Nureki Chimuo Archive

2007.11.03 濡木痴夢男のおしゃべり芝居 第十七回 Nureki Chimuo’s Talking Theater Chapter 17 ひどい写真を見て、それから…… After seeing that awful photo, and then… What a terrible photo. Neither the photographer nor the model asserts anything in this photograph. It’s a photograph that expresses nothing. Because it makes no assertion, no expression can be felt either. I’ve been staring at it for a while now, but nothing here speaks to my heart. Is my sensitivity fading? No, no, I don’t think it has yet. My ability to react to this kind of photograph hasn’t diminished with age, I believe. Far from fading, I’m aware it has grown sharper and more acute as I’ve gotten older. It feels as though distractions have vanished, leaving my reactions pure and unadulterated. Looking at the photo, I wept silently in my heart. I wept profusely. Photography, have you fallen so low? Depravity is not this model’s sin. This woman is without a shred of guilt. I know this woman too. I bind her with my ropes. She possesses nerves terrifyingly sensitive to the very touch of rope. She’s not a woman who offers mere superficial, feigned reactions. The moment she receives the rope, she radiates a vivid, rich luster and expressive power that captivates those around her. Well, what do you know. In this photo, isn’t that tuna? Isn’t it practically a dead fish? This woman isn’t lying there in such a pathetic, lifeless pose, like some tuna laid out in a fish market. This is terrible. Absolutely terrible.

Where does this emotionless form come from? Why has this body, which shone with such raw eroticism in my ropes, scattering the sinister beauty of a bound woman’s masochism, turned into such a soulless, cold corpse? Who reduced it to this wretched state? Whose responsibility is this? My anger subsided, and sorrow welled up in my heart once more, and I wept bitter tears of regret. This woman despairs at the existence of the black cotton rope, which coils listlessly around her body without any life of its own, coarse rope with narrow strands. This rope, at times, is a god-like presence to her. The god of pleasure. Through the ropes, her spirit is sublimated, her flesh radiating a shimmering, scale-like glow. Through the ropes, her expression is enveloped by infinite joy, stirring awe and excitement in the beholder while offering profound peace. How about that? The ropes now binding the woman are mercilessly trampling upon the vitality of her flesh and soul with their utterly slackened, hideous blackness. A woman’s beauty has become dead. No, if only there were beauty in death. Not even the shadow of death remains. Those dark, gem-like eyes that once shone from within now see nothing. They are glass marbles. What they see is only disappointment. Only the deepest despair. A body consumed by despair. In this form of despair, there is neither beauty nor emotion. What meaning could such a photograph possibly hold? What value could it possibly have? What could have caused her such profound despair? I know her body and mind’s reaction to rope. Because I, too, bound her a few days ago. Thinking of her disappointment, tears once again stream down my face. Who could have bound this woman’s body so filthy, so ugly, so lifeless with ropes? I hate that person. I hate them intensely! Those without hearts should not hold the ropes that bind women! What a betrayal to the goddess of beauty, whom I revere.

And I hate the person who pointed the camera at this pitiful (ah, even describing her as “pitiful” feels distasteful) female body bound in this lifeless rope, pressing the shutter without a shred of emotion. I despise them. I despise them intensely, from the depths of my soul. What on earth is so interesting about photographing a female body bound in such pathetic ropes!? When the female form, bound by rope, radiates with a fresh allure that enhances its inherent eroticism, it is a moment blessed by a goddess of beauty beyond human will. Therefore, the photographer must capture that moment. Isn’t that the photographer’s mission? What’s so interesting about photographing a woman’s body lying there like a cold tuna, devoid of any will? Where’s the emotion in that? She is beautiful. She has beautiful eyes. Yet in this photograph, her eyes show not a trace of the intoxication brought by the ropes. The eroticism that makes my crotch hard is no bigger than my pinky finger. Those who gaze upon the photograph are moved by the color of her eyes, filled with a single thread of intoxication. It stirs sexual desire. The color of intoxication that appears in a woman’s eyes is the color of intoxication. No, it wasn’t just her eyes, the unconscious sway of her shoulder, the faint twist of her waist, the sinuous allure flowing from her hips to her thighs, then down to her calves. The intricate expressions appearing on each individual toe. They coalesce into a single entity, condensing and radiating an intense masochistic beauty. A woman who creates that masochistic beauty with her own flesh, sinking deeper and deeper into pleasure, becoming utterly absorbed. As she sinks deeper, becoming more and more absorbed, the masochistic eroticism becomes increasingly intense and released, right up to the point of near fainting. Well, what do you know? This photograph conveys neither the beauty nor the eroticism of a bound woman. Such a beautiful face lies dead and ruined. A dead beauty lacks any sense of soul. This photo, modeled after a woman who is exceptionally sensitive to the pleasure of ropes, one who becomes intoxicated the moment she’s bound and nears the brink of fainting, isn’t it just too much? Ahh, I’m such a pain in the neck.

But please forgive me. I’m a fanatic. I’m persistent, that’s why I’m a fanatic. No matter how old I get, fanatics are persistent. What a shallow photograph. This photograph does not depict a female body. What is captured is only a hollow shell. It does not portray a human being. The “heart” of the woman in the world of masochistic pleasure is not depicted. Since the “rope” itself lacks power, it fails to convey any emotion to the woman. Consequently, the photographs, merely the act of pressuring the shutter, lack any sense of intensity, which is perhaps only natural. I repeat. Who could possibly be moved by such a photo? Who could possibly be satisfied with such a shallow photo? Who would think it was worth the high price paid? Who would get aroused, who would get an erection, who would want to masturbate looking at such a lifeless photo that expresses nothing? Such a stunning masochistic beauty who looks so good in ropes, and a female body still harboring untapped potential (as I’ve personally verified), to apply such listless, loveless, sloppy ropes to her is sheer insensitivity. (Let me say it plainly; this binding style is the work of someone who absolutely detests tying women up. The photos clearly show it.) Let me give one specific example. This method of tying the rope clearly shows that the women’s wrists behind her back are not bound, it stands to reason that there is no tension in her body. There is no photograph that mocks enthusiasts more than this one. Despite being "restrained" like this, I can't help but despise people who hold a camera and press the shutter as if it were convincing. I feel so sorry for this woman who had this photo taken of her, it’s unbearable. Thinking about what she must be feeling inside, I feel like crying again. I despise to no end those who can shamelessly and brazenly present such photos to enthusiasts. I loathe them. It goes without saying, so there’s no need to mention it now, but since we’re on the subject, let me state it plainly. The ropes tied by someone who absolutely detests binding women, no matter how skillfully the photographer tries to capture it, are instantly recognized by enthusiasts of this craft.

No matter how skilled the photographer may be, if the person holding the rope is reluctantly tying up the woman’s body, there’s no way a work capable of moving enthusiasts could ever be created. (Ah, how persistent. Old people’s complaints are persistent. This persistence is practically pathological. I know it’s pointless to keep complaining like this, but when I see something awful, I just can’t help saying something again. It’s a bother. Still, writing all this down calmed my anger a bit. I’ll stop now.) Having written all this in one go, I grew tired and decided to take a break. And so, I decided to have Rakka-san, who was nearby, read this text up to this point. I wrote that I’m nearby, but I’m actually a little ways off. This is Rakka-san’s office, and she’s working at her desk in the back. I’m designing promotional posters for a shopping district along the Saikyo Line, and it seems like a rush job. I am writing this manuscript at the table in the reception area just inside the entrance door. “I’m exhausted from writing part of the script for the Talking Theater. I need a little break,” I said to Rakka-san. “I’m done with mine. Let me read it,” she said, lifting her face while still seated in her chair. “Ah, I’m still in the middle of it,” I replied, grabbing the draft manuscript and standing up, then approaching her desk. Today is Sunday, so it’s just me and her. Usually, there are three or four female staff members, like commercial designers and copywriters, and it’s quite lively. The room is on the 8th floor of a building, with no other tall structures nearby, making it a pleasant environment. Occasionally, the roar of trains on the Saikyo line can be heard. Running alongside the Saikyo line is the Shinkansen. It’s a clean, elevated track. Peering through the gap in the window curtains, I see trains on the Saikyo Line and Shinkansen racing each other down the tracks. The rumbling sound of heavy wheels rolling along the rails strangely arouses me. Why is that? After thinking for a moment, I understood.

When I bind Rakka-san in a takate kote, and kiss her lips, the sound of either the Saikyo Line or the Shinkansen always echoes in my ears. Because of that, whenever I hear a train alone with Rakka-san in this room, I become aroused as if by reflex. “Let me read it,” she said, swiftly clearing her own work off the desk and spreading out my manuscript instead. Then she read the portion I had written so far. Lifting her face, she straightened her back and neck to face me, and murmured, “I have a question.” “Question?” “You keep saying how pitiful this model is, feeling sorry for her and even shedding tears, but I think that’s wrong.” “Huh?” “But this woman is a professional model, isn’t she?” “Ah.” “So basically, you get tied up, photographed, and get paid for it, right?” “Yes.” “Then no matter how poorly you tie it, when the camera’s pointed at you, you have to put on a convincing expression and strike the pose the sponsor wants.” “I see…” “If I genuinely enjoyed being tied up and went to the shoot expecting that, but they didn’t tie me up in the way that I hoped; it was a shoot where they only focused on my crotch. So if I say I were disappointed and only struck a listless pose, isn’t that a form of workplace abandonment?” “You’re being harsh.” I groaned inwardly. I wanted to say that this kind of photography demands realism that can’t be faked with such acting, but I kept silent. The model and Rakka-san are in different positions. Despite using a model who genuinely enjoys rope play, the failure to capture the realism of her reactions was likely due to the photographer’s lack of understanding and their poor technique in interacting with and handling a genuine rope enthusiast model.

Only a genuine rope enthusiast can draw out the authentic charm and eroticism of a genuine rope enthusiast rope model. Genuine rope-loving women are highly wary of the authenticity of those who bind them. “Even if I’m tied up in a clumsy, insincere way that’s just for show, if it’s a job that pays, I think I have to put my heart into it as much as possible. I have to create those intoxicated, sensual expressions and poses while being bound, meeting the sponsor’s expectations. Otherwise, I don’t think you can call yourself a professional.” Rakka-san, who passionately emphasizes the value of money, is also the managing director of a design group composed entirely of women. “But you know, if you go out all excited only to find the shoot is just loose, sloppy wraps and they won’t even tie your wrists, it’s only natural you’d lose motivation, get disappointed, and have it show on your face and body…” While nodding in agreement with Rakka-san’s opinion, I still feel sympathy for the model. “Even when you go to a shoot, if the model you’re working with is someone you dislike or finds unpleasant, you wouldn’t cut corners when it comes to tying them up, would you?” “Ahh, I do tie them to satisfy the connoisseurs, mind you. But if the model dislikes ropes, well, the ropes might just lack that soulful touch.” As we exchange these words, desire stirs within me. The urge to bind Rakka-san’s hands behind her back surges up, growing stronger and stronger. I boarded the JR Saikyo Line and came all the way up to the 8th floor of this white building for one reason alone: the sheer desire to twist her slender, supple arms behind her back and bind them tightly with all my strength. In my hand, I hold a special cotton rope with a fine pattern, used solely for binding her. This rope, reserved exclusively for her, offers a soft yet firm constriction when dug into her arms and chest, a sensation that feels pleasurable to tie with. Though the phrase “soft yet firm” seems contradictory, I find no other words to describe this feeling. Another advantage is that even when tied tightly, it rarely leaves marks on her skin. The fact that I, the one doing the tying, find it exceptionally pleasurable means that the woman being tied also experiences the same kind of pleasure.

I stopped talking and pressed myself tightly against her right side. I grabbed her left hand and twisted it up behind her back. “Ah, ah” she murmured softly, her body offering no resistance. Sensing my arousal keenly, she let me twist her left hand as I pleased. Then I twist her right wrist up behind her back too. Even though I’m not using much force, both her wrists raise high behind her, near the nape of her neck, forming a takate kote position. I bind her slender wrists together with the cotton rope I’ve prepared. Bondage without restraining the wrists is something I simply cannot believe in. The rope that binds the wrists is then wrapped around the left arm and then the chest. The pleasure point for her lies now in the upper arm. Tie a rope around that pressure point and apply pressure, pulling it tight with a firm tug. There’s a trick to how you pull it tight at this point. If I apply this much force, it will feel good, and if I squeeze this hard, it will hurt a little, but the pleasure will increase; this calculation, confirmed by her reactions, lies within my grasp. I squeeze down and lock her wrist in place. As I tie her, I feel pleasure equal to hers. If I feel no pleasure, she should feel none either. I wrap it around the upper arm to the upper breast, pulling it tight with a firm grip. Tie the wrist with a single rope, loop it from the arm to the chest, tighten it sharply, then bring it back behind to secure it at the wrist section of the takate kote. Here this single rope ends neatly, it is just the right length. Still clad in her everyday clothes, she was tightly bound in a takate kote. Face down on the desk, her chest pressed against it, she endured this stimulation. Or perhaps she savored this pleasant pressure. No words were spoken. I too am lost in ecstacy, silently watching her wrists bound to her painfully exposed back. Though silent, I am aroused, hard. After a moment, I gathered her hair and grabbed it firmly with my left hand, tilting her face upward. She closes her eyes. I press my lips to hers and suck. Long and hard. The sound of a train passing by. Roaring, my body trembles. I keep sucking the lips of the woman bound with rope.

I pry open her lips with the tip of my tongue and twist it into her mouth. I thrust my tongue deep inside her mouth, swirling it around to lick and torment her, thoroughly humiliating her. Her tongue swells inside my mouth. She offers no resistance. Nor does she respond. My tongue moves freely, licking and exploring, and it seems she’s even stopped breathing. The sound of trains passing by again. Is it an upbound or downbound train? While the Shinkansen’s terminal is Tokyo Station, where does the Saikyo Line’s upbound train end? How quiet and pleasurable is this Sunday afternoon lust in an empty office. Her tongue moved. Slightly, but it showed a will to entwine itself with mind. My tongue remained swollen inside her soft mouth. I grasped her wrist with my left hand, pulling her entire body close to embrace her. Her ten fingers were already cold. I don’t know how much pleasure this takate kote is giving her right now. But I can tell conceptually. I can sense the degree of pleasure more than I can see its reality. If I don’t know this, I won’t be able to restrain a woman. I sucked her lips fiercely, twisting my tongue around hers. With my left hand, I gripped all ten of her fingers tightly, while my right hand grasped her breasts through her clothes. She went limp, her whole body losing all strength, and began sliding slowly from the chair to the floor. Bound by my takate kote, she has lost all freedom. It is too heavy to support her, and she cannot return to the chair. Completely lost, she slips and slides downward. The floor is covered with carpet. So even if you fall flat on the floor, it won’t hurt much. The carpet is always vacuumed meticulously. She is a clean freak. However, every day except for weekends, four or five women walk around in their shoes on the office carpet. That fact somehow bothers me a little. Her body, having slid down onto the carpet, feels heavy. Bound in a takate kote, she cannot support herself. It takes considerable effort to lift her and sit her back down in the chair. I lack the strength. I try several times, but her body has lost its will, become too limp and floppy, and no matter what, her bottom will not go back onto the chair. She’s half unconscious.

Why is it that when she’s tied up, she collapses from the chair onto the carpeted floor? And then lies down on her side, half conscious? Honestly, I don’t understand why her body becomes so limp and floppy. I can’t imagine my ropes possess such power. I’m not that conceited. In her daily life, Rakka-san always stands tall and straight, acting more like a man than a woman, giving crisp, decisive instructions to the women in her group with a sharp tone. I have bound five thousand women in my past. But this is the first time I’ve encountered someone who reacted so intensely to my ropes that they lost their very essence. For me, it is truly a “first experience.” Until I loosen this cotton rope reserved for Rakka-san and untie the bindings on her wrists, her half-conscious state will continue. It will continue indefinitely. The words “please untie me” have never once escaped her lips, even though I’ve bound her over thirty times (or more). I too kneel behind her large desk, my knees pressed together, and lie down beside her. I wrap my left arm around her neck and suck her lips again. I slip my tongue into her mouth. She moved her tongue slightly, responding to my tongue. Tongues entwined. So she wasn’t completely unconscious. A state of intoxication, perhaps? Or ecstasy? In any case, she was conscious. I have only tied a single rope around her chest. For a single rope is the most beautiful. With only one rope, it is easy to lift the hem of her blouse, slide the bra down, or pull it to grasp the breasts. She doesn’t resist. I grab her breasts. The office is quiet on holidays, but the female staff members should each have a key to this room’s door. In case of urgent business, they might come to this workroom. Thinking about that, this act is quite thrilling. Is that why it feels so good? To be honest, I’ve tied her up in this office over a dozen times already. In the space beneath her desk, or rather, directly underneath it, I would perform the same act on her as I did on the bed in the love hotel, bound in a takate kote.

For two or three hours, we remain tangled together on the narrow, hard floor (even with a carpet laid down, it’s still hard.) I lifted her skirt, exposing her two white thighs. The natural light inside the office was more stimulating than the lighting in the love hotel room. The color of sunlight filtered through the curtain fabric was utterly sensual. Black shorts, like a black cat writhing beneath them. I press my lips against those shorts and suck. I lower my face. At this moment, I think, oh, what a scandalous sight this must be. I’ve pulled down my pants, exposing my lower body. The following comments were submitted by Mika Suzume-san and are reproduced here with her permission. These comments were partially excerpted and quoted in “The Talking Theater Chapter 19” Comment from Mika Suz “As we exchange these words, desire stirs within me. The urge to bind Rakka-san’s hands behind her back begins to surge within me.” Reading this passage, I couldn’t help but recall the final scene of “Afternoon Affair.” Audrey Hepburn tearfully saying “you mean nothing to me” while putting on a brave face to hide her sadness at parting…. Gary Cooper watching her wave goodbye to the departing train… I remembered this scene where he was going to leave her, but his love for her was so strong that he ended up taking her away on the train. I don’t think Rakka-san is putting on a brave face, but I think Nureki Sensei’s feelings are similar to Gary Cooper’s at the time. “She murmurs ‘ah, ah’ yet her body offers no resistance.” This is SM. This development isn’t romance… it’s SM. This is the moment when the once formidable Rakka-san falls into the role of weak woman… Perhaps this very instance is the most enjoyable part. At least, this is the point where I feel it most intensely when she’s playing the dominant role. “In her daily life, Rakka-san always stands tall and straight, acting more like a man than a woman, giving crisp, clear instructions to the women in the group with a sharp tone.” When Rakka-san is bound with rope, Comment from Mika Suzume

“Honestly, I don’t understand why her body becomes so limp and floppy. I can’t imagine my ropes possess such power. I’m not that conceited.” I find Rakka-san’s reaction to this contrast far more compelling than any boastful writings of intense play involving harsh suspension, candles, whips and the like.