Nureki Chimuo Archive

When I bind Rakka-san, I usually stand diagonally to her right, behind her. When I observe her, Rakka-san is usually facing her desk, seated in her chair. She has both hands on the desk, working on something. During that work, a small opening appears. Or she pauses to take a break. I bind her by seizing that opening. First, I grab her left wrist with my left hand, bend her elbow, and forcefully twist it up behind her back. Next, I grab her right wrist with my right hand and twist it up behind her back in the same manner. From this moment, her upper body leans forward slightly. “Huh? Oh, what is it? What are you doing?” she murmured softly, her voice low, though she must have already known what I was about to do, what would be done to her. No, the moment she sensed me approaching from behind her, she must have already understood. Crossing her wrists high on her back, I grasp them together. Her wrists are slender, so I can hold both sides with just the strength of my left hand’s five fingers. I grabbed both her wrists and twisted them upward, pressing them along her spine toward the higher position behind her, near the base of her neck. Twisting her wrist upward with a series of tiny, quick motions. I’m certain this subtle rhythm is stimulating her pleasure nerves. Her elbows are soft, and the tips of her slender, long fingers stretch all the way to the nape of her neck. Or perhaps the joints in her shoulders and arms are more flexible than average. Both elbows bend at such sharp angles they look odd. She offers no resistance. If she had even the slightest inclination to resist, it would be easy for her to shake off the grip of my left hand’s five fingers and free both her wrists.

Far from resisting, this “takate kote” position couldn’t happen without the other person’s cooperation. In other words, she was “cooperating” with my desire. Or perhaps, and this might sound unpleasant, even if her mind hesitated, her body was cooperating. I grabbed the black cotton rope I had secretly prepared and wrapped one end around both her wrists, which I was holding with my left hand. One wrap was enough. This deprived her of the freedom to move her hands. I wrote that I had secretly prepared it, but in truth, even if I thought I’d placed it discreetly in the corner of the desk, she might be seeing that black rope out of the corner of her eye. Even if she isn’t looking, she always knows my desire from the slightest movement of air. She knows the rope’s appearance. She sensitively senses my heart’s movements through my breath. She sensed my desire and immediately conformed to its actions, assimilating them. Though her body showed a slight hesitation, she did not resist. The rope binding her wrists together is looped from her left arm across her chest. Of course, she is clothed at this time. It is dark outside, but she is still at work. Over her clothes, I loop the black rope from her left arm to her chest, then over her right arm, returning it to her wrist behind her back. The secret to the pleasure lies in the varying intensity of the pressure applied to the rope. The rope constricts the muscles of her arms, compressing the blood flow beneath her skin, creating a pleasurable stimulation. Ah, what’s going on? I’m confused. My mind is filled with the routine actions I perform in Rakka-san’s office. What’s before my eyes now is the scene of Rakka-san’s office. There is no desk in front of the chair where she sits in the hotel room. No computer either. Once she enters the room and locks the door, no one can disturb her. The private rooms provided by the hotel sell the experience of the extraordinary, yet they are, in truth, safe, everyday spaces. I suppose what I really want to write about is the extraordinary acts we perform in her everyday office, rather than in some saccharine hotel. If someone were to see us, the danger of this abnormal, non-everyday setting carries far greater negative consequences in society, yet it naturally offers deeper pleasure. The risks for Rakka-san, who oversees this office are likely several times greater than mine. The danger level is high. It had been a while since I’d been to a love hotel. Since it had been three months since I’d been to a private room with a bed and bathroom, I thought I’d record the experience.

But somehow I find myself writing about her office again. I guess the urge to write is just too strong. I like that tension. The danger level is proportional to the pleasure level. Well, what can you do? Since I’ve written this far, I suppose I’ll continue describing the actions inside the office a little more. “If I tighten this spot just like this, it’ll feel good, won’t it?” I ask, as I loop the rope from Rakka-san’s arm to her chest. Even when I ask, there is no reply. Eyes closed, Rakka-san’s brain has already entered an extraordinary otherworld. One of the pleasure nerve points lies just above the base of the breast's curve. I can understand how she feels when the rope is applied there. Because I too experience pleasure when the rope is wrapped around that area, from my arm to my chest, and apply a gentle pressure. Now that I have no chance to actually experience it, I’ve drifted far from that pleasure, but in my youth, I too had a little of it. No, not a little. I should confess I had quite a lot. It was when I was in the first grade at Ryusenji Elementary School in Shitaya, Tokyo. Several live-in servants worked at my family’s home, which produced and sold traditional Japanese sweets. My mother’s younger sister also came to help as a live-in servant. Her name was Sumiko, and she was my aunt. I believe she was about seventeen or eighteen at the time. After a day’s work, Father, Mother, Aunt Sumiko, and my younger siblings huddled together in the living room, relaxing. I never liked that sticky atmosphere where blood relatives get uncomfortably intimate, pressing their lukewarm bodies against each other. The two-story wooden house had a confectionery workshop and a shop downstairs where customers came and went. Upstairs, the family had divided the space into rooms for sleeping and daily life, but the cloying scent of boiling granulated sugar would creep up from below, permeating the walls and pillars of the second floor. While the adults were enjoying their tea and engaging in idle chatter, I somehow managed to slip into their conversation. “I’m fine with being tied up. I actually like it.” I actually said something that bold. “Hmph,” Sumiko snorted. “Well then, I’ll tie you up. Don’t cry when it hurts, kid.” she said, grabbing a long rope nearby and standing up. I reflexively tried to escape, but Sumiko grabbed my ankle, pulled me down onto the tatami, straddled my body, and attacked.

Sumiko was what you’d call a tomboy back then. I think I put up quite a serious fight, but I was exhausted and ended up tied up. Or perhaps I was merely pretending to put up a serious fight. The psychology involved is a bit subtle, but in truth, I might have just been flailing my arms and legs in response to Sumiko’s attack. “How about that! Had enough, kid? ”Sumiko said, swaying her hips triumphantly. Still straddling me, she hadn’t moved away from my body yet. Sumiko’s body was large, and mine, as a first-grader, was small. I was gasping for breath, and my body ached all over, but the sensation and the pleasure of being tightly held by my young aunt remain vivid in my memory even now. That means, in my case, I must have possessed this kind of sensibility from around the age of seven or eight. Since this is neither fantasy nor delusion, nor a made-up story. I have no choice but to acknowledge that I had that feeling. Because it was a real experience, even now, seventy years later, I remember that night vividly. Even if I say I’ve had this kind of sexual awareness since childhood, it’s certainly nothing to brag about. In fact, it might even be something to be ashamed of. After that, I lived apart from Aunt Sumiko. With the terrible war and all, I haven’t seen her in fifty years. Before I knew it, we lost touch, and I’ve even forgotten her face. But the feeling of being tied up with rope, pinned down beneath a straddling figure, and squeezed tight, that alone remains in my memory like this. I don’t think my wrists were tied at that time (embarrassingly enough, I even remember that much). I felt as if my entire body had been tightly wrapped in a long cloth cord. But because Sumiko had wrapped it with such force, the bindings were quite tight. I struggled to untie them, but they wouldn’t loosen. Perhaps I simply didn’t have the strength for it at that age. After struggling desperately, I finally cried out for mercy, exhausted, and was released. I have no memory of freeing myself. “So stop talking back like that,” said my young aunt, giving my butt a light pat at the end. Actually, the crying at the moment was just my act. I calculated that crying here and apologizing would make me seem like a sweet, obedient child to the adults. What a nasty kid. But no matter how young they are, children possess this kind of cunning.

I wonder now whether I was erect at that time. Children these days might be different, but a seven-year-old back then should still have been a real child. Vague awareness aside, physical sexual desire should still have been immature. So I didn’t get hard. But when my whole body was sandwiched between my aunt’s soft thighs, so different from a man’s, and I struggled as she squeezed me tight, some part of me was definitely burning hot. Those distinct memories have inevitably faded. What I remember is only this: there was pleasure in being bound and restrained. It is precisely because there was pleasure that it clings so stubbornly to the depths of my memory. I’ve gone off on a tangent again. Where did I go off track? Ah, right. In Rakka-san’s empty office on a holiday, I used black cotton rope. I was writing about how the pleasure Rakka-san felt when bound by me was something I, the one doing the binding, could also understand. If one lacks the constitution to perceive the sensation of having both hands bound behind their back as pleasurable, the one doing the binding cannot confidently restrain their partner. (This is getting complicated. Fine, I’ll just write the same thing again.) What I meant to say was that those who bind others cannot create captivating restraints unless they understand the pleasure of being bound. An attractive way of tying refers to a form that looks good to others, is well-balanced, and is imbued with soul. Unless you understand the pleasure of being bound, the rope itself won’t come alive. Only those who grasp the depth of pleasure in being restrained can pour their soul into the rope and give it expression. If I may say so, this is one of the privileges of the world of pleasure. Because it is a privilege, not everyone can experience it . Only we can taste it, become intoxicated by the depth of its pleasure, and bury our souls in the bottom of a swamp of sweetness.

We despise those meddlesome, tasteless fools who try to pry into this profoundly pleasurable world from the outside, and their sheer rudeness sometimes even makes us angry. Missed again. That’s not good. This tendency to immediately get sidetracked is probably due to my own inferiority complex. Because I have this sense of inferiority, while writing I feel compelled to make excuses about my own nature. And then I feel the urge to complain to someone, to something. Using only a single black cotton rope, I bound Rakka-san tightly in seven or eight seconds, hands behind her back. Her expression was completely intoxicated; her eyes closed, her upper body naturally bent forward. (I gnash my teeth at the poverty of my own expression, where only hackneyed words like “intoxication” come to mind.) I stood diagonally behind her, cupping her face with both palms. She offered no resistance. I tilted her face upward and pressed my lips against hers. When we play in the love hotel, I strip her naked then strip myself naked too, and hold her close from the front and the back, sucking her lips. Even within this “sacred” office where such things should never be done, I’ve already kissed her lips a dozen times over. Though I should be accustomed to it, when I finally bind her hands and feet tightly and press my lips to hers for the first time, I always feel a pang of shame. I hesitate. I become timid. The hesitation of an old man like me, wondering if it’s right to freely suck and fondle the glossy, rounded lips of a young woman, radiating a youthful cleanliness, as if they were my own. But I think I shouldn’t hesitate here. I gather my courage. Pressing my lips firmly against hers, I prey her lips apart with the tip of my tongue. She opens her lips without resistance, following the movement of my tongue. Always obediently, smoothly opening. The tip of my tongue touches her teeth. I press my tongue harder, trying to pry those teeth open too, to entwine my tongue with hers. She welcomes my tongue, moving hers slightly. The tip of her tongue timidly touches mine. That is the extent of her response. She is reserved. It’s not that she dislikes the bold intrusion of an old man’s tongue; she is simply embarrassed to initiate

the kiss herself, to move her tongue in response. It’s always like this. She never gets used to it. Her sense of shame passes to me. Rakka-san is a woman who feels shame. Nowadays, women who feel shame are rare. So rare they could be called precious. Rakka-san speaks with precise and polite language, and her appearance carries a dignified grace suggesting good birth and upbringing. It is precisely because of this that she possesses a sense of shame. The root of Rakka-san’s charm lies here. Come to think of it, I’ve never met a woman of such refined upbringing and breeding before. (Ah, this alone reveals the lowly nature of my life.) And I know that Rakka-san is a woman who loves kissing. We’ve pressed our lips together dozens, no, hundreds of times. When we spend the night in a love hotel, we kiss over a hundred times in a single night. No, I’m not joking. This isn’t an exaggeration. It’s not the ramblings of a delusional old man. We truly kiss over a hundred times. Moreover, I’ve kissed her nipples over a hundred times too. No, let’s drop that vague, prim expression like “kissing her nipples.” I pressed myself against her upper body, took her nipple into my mouth, and sucked on it, kneading it with my tongue. As that position grew tiresome, I slid my left arm beneath her neck to embrace her, repeating the kisses on her lips. Next, I shifted position again, returning my face to her nipple to suckle and lick it. I sucked and nibbled, kneading and twisting. I alternated between sucking her lips and her nipples (though “sucking” is such a vulgar word, there’s no other suitable expression). She has never once objected to this act, which I consider utterly relentless. She has never tried to avoid it or refused it. She shows no sign of it. If she showed even the slightest hint of such a sign, I would immediately walk away from that woman. That is my nature. Rakka-san always responds to me. Sometimes she seems like a soulless mannequin. Yet I can tell from her subtle breathing and the way she moves her limbs that she doesn’t dislike my persistent actions (I just carelessly wrote “the way she moves her limbs,” but she can move her feet though not her hands. Because she remains bound with her hands tied behind her back). Sitting in the chair in front of the office desk, if you’re still fully clothed, such sucking on the nipples is naturally impossible.