Chapter 43: Tug of War
Julia let the eight-point score hang in the air, a tangible force in the smoky barn. Rupert’s lead was a fragile thing, and everyone felt it. The women’s eyes, previously alight with merry condemnation, now held a sharper, more calculating glint.
“Strength,” Julia announced, the word snapping like a dry twig. “Not just of the body, but of will. The next challenge is a test of endurance. A tug of war.”
A murmur of interest rippled through the crowd. This sounded familiar, almost wholesome. But the sharp, metallic click as one of the waiters opened a long, polished wooden case dashed any such notions. Inside, nestled in velvet, lay not a coarse hemp rope, but a thin, vicious-looking cord of braided leather. At each end was a polished wooden peg, its jaws held open by a tiny, sinister spring.
“The rules are simple,” Julia said, lifting one of the contraptions. “You will compete in rounds, one on one. The peg is attached to a… sensitive area. The first man to cry out, let go of the rope, or pull the peg from his opponent’s flesh, loses the round. The winner gains a point.”
Rupert’s stomach clenched. The memory of the plastic doll was already being overwritten by this new, more immediate threat of pain.
“For the first round,” Julia continued, her eyes sweeping over the three kneeling men, “we will use the nipples.”
Paolo actually grinned, a flash of white in the gloom of his hood. Henry whimpered, his rounded shoulders slumping further. Rupert felt a cold sweat break out under the latex. His nipples, already tight from the chilled air, tingled with anticipatory dread.
Julia moved behind Rupert. He flinched as her cold fingers found his right nipple, pinching it firmly. The click of the peg’s mechanism was deafeningly close to his ear, followed by a sudden, sharp pressure that made him gasp. The pain was intense, a precise, biting focus that radiated outwards. She repeated the process on Paolo, and then on Henry, who let out a choked sob as the jaws snapped shut.
“Contestants One and Two, first,” Julia commanded, handing the ends of the cord to Paolo and Henry.
They knelt facing each other, the leather cord taut between them. Paolo’s posture was one of focused concentration; Henry was already shaking.
“Begin!”
Paolo gave a short, sharp pull. Henry yelped, his hand flying to his chest instinctively before he remembered the rules and grabbed the rope again. But the damage was done. The peg hung loose from Paolo’s chest, its purpose served.
“Point to Number One,” Julia said flatly. Henry was openly crying now, fat tears soaking into the black hood.
“Don’t be such a baby, Henry,” Elizabeth’s voice cut from the tables, sharp with embarrassment. “It’s only a bit of fun.”
“Contestants One and Three.”
Rupert found himself facing Paolo. The Italian’s head was cocked, a predator’s stillness about him. Rupert’s heart hammered against his ribs. He gripped the cold leather cord, the bite of the peg on his nipple a throbbing counterpoint to his panic.
“Begin.”
Paolo pulled immediately, not a jerking motion but a steady, increasing pressure. The pain was excruciating. Rupert gritted his teeth, the leather of the hood grinding against his gums. He could feel the skin stretching, the clamp digging deeper. He pulled back, his accountant’s arms trembling with the strain. It became a brutal, silent standoff. Sweat dripped into Rupert’s eyes. He focused on Margot. He thought of the thirteen points on the board. He thought of the key.
With a guttural groan, he yanked back with every ounce of strength he possessed. There was a muffled curse from Paolo, and the tension on the rope vanished. The peg was still attached to Rupert’s chest, a burning badge of honor.
“Point to Number Three.”
A cheer went up, led by Margot. “That’s my boy!”
The final round was Rupert against the broken Henry. It was less a contest than an execution. Rupert pulled gently, but even that was too much for Henry’s tortured flesh. He released the rope with a wail, the peg popping free.
“Point to Number Three. The score is adjusted.”
The chalk scratched. Paolo: 8. Henry: 2. Rupert: 15.
“Do not celebrate prematurely,” Julia warned, her voice cutting through Rupert’s exhausted relief. She held up a second peg, larger, with a wider, curved jaw. “The next round focuses on a more… central area. The scrotum.”
This time, even Paolo’s confidence seemed to waver. Henry made a sound like a wounded animal.
The process was more invasive, more humiliating. Julia’s efficient hands were unforgiving. The cold air on his exposed skin was a shock, followed by the crushing finality of the clamp closing. The pain was different: a deep, nauseating ache that settled in the pit of Rupert’s stomach. He felt dangerously vulnerable.
The first pull, between Paolo and Henry, was over almost before it began. Henry collapsed onto his side, curling into a fetal position, his cries muffled by the floor.
Then it was Rupert and Paolo again. They knelt, the cord between them, both breathing raggedly. The entire barn was silent, waiting.
“Begin.”
Paolo pulled, hard. White-hot agony shot up Rupert’s spine. His vision swam. He could feel the delicate skin being stretched to its limit. He pulled back, a low moan escaping him. This was a different kind of struggle, a brutal tugging on the very core of him. The pain was unbelievable, each fraction of an inch gained or lost a fresh torment. He heard Paolo grunting, saw the man’s knuckles white on the cord.
He couldn’t win this way. He was weakening, the pain threatening to overwhelm his resolve. Then he remembered Paolo’s theatrical performance with the doll. Showmanship. He stopped pulling back with pure force. Instead, he allowed Paolo to take a little slack, then gave a sharp, sudden jerk sideways, a twisting motion.
It was a gambit born of desperation. Paolo, expecting steady resistance, was thrown off balance. The peg tore from his flesh with a sickening pop. He roared in pain and fury, clutching himself.
Silence.
Then, Julia’s voice, laced with something almost like respect. “A unorthodox technique. But effective. Point to Number Three.”
The chalk marked his tally again. Sixteen points. He was so close he could almost taste the metallic freedom of the key.
Julia stood over him, looking down at where he knelt, panting, the victorious peg still dangling from him like a grotesque trophy. Her expression was unreadable.
“The final test remains,” she said quietly, almost to herself. “The test of obedience. And that, I fear, will be the most difficult of all.”