Nureki Chimuo Archive

Of course, Rakka-san is reading this “Talking Theater” of mine. I wrote before that Mika Suzume-san is the primary reader of my writing, but perhaps Rakka-san is the primary reader after all. That would make Mika Suzume-san the secondary reader. If asked what criteria I used to determine first or second place, I’d say it’s the level of interest in this text. Mika Suzume-san delves deeper than my own perspective, contemplating and feeling more profoundly. She shares her impressions after reading and offers me valuable insights. I am grateful. Rakka-san is naturally the most interested, since it’s about herself. There’s no doubt a watchful mind lurks within, ready to show no mercy if you write something wrong. In that respect, she’s a strict person. You can’t write carelessly.

That same night, I got a call from Rakka-san. “Is that really how I’m portrayed in the twenty-sixth installment?” she asked. “Huh? What part of my writing are you talking about?” I asked, though I pretty much knew which part she was questioning. It’s a scene of my actions toward her, behavior that would seem utterly indecent to any ordinary person who reads it. I looked up the adjective “shameful” in the dictionary just to see. It was in the Obunsha Japanese Dictionary. Unbecoming (compound word.) Not as it should be. Inappropriate. Typically used in phrases like “an unbecoming appearance” to describe a woman’s ill-mannered attitude or behavior. “Am I really like that?” she asked. The part of my writing that Rakka-san pointed out was a scene she’d rather not have written about, given how shy she is. But she never says, “Don’t write,” or “Please don’t write.” She absolutely never says that. It is because she possesses extraordinary intelligence. Because she knows that for a writer, there is nothing that must not be written. Because she knows that to say something must not be written is to kill the writer. She is one of the few people who recognize Nureki Chimuo as a writer. “Sensei, rather than writing about me, please write about the plays you’ve been involved with since your youth, the very plays that inspired the title ‘Talking Theater,’ and about you, the plays, and SM. Since these events happened before I was born, they fascinate me. Please hurry back to telling me about your younger days.” I’ve actually been urged like this by her quite often. “Yeah, that’s right. I started writing this piece because I wanted to write about that, and I intended to write about it. So I’m always thinking, of right, I need to get back to the original theme and write about the plays. But I still end up writing about what’s right in front of me. What’s unfolding right before my eyes feels more vivid, more urgent, more interesting to write about than things from days gone by. When it’s something happening now, I can even capture the subtle movements of my own heart. I really want to write

about you. If I don’t record it now, no matter how deeply moved I am, that feeling of awe and emotion will fade away after a little while.” “Is this just a fleeting feeling that will fade if you don’t write it down now?” “Don’t nitpick. If I don’t write it down now, I feel like I won’t be able to later. You know, I’m going to die soon.” “No, you can’t say that. What are you talking about? You won’t die.” “I’ll die when I die, Rakka-san, do you mind me writing about you?” “I don’t mind, but it’s embarrassing.” She actually said as far as “I don’t mind,” but she didn’t actually say “embarrassing”. The word “embarrassing” itself is something she, being shy, cannot bring herself to say. The very word “embarrassing” is embarrassing to her. It’s hard to imagine this coming from the same person, that figure at work, standing tall and straight, chest thrust out with such poise it almost feels fierce. It’s almost impossible to believe it’s the same person. And the sheer intensity of the contrast in her aura when she’s drenched in this kind of shame. This contrast holds an almost mystical eroticism that sends shivers down my spine. She’s my treasure. I imagine her presence on the other end of the phone. Her expression and body radiate an M aura, pressing against me through the phone line. Even when she’s not before my eyes, the M aura intensely stimulates my sexual desire, and I get hard like a boy. (So that’s it, the M aura and her sense of shame really are closely connected after all.) I couldn’t help but reaffirm this to myself. Regarding the “M Aura,” Mika Suzume-san provided an interesting and easy-to-understand explanation. More than an explanation, this is practically a collection of famous quotes. I would like to record it here. This “Talking Theater” will eventually become a book (currently it’s 400 pages of manuscript paper). When that time comes, I hope to ask Mika Suzume-san again for permission to adapt it.

“The M aura doesn’t assert itself as intensely as a sexual orgasm.” “The M aura doesn’t react if pain or suffering were truly something to be hated.” “The M aura cannot mature without an S who can sense it.” I haven’t quite exhausted the M aura yet, but just describing this aura alone would take quite a while, so I’ll stop here. Still, as a word to describe an M’s presence, “aura” is truly the perfect term, isn’t it? Mika Suzume-san, please don’t say things like “I’ll stop around here.” Keep going in this clear, easy-to-understand format. You truly have a sharp, excellent way with words. I sense that your analysis, interpretation, and expression stems not from abstract concepts but from your own lived experience, and they possess a delicate precision that is invaluable to me. I want to learn from you. Please, continue. I truly wish to hear these words, spun from the sensations of my skin, spoken by Rakka-san herself. But when it comes to anything sexual, she becomes extremely shy, so that’s impossible. As the most direct party involved with me, she is currently on the M side and therefore unable to maintain objectivity. Telling someone experiencing “pleasure fainting” to objectively and calmly observe themselves and express it is wrong on the part of the speaker. “Am I really like that?” she asks me with a serious expression. This conversation took place the day after a long phone call lasting two hours late at night, in a coffee shop inside the station building at a large station where the Saikyo Line and three or four other lines intersect. “That’s right, just as I wrote it. In such crucial scenes, I never write lies. I don’t exaggerate either. I write the facts as much as possible. If I don’t write the facts, there’s no point in writing at all. But due to the inadequacy of my literary training, I can’t fully capture it. As a result, I inevitably end up holding back.” “Um… Sensei, is it true… that you use your teeth?” she asked hesitantly, as if it were difficult to say.

“Eh? Teeth? What do you mean by teeth?” Startled, I asked her to repeat herself. I had no idea what she was talking about. “Teeth? Teeth, this tooth? What’s wrong with this tooth?” I pointed to my own mouth with my finger. I wasn’t playing dumb. I genuinely didn’t understand. She still seemed reluctant to speak, “The one that appears in the twenty-sixth chapter I read yesterday…” “Ahhh…” I finally understand. “Eh? Oh, right, I get it. You mean that scene where I bite your nipple with my teeth, and your nipple gets hard and swells up in my mouth?” Then she reacted immediately, “No! Eh, eh, eh, yes. That’s right, yes!” When the conversation turns sexual, she becomes extremely bashful. Yet she doesn’t blush like a typical girl. In that respect, she still seems remarkably strong-willed. She’s a strong-willed shy girl. “Do you dislike it when I do that? Does it hurt? If you dislike it, I won’t do it anymore.” “No,” she shook her head. “I didn’t even realize what you were doing.” she said. This isn’t the kind of conversation you’d have in a coffee shop inside a busy station building. Music echoes incessantly from somewhere. But thanks to the surrounding commotion and chaos, no one overheard us, allowing us to continue this conversation in peace. It’s a blank zone in the city center, a place devoid of people despite the crowds of commuters and shoppers. She said she didn’t know I had bitten her nipples. Her expression held no falsehood, nor was she one to lie. She was a rare person who possessed absolutely no deceit, vanity, or bluff. “I truly didn’t notice.” she said with a serious expression. I think she was indeed in a state of “pleasure fainting.”

And I wonder if something like “pleasure fainting” really exists. Even though I coined the term “pleasure fainting” myself, I still can’t bring myself to believe it. Even if it exists, I cannot fathom the depth of that “pleasure fainting” state. Because I am the giver, not the receiver. For the giver, frustratingly, there is no such thing as “pleasure fainting.” I have never experienced it once. (That’s why I want Mika Suzume-san to teach me about this kind of psychological state.) I want to know how much pleasure my “flower cord” gives her. Wanting to know might be because I feel uneasy. “My flower cord is absolutely amazing!” I don’t actually have the confidence to boastfully declare that myself. Though I always write and speak with great confidence about the power of rope, deep down I harbor anxiety. And if you delve deeper into your heart, you’ll find that this sense of unease is also part of the “SM pleasure.” In a corner of the bustling coffee shop, Rakka-san and I had even gotten to talking about orgasms in SM. She’s too shy to say anything specific about herself. I’m the only one talking. I keep talking because I lack confidence. But I did understand one thing: my “flower cord” was by no means unpleasant to her. I grasped, at least to some extent, that my persistent actions, beginning with the “flower cord,” were giving her a little pleasure. Mika Suzume-san told me, “The M’s aura doesn’t assert itself as intensely as a sexual orgasm.” I will apply these words to Rakka-san and believe them. Before I knew it, only Rakka-san and I remained inside the coffee shop. It was closing time.

I parted ways with her and got off at a large station on the Saikyo Line, on the platform opposite hers. It was a station where the Special Limited Express stopped. According to the timetable, that train would arrive soon. In the middle of the platform stood a vending machine selling express tickets. For five hundred yen, it would get you to Tokyo faster on that train. But I didn’t buy an express ticket. I wanted to ride the train through the darkness of night, returning to Tokyo as slowly as possible. I bit down quite hard on her nipple with my teeth. I didn’t just bite once and let go right away. I slowly bit each nipple in turn, pulling on them while biting, then suddenly opened my mouth wide to suck the entire breast, biting again with my teeth and pulling. I repeated this over and over. Yet she claimed she didn’t know. She’s not someone who knows but pretends not to. She’s an honest person. She must have truly been in a state of “pleasure fainting” and genuinely didn’t know. Then, after biting and sucking her nipples relentlessly, burying my face between her thighs, sucking hard and teasing her, biting down on the fleshy part deep inside, and at the same time, pressing my body against hers and making her suck mine too; did she not know any of that? She sucked so hard it hurt, so I pulled my crotch away from her face, paused for a breath, and then put it back in her mouth. Then she sucked hard again, kneading it with her tongue. Perhaps she was doing this unconsciously. I know. She truly does it unconsciously. Unconsciously, she opens her mouth as I silently direct, takes me inside her mouth and moves her tongue and the inside of her lips with rapt attention. I am consciously moving my tongue and lips deep within her lower body, yet she is doing it unconsciously, completely absorbed. That is fine. That’s why she is Rakka-san.

My thoughts, my writing, my feelings; they’re all contradictory. I think they’re full of contradictions. I think that’s fine. This very contradiction is the pleasure of SM.