18+ blog, definitely NSFW. Bondage, bareback, breeding, group, gangbang, spitroasting, all what get me hot and bothered and ready to bust. I don't own anything here unless otherwise stated. Enjoy ;D
Leo rolled the dice between his fingers, the clink too loud in the quiet. “Let’s get on with it.”
Jamie’s eyes darted to the red bag. “I really don’t like this.”
Ryan slammed his vetoes flat. “Good. Roll.”
Marcus’s eyes moved over them, slow and deliberate. He didn’t say a word.
Then he picked up the dice. “We roll for order. Highest goes first. “Marcus rolled first. Four and three. Seven.
Leo followed. Six and five. Eleven.
Jamie’s hand shook as the dice settled. Five and three. Eight.
Ryan rolled last. Five and five. Ten.
Marcus stood, voice sharp. “Eleven. Leo’s first, then Ryan, Jamie, me. Move. Sit clockwise.”
They shifted, Leo at the head, Ryan left, Jamie next, Marcus last, chairs scraping. Marcus shook the black bag. “Wave-boy’s busting his cherry,” he taunted, holding it open.
Leo reached in, his hands trembling as his fingers closed around a black card. His jaw tightened as he read it, the wild glint in his eyes draining away into a hard, unmoving stare.
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 silent stare. He swallowed hard, jaw tightening, eyes dropping to the card with slow, deliberate heaviness. Jamie leaned forward, smirk wiped clean, 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, tension creasing his brow as he leaned in, trying to read the moment. Marcus lounged back, grin curling slow and predatory, eyes glinting like a wolf circling wounded prey, 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 laughed, shaking his head as he slumped back, smirk creeping in again. “You tricky bastard. Had me thinking you were already fucked.”
Ryan’s snarl twisted into a rare, grudging smirk. “Nice one. Gonna laugh less when you’re naked and pulling punishment.”
Marcus tilted his head, grin sharpening as he tossed one of Leo’s dice back 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 tossed it wild. It skittered across the table, bouncing twice before settling. 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, metal scraping the floor with a low screech, and set it beside the table with a dull thud. “Put your clothes in here,” 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, rubber soles scuffed from pavement and sand, one thudding into the hamper, then the other. He peeled off his gray crew socks next, 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, metal clinking as he slid it free from the loops of his dark jeans, tossing it onto the pile. Finally, he popped the button on his jeans, shimmying them down, 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. “Leo’s riding high. Cocky little shit thinks he’s still got the reins,” he said, fingers tapping the table like a predator sizing up its next move.
He let the silence settle, 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, to 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, surf kicking up more than he could handle, 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, 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, hands brushing Marcus’s arm to adjust his stance, salt spray and sun blurring the line 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 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 as he snapped back to the present, sliding the black velvet bag to Ryan with a slow push. “Your turn, Ryan. Let’s see what the pit’s got for you.”
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, snarl fading to a tight, uneasy line as he read it aloud, voice low and clipped. “St. Andrew’s cross. Shirt off, clamps on, tied till your next turn. Half-pound weight added each round before the roll.” He slapped the slip down, CLAMP OR CRUMBLE in white, and stood, 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.” His voice curled dark and taunting as he crossed to the wall where a St. Andrew’s cross loomed, dark wood and steel cuffs glinting faintly. He gestured Ryan over with a lazy flick. “Step up. Oh, and you’re gonna have to lose the boots and socks too. Restraints won’t fit over ’em. Or keep ’em on and take a punishment. Who knows, maybe it won’t be as harsh.”
Ryan froze for a beat, jaw tightening, a muscle twitching in his cheek as his eyes flicked from Marcus to the cross. His chest heaved once, then he bent down, fingers working the laces of his scuffed combat boots with quick, jerky movements. He yanked one boot off, peeled the sock with it in the same motion, then repeated with the other. The heavy soles thudded as he kicked the pair toward the hamper, one landing inside, the other missing by an inch and rolling to a stop on the heated floor. Bare feet now, he straightened, glare dimming but fixed on Marcus. He crossed the room, the faint slap of skin replacing the scuff of boots and turned to back against the St. Andrew’s cross. Jaw clenched, fists tightening, he braced for what came next.
“Hold it” Marcus cut in, cold and absolute. “Don’t slight the pit. Finish offering your boot.” He pointed at the stray boot lying a foot from the hamper. “Pit doesn’t take half-assed tributes.”
Ryan’s shoulders stiffened, head snapping toward Marcus, eyes narrowing for a split second. His lips pressed thinner as a faint flush crept up his neck. He turned, trudging back across the room, each step slow and deliberate, posture rigid with defiance but sagging at the edges. He bent, snatching the boot with a rough grip, and jammed it into the hamper, metal rattling as it landed. He straightened, shoulders squared but head tilted low, avoiding their eyes as he shuffled back to the cross, dog tags glinting faintly against his scarred chest.
Marcus stepped in close, grin unwavering, grabbing Ryan’s left wrist and pulling it slow and deliberate toward the upper cuff. The steel clicked shut with a sharp snap. Marcus slid a small screw into the lock, twisting it home, metal grinding softly. He took the right wrist next, same grip, same deliberate pull, another click, another slow turn. Ryan flexed hard against the cuffs. The steel held, unyielding.
Then the ankles. Marcus knelt, dragging Ryan’s left leg wide to the lower cuff, steel snapping shut, screw grinding in. The right followed, pulling him into a broad, helpless sprawl. The final cuff clicked into place, the screw turning with a lingering rasp. Ryan tested the restraints with a hard flex. They didn’t budge, leaving him spread-eagle, stretched taut across the massive X.
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. “My turn,” Marcus said, drawing a card. “Whisper a lie, or is it the truth. Make them believe it or take a punishment.” He flicked it down, WEAVE OR WILT in white.
Marcus spoke calmly. “When you build a place like this, you don’t start with walls or roof. You start with the foundation. When we dug, we hit something older than the land. A pit. Lost to time. Lined with timber. Deep enough to stand in. Folded inside was that leather piece upstairs. I didn’t commission it. Until I came along, it had been buried.”
He ran his hand along the table. “This table’s made from that same timber. Cut it. Planed it. Built it myself. This room sits directly over that pit.”
He rolled back his sleeve, revealing a pale scar along his forearm, then let it fall. “It leaves a mark. Not every time. But often enough.”
His eyes moved to Ryan, clamps biting, chain taut, weight swaying with each breath. “Someone leans against it. Spends a little too much time close. Thinks it’s just an object.” He paused. “Then the weight starts. Light at first. Heavier after.”
The room went still.
Jamie stared at the table, then up toward the ceiling.
Leo didn’t smile.
Ryan stopped resisting.
Marcus slid the bag to Jamie, staring hard. “Your turn, add a weight, then draw.”
Next chapter coming soon!! Thanks for reading
Author’s note:
The story is finished. The delay in posting is the artwork. I’m not particularly good at AI image creation, and I don’t want to post visuals that don’t match the scenes.
If you’re skilled with AI art tools and interested in collaborating on a few key images, message me. Full credit given.
The bitter cold of a November night gripped the air outside Marcus’s cabin, secluded deep in the woods. Inside, a grand fireplace roared, its polished stone mantel casting a golden glow across the cedar-paneled room, mingling with sleek, warm lights recessed in the ceiling.
Four friends lounged across top-tier furniture – Marcus sprawled in a tufted leather club chair, Jamie, 31, wiry and sharp-featured with a short, carefree black mess of hair tousled like he’d just rolled out of a storm, a glint of restless naivety in eyes that had seen scraps and storms without learning the scars, sprawled across the plush depths of a charcoal-gray sectional.
Leo, a lean, 25-year-old surfer who chased waves and thrills with equal reckless abandon, his sun-bleached blonde hair catching the firelight as he perched on a cushioned barstool by a gleaming marble kitchen island.
Ryan leaning against a wall beside a towering abstract artwork – a six-foot strip of molded black leather, its taut curves framed in glinting stainless steel, stretching vertically in a silent challenge against the wall.
Marcus, 32, broad and muscular with short black hair styled in a fade cut, cracked open another beer and took a swig. His black Henley clung to his gym-built chest, the fabric stretching slightly as he moved, leaving little to the imagination. “You guys happy just sitting around here and doing nothing, or you ready for something real?” he asked, leaning forward with a wild, knowing glint in his eyes. “How would you like to take a trip to ‘The Pit’s Edge’?”
Leo tilted his head, sun-bleached strands shifting as he squinted at Marcus. “The Pit’s Edge? What’s that – some badass snowboarding run I haven’t shredded yet?”
Jamie snorted, propping himself up on the sectional with a skeptical grin. “Sounds like a dive bar or a shitty hiking trail.”
Ryan’s brow arched, his Marine frame squaring up as he gripped his beer like a weapon, a cocky smirk tugging at his lips. “The Pit’s Edge? What, some backwater hellhole only a grunt would crawl out of? Better be worth the trek, Marcus, or I’m not leaving this wall.”
Marcus grinned wider, feeding off their confusion. He pulled a folded sheet of paper from his jeans pocket, smoothed it on the table with a practiced flick, and read aloud, his voice rough and deliberate, like he was unearthing something primal. “‘The Pit’s Edge pulls you into a raw chasm that drags you into shadowed depths, igniting your wild and untamed feral soul. Shadows cloak this game of unraveling – each card drawn from the dark sets skin trembling, a trove of dares that peel away more than just the surface. Flesh meets the bite of cunning shadows, a pulse-pounding tease of power and ruin, while every roll drags you deeper into the haze. Vetoes dissolve like ash, leaving you raw as the stakes twist in a reckless blur. Rewards dangle dominance – a fleeting grasp at freedom – while punishments sting with a cruel, unspoken edge. For the one who crumbles, a shadowed abyss looms, quivering and perverse, too raw to name. This is a razor’s edge of sweat and surrender. Roll his dice, taste the edge – will you bend the game to your will and come out on top, or crumble under a trembling, inescapable fall, fucked into oblivion?’”
He slapped the paper down, the sound sharp against the table, and leaned back with a grin that dared them to flinch, the fireplace’s crackle filling the charged silence.
Leo froze mid-spin of his bottle, his surfer ease giving way to a jagged grin. “That’s some dark shit, Marcus. I’m hooked – let’s tear into it and see who’s left standing.” His blue eyes burned with a restless spark, already tasting the chaos.
Jamie bolted upright, bottle clattering to the couch. “Jesus, that’s a fuckin’ gut-punch – gimme his dice, let’s rip this bastard open!” His smirk flared, wild and a little too eager, a guy who’d chase a storm blind just to feel the thunder.
Ryan tensed against the wall, 28, his Marine Corps frame – broad shoulders, thick arms, auburn hair buzzed short under a faded cap – rigid as steel. His dog tags shifted under a tight T-shirt as he gripped his beer, knuckles whitening. “What the hell is this, Marcus? Sounds like a goddamn trap – some twisted game to shred us apart. I’ve crawled through worse in the Corps, but this ain’t about breaking – it’s about knowing the battlefield, and this is no battlefield I’ve heard of. I’m not sure I’m buying this feral soul bullshit.”
Marcus leaned forward, elbows on his knees, his grin twisting into a taunting snarl. “Oh, come off it, Ryan. You’re a Marine hardass – chewed through combat and came out swinging. What’s this compared to dodging IEDs or staring down some sand-blasted insurgent? You’re not scared, are you? Big tough jarhead, trembling at a little dice game? Thought you’d eat this shit for breakfast and spit out the bones. Prove it, man – show us that feral soul ain’t just boot-camp swagger.”
Leo jumped in, leaning over the counter with a mocking laugh. “Yeah, soldier, what’s the holdup? You’ve stormed bunkers, dodged bullets – don’t tell me you’re choking on the edge of this savage grind. Thought you Marines thrived on crazy.”
Jamie chimed in, flicking his bottle cap at Ryan’s boots. “Come on, Rambo, live a little. You’ve got the build for it – show us those war stories aren’t just hot air. Bet you’d own this if you quit playing cautious.”
Ryan’s jaw tightened, the taunts stacking like a full clip. His breath hissed out, a low growl rumbling beneath it, then his lips curled into a hard, arrogant smirk. “It’s not fear – it’s sanity. This shit’s uncharted, and I don’t rush blind. But you wanna see teeth? Fine, I’m in – I’ll play your little game. You’ll all be trembling in that ‘shadowed abyss’ while I’m still standing, kings of the rubble. Good luck, boys – you’re the ones who’ll be fucked into oblivion, not me.”
Marcus clapped his hands, the crack bouncing off the cabin walls. “That’s the spirit. Then it’s settled – us and the edge, all the way down.” He strode to the bar, grabbed a bottle of Jack Daniel’s and four shot glasses, his eyes flicking to the paintings with a quick, knowing smirk before pouring, the amber liquid glinting under the warm lights. Raising his glass, he locked eyes with each of them, voice dropping low. “To the pit’s edge of sweat and surrender.”
Leo lifted his shot, repeating with a feral grin, “To the pit’s edge of sweat and surrender.” He slammed it back, the burn fueling his spark.
Jamie followed, glass high, echoing, “To the pit’s edge of sweat and surrender,” and downed it with a sharp hiss, eyes alight.
Ryan raised his, smirk steady, intoning, “To the pit’s edge of sweat and surrender.” He tossed the shot back, then snatched the Jack Daniel’s bottle from the bar, taking a long, defiant swig straight from it, the liquid gleaming on his lip. “You fuckers won’t know what hit you.”
Marcus taunted “Show me you’ve got the spine to bend this game or get crushed by it. Follow me.”
He stood, a smirk curling his lips, and strode toward a heavy wooden door tucked in the corner of the cabin. The group trailed him, Ryan clutching the bottle, their bravado flickering as Marcus turned the rusted knob. The door groaned open, revealing a narrow staircase descending into shadow. Cobwebs clung to the corners, swaying faintly as they brushed past, the wooden steps creaking under their weight.
The air grew stale and thick, heavy with the scent of damp earth and neglect, as they reached the basement below. Dim lights flickered, casting long shadows over stacks of old furniture – splintered chairs and a sagging couch – piled in a corner. Marcus paused at a thick industrial door, its surface pitted with rust, and yanked it open with a loud, grating creak. “Step into the pit, boys – I’ll watch you squirm from the throne,” he said, his voice dripping with arrogance as he ushered them through, lingering as the last one in. As they crossed the threshold into the black room beyond, red lights pulsed dimly, casting eerie shadows, until sharp, bright accent lights snapped on, illuminating the space.
romaincrisis
snowghoul
2087
