Sottopassaggio Read Online Free PDF Page B

bracelets to two chains hanging from the ceiling.
    It’s all strangely business-like, a well rehearsed ritual that feels anything but sexual. As he tugs on the pulleys, stretching my arms taut, I start to feel fear again.
    â€œLook,” I say. “I’m not sure actually that I feel that comfortable with this whole …”
    As I say this, John clips my feet to two floor chains, completely immobilising me.
    â€œHey!” I say. “Is anyone listening to me?”
    Jean speaks quietly into my right ear. “Just calm down,” he says. “No-one’s doing anything you haven’t given permission for, so relax and enjoy.”
    â€œBut …”
    In a surprise movement, Jean slaps my arse. Hard.
    As I open my mouth to shout, he pulls a gag between my teeth.
    â€œUmm,” I protest.
    â€œNow shut up and relax,” he says, buckling the gag behind my head.
    I protest as loudly as I can but Jean just laughs.
    â€œThere’s nothing you can do now, nothing you can say, so just relax, give in,” he says.
    For a while I protest through my nose. I thrash around too, but it only makes the men laugh all the more, and slowly an unexpected, nervy calm comes over me. I have given in. I have resigned myself to whatever is going to happen.
    Jean pulls a hood over my head. I can still see through the eyeholes but my hearing becomes muffled. Images of the gimp in Pulp Fiction come to mind and I wonder if I will be living in a box from now on. Terrifyingly my dick twitches at the idea. Obtusely I think, “Thank god my mother can’t see me now.”
    John stands in front and looks into my eyes while Jean, behind, finishes lacing the hood and moves yet another chain into place, clipping it to a ring on the top, holding my head upright.
    It’s weird. I feel like a museum exhibit being dispassionately tended to.
    I hold my breath to listen to them speaking.
    â€œIn a minute, once he relaxes …” I hear Jean say. “He’ll be begging …”
    Then, one after the other, Jean covers my eyes.
    I hold my breath for a moment, considering the new leathery dark. I shift my weight, trying different ways of standing and hanging on the wrist restraints. My heart is racing and I am sweating in fear.
    At the same time, the taste of the gag, the smell of the hood, the very idea of my nakedness hanging before them arouses me.
    Nothing happens for a while, and then I feel hands fastening a new series of straps around my legs.
    A finger runs along the outline of the scar on my knee; they re-position the strap lower to avoid it. For some reason this attention to detail reassures me. My heart starts to slow.
    Someone reaches from behind and fastens straps around my waist and my torso, then another around my neck.
    The feeling of skin on skin contact is magnified by the darkness. Just the sensation of their hands endlessly fiddling with straps and buckles feels incredible.
    Someone’s leg brushes my dick and instinctively I writhe towards the contact eliciting a laugh that penetrates the muffled silence.
    For a while some complex operation of attaching goes on behind me, I can feel the four hands working simultaneously connecting chains and ropes to rings on the straps; it feels like they’re doing some kind of puzzle, or macramé.
    â€œI knitted it myself,” I think.
    The process takes maybe ten minutes, though with only the sound of my breathing it has becomesdifficult to judge time.
    Then suddenly it happens. The weight disappears from my feet. I start to fly.
    The experience is amazing, truly out-of-body. With the weight distribution provided by the complex web of straps surrounding my body I don’t feel suspended by any particular point, I just feel like I am floating.
    I hear vague metallic noises through the hood and slowly I start to lean forwards, to jerkily tilt, a movement that continues until I am horizontal.
    My legs slowly spread, I cannot aid or