Nureki Chimuo Archive

Even if the cleaning is thorough, it’s still a carpet on the floor. The female staff members, of course, and all visitors come and go wearing their shoes. On the floor of that office, Rakka-san lies defenseless, hands bound behind her back. Even if someone is half-fainting, a normal person (though normal people aren’t usually tied up by men in the first place) wouldn’t do that. No, I don’t dislike her being like this at all. Far from disliking it, I actually like it. I’m delighted. After all, Rakka-san’s state of unconsciousness, this complete abandonment of everything, is proof of the power of my “bondage.” I even take pride in her “pleasure faint.” But I first worry about whether her hair might get dirty. So I took off the fleece jacket I was wearing, lifted her head and upper body, and laid it down beneath her. I spread the fleece as wide as possible and rested my head on it too. In other words, I lay down beside her, close to her body. I took off my glasses and placed them on the desk. Then I cradle her head in one hand and suck her lips. Even just her upper body is heavy as she’s half-faint. It’s squishy, soft, and heavy. While continuing to suck her lips, I stroke her butt over her skirt with my right hand. The round elasticity of a young woman’s flesh. She twists her waist in slight resistance. A faint sound escapes her lips, a voice a shame. Not completely unconscious, her hips, thighs, and breasts move subtly. She offers no strong resistance, yet she isn’t feigning the unresponsiveness. She never resorts to such frivolous, theatrical gestures towards men. She lacks the clingy, vulgar, and base qualities commonly seen in women. I detest that clingy feeling. She never flatters men.

Bound by my flower cord, no matter how persistently my lips sucked and licked the flesh beneath hers, she never showed a flattering reaction. Yet her body continued to radiate an M aura with an intense magnetic pull. She possesses an honest nature. When interacting with men, she never displays any scheming behavior that uses her femininity as a weapon. Yet she possesses an exceptionally strong sense of shame, and when this manifests, the unforced sensuality that radiates from her entire being is both refined and intensely powerful. I have never before met a woman I could believe in so straightforwardly when facing her. Just as she always walks with her neck and back straight, her spirit is equally upright. As a graphic designer in her main profession, she produces excellent work, but whenever she has free time, she paints her own fine oil paintings. Her watercolor sketches are also intuitive, possessing razor sharp intuition. Where does this sincere and honest character come from? I unhook her bra. I push it up over her breasts with my fingers. “Ah, ah,” she moans softly. I show no mercy. I grab her breasts. The warm scent of her body, trapped inside her undergarments, wafts up softly. The flower cord digs firmly into the base of her breasts. The cord lives and breathes. It painfully shapes her breasts, making them bulge and swell large and round. I bite down on her breasts, pressing my lips to her nipple and sucking. Suddenly, I suck hard. The only time she makes a sound from deep in her throat, reacting clearly, might be when her nipple is sucked. Her whole body trembles minutely as she makes a sound like “uuuh, uuuh.” Her most sensitive spots might be her nipples, I think. Sucking alternatively on the right nipple, then the left nipple. Of course, the nipples harden. And she seems to enjoy having her lips kissed. She has never once tried to avoid, escape, or refuse my rather forceful and persistent kisses. However, she has never pressed her lips against mine of her own accord. She considers such proactive actions embarrassing. That aspect, too, suits my tastes. If someone were to throw themselves at me, an old man like me would probably be frightened. No, even since I was young, I’ve never been able to like women who came at me with raw passion laid bare.

I suck her lips while pinching her nipples with my fingers, rolling them, occasionally pinching or squeezing them. I bite her nipples with my teeth. Applying slightly more force than gentle, I bite the base of her nipple. “Ugh” she groaned, but didn’t say stop. She didn’t twist her body to escape either. I still bit down hard with my teeth. Her nipple came between my teeth and swelled. My teeth dug into the base of her nipple. Even so, she won’t say it hurts. She won’t say stop. I wonder if I should inflict more pain on her nipples. But I lack the courage. I release the pressure I’d been holding in my teeth. The pain surpasses her limit, and I fear it might sober her current intoxication. I suck her lips, entwine my tongue with hers, and bite her nipples again to make her feel good, to deepen her intoxication further. Keeping her intoxication long and deep is my pleasure. As if to heal the pain inflicted on her nipples, I gently lick the soft flesh of her nipples and breasts. “Are your hands okay?” I said, feeling for her wrists bound behind her back, touching her fingers. Her ten fingers were slightly cold. But she was still okay. I lift her skirt. With a gasp, she bends both knees and twists her thighs together. I lean over her, pinning her thighs down with both hands. Her white belly is before my eyes. Her gently rounded lower abdomen, black panties, shapely, full thighs. I lift my face, averting my gaze slightly to look at her lower body, which I’m holding down. This view isn’t something I’m seeing for the first time. The white flesh of her lower abdomen and the black panties digging tightly into her crotch. No matter how many times I see it, the eroticism of this contrast remains vivid. “Beautiful! How incredibly beautiful!” That’s the only reaction that comes to mind. It’s an embarrassingly ordinary phrase. But it’s the only one I have. Why is it so beautiful! The expression of awe that could make a boy scream as if seeing the hidden white skin of a woman’s body for the first time. That is not a word I, who have tied up over five thousand women, should utter. Is the M aura truly inherent within this beauty? Is this person’s naked body so beautiful because of the radiance of the M aura? Am I being bewitched by the M aura? “Beautiful! How incredibly beautiful!”

Being beautiful means being erotic. I couldn’t help but reach out and stroke the area around her naval. I lowered my face, sticking out my tongue to lick her all over. She responded by lifting her hips slightly. A low moan escaped her throat. But no matter how erotic the pale skin of her lower abdomen covered only by black panties might be, I was no longer erect at that moment. The excitement, of course, persists. I’m drowning in her beauty, my emotions so high I feel like crying. But the shocking sexual excitement of that moment, when both wrists were bound together high upon her back, has already faded. To be specific, the thing between my legs has already lost its vigor. Her alluring black panties, and the soft flesh pressed against the inside of those panties, lack the power to keep my erection going. Even without an erection, I press my face against those black panties. I bury the tip of my nose deep within the crotch. I slide them down to mid-thigh, press my face tightly against her once more, and let my tongue invade the soft flesh. Yet my withered member shows no sign of recovery. No matter how beautiful a woman’s genitals may be, they cannot be genitals to me. No matter how deeply I bury my nose, lips, and tongue within her soft, warm genitals, I can no longer get an erection. What excites me more than a woman’s genitals are her wrists, bound together savagely behind her back. Those bound wrists are the woman’s genitals that captivate me, arouse me, make me hard. When I stated this, someone looked at me with an expression of disbelief. It was a time when dozens (or perhaps even more than twenty) “SM Magazines” were flooding the market. He came to me saying he wanted to launch a new “SM Magazine” and asked me to teach him what the true essence of SM is. I said that for bondage enthusiasts, a woman’s bound wrists are the most alluring, arousing point; you could even call them a woman’s genitals. So please post photos like that. Please post lots of reading material like that. I repeated it quite earnestly, persistently, almost as if praying, so the person looked at me with a contemptuous expression.

“A woman’s wrists bound behind her back are her genitals? What on earth does that mean?” He frowned in puzzlement, his eyebrows knitting together as he stared intently at me.

I explained it. I carefully drew a picture to show where the rope was securely fastened around the wrist. With an ambiguous expression, he left. The “SM Magazine” he launched as editor-in-chief lasted about three years. I helped out a little with photography and wrote articles. He said, “I don’t really want to see that sort of thing. You don’t need to see that stuff to edit a SM magazine.” He never once showed up at photoshoots. I wrote about “The people who ‘advised’ me,” but looking back now, the editor-in-chief of that “SM magazine” also occasionally offered me advice-like remarks. “You said at first, Nureki-san, that seeing bound wrists gets you more excited than seeing a woman’s crotch. But you’re wrong about that. Once you’ve bound a woman and made her helpless, the next step is to take her; that’s a man’s way, isn’t it? What’s so interesting about looking at bound wrists?” Rather than saying it’s wrong or whatever, I just can’t help getting excited. So that’s it; I’m a man who’s strayed from the path of manhood. “Sure, some people might actually complete the act, but others say that masturbating while staring at a bound woman’s wrists feels several times better.” “I just can’t believe it. I mean, you tie a woman up to violate her, right? You tie her up because you have that clear intention to violate her, right? So then, once you tied her up, raping her is only natural. As a man, isn’t that just a normal desire?” I was about to say, “Aren’t you making a magazine that’s anything but ordinary?” but I stopped myself. My energy drained away, and I muttered in a low voice. “Some people just tie women up to observe them, you know.”

“You’re not just staring blankly, are you? You’re watching because you want to violate them, right?” “There are people who get pleasure just from watching, who satisfy their desires that way.” “Well, I suppose there are a few like that, but they’re a tiny minority. Commercial magazines couldn’t survive catering to such a small minority.” If someone tells me that magazines can’t survive by catering to minorities, there’s nothing I can do about it. I can only remain silent. It’s only natural that this type of niche magazine, edited and labeled as “SM,” should drift away from the desires of its original enthusiasts and become a distant presence. However, even if it’s shunned by true enthusiasts, there are indeed readers who prefer this kind of pseudo-SM. As that editor said, they seem to be quite numerous. Broadly speaking, this pseudo-SM might even be considered a genre of “SM.” (Incidentally, I detest it.) Supported by readers who engage in pseudo-SM, such magazines can sustain themselves commercially to a certain extent. However, as the pander to this kind of pseudo-enthusiast readership, the content of these SM magazines drifts further and further away from authentic SM. It’s drifting, but the magazine itself doesn’t realize it. It doesn’t even try to notice. Perhaps it believes itself to be the true SM. Oh? What was I trying to say? I’ve lost my train of thought again. Wasn’t I writing about Rakka-san’s slender wrists? Where did it go wrong? Ah, yes. I wrote about pulling down Rakka-san’s black panties, who was in a state of “pleasure-fainting,” down to mid-thigh, pressing my face against her, then licking and sucking. Despite being granted such a generous act, I couldn’t get an erection. That’s how far the conversation had progressed. When her wrists were bound, I was so aroused I got hard, but when it came time to push my face against her crotch, I couldn’t get it up.