turning Ryan loose with a flick of his wrist, and his dark chuckle rolled out, low and heavy, the pit’s playground laid bare.

Ryan rose from his chair, legs steadying as he stood, not knowing where to go first – What does a Dom in the pit wear? he thought, his mind spinning as he started to wander through the dungeon, socks whispering on the floor as he eyed the rack’s leather, the rope wall’s coils, the cuff hooks glinting.

Jamie and Leo watched intently, breaths held, tracking his every step – Jamie’s envy flaring, Leo’s dread deepening.

Marcus stood, his grin tightening, and crossed to the stainless-steel cabinets, pulling open a drawer with a faint scrape. He grabbed something – its shape unseen, known only to him – and shoved it into his pocket, then turned to Leo, voice sharp but steady. “Leo, come with me.”

Leo’s face twisted, confusion flashing as he shifted painfully, the briefs sticking to his welts with a fresh wince, and stood, legs shaky. Marcus stepped closer, his hand reaching out to gently grip the back of Leo’s neck, guiding him out of sight toward a side opening – the bathroom – a space tucked off the dungeon’s sprawl.

Jamie’s eyes narrowed, just as confused by Marcus’s request – What the fuck’s he up to now? – but it went unnoticed by Ryan, who kept moving, his focus locked on the pit’s sprawl.

While Marcus led Leo away, Ryan roamed deeper, socks silent as he traced every inch – fingers brushing the rope wall’s chains, flipping through the cuff hooks’ restraints, peering into the cabinets’ drawers under the counter, rifling the shelves’ hoods- each rack, each corner, mapping the pit’s arsenal. Heavy shit… this’ll do, he thought, piecing it together, his options sharpening with every step.

Marcus guided Leo into the bathroom, the open entry leaving their shadows faintly visible—a counter stretching its full length, backed by a single mirror running wall to wall, reflecting the dim glow. At the counter’s right end stood a cabinet, steel and unassuming. Marcus released Leo’s neck, stepping to it and pulling it open with a soft creak. He grabbed a bottle – its contents hidden, label turned away – holding it in his hand as he turned to Leo, voice low and firm. “Drop your briefs, bend over the counter.”

Leo froze, his heart slamming as his mind ran wild – What the hell’s going on here? Is he gonna fuck me while my ass is searing in pain? – the welts throbbing, dread spiking, his shaky hands fumbling as he slid the briefs down, the fabric peeling off the raw stripes with a faint sting.

He bent over the counter, palms flat against the cold surface, breath hitching as Marcus popped the bottle open behind him. A wet pfft cut the silence, the bottle farting as it hit an air bubble, squirting a generous dollop of cream onto Marcus’s hand. He rubbed it between his palms, then stepped closer, his hands gently spreading the cool cream across Leo’s welted ass.

Leo flinched hard, the cold shock biting into his seared skin, a hiss escaping his lips. Marcus’s voice stayed low, steady. “Antiseptic cream and numbing gel combo – keeps those welts from festering, numbs ‘em so you’re not squirming like a worm out there. Pit’s rough enough without infection.” Leo’s tension eased a fraction, the sting dulling under the cool spread, and he murmured, voice soft and ragged, “Thank you.”

Marcus’s grin tightened, a glint in his eye. “Don’t thank me yet, the pit’s still hungry.” He rubbed the cream in thoroughly, hands gentle but firm, until the welts glistened faintly under the mirror’s dim glow. Then he reached into his pocket, pulled out a thin leather jock – black, sleek, barely there – and tossed it onto the counter in front of Leo. “Put this on and get back to your seat,” he said, turning away silently, pausing at the bathroom’s open entry.

He glanced back, voice sharp. “Put those briefs in the basket – tribute to the pit.” He stepped out, returning to the pit, settling back into his chair without a word to Jamie, his boots scuffing the floor as he sat.

Leo emerged from the bathroom, the thin leather jock hugging his frame, his hands clutching the soaked black briefs. He shuffled to the tribute pile near the table, tossing them in with a soft thud, then quietly took his seat, the leather chair creaking under him, his welted ass numbed but his silence heavy. Jamie’s gaze snapped to him, noting the change – What the fuck just happened? – confusion twisting as he stared at the jock, the pit’s secrets gnawing at him.

Ryan circled back to the clothes rack, his sweep complete, fingers settling on a pair of leather jeans – tight, black, and a thick black leather belt with a heavy buckle. He pulled a black leather vest from the lineup, its edges sharp, then crouched to a row of boots beneath, digging through until he found a pair of 18-inch black engineer boots, sturdy and scuffed just right.

He straightened, heading to the harness wall, his socks quiet as he lifted a black leather bulldog harness – broad straps, solid buckles – its weight settling in his grip, then grabbed a pair of leather patrol gloves – black, form-fitting – followed by a leather cap from a nearby shelf, brim low and sharp. Satisfied, he turned, arms full, and strode back to the table, the gear dangling from his hands.

Marcus eyed him up and down, taking in the haul – leather jeans, belt, vest, boots, harness, gloves, cap – his grin steady. “You complete your task?” Ryan nodded, firm and silent, the pit’s prize in his grasp.

Marcus tilted his head, voice low and edged. “Bathroom’s free – go change. Bring what’s left of your clothes as tribute to the pit.” He leaned back, arms crossing, watching Ryan head off toward the bathroom’s open entry, then turned to Jamie and Leo, his grin sharpening. “You two – go explore what the pit’s got to offer. Don’t just sit there.”

Ryan stepped into the bathroom, the open entry spilling faint light from the pit – no doors, just walls angled to cloak the interior from view, a private pocket off the dungeon’s sprawl. His socks whispered on the tile as he took it in – his first time here, the space long and narrow, a counter stretching its full length, backed by a single mirror running wall to wall, reflecting the dim glow.

At the counter’s right end stood a steel cabinet, knob glinting faintly. He dropped his gear onto the counter – leather jeans, belt, vest, harness, gloves, cap – the pile sprawling, then set the 18-inch engineer boots on the floor with a solid thud, freeing his hands to look around.

He scanned quick – past the counter, an open, three-sided stainless-steel shower gleamed, eyebolts studding all three walls at varying heights, their purpose dark and unspoken. In the corner sat a stainless-steel toilet, prison-raw, semi-private but exposed, its cold edge glinting. Fuck it, why not, he thought, bladder nagging since the clamps came off. He unzipped his tactical pants, the form-fitting fabric hugging his muscled ass, pulling out his semi-hard dick – awkward through the stiffness. It wasn’t easy to piss like this, but he managed a steady stream hitting the steel with a faint echo, tension easing a fraction. He didn’t bother zipping – pants were coming off – shuffling back to his gear pile, the fabric still taut around his thighs.

He sorted it out, inspecting each piece – jeans, belt, vest, boots, harness, gloves, cap – his reflection catching in the mirror as he stripped the tactical pants down, kicking them off, leaving the socks on for the boots’ fit. Bare except for the standard-issue Marine skivvies, he stood, dog tags clinking against his scarred chest, nipples still erect and sore, though dulled. His semi-hard dick pressed against the cotton, outlined in the mirror – Jarhead, huh? he thought, sizing himself up. He grabbed the leather jeans, sliding one leg in – These are hot as fuck… show it off – then laid them back, peeling off the skivvies, his dick springing free, hardening more, unrestrained.

The jeans went on slow – tight, black leather gripping his thighs, the fit unforgiving as he tugged them to his waist, his dick now stiff, prominent, tucked to one side, bulging against the fabric. He worked the 501- style buttons, fingers steady, then threaded the thick black belt through, the heavy buckle clicking shut like a lock. He lifted the bulldog harness, catching his reflection – dog tags glinting – and paused – Not anymore, he thought, slipping them off his neck, hanging them on the cabinet knob with a faint clink, shedding the Marine for the pit. He slid the harness over his shoulders, broad straps digging in – buckled it tight, the leather pulling snug across his chest, accentuating the broad muscle – then grabbed the leather patrol gloves, sliding them on, the form-fitting black leather molding to his hands like a second skin. Fuck yeah, he thought, running a gloved hand over his chest, grazing a nipple – the numbed pain flared, erotic now, his dick jumping, pre-cum slicking against the leather inside.

The vest followed, sharp-edged and open, framing his harnessed chest, the leather cool and taut. He grabbed the 18-inch engineer boots – black, scuffed – pulling them on, the pants tucking inside as they hugged nearly to his knees, the leather incredible against his legs – firm, unyielding, alive.

He capped it with the leather hat, brim low over his eyes, shadowing his gaze – mysterious, a man in control, knowing what he wants. He stood, rolling his shoulders, the gear creaking faintly – This is it, he thought, gathering his discarded pants and skivvies – leaving the dog tags hanging on the knob -and strode out, tribute in hand.

Ryan emerged from the bathroom, boots thudding on the concrete, each step a heavy echo that snapped the pit’s hum to silence, grabbing every eye.

Jamie and Leo froze mid-exploration – Jamie by the clothes rack, fingers on the sleepsack zipper; Leo near the rope wall, whip still in hand – turning their undivided attention to Ryan, mouths parting slightly. He wasn’t the Marine jarhead anymore – someone else stood there, leather gleaming, a figure to be respected, worshiped, the pit’s new shadow.

Jamie stared, envy flaring hard – That could be me… controlling this fuckin’ pit – his dick swelling in his briefs, pre-cum soaking thicker at the sight of Ryan’s harnessed chest, the leather jeans hugging every muscle, the outline of his hard dick laid to one side, as thick and commanding as his chiseled frame, gloved hands flexing, boots demanding deference. He swallowed, lust twisting with a pang of want, his own reflection dimming against Ryan’s stride.

Leo’s gaze locked on, seeing Ryan in a way he never had – Holy shit – his dick stirring hard in the leather jock, a sudden urge surging – Those boots… lick ‘em? Wait, where’d that come from? – his breath catching, almost ready to drop to his knees, the thought wild and unbidden, numbed welts forgotten.

Marcus let out a low whistle, sharp and approving, his grin stretching as he leaned forward, elbows on the table. “Well, damn, jarhead – looks like you’ve bent the game to your will and then some. That outfit’s complete – transformed you into the pit’s own leather king, gloves and all.” He tilted his head, nodding Jamie and Leo back. “Chairs, boys – show’s starting.” Jamie and Leo shuffled back, dropping into their seats, eyes still glued to Ryan, the pit’s air thickening.

Ryan paused, his brim shadowing a faint smirk, voice low and steady. “Not quite.” He strode confidently to the wall where ropes and paddles hung, his boots echoing, gloved hand grabbing a leather riding crop – sleek, black, taut. He smacked it hard against his gloved palm, a loud whack cracking the air through the leather, then slid it into his boot, the handle jutting out. “Now it’s complete,” he said, turning back, his stance unyielding, the pit’s reins in his grip.

He confidently walked back to the table, Jamie and Leo still in awe, their eyes tracking every move. Without sitting, he grabbed the black velvet bag with a gloved hand and tossed it toward Marcus, voice sharp and edged. “Your turn, boss – the pit’s starving, and I’ve just whet its appetite.”

…to be continued