Nureki Chimuo Archive

On the night three days before the shoot, producer Nakahara, photographer Sachi Yamanouchi, Hiromi Saotome, and I, a member of the Tomoshibi fan club, gathered in a room for our final meeting.

It’s hard to put into words just how much fun we had during those three and a half hours of conversation.

Of course.

I was the only man there, surrounded by nothing but beautiful women, each excelling in her own field. I was like the king of a harem.

And everyone gathered that night shared an unwavering passion for bondage photography.

We were all burning with a strong desire to create great photographs.

In other words, without exaggeration, our hearts were united toward a single goal.

It was only natural that I spent every moment enveloped in an incredibly fulfilling, warm sense of happiness.

It might be seen as conceit or arrogance for me to say this here, but the members with whom I discussed things thoroughly and deeply this evening were all trustworthy individuals who share exactly the same sensibilities as I do regarding kinbaku.

I spoke with them without reservation. If Minomura Ko had been here that night, he would surely have shed tears of joy at the depth, height, and sharpness of their sense of the absurd.

As I spoke, I occasionally sensed Minomura Ko’s presence. What we love is, after all, a conceptual world of thorough obsession. That is why we are always alone.

While conversing with them, I was calling out to Minomura Ko.

“Suma-san, forty years ago, no, fifty years ago, you bound your subjects and took countless photographs. Now, here, such enthusiastic, admirable women have gathered, loving those very photos and longing to take them themselves, chatting happily together. I wish I could have shown you in this scene, just once.”

Suma is Minomura Ko’s real name.

And then it suddenly occurred to me.

That’s right, I’ll take that photo from my album, the one from over forty years ago showing the four of us, Minomura Ko, Yoji Muku, Haruo Shimamoto, and myself, standing side by side, and hand it over to Director Nakahara Rutsu. When I eventually pass away, that photo will disappear too. It’s best to keep it here in this Sex Industry Museum. Minomura Ko, Yoji Muku, and Haruo Shimamoto would surely be pleased in the afterlife.

That night, I said something along the lines of, “It’s nothing short of a miracle that people united by a single will can gather in a room like this, chatting in such a friendly and harmonious atmosphere. I’m so happy. I’m so grateful.”

I repeated those words several times.

That night, I was not alone.

It was a night of deep, substantive discussion among creators, far more than just a gathering of hobbyists.

Just as I finished writing this, I got a call from producer Nakahara Rutsu.

“...This is a continuation of what we discussed last night. Tamaru goes to the convenience store down the street to buy a bento box because he’s worried about Hiromi being hungry, right? Left alone in the house, Hiromi struggles to find a way to escape while the man is away. But her hands are tied behind her back and tied to a pillar, so she can’t escape. I want to express in detail Hiromi’s determination to untie the ropes, her movements, the agonized struggle of a woman desperate to break free from the pillar that binds her, her expressions, and her various poses. And then, the disappointment, despair, resignation, and sorrow she feels when she realizes the ropes simply won’t come undone. Furthermore, I want to convey scenes of her anger and hatred toward the man in minute detail. Precisely because these are silent photographs without dialogue, I believe that if I express them accurately, I can dramatically convey free and rich imagery to the viewers.”

“Yeah, you’re right. Since that’s a key climactic moment, let’s have photographer Yamanouchi shoot it thoroughly and carefully.”

As I replied, my mind was already visualizing all the various movements Hiromi Saotome would make in that scene.

I believed that in three days’ time, Saotome would deliver a performance that surpassed even those images in my mind.

And, taking producer Rutsu’s words from that phone call as a hint, I was expanding on those images even further.

“...What’s the matter, honey? Aren’t you going to eat? I went all the way to the convenience store just to buy you a bento, so aren’t you hungry? Not eating is bad for your health, heheheh… I see. You’ve been tied up for so long that your wrists are numb and you can’t use them. All right, then, I’ll feed you myself.”

Tamaru uses disposable chopsticks to bring a grain of rice from the bento to Hiromi’s mouth.

Hiromi turns her face away in resistance. How frustrating (yeah, this is a great scene).

Tamaru is delighted to see Hiromi’s frustrated expression.

Furthermore, he teases her by pinching her tongue with the chopsticks . A close-up of the tip of the chopstick and Hiromi’s tongue (that image just popped into my head).

Next, the scene shifts to an image of him trying to make her drink tea from a plastic bottle.

A close-up of the tea spilling from the corner of Hiromi’s lips and running down her chin. Hiromi’s frustrated, pitiful expression.

Yeah, that’s right. Let’s make this guy named Tamaru someone who acts like a real jerk but is oddly polite and overly deferential when he speaks.

That way, his sleaziness and baseness really come through. In short, he’s a servile man, and a despicable one at that.

After taking a few sips of tea, Hiromi turned to Tamaru and said she needed to use the restroom.

Tamaru unties Hiromi from the pillar, grabs the end of the rope, and leads her to the restroom.

I don’t want to film Hiromi urinating directly here. I absolutely do not want to.

This is because I believe it would destroy the magnificent, poignant, and endearing imagination and fantasises of urination and defecation enthusiasts, and betray their poetic romanticism.

I want to show Hiromi’s expression of shame and resentment toward the man through the crack in the closed door after she’s been shoved into the restroom. That’s all I want to do.

From the conversation I had with producer Rutsu on the phone, images like this keep welling up one after another, and I can’t stop them.

However, no matter how much I expand on these images, the precise movements and angles naturally won’t be decided until the day of the shoot, when Saotome is actually on set and breathing life into the scene.

In three days, that day will arrive.

I’d better give the ropes another once-over.

Producer Rutsu also has some suggestions regarding this rope.

Since this despicable pervert named Tamaru is plotting from the start to tie Hiromi up, it stands to reason that he would bring along his own favorite hemp rope.

However, these days, you rarely see hemp rope anywhere. It simply doesn’t exist.

There are photos and videos where hemp rope suddenly appears from places where it shouldn’t exist, and the woman is tied up, and it certainly looks strange when you watch it. It feels off.

I don’t think we need to take this kind of fetishistic photography and video that seriously, but there are times when it’s inconvenient not to think about it.

As producer Rutsu says, there are certainly plenty of other types of rope and string that can express a sense of restraint in a sufficiently attractive and sensual way, even without using hemp rope intended for commercial bondage.

Insisting on using hemp rope for absolutely everything is truly like a broken record.

Huh? What did you say?

Are you suggesting that it was none other than Nureki Chimuo who first declared that hemp rope is the absolute best, and has been saying so for years?

Well, if you put it that way, I have no choice but to bow my head and say, “Yes, you’re right. I’m sorry, you’re absolutely correct.”

That is why I have always called myself a “hemp rope fetishist.”

But just recently, I saw a thin fabric scarf nearly three meters long being sold for 200 yen at a clothing store in town, and I bought it immediately. It’s about thirty centimeters wide.

At that time, I was walking with Rakka-san. An hour after buying the scarf, I was in a love hotel, using that very scarf to tie her hands behind her back.

“How does it feel to be tied up?” Before I even had a chance to ask, she was already half-fainting.

This is no lie.

It sounds like a joke, but it’s a true story.

In this case, the bondage wasn’t meant to be shown to others.

It was purely for private pleasure.

When it’s private, all that matters is that we both feel good.

No matter how much Tamaru ties her up or how cruelly he bullies her, Hiromi must never let herself feel good about it.

If Hiromi were to start enjoying it here, the story would take a completely different turn.

That said, if it were portrayed well, it could actually be quite interesting.