Nureki Chimuo Archive

濡木痴夢男のおしゃべり芝居 第十八回 Nureki Chimuo’s Talking Theater Chapter 18 モデルはマニアではないのか Isn’t that model an enthusiast? I was surprised. I knew that the moment I bound Rakka-san in a takate kote, she would instantly fall half-conscious. At first, I didn’t understand. I thought Rakka-san was putting on that kind of act for me. After all, she’s a smart woman. She’s a highly sensitive woman who feels a great amount of shame. Feeling shame means revealing one’s weaknesses. People who know their own weaknesses are bound to be intelligent individuals capable of self-analysis. I thought she was pretending to be half-fainting to hide or distract from the shame she felt. But that wasn’t it. It wasn’t that at all, which is why I was so surprised. I realized that while talking to her on the phone. She and I talk often on the phone. I rarely make the first call. She has a job with strict time constraints, so calling her unexpectedly might be inconvenient for her. My work involves writing manuscripts without time constraints. It’s what you’d call freelance work. If I spend an hour chatting while working, I can just write an extra hour’s worth of manuscript later. However, when she calls at night, it never ends in an hour. She talks nonstop for two to three hours straight. There was a time when she called around ten at night, and before I knew it, the Eastern sky was turning pale with dawn. In other words, we’d been talking to each other all night long.

My bed is right up against the window. In the morning, when I open the glass window, sunlight fills the entire bed. The conversation always involves “SM.” We never talk about anything other than the psychology of “SM.” In other words, she is someone who can engage in deep, thorough discussions about the “SM” world on par with mine for hours on end. Incidentally, I absolutely refuse to discuss SM with anyone who has a shallow understanding or knowledge of it. It only makes me feel miserable. That said, I’m not particularly well-versed in the “science of SM” myself. But having been deeply immersed in this world for so long, I do know plenty of concrete examples drawn from experience. That’s why I can barely manage to respond to Rakka-san’s sharp questions. Still, whenever Rakka-san poses her logical, sometimes philosophical questions, my shallow knowledge leaves me flustered and at a loss for words. So I reply, “Even if it seems irrational, for an enthusiast like me, there’s an undeniable rationality to it. That mysterious pleasure born from the slender gap between irrationality and reason. It’s the fascination with that sense of pleasure, incomprehensible to ordinary people, that keeps me from ever leaving this world.” I blurt out things I don’t even understand myself, dodging her sharp questions. Dodging like this is fun too. It’s a kind of sexual pleasure. What on earth? I’ve gone off on a tangent again. Let's get back to the main point. Let’s get back to what I learned from her phone call. The moment I tied her up, she went half-fainting. I figured it was partly an act. I’d known a few women like that before. But to my surprise, it seems Rakka-san really does nearly faint. This was embarrassing for her, so she “confessed” to me during one of our phone chats where we couldn’t see each other’s faces. Actually, I too had begun to think that her “half-fainting” might not be an act at all, but the real thing. Once I started engaging in bondage play in this all-female office where she’s the managing director, a rather thrilling situation to say the least, I’ve come to realize a few things myself.

“Ah, I’m getting deeply drunk here,” I feel as I repeat the intense embrace over and over. She was never the type to engage in that sort of sexual performance, and in that sense, she is an extremely “pure” person. During the following phone conversation, I learned that her “fainting spell” had been genuine, and I was honestly surprised. “Um… that story in the seventeenth chapter of ‘The Talking Theater’ where I slipped off my chair, is that really true? It’s not made up, is it?” she asked in an embarrassed voice. Rakka-san is reading this “Talking Theater” I am writing. Naturally, she might be the most devoted reader. “Is it true that I keep sliding off the chair, so you desperately try to hold me and pull me back up, only for me to slip off again and end up lying on the floor?” She wasn’t pretending to be clueless or joking around; she asked seriously, in a shy, low voice. “Huh? Huh? Hey, hey, this isn’t fiction. That’s exactly how it happened. It’s the truth. Huh? Huh? So you mean you have no clear awareness when you slide off the chair? You really pass out completely at that moment?” I ask, startled. Indeed, as I held her limp body, a thought flashed through my mind: could she really be unconscious? But I also can’t help but feel a sense of disbelief. After all, it’s just a simple handcuffing with a single rope. I can’t imagine such a simple act could give her such intense pleasure. Having lost her bearings, she fell from the chair defenselessly. Below was the floor. A somewhat high-quality carpet was laid down, and as befits an office staffed only by women, it appeared to be meticulously cleaned every day, giving no sense of uncleanliness. It’s not dirty, but it’s a floor where people walk around in their shoes every day except for holidays. It’s not like a love hotel bed. It’s not a place where men and women lie down together. But it’s already a done deal. I lay down on the carpet and held her.

To tell you the truth, I don’t dislike this kind of thrill. I like it. I prefer doing unusual things in unusual situations rather than doing ordinary things in ordinary ways. It excites me. Doing ordinary things in an ordinary way won’t make a novel. It won’t make a drama. Unless you do extraordinary things within extraordinary settings, the "performance" won’t come together. When extraordinary events unfold under extraordinary circumstances, the essence of what it means to be human becomes strikingly clear. It’s hidden behind her large desk. Even if someone opens the door and enters, the room isn’t immediately visible because there’s a screen and a reception set. Walking around the partition into the office, there were four desks with computers. Rakka-san’s spot at the very back was hidden behind a tall filing cabinet. By the time someone unlocks the door, enters, and reaches this spot, I’ll have untied the rope binding Rakka-san (it takes less than thirty seconds), pulled on my boxers and pants, and smoothed out my disheveled clothes. I can quickly return to normal, but I suspect it won’t be so easy for Rakka-san. Her intoxication with pleasure runs deep, so it always takes time for her to sober up. The disarray of her clothes and hair is no ordinary mess. In a typical affair, a woman would lift her skirt, pull down her panties, and straddle the exposed crotch of a man to achieve pleasure. The office affairs between a company president and his female secretary often seen in comedy sketches usually take this form. In that regard, pleasure games involving bondage are always thrilling. It must be the sheer thrill that delivers such pleasure as to make the intelligent and sharp-witted Rakka-san faint. That’s right. Inside this office, I suddenly… (well, not really suddenly). I’m waiting for the chance. At a certain moment, fueled by a certain resolve, I grab her wrist. And in the blink of an eye, she’s swallowed up by that resolve. When I twist her left hand behind her back, then twist her right hand, and finally grasp both wrists together, she’s already slipped into a state of ecstasy. Her fainting began the moment I twisted her wrists behind her back. By the way, what was I trying to write this time? I feel like I’m going around in circles. I keep writing the same thing. My head is tired right now. My thoughts are all jumbled up.

Yesterday, I was stuck with a completely boring shoot all day, and my body is exhausted. Then the body gets tired, the mind gets tired too. From morning till night, I bound the beautiful, adorable model, her face and body, as the director commanded. I was a tying machine. Nothing but a bondage machine. I bound her silently. Silently binding her was my only job. I bound and unbound, bound and unbound. I faithfully followed the director’s orders. He was a director who believed that stripping young women naked, binding them with ropes, and forcing them to perform extreme acrobatics constituted the ultimate form of “SM.” The model’s limbs are bent into extreme positions, her crotch spread wide and secured with rope. The bound model possesses neither form nor emotion. She was like a piece of material. (Ah, my approach in this kind of scene focuses solely on the bound woman’s will, emotion, and reactions, that is where my attention lies. I believe the eroticism of ropes lies in the feelings and moods radiating from the woman’s own body. Or rather, that is all I have.) Today’s shoot left me feeling absolutely no trace of “SM” style eroticism. So the time dragged on pointlessly, and I grew weary. I was amazed only by the model’s endurance in sustaining those unnatural and grueling contorted poses. But that’s the same as marvelling at the acrobatics of the Chinese circus troupe. So, I’m tired again. My rope lacked its usual vitality, remaining nothing more than a mere material rope. The succession of circus-like poses robbed the rope of its emotional power. I was reminded anew that the rope possesses its own will. The woman’s body, cruelly contorted, appeared at first glance to be “SM-like,” yet it lacked the lewd, bewitching allure inherent to “SM.” The young woman’s genitals and anus, spread open without shame, struck me as nothing more than a bizarre sight. No matter how exaggeratedly she exposed and flaunted her genitals and anus, if she herself felt no shame, they were nothing more than mere flesh. Rakka-san states that any woman who consents to being bound in front of photographers, editors, directors, and other staff members, and to having made that public, is a woman labeled as a “model.” Rakka-san says that true bondage enthusiasts, women who genuinely love being restrained and derive pleasure solely from that act, never show themselves bound in front of others.

Being bound is a shameful thing. Shameful things must never be shown to others. They must be kept absolutely secret. The woman who guards that secret, Rakka-san says, is the true enthusiast. A woman who can casually expose her own shameful, bound form before others may be an SM model, but she is not a true enthusiast, says Rakka-san. But, I disagree. I wonder if those female enthusiasts who once attended the Kinbiken meetings just to be bound by me, and who modeled only once, should we call them enthusiasts or models? What did she say in response to this counterargument…? I’ve forgotten. I can’t remember. I guess my head is just tired right now. My writing is becoming incoherent. Sliding from the chair onto the carpeted floor, she lay sprawled there, her body bent like a shrimp. Her appearance, intoxicated by the ropes binding her in a takate kote, was pure masochistic eroticism. I lay down beside her, wrapped my arms around her neck, pulled her close, and kissed her lips passionately. I unbutton the blouse, pull up the bra, and grab the breasts. I suck the nipples voraciously. I bite them with my teeth. Alternate biting the left and right nipples. Lick, suck, and bite again. Each time, her body twitches and jerks, and she lets out a sound. So she isn’t completely unconscious. She is still in a state of semi-consciousness. Her body, arching back in ecstacy, its eroticism intoxicates me too. Or perhaps I’m half-fainting myself. It feels like I’m in a dream. I slide down her pantyhose and pull down her panties. I reach my right hand between her thighs. She pressed her thighs together tightly, resisting my hand’s intrusion. Her inner thighs are soft. My fingers pry open the flesh at the junction of her thighs, pushing forward single-mindedly. As my fingertips move, she resists with a slow moan of shame. The flesh of her thighs clamps tightly around my hand. That pleasurable sensation.

Her thighs, half-conscious, offered neither strong nor weak resistance, only inflaming my desire. I buried my face between them. My crotch was positioned above her face. In the quiet office on a holiday. Hidden behind the desk, a secret bondage game unknown to anyone. It should be getting toward evening by now, but it’s still bright outside the window. Is that the Saikyo Line or the Shinkansen roaring past outside this building right now? Her exposed buttocks glowed with a round, white, bewitching eroticism. I cupped those buttocks with both hands and pressed myself against them. I extended my tongue and probed. In the shadow of a desk in an empty office, my desire endlessly persists, knowing that the flame of her eroticism won’t burn out. She won’t say “stop” until I pull away from her body. For two, three hours, sometimes even four, I keep licking her body. The following comments were submitted by Mika Suzume and are reproduced here with permission. These comments were partially excerpted and quoted in “The Talking Theater Chapter 20” Comment from Mika Suzume “A woman who can casually expose her own shameful, bound form before others may be an SM model, but she is not a true enthusiast, says Rakka-san.” Rakka-san is partnered with Nureki Chimuo, arguably the finest rope artist of our time, so you might be able to fully enjoy the world created by both the master and his partner. But what about situations where such a partner is not available? Or if your own partner desires strongly to be featured in a magazine? Or when considering an M with exhibitionist tendencies… I don’t think whether or not they can casually expose their embarrassing self in front of others is a reliable way to distinguish between an enthusiast and someone who isn’t.

Of course, I understand what you’re saying, Rakka-san, but if we draw that line to separate enthusiasts, I feel it would only make the world of enthusiasts, already a minority, become even more narrow. Crossdressing encompasses a wide range, from physical modifications to wearing women’s underwear. A cross-dresser who had hormone therapy and vaginal reconstruction surgery once declared, “I’ve become something different from those half-hearted people who merely cross-dress.” I retorted, “If you keep thinking like that, you’ll lose all your friends. To the world, you and the cross-dressing people you dislike are exactly the same. It’s like the pot calling the kettle black, if you ask me.” I digress, but even if you have body modifications to look like a woman, it’s not the public who will understand you but ordinary cross-dressers who will understand your feelings. So if you keep breaking things down into even smaller differences, eventually you’ll be left with only yourself. Though I may be completely off base in my perception of Rakka-san based solely on your writing, please forgive me. I am an enthusiast too. As you say, I pay attention to even the smallest details. Therefore, I take issue with the statement that “a woman who casually exposes herself in embarrassing situations before others may be an SM model, but she is not a true enthusiast.” If you say “women who casually expose themselves in embarrassing situations in front of others often lack the spirit of an enthusiast,” I might think, “that could be true.” But when you draw a line saying they aren’t enthusiasts, I can’t help but feel a sense of unease. The characters and words written in a text are abstract concepts, so even when sharing the same perspective, how one perceives these abstractions can lead to completely opposite interpretations. I’d rather not write anything that feels like a personal criticism, but knowing your

deep understanding, Sensei, and the wonderful sensibility you speak of in Rakka-san, I believe you’ll understand even if I write something like this. That’s why I’ve dared to write the comment that might sound critical. If I made a misguided criticism based on a big misunderstanding, I’m sorry. I hope you’ll consider this the ramblings of a foolish enthusiast and laugh it off.