Nureki Chimuo Archive

2007.11.21 濡木痴夢男のおしゃべり芝居 第二十二回 Nureki Chimuo’s Talking Theater Chapter 22 「調教師」、そして昨日縛ったモデルのこと The “Trainer” and the model I tied yesterday I dislike being called “rope master,” but I dislike being labelled a “trainer28 ” in adult magazines even more. (Here again is that “master [師]” kanji I detest. I know I’m repeating myself, but I’ll write it once more. What kind of “master” is this, one who grips ropes, lusts, binds women in excitement, and secretly makes his own genitals erect?) Fortunately, as far as I know, no one in this industry has called me a “trainer.” Regardless of the type of training, I have never once “trained” a woman. I have absolutely no memory of ever doing such a presumptuous thing. I have always appreciated women who share my love of ropes with a spirit of service. I have never once bound a woman with the arrogant notion of training her. When I tie women for work, I always feel a sense of shame alongside the desire to tie her for her pleasure. Actually, yesterday, I was on a shoot all day, tying up a young girl. It wasn’t for a drama; the main focus was “bondage,” so I kept tying and untying her, over and over. That girl endured the difficult work patiently and cheerfully, letting me tie her up until the very end. Her smooth, white skin was covered in rope marks, and though not clearly visible to the eye, it was undoubtedly covered in countless fine abrasions. When all the filming was finished, I sincerely thanked her, “Thank you, you did a great job,” and bowed my head. The word in question is Choukyoushi, meaning animal trainer.

She responded with a lovely smile, “thank you.” Then, still completely naked, she walked into the shower room. Once filming wraps, I swiftly gather my scattered ropes and stow them in my bag, then leave the set faster than anyone else, saying “I’m off.” It’s lightning-fast, without a moment’s delay. I don’t even stay for a cup of tea after work. And once outside, I breathe a sigh of relief. It’s rare for me to leave the studio together with the staff. I want to escape from the scene where I’ve been restraining women, even if it’s just for a minute or a second. That’s because of the shame I feel for having done that disgraceful work again today. I want to escape the atmosphere of the workplace and breathe different air. Leaving the workplace always feels like an escape to me. But… I probably shouldn’t be writing something like this. I probably shouldn’t make such a confession. It would betray my many readers. I suppose I must describe the art of bondage in a titillating, sensational manner and offer it to my readers. Isn’t that the role of Nureki Chimuo? But, shamefully, this is my true feeling. Even if I bind five thousand people, I cannot escape this sense of shame. I have repeated this shame five thousand times. The reason I cannot stop is due to my innate disposition, to desire; in other words, my karma, and because I have made a living binding women. Please do not call some like me a “rope master.” Please refrain from casually using terms like “trainer,” which are easily misunderstood by the general public. Actually, I was once introduced this way at a gathering of about thirty people. “This guy’s main job is being a rope master, you see. Whenever he’s alone with a woman, he immediately starts training her. Any woman who gets close to him gets trained in no time. He’s a scary guy.” Of course it was a drinking party and meant as a joke, but I felt unbearably uncomfortable as everyone looked at me strangely.

Since I’m at it, I’ll write this. One day, I was scheduled to perform on stage at a certain variety theater. The moment I stepped out, “We’ve been waiting for you, Rope Master! Trainer!” a voice called out from the audience. The other patrons had no idea what was going on. But I froze on stage. I was called “rope master!” I don’t have the kind of performer’s spirit that would turn that into a weapon. I was wearing a kimono at the time, with a haori over it. It was what’s known as a “stage kimono.” In the dressing room, a middle-aged female entertainer approached me, stared intently at my figure, touched the cord of my haori, and asked, “In an emergency, do you use this cord to tie up women?” She wasn’t joking; her expression was serious. What kind of emergency? I shook my head and ran away. One more thing to write. The flyer for my performance featured a cartoon of me holding a thick candle instead of a fan, dripping wax tears onto a naked woman’s buttocks. I felt a sense of unease. But I endured it. The person who made the flyer meant no harm. There was no choice but to endure. I felt sorry for this woman who was happy to have wax tears dripped onto her buttocks. I know how deeply, how desperately they are shedding tears of wax onto their bare skin. I don’t want to make fun of them. I stopped performing on stage after that flyer. If I were to hold a rope or a candle on stage, and that image were to be depicted on a flyer, I suppose there’s nothing I could do about it. However, I absolutely would never do such a thing in front of ordinary people. That would be an insult to “SM” itself. I don’t want to make a laughingstock of “SM.” I don’t want to turn it into some lighthearted show. I don’t want to make a laughingstock of the people who are seriously involved with “SM.” (But nothing is as easy for ordinary people to laugh at and despise as “SM.” And conversely, there is nothing that people are more tempted to ridicule and despise as “SM.”)

But having written this far, I’ve changed my mind a bit. I had intended to frankly express my thoughts to those who casually, sometimes even smugly, use terms like “trainer” or “training,” terms easily misunderstood by the general public, without much thought. I also thought that this might be one of my duties, given how long I’ve been provided for in this world. But I stopped. I stopped criticizing. I’m starting to think it’s okay for people to exist who genuinely believe what they’re doing is “training,” and who promote it in a lighthearted way. Like “How about that? Pretty amazing, huh?” Then make a business out of it. No matter how much they tout the “amazing skills of trainers,” people won’t believe it unless they clearly and concretely demonstrate the details (and honestly, even enthusiasts won’t believe it). Whether you believe it or not doesn’t matter. There are people who insist this is simply training. I thought, well, they have a right to exist. I realized that someone like me has no business standing on the sidelines making a fuss about unnecessary things. More than that, I have something else I want to say right now. That’s about the girl who modeled for yesterday’s shoot, which I wrote about earlier in this installment. Readers will surely find that more interesting than reading about my badmouthing of the “trainer.” She was a girl with a good personality. Let’s call her K for now. As a model for a photographer who favored unnatural, demanding poses, she never complained, obediently doing her best. Bound with ropes behind her back, she performed a series of extraordinary, acrobatic poses. Her body floated in the air several times. Ropes dug viciously into her young skin in various places. And then, as usual, came the relentless torment of her crotch, the continuous humiliation of her genitals. A contortionist-like torment: suspended upside down with her legs spread wide (buttocks up, head down), while simultaneously having a vibrator forced into her crotch and switched on. It’s clearly a form of punishment, so this must be “SM.” Anyone can see the cruelty. It’s an utterly inhumane, brutal torture of the female body.

But somehow, I can’t feel the “SM” eroticism. The rope wrapped around her belly bears the weight of her entire body, digging in painfully as model K endures the agony. A groan escapes her lips. I wonder. Could this pain be her pleasure? From my vantage point observing her suspended nearby, I can’t see any pleasure in her state right now. Only pain remains. No matter how effectively the phallic vibrator twisted deep within her crotch continued to pulse, no matter how skillfully the brush-tip-like antennae attached to the base of that thick artificial penis trembled to caress her clitoris, all she felt now was pain. I watch her expression carefully. If her pain exceeds the limit, I must immediately release her suspension and lower her down. The photographer ordered her to be hoisted up like this, but I was the one who took the rope and carried out that order. Should anything happen to her, I suppose I would be the one held responsible. She endured the long, agonizing time, letting out low moans. If she didn’t endure it, she wouldn’t get paid. The photographer subjected her to even more intense “torment.” This too was carried out by the young editor. Model K, bound with her hands behind her back and spread open in a M-shaped position (I performed all the rope work up until this point), had her labia pinched closed by the editor’s fingers. The editor then used chopsticks to wedge the soft flesh vertically. Then, the clitoris, located at the top of the labia, was exposed. The small, vivid pink piece of flesh protruded sharply, as it was firmly clamped between chopsticks. The disposable chopsticks were held firmly together at both ends with rubber bands. The clitoris, pinched and exposed, gleamed, revealing its inner flesh. The photographer issued further instructions, and the editor dutifully, or rather with gleeful enthusiasm, dripped red candlewax onto the exposed clitoris. (Could such a tiny, delicate piece of flesh not be scaled by hot wax tears falling upon it? Wouldn’t it feel the heat?) Having no experience with such acts, I found it utterly bewildering, yet the editor, brimming with confidence (or perhaps not, but regardless, working silently and without the

slightest hesitation), kept dripping red wax tears onto the clitoris, while the photographer frantically took pictures. Even under such “torment,” model K endured without screaming, merely letting out a groan. If I were a spy captured by the enemy, forced to confess, and had hot red wax dripped onto the tip of my penis, I’d instantly scream and cry out, spilling every secret about my allies and everything else. Model K’s endurance is nothing short of incredible.

Or perhaps she secretly takes pleasure in being subjected to this kind of “torment,” I thought. I observed her very carefully, but there was no sign of that. (If there were any hint of pleasure, I would be so happy. And how excited I would become.) Simply put, her expression can only be described as remarkably resilient. Her very body seems resilient, and her character must be equally patient. The “torment” inflicted upon her was actually far more intense, far more obscene, and carried out over a much longer period of time, but I’ll omit that part. What I mean to say here is this: if she possessed any masochistic sensibilities in her mind and body, wouldn’t she have found pleasure in submission somewhere, revealing to me that intoxicating expression of ecstasy unique to a captivating submissive woman? However, from her facial expressions and physical reactions, I never sensed the M aura I had hoped for until the very end. She only reacted when a dildo-shaped vibrator was forced into her crotch and switched on. Her expression at that moment was one slightly plump, full lips parting in a round shape, “Ah, ah, ah, ahhhhhh……” She emitted a sweet, poignant, adorable voice from deep within her throat, her white lower belly flesh twitching and quivering; truly erotic. In other words, she was a perfectly normal girl who felt pleasure from her genitals being stimulated. Though I possess extraordinary endurance for physical torment, it never translates to pleasure. Pain remains pain.

However, the fact that genitalia provide pleasure is proof that most girls are perfectly normal. It’s truly wonderful that the majority is called “normal.” It’s wonderful because the majority has plenty of men to be sexual partners. Minorities have few allies. After all, they are in the minority. That’s why they become frustrated. Huh? What am I trying to say? That’s right, after finishing the shoot yesterday, I parted ways with the staff and left the studio alone. (Today’s model K had a really great personality. She stayed bright, cheerful, and energetic right until the end, enduring the harsh demands. The shoot went smoothly. But in the end, she just wasn’t an M. She was a good SM model, but she never gave off that M aura, not even at the very end…) Tilting my head, I muttered. That feeling somehow lingered until today, and I wanted to write about how I’ve been carrying it with me. To an exceptional, high-quality SM model like K, I bow my head and say, “Thank you for your hard work.” I was expressing my heartfelt gratitude and acknowledging her efforts. I am grateful. But the moment she leaves the studio, she becomes a girl completely unknown to me, the one who tied her up. However, some models who come to the shoot and get tied up by me react by radiating an M aura from their entire body. Naturally, I tie them up with all my passion. Bondage photos of such women possess genuine emotion and they delight true enthusiasts. Genuine ones are rare. On set, I secretly feel my heart race, thinking, “this is going to be some real good bondage photography.” After it was over I said, “Thank you, I had a great time. I’d love to see you again. And I’d like to talk with you properly sometime.” Then, letting my affection show, I ended up hugging that female enthusiast. The presence of female enthusiasts stays with me even after the work ends. I know the lonely feelings that well up inside them after work. I can’t help but feel for them.

Using disposable chopsticks to clamp the labia vertically, exposing the clitoris like shellfish meat, and dripping red wax onto it, this video work from yesterday’s shoot can be viewed by anyone, provided they pay the fee. Throughout the entire shoot, I was the one in charge of the bondage. But rather than following the cameraman’s orders, it felt like his personal preferences led to many acrobatic, extreme poses (though the final edit might give a slightly different impression). There are many poses far more incredible than the ones I introduced in this article, poses that are extraordinary, acrobatic, like forcing limbs into unnatural contortions. In my opinion, these are unrealistic, rope-tied acrobatics and stunt nude photos that stray far from authentic bondage photography. While they might be a must-see for those who prefer such things, enthusiasts seeking bondage photos filled with a quiet, sensual allure and lingering emotional depths, will likely shake their heads. After finally being lowered from a series of grueling suspended poses, model K’s pose when she relaxed her entire body and returned to her natural state was wonderful. It held genuine emotion, not something forced or stiff. The M aura flashed for just an instant in that moment. The moment I saw it, I couldn’t help but exclaim, “Ah, this is perfect! I can pull it off!” I can’t pull off aerial acrobatics photos. Model K from yesterday’s shoot was truly a brave, cute, good girl. Her body was beautiful too. She pushed herself to the brink of fainting. But while there was a sense of grimness and pain, I felt it lacked the masochistic eroticism we enthusiasts crave. For bondage enthusiasts who dislike tying up a girl with her legs spread wide and manipulating her crotch, this is not particularly recommended. No matter how much you manipulate her crotch, it simply will not generate bondage eroticism. But when I describe groin torture like this in writing, somewhow the scene starts to seem really interesting. How strange. No, it’s not strange. Reading a text allows you to freely incorporate your own favorite images into the scene. Even without conscious effort, you end up reading it through your own imagery. After watching this video of model K being brutally tormented, I would be grateful if you would read my text again.

I’m sure you’ll understand that I’m not lying.