By Takeshi Tsujimura
Satoko Kawabe
Minoda-san, the editor-in-chief, and I were resting our weary bodies at Al Salo S in Osaka’s South district, surrounded by jazz and the clatter of the city. It had been a long day, we’d been working on a very elaborate photo shoot with Ibuki-san since early morning, which didn’t wrap up until after six o’clock. We finally finished and took her to Tennoji by taxi.
It wasn’t as if we had a particular favorite waitress at Al Salo. We’d just wandered in on a whim, and the waitress on duty, with nothing better to do, simply insisted on pouring us beer.
Perhaps our whispered conversation had naturally caught her ear, for the waitress on duty seemed to be casually eavesdropping.
Since it was the very day I’d carried out the enema series on Ibuki-san, our conversation naturally drifted toward bondage and enemas. To an outsider, it must have sounded like the highly bizarre, insider talk of the SM world.
“What on earth is with all this weird talk? Don’t keep it just between the two of you, let me in on it too!”
When the girl interrupted us from the side, I suddenly snapped back to reality. I realized that, lost in our conversation, we’d been talking about anuses and enema syringes without even noticing, our voices growing louder and louder.
“Oh, it’s just a story about nudity. If you’d like, I could ask you to do it once. How about it? Would you do it for me?”
I said this to the girl half-jokingly, then looked closely at her face again and suddenly realized she looked like someone. Perhaps he was thinking the same thing, because Minoda-san said as if he’d just remembered, “Don’t you think this girl looks like Sakaguchi-san? Her build and facial features are exactly the same. Her eyes are a bit sharper than Sakaguchi-san’s, and she has short hair, but she’s prettier than her. What do you say? Shall we give it a try?”
And so, the girl the two of us managed to seduce was none other than Satoko Kawabe.
As a girl from Ar Salo, she was quite calculating. After listening to all our talk, she asked point-blank, without even blushing, “So, exactly how much will I get paid as a model?” When Minoda-san explained the details, she said, “Huh, that’s surprisingly cheap. But fine, I’ve been completely out of work lately due to deflation and the autumn season, and I’m free during the day, so maybe I’ll take the plunge and give it a try. But being naked, it must be pretty cold by now, right? And besides you guys, all sorts of other people will be coming, won’t they? It’d be awkward if I ran into someone I know while walking with a man, so maybe I’ll just pass after all.”
I couldn’t tell if she was serious or joking. She seemed on the verge of agreeing but wouldn’t quite commit. I decided to set the location as the second floor of my house and agreed to pay her a small modeling fee. We finally managed to seal the deal on the condition that it would be a simple nude shoot. I was taken with her slightly stern eyes, her taut, well-toned physique, her high-bridged nose and deep-set features, and the modern elegance of her Hepburn-style look, which suited her perfectly. While there was certainly a touch of frivolity in our mood, I also secretly hoped she would take to the role well and become a good collaborator for us. She claimed to be twenty-one, but judging by her confident manner of speaking and the mature, solid build of her body, I wondered if she might actually be two or three years old.
When I asked for her real name and address, she flatly refused. She was firm enough to say, “If you’re going to ask that, I’ll stop,” perhaps out of fear of future trouble. So, naturally, at Ar Salo, she went by the name Hitomi, a pseudonym created jointly by me and Minoda-san, rather than her real name, Kawabe Satoko.
In any case, we parted ways after making plans to meet at 10 am on November 5th at the suburban train terminal of her choosing.
I had said something like that, and my half-hearted, groundless worry, that perhaps she wouldn’t show up on a whim, was completely unfounded. She appeared right on the dot at 10 am, looking dashing in her red and blue checkered skirt, and I breathed a sigh of relief. The large gold hoop earrings glistening on her ears made a striking impression. As soon as we met, the first thing she said was,
“Listen, I don’t know anything about you guys, but I trust you. Just don’t do anything weird after I get naked, okay? And I’ll get my modeling fee the moment I’m naked,” she emphasized, as if driving the point home. She was quite the shrewd one. But surprisingly, girls who put on this kind of tough exterior often have a deep sense of compassion. Minoda-san pulled a white envelope from his inner pocket and effectively silenced her. When she said “weird things,” she was probably referring to sex, but if bondage, enemas and torture also fell under that category, it would be a bit of a hassle. However, having achieved a degree of success so far, we went along with her demands and took our seats on the express train that had just pulled in.
She seemed slightly reassured by the fact that I already had a wife and children, and that my wife appeared to be aware of today’s shoot, but she still seemed to be wearing a mental armor of sorts, and an awkwardness, as if she had ventured into enemy territory, was visibly lingering about her.
Her makeup, as one would expect from a student of Ar Salo, was exquisite, and she deftly applied the false eyelashes handed to her by the photographer, Tsukamoto-san. “I used to dance a little at the O.S.K.,” she murmured to no one in particular. “I quit after about two months for personal reasons, though…”
In the makeshift dressing room, she emerged naked from behind the four-and-a-half-mat sliding doors. The curve of her breasts, the firmness of her waist, and her flawless white skin, it was truly a sight to behold.
Although it was early November, I had brought in an electric heater out of pity, thinking she might be cold. However, the sunlight streaming in through the south-facing glass window created a stiflingly warm atmosphere that made her feel hot and stuffy. Wrapped in the yukata I had offered her, she stood there fidgeting, her face flushed.
Wondering how best to explain our intentions, I steeled my nerves, took several recent issues of “Kitan Club” from the bookshelf, flipped through the gravure pages, and silently showed them to her.
“You’ll trust us, won’t you? I swear we won’t do any of the strange things you’re worried about, but this is what we call ‘Maso.’ Do you understand?”
She blushed and stared at them as if glaring, but with an air of “If that’s all it takes, I don’t mind,” she said, “All right. But…” and then fell silent.
I felt like a complete novice at bondage, and I found her hesitation slightly alluring. Since intense bondage right from the start would scare her, I kept it as simple as possible and focused on partial stimulation.
Nose torment, leg restraints, nipple play, the look on her face when I clamped a clip onto her magnificent breasts, I threaded a chain through a hairpin and fitted it onto her small nose, but at that moment, she made a terrified, angry face. (As shown in the January issue of this magazine, her angry expression is vividly captured.)
Pulling out a single-person mosquito net and using it as a prop for a fantastical pose (February issue of this magazine) created a different kind of appeal compared to the tightly bound bondage.
The intensity in her eyes was most clearly revealed when I grabbed her breasts firmly from behind with leather gloves. (January issue: gloves)
Perhaps she gradually grew accustomed to the bondage and the atmosphere of the camera, as she moved exactly as I directed one after another, really getting into it. We shot a series of scenes depicting her being attacked by a robber. In the final scene, which is likely to remain unpublished, she was tied to the horizontal ring at the top of a dresser in front of the robber I was playing. Perhaps she had truly given up hope. As one of her legs was hoisted high, the pose she struck, overflowing with lingering emotion and resignation, resulted in a photograph with a poignancy unlike anything we’d seen before. It is a pity that we cannot share this with you all.
The enema, however, she flatly refused. (Looking back now, I suppose we were wrong to have expected that from the start… even those quite accustomed to it tend to dislike enemas.) Since I had performed the procedure so easily on Ibuki-san the other day, I figured I’d manage somehow when the time came. I brought out a single-dose enema, a glass enema syringe, and even an irrigator to complete my preparations. Just as I had dressed myself up as a doctor in a white coat and a headband, she, who had been staring at me strangely for some time, began throwing a tantrum, insisting that she absolutely refused the enema, which left me flustered.
I tried explaining it to her in various ways, but she simply wouldn’t accept it. (Was she recalling playing doctor as a child, or perhaps the gynecological examination table?)
“Well then, let’s not do it. Instead, I’ll take the remaining eight or so sheets of film in a bundle…”
I tied her hands behind her back over her chemise and quickly signaled Tsukamoto-kun with my eyes.
I led her over to the futon he had laid out and pushed her down. In the blink of an eyes, she was in the enema pose, and I quickly snapped five or six shots. At the speed of the whole thing, she gave me a look that said she had no choice but to go along with it, and she struck the poses as instructed. She really was a girl who had volunteered to be a model.
Even after I untied her, she sat there on the futon looking dazed, so I took one more shot of her in that position (the frontispiece for the January issue, “Enema”)
And so, the enema poses ended up being of her half-naked in her chemise.
“That’s enough, isn’t it? I’m going to be late for work.”
Still wearing her yukata, she crouched slightly and looked up at Minoda-san with her almond-shaped eyes. It was precisely in such casual movements that unexpectedly beautiful lines emerged, and I found myself gazing at her for a moment.
“What’s this? Are you already homesick? Or do you have a date with your boyfriend?”
When Minoda-san said this teasingly, she replied, “I don’t have a boyfriend, but since we’re done, I’d like you to let me go home soon.”
Her tone suggested she was anticipating that there was no more film left in the camera.
“Well, there’s no need to rush. I’ll drive you to the shop, won’t I?”
They say a lady’s mood can change in an instant, and at Minoda-san’s words, she seemed to change her mind. Wearing nothing but a butterfly-print slip, she struck the pose he commanded, leaning against the hallway banister with the storm shutters as a backdrop. Little did she, being no god, know that this was merely the prelude to the punishment that would soon have her screaming, “It hurts, it hurts!” and begging for mercy.
A few days later, on my way home from work, I stopped by Al Saro and asked for Hitomi. She greeted me in a kimono, a ribbon in her hair, with a charming smile.
“How was it the other day?” I asked, feeling somewhat anxious. Yet despite having made such a huge scene and wailing that day, she looked as if she had completely forgotten about it, cooing, “When will my photo appear in the magazine? Please give me a copy when it comes out.” I was both relieved and surprised by her cheerful demeaor. “All right,” I decided to myself, “this time I’ll take a really amazing shot,” and I took another look at her in her kimono.
Masako Ibuki
There is so much I want to write about her, the woman who has been making headlines in every recent issue, that I’m at a loss as to where to begin. In any case, if I were to pick up a map, her current address is in S Town, Ishiogi District, Nara Prefecture. Mentioning that it’s a timber distribution hub should give you a pretty good idea of where she is.
Her hometown is reportedly Suwa, Nagano Prefecture, and at present, she runs a small doll-making business with her mother and younger sister. Three times a week, she makes a special trip to the K Sewing Academy near Umeda in Osaka to study dressmaking. She does not seem to have any financial difficulties, and she often comes to Osaka saying she is going to the movies or shopping with friends, but this is actually a ruse. For the most part, it is nothing more than an excuse to appear at the editorial office’s request.
When I was first introduced to her by Minoda-san, she was already completely naked and bound. She gave me a shy nod from her restricted position, her cute dimpled cheeks twisted with embarrassment, and shifted her body diagonally, her knees slightly together. Since I had arrived late, she must have been terribly frightened by the sudden appearance of a stranger.
My first impression at that moment was that, despite her being an ideal model, with a well-proportioned, voluptuous physique and fine features, and seemingly no flaws whatsoever, I nonetheless sensed within her, for some inexplicable reason, a certain heavy, lumbering inertia that struck me as distinctly masochistic.
It might be hard to explain, but her body lacked a certain urban sophistication, a healthy, unrefined heaviness that suggested she had grown up leisurely, eating and sleeping without much exercise. This quality was subtly evident in her physique, creating a feeling that was the exact opposite of the taut.
While Kawabata-san reminded me of a female deer, I must say, though it may be rather rude, Ibuki-san gave me the impression of a female pig.
This feeling of a female pig stemmed from the fact that she was a gem in the rough. As time went on, I was forced to revise this first impression, but I will discuss that in due course.
As for the session that day, I had planned to use a ladder for the torture, so I decided to carry it out without hesitation. I intended to tie her up from head to toe with rope, just as a snake wraps around a ladder, as I had envisioned, but while it might have looked good in a picture, it was simply impossible to execute in reality. The usually docile Ibuki-san did get into the mood, but eventually, drenched in sweat, she looked at me with an expression that seemed to say, “What a terrible person you are.” I managed to suspend the ladder from above and tie her to it, but her carefree, “nouveau” expression and the heavy, sluggish feel of her body meant the composition I’d envisioned simply didn’t come together. We decided to try a close-up, so Tsukamoto and I worked together to apply eyebrow pencil and rouge to her, a girl who didn’t even know how to apply makeup, but this was another failure. When I saw the finished closeup of the “48 Rope Techniques,” I was utterly dismayed. It looked exactly like a female wrestler had been tied up. She stood there with her chest thrust out proudly, and there was no trace of color or allure.
Her greatest asset was her complete lack of resistance. She did exactly as I told her, enduring even the most intense inverted suspensions and acrobatic bondage without complaint, unless her flesh was pinched by the rope or her hand was twisted, she never once said it hurt, just going about it silently. Occasionally, as if remembering something, she would just grin and look back and forth between us. And yet, the more intense the bondage, the more she seemed to be in a state of near-ecstasy. Perhaps she was a latent masochist. The more intense it became, the stronger that tendency seemed to grow.
“What time are you supposed to meet your friends today?” That was one of her catchphrases, something she would say without fail whenever she came over. Despite that habit, she had never once left in time to make her appointment. If I was in the mood, I would easily make her continue for as long as I wanted, and it’s safe to say she almost never managed to tear herself away and leave.
“Isn’t she a masochist?” we’d often debate her sexual inclinations. If we contacted her, she would come no matter what, rain or shine. And there she would be tightly bound, moving exactly as we directed for hours on end. Rubbing her wrists where the rope marks wouldn’t fade, paying no mind to the rope marks on her neck, dressed simply in a white blouse and black skirt, she would smile slyly, bow her head in silence, and then go home.
Her lack of delicacy, combined with her carefree, unpretentious nature gives her an air of innocence, almost to the point of seeming a bit too trusting.
With the arrival of Rumi Kasuga-san, she became an increasingly important figure in the photo shoots of the famous duo, Kasuga-san and Ibuki-san,and seemed to be quite busy. In the photos taken with her female colleagues, she was often forced into unnatural poses, yet one can catch a glimpse of her occasionally flashing a sly smile in a few of the shots.
To put it bluntly, she was brazen. To put it kindly, she was carefree, a disposition that seemed to make her forget even a woman’s sense of modesty at times. There were some particularly harsh photos, such as one where she was crushed by Kasuga-san like a pseudo female wrestler, forced to the ground and tormented, and another, unpublished shot, where she appeared to be licking the sand-covered feet of Kasuga-san. Yet, surprisingly, she seemed quite unfazed by it all.
With a woman’s meticulousness, Kasuga-san’s bondage techniques do not involve frequently changing poses. Instead, she meticulously refines a single bondage setup, devising methods of extreme bondage to realize her own fantasies. However, the way she bound Ibuki-san in a shrimp-style position so tightly it left her gasping for breath, then straddled her with her crotch pressed against Ibuki-san’s head, and proceeded to take out her compact and reapply her makeup while maintaining that very pose. I felt that this perfectly exemplified Kasuga-san’s sadistic side.
Even in such a situation, which bordered on full-scale torture, Ibuki-san merely panted softly through her shoulders, but never asked her to stop.
Around June of last year, taking advantage of the fact that my friend R-san, whom I met through Kitan Club Communications, owned a car. I spent a day with her, along with Minoda-san and Tsukamoto-san. The five of us, with R-san at the wheel, drove to Iwafune to carry out a photo shoot featuring outdoor bondage.
Although it was already early summer, the water in the mountain gorge was still cold, but we could say the shoot, whether under a small waterfall, along the stream, or in pools formed by the flow around strange rocks, was a success.
R-san even brought along his prized Minolta Reflex to join the shoot, and it seemed he had discreetly captured about two rolls of film, taking care not to interfere with the composition.
She was sitting next to me in the car when she casually asked about R-san, and I answered her honestly, but I never could have predicted at that moment that my answer would become a turning point in her life.
I suppose this is what they call love at first sight. It seems Ibuki-san had fallen for R-san. (Since details regarding the outdoor photography trip were already published in last year’s September issue, I will omit them here.)
Ever since then, her outfits have become more elaborate every time we meet, her makeup skills have suddenly improved, and she’s started looking beautiful and radiant, using the latest trend in sheer makeup.
“Do women really change this much when they fall in love?” At first, we were surprised by her sudden transformation, but after reading the four or so ordinary, “Michi-chan”-style love letters she’d sent to R-san, we nodded in understanding. “This is what’s got me in a bind,” R-san told me. “I was just driving the car because you asked me to, I was curious about the filming itself, but I didn’t say anything to her, and I definitely don’t remember making a move on her. But my wife read these letters, and now she’s making a big fuss. Please do something about this.”
Since he was a newlywed of just over a year, having married for love, this was likely nothing more than a fleeting, one-sided crush on a woman who was ultimately out of his league. He hasn’t replied even once, but judging from the tone of her letters, it seems she’s been left waiting in vain at the meeting spots she specified on at least two occasions.
Her pitiful unrequited love must have been a tremendous nuisance to R-san, who was still basking in the dream of his new marriage with his beautiful young wife.
I had no choice but to send Ibuki-san a letter tactfully conveying this.
Whether that was the reason or not, I received a brief reply from her saying she would be devoting herself to dressmaking for a while, and for about three months, I had no opportunity to photograph her. “Around February of next year, I might just get married. I’ll have some free time until then, so if you’re planning a shoot, I’ll come any time…”
Upon receiving this message, Minoda-san immediately contacted her and planned to carry out the enema series, which was in high demand among readers at the time, featuring Kasuga-san.
When I received that message from Minoda-san, I was secretly relieved to see that she seemed to have recovered from the pain of her broken heart.
And then, at the end of October, it was the very day I met Masako Kawabe at Al Saro. Ibuki-san’s appearance that day had improved remarkably since I’d last seen her. She’d cut her hair into a sharp, short bob with the ends curled inward at the ears, and she looked stunning in a stylish wool dress that fit her perfectly. With her light yet defined makeup, she appeared so radiant that I couldn’t help but stare in astonishment, wondering if this was really the same Ibuki-san’s I’d once secretly thought of as a female pig.
The close-ups and enema scenes from the kimono series, featuring punishment with a nose ring and a wooden sword, were shot at this time.
If readers compare her earlier photographs with those published in the February issue of this magazine, they will surely nod in agreement at the extent of her transformation. Moreover, her change was not merely superficial. Her inner personality had also undergone a shift. Her former “nouveau” sensibility had faded into the background, replaced by a brisk demeanor and spirited movements that clearly reflected this new state.
I had once suspected she might be a masochist because she seemed to embrace everything, and this shift in her disposition seemed to reveal that she clearly possessed masochist tendencies.
In fact, she remained completely unperturbed even when an enema syringe or enema tube was actually inserted into her anus, it was not merely a symbolic enema, and she even peeled off the strips of her sanitary napkin with her own hands.
Depending on our guidance, she could likely be introduced to anal play as well.
We were conducting this session on the second floor of my house that day, but she acted as if she didn’t care at all. Wearing heavy makeup with false eyelashes and nothing but a long under-kimono draped over her naked body, which was as bare as a butterfly, she tried to go to the bathroom downstairs, so I was startled and hurriedly stopped her. Even if my wife knew, our housemates and children would find it strange.
“Well, I’ll just hold it then. I haven’t had a bowel movement in four days, so my stomach is all bloated, isn’t it? It’s a little uncomfortable…”
She rubbed her lower abdomen and said this with a laugh, and even so, she held on for a little while longer. “In that case, it’s perfect. Shall I give you an enema?”
“No, please don’t. Won’t that make my stomach hurt?”
She refused lightly, but since she didn’t say it very strongly, Minoda-san signaled to me with his eyes and shook a fig enema in front of her from behind.
Once again, I had her assume the enema pose with her hands tied behind her back. After turning her face down and having her raise her butt, I quickly pierced the fig enema with a needle, moistened the tip, and administered the enema in one swift motion.
“Now that I’ve given you an enema, everything that’s been building up will come out in a little while. Your stomach might hurt a bit, though.”
“So you really did put it in after all. You’re hopeless. Oh my, really, it seems my stomach is starting to hurt a bit…. What should I do…” Blushing, as expected, she covered her face with both hands.
“Just a little more patience. Come on, hurry up, hurry up.”
We, too, were getting a little flustered, and from there it was all downhill. We hurriedly finished shooting the remaining seven or eight shots using simple bondage techniques and extreme acrobatic poses.
As if she couldn’t stand it any longer, she hastily plucked her eyebrows and wiped off her blue-green eyeshadow and lipstick. Then, slipping her dress on, she flew down the stairs.
“We did it! How did that feel?”
Minoda-san asked in a tone brimming with glee.
“Oh, nothing out of the ordinary. It was just a matter of capturing something I usually just stage. But even if there were a single shot of an actual enema mixed in with this roll of film, I doubt anyone looking at the photos would realize which one it was. After all, hardly anyone would look closely enough to notice me holding a deflated fig.”
“She probably knew the glycerin was going into her intestines, yet she didn’t even flinch. If we did it the Haruma Kyoko way, she might actually be okay with it.”
As we were talking like this, “Ah, I feel so much better. It’s all out now… Oh, I’m sorry. I’m talking about such a dirty thing, heh…”
“It’s fine. Well then, I suppose we should thank Tsujimura-san.”
Minoda-san laughed heartily, looking thoroughly amused.
This was the final scene from the last time I photographed Ibuki-san last year.
I haven’t seen her since then. Part of the reason is that the nude photography season has ended, but according to her, by the time this article appears in print, she should be married. I wonder how that’s going. I hope she’s become a lovely bride. Or perhaps… if she continues to grace the pages of this magazine’s photo spreads this year as well, it seems safe to assume that Masako Ibuki is still unmarried.
(End of this section)
