Chapter 7: The Pit’s Knots 

Rope Reigns – Leather Rules

By Restrained4U

The dungeon pulsed, sweat thick.

Marcus slumped shirtless, jeans scuffed, boots firm—rope marks raw, eyes defiant.

Ryan loomed, leather creaking, crop in boot, cap shadowing a smirk.

Jamie leaned forward, briefs soaked, envy sharp. Leo sat hunched, jock pinching, hands fidgeting.

Marcus dipped into the bag, pulling a black card with a slow flick. His grin widened as he scanned it, eyes glinting with the words: Bound to Escape – Can You Slip the Pit’s Hold? Take the knots, roll the dice – break free in time, or endure double the strain if you fail. His mind ticked over – Rope’s my bitch… pit’s got nothing on me – confidence surging as he tossed it down, voice smooth and cocky. “Dare card – ‘Bound to Escape – Can You Slip the Pit’s Hold? Take the knots, roll the dice—break free in time, or endure double the strain if you fail.’ Dice decide how long I’ve got – two to twelve. Fail, and it’s double that under strain.” He leaned back, arms crossed, oozing confidence – I’ve tied knots tighter than this punk’s head… escaping’s a breeze.

Ryan’s brim shadowed his eyes, a faint smirk tugging as he tapped the crop against his boot with a gloved finger. Jamie shifted, chair creaking, a wary grin breaking loose. “Escape? Pit’s gonna bury you, Marcus – good luck slipping that.” Leo’s breath hitched, voice quiet and tense. “Two to twelve minutes? That’s… rough.” His mind flickered – Nine stripes hurt… this could wear him down – jock pinching tight.

Marcus leaned forward, picking up two of his dice from the table with a sly flick – clattering them down: a 6 and a 5. “Eleven minutes,” he said, grin sharpening – Piece of cake… eleven’s way more than enough time, I’ve slipped tougher in less – eyes locking on Ryan. “Jarhead, you think you’re the pit’s king now? Time to prove it – tie me up, let’s see if you can hold me.” His grin taunted, daring Ryan to step up.

Ryan strode to the wall, grabbing a coil of black rope – smooth, heavy, 30 feet – doubling it over with a snap, coils hissing. He turned, boots thudding, voice dropping low and commanding. “Lose the Henley, chief. If you’re taking this serious, pit don’t need your shirt in the way.” Marcus chuckled, peeling the black fabric off in one smooth pull, revealing a lean, muscled chest, tossing it onto his chair with a smirk. “There just don’t cry when I slip this, jarhead.”

Jamie leaned forward, voice sharp, trying to flex. “That’s a tribute, Marcus – pit demands it, not your damn chair.” Marcus shot him a look – hard, quick, silencing – Kid’s outta line – then grabbed the Henley, striding to the tribute pile near the table, tossing it in with a casual flick. “Happy now, pit puppy?” he said, voice dry, stepping back next to the winch’s hanging hook. Jamie shrank back, briefs twitching, rattled.

Ryan stepped in close, rope in hand, positioning Marcus next to the hanging winch hook. “Arms back – box tie,” he said, voice cutting sharp, the crop still tucked in his boot. Marcus squared up, arms loose, smug. “Knots are my game – do your worst.” Ryan moved fast – rope looping over Marcus’s shoulders, crossing tight under his bare pecs. “You know, chief,” Ryan started, voice steady as he knotted the sternum tight, “in the Marines, as Platoon Sergeant, we master rope work – jungle rigs, extraction lines.” He yanked Marcus’s arms back, threading wrists – He’s feeling it now – “You might call yourself an expert…” – cinching forearms parallel, rope biting skin – “…but you haven’t met my experience.” The final knot locked high, fingers out – Done – Ryan stepping back, tugging it hard. Marcus flexed, testing – Tight… but I’ve cracked tougher – breath steady, grin holding.

Ryan hooked the winch’s hanging hook directly to the back knot, slack for now. He strode to the counter, boots echoing, opening a drawer like he owned the pit – pulling out a digital timer, then pausing as his eyes caught a jumble of blindfolds inside: leather, cloth, padded. A sinister grin curled his lips – Oh, this’ll fuck with him – and he snagged a black leather blindfold, thick and unyielding. He set the timer to 11:00, placed it on the table, then turned back to Marcus with the blindfold dangling in his gloved hand. “Let’s see how good you are blind, chief,” he said, voice low and mocking, stepping in close to slip it over Marcus’s eyes – buckling it tight, plunging him into darkness.

Marcus’s jaw twitched, but he held his smirk – Still mine to beat. Ryan reached for the timer, pressed start with a beep – countdown ticking for all to see – and stepped back, boots thudding. “Time’s ticking, chief – better get to work,” he taunted, grin sharp.

Marcus twisted slow, shoulders rolling, fingers probing – Angle’s here… where’s the give? – rope creaking, chest straining, boots scuffing. Jamie leaned in – He’s fucked… Ryan’s got him – dick throbbing, briefs slick.

Leo gripped his chair – Eleven minutes… tough to beat – eyes wide. Marcus bent forward, jerking his wrists – rope groaning, a knot budging – Six minutes… halfway there – sweat beading on his fade. At ten, he twisted hard, one wrist slipping an inch – Almost… come on – but time ticked tight.

Ryan watched the timer count down to zero, then barked, “Time,” striding to the wall and grabbing the winch remote – thumb jamming the button, chain snapping taut, yanking Marcus’s arms up and back, strain slamming hard – He’s mine now – brim tilting. Marcus’s boots dug in, breath hissing – Fuck… so close—muscles flexing, rope creaking, grin gone, jaw locked.

Marcus swayed, strain clawing deep – Pit’s chewing… I’ve taken worse – twenty-two minutes looming, pit’s jaws tight, game teetering on his edge. Ryan circled him slow, eyes glinting under the brim, watching Marcus endure – boots scuffing a deliberate rhythm.

Five minutes in, he pulled the riding crop from his boot with a smooth tug. “Couldn’t slip me in eleven minutes, chief?” he taunted, voice low and edged, swinging the crop across Marcus’s lower back – crack – the leather biting bare skin just above his jeans. Marcus jumped, ropes yanking tighter, strain grinding his shoulders – Fuck that stings – a grunt escaping through clenched teeth.

Ryan kept circling, slow and relentless. “Thought you were the rope king,” he jabbed, landing a harder smack on Marcus’s butt – crack – the blow thudding through his jeans. Marcus twitched, ropes cutting deeper – Bastard’s pushing it – breath hitching. Ten minutes gone, Ryan’s smirk widened. “Pit’s got you now,” he sneered, striking hard across Marcus’s thigh – crack – the hit echoing, Marcus jolting again, strain clawing his binds – Fuck… steady – sweat dripping under the blindfold. “Marine knots holding up?” Another brutal swing – crack – slamming his lower back again, Marcus lurching forward, ropes biting raw – Fuck this… hold it – legs flexing against the pull.

Fifteen minutes in, Ryan paced tighter, voice dropping colder. “Still think you’re tough?” he taunted, cracking the crop harder across Marcus’s butt – crack – a fierce blow muffled by denim, Marcus gasping, body jerking, ropes wrenching his arms higher – Shit’s brutal – legs trembling faintly.

Eighteen minutes, another strike – crack – raking his thigh, harder still, Marcus grunting loud – Not breaking… not yet – strain searing deep. Ryan circled once more, twenty-one minutes ticking by. “Almost there, chief – crumbling yet?” he jeered, landing a final savage hit across Marcus’s lower back – crack – Marcus bucking hard, ropes groaning, a choked growl slipping free – Fuck this pit – as the timer hit 22:00, beeping sharp in the silence.

Ryan stepped back, sliding the crop back into his boot with a smug flick – He’s done – then strode to the table, grabbing the timer and shutting it off with a click. He sauntered to the counter, tossing it back into the drawer, letting Marcus hang there, ropes creaking under his weight.

Smirk firm, Ryan sat back down at the table, boots scuffing as he settled, observing Marcus – chest heaving, blindfold dark with sweat, body still straining against the taut chain. He leaned back, arms crossed, then flicked his gaze to Jamie and Leo. “Go get him down, boys – pit’s had its fill.”

Jamie straightened, briefs twitching, voice low and respectful. “Yes Sir – on it.” Leo rose, hands steadying, nodding deference – He’s in charge now – “Yes Sir, we’ll take care of him.” Jamie and Leo shuffled over, bare feet scuffing the concrete. Jamie grabbed the winch remote from the wall, thumbing the release – chain slackening with a low groan, Marcus’s arms dropping an inch, a ragged breath slipping out – Fuck… relief – but still bound tight.

Leo knelt behind, fumbling with the box tie’s high knot, fingers shaky as he worked it loose – rope scraping skin, Marcus grunting as the tension eased. Jamie yanked the winch hook free, letting it swing, then tugged at the chest ropes—unwinding them fast, Marcus’s shoulders rolling as the last coil fell. Leo pulled the blindfold off last, Marcus blinking hard – Fucking jarhead – sweat-streaked face set, jaw clenched, collapsing back into his chair with a heavy thud.

…to be continued