Nureki Chimuo Archive

I had a conversation with Rakka-san on the second floor of the McDonald’s near Station A on the Saikyo Line. Perhaps because it’s a holiday, the restaurant is packed with young men and women. There are also several couples with children. Quite a few older men and women are here too. In front of the counter where orders were taken, those people were gathered in a crowd. At the sight of this scene, Rakka-san frowned. I dislike waiting in line at places like this that sell food and drink. I dislike waiting in line anywhere, not just restaurants, but I suddenly thought, “This is an experience too,” and told Rakka-san to wait in the second-floor seating area. I stood in line alone, sandwiched between boys and girls. Watching closely, I saw the staff efficiently divided their tasks. One took orders from behind the counter, another swiftly prepared the items, and they handled customer requests one after another with remarkable skill. I was impressed. Before I could even flinch at the crowd of customers, a tray laden with two iced coffees, one order of fries, two hamburgers, and one cheeseburger was thrust before me.

Fries cost two hundred yen, but everything else is one hundred yen each. Cheap. I paid a total of seven hundred yen, held the tray laden with food in both hands, and slowly climbed the stairs to the second-floor seating area where Rakka-san was waiting. At the corner table by the window, Rakka-san waited. From the large window, she could look down on the people passing by outside. The restaurant was nearly full, with toddlers accompanied by their mothers, occasionally crying. Thanks to the background murmur, Rakka-san and I could converse freely and unrestrained, without anyone overhearing us. Most of what we discussed was the kind of thing we wouldn’t want others to hear. Therefore, on holidays, we usually talk in Rakka-san’s office. As we chat away, my desire gradually builds until I eventually take out the rope and tie her up. To my desire, she responds with extreme obedience and pleasure. When my desire grows intense, I feel as though Rakka-san is also quietly getting into that mood, waiting for my rope. But since I’m not Rakka-san, I can’t really tell what’s going on inside her mind. Ideally, I’d rather use the office managed by Rakka-san than a fast-food joint like this, but today there’s a girl working on her day off among the staff, so it’s useless as usual. So we decided to go to Station A, two stops away from the station near our office, to talk somewhere quiet. But we couldn’t find a suitable spot, and ended up on the second floor of this overly noisy place. (Station A is a fairly large station where several lines converge, yet I couldn’t spot any love hotel signs nearby. And on this day, neither she nor I had the time to spend several hours at a love hotel. Our game requires more than three hours. It takes at least five hours.) I drank iced coffee while eating a hundred-yen hamburger. We split the single cheeseburger we’d bought in half and shared it. This so-called cheeseburger was nothing more than a hamburger patty with a single slice of paper-thin cheese sandwiched inside. Rakka-san has already read my previous piece. Among those who read my writing, Rakka-san is the most devoted reader. That’s only natural, since it’s about her. “Um, can I ask you something?” Rakka-san looked at me and said after finishing her half of the cheeseburger.

“Yes, ask me anything. If it’s something I can answer, I’ll tell you anything,” I say. Our conversations usually take on this kind of tone. Avoid using sloppy, slang language. Refrain from speaking in a familiar tone45 . We both recognize each other as important to us. We respect each other (I think). “In your writing the other day, you wrote that when you bind Rakka-san (she calls herself Rakka-san. She believes the Rakka-san in my writing is separate from herself. No, she’s trying to convince herself of that), you finish binding her in seven or eight seconds. Is that true?” she asks me with a straight face. When I heard that, I couldn’t help but gasp. “Eh, eh, eh, so when you’re bound, you have no sense of time passing?” I couldn’t help but ask. “Yeah, somehow it feels really long. I can’t believe it was only seven or eight seconds.” “Eh, eh, eh, I’m not lying. There’s no point in lying about something like this. It really was seven or eight seconds. It didn’t take ten seconds or anything.” “Can you really tie someone up in such a short time?” “Whether it’s possible or not, you’re always the one being tied up, aren’t you?” “Yeah, that’s true… but why do you have to tie me up so fast?” “Well… if I don’t tie you up quickly, you’ll get away.” Tying someone up quickly is, you could say, realism. This sense of truth, I suppose, is what leads to the “pleasure of bondage,” I said, stating something she surely already knew. The momentary tension filled with determination is crucial. If you dawdle while tying someone up, the precious “pleasure” will slip away. Being tied up in a flash is bound to feel better than being tied up slowly and clumsily. However, even when tying slowly, if the rope maintains a steady rhythm without any gaps, the pleasure won’t escape… I also mentioned that. For those unfamiliar, Japanese has many levels of formality. In this conversation, Nureki and Rakka-san are speaking in “polite Japanese” instead of “casual Japanese.”

But Rakka-san still looked as if she couldn’t comprehend it. She simply couldn’t grasp that it had taken only seven or eight seconds to finish tying her up. She says it with a serious expression, not joking around. “I see. I understand. So that’s what it is.” I said. “The moment I tie your wrists, you lose all sense of normal consciousness. Your sense of time disappears. So that’s it. Whether I bind your wrists or not, you’re already half-fainting. Meaning you slip into a state of pleasure-induced fainting.” I’d suspected as much before, but never imagined it could be true. Amid the buzz of conversation on the second floor of McDonald’s, I became convinced once again. “Listen, Rakka-san, I had a hunch about this, but now I know for sure. You’re entering that state of ecstasy faster and deeper than before.” I grabbed her right wrist, which was resting on the armrest beside me, and gave it a slight twist. Her facial expression froze, and her pupils momentarily glazed over. It was just an instant, but her eyes showed that fleeting look of someone on the verge of sinking into that otherworldly realm. The black cotton rope for her is always ready in my bag. But I couldn’t possibly use that rope on the second floor of a hamburger shop. I released her wrists and said, “It’s true that the level of intoxication is deeper and heavier than before.” I felt a sense of superiority in being able to dominate Rakka-san, who possessed an intellectual level and common sense far beyond my own and never wavered from her resolute stance, in this manner. The satisfaction, no, the triumph, of a lowly man conquering a noble woman normally far beyond his reach. So that’s it, wrapping the rope around her chest and pulling it tight (this is my speciality). From the moment I bound her wrists together behind her back, had Rakka-san truly been in a deep state of pleasure-induced unconsciousness? Her intellectual level is matched by an extraordinary sharpness of perception. They are exceptionally sensitive. I have bound countless female models in the past (and continue to do so now). Though it is my job, the sheer number is so staggering that people find it hard to believe when I tell them. But this was the first woman to react so deeply and intensely. If she plunged into unconsciousness before the ropes even touched her wrists, she’d be utterly useless as a model.

Her reaction was as still as a corpse, not uttering a single word, yet for me, there was no response more intense or more certain. Given my strong sense of inferiority, it’s only natural that I would feel a sense of superiority and be over the moon about meeting this woman. I tied Rakka-san’s wrists together behind her back with a single rope while she sat on the chair, then pulled her wrists up near her shoulders. I looped the rope around her arms and chest, letting it dig in, then brought it back around to secure it behind her. (There are fifteen or sixteen chairs in Rakka-san’s office, but every single one has a low backrest. That’s why you can tie someone’s hands behind their back while they’re seated in one.) I suck on Rakka-san’s lips, dazed and bound. I suck intensely. While sucking her lips, I reach one hand to her chest and knead her breast. I grab it through her clothes with five fingers and knead it roughly. Then her lower body went limp, and her butt slid down from the chair. “Dangerous!” I cry out, rushing to support her body with both hands each time. Her body, drained of strength from the waist down, feels unnaturally heavy. I can’t hold her up. She collapsed onto the floor and lay there, motionless. As if suspended in a state of pure pleasure, she didn’t move. At times, I even wondered if her breathing had stopped. The floor is covered with thick carpeting. So it doesn’t hurt much to sleep on it. But it is office carpet. Female designers led by Rakka-san and copywriters walk around in their shoes during the day. It’s probably vacuumed carefully, but it’s still a floor where people walk in their shoes. But she, half-fainting, paid no attention whatsoever, and lay down on the floor, still bound behind her back. Her eyes no longer saw anything. She’s usually so fastidious about cleanliness that she seems almost obsessive. But when the ropes are applied, she becomes a different person. She becomes as defenseless as a corpse. I lay down beside her body, continuing to suck her lips. My five fingers kept kneading her breasts. The sight of a man lying between the legs of a desk meant for seven or eight people and a chair, embracing a bound female body, greedily devouring her lips and groping her breasts. It must have been an utterly bizarre spectacle, beyond the bounds of common sense.

I revel in pleasure, occasionally becoming a third-party observer, conscious of myself and her. I find this very posture amusing. I find it wonderful. I like that it’s not stereotypical. I even feel a sense of superiority toward the common sense people of the world. But I don’t know whether Rakka-san is even aware of her current state, or if she has the mental capacity to be. I can’t see inside her mind. Or perhaps, somewhere in the back of her mind, she was aware that her presence here was abnormal, and this very awareness of her abnormality was deepening her intoxication. I lift up her skirt. Her lower body, tightly encased in black pantyhose. The slenderness of her ankles, the thickness and length of her thighs. The gentle curve of flesh on her lower abdomen. The narrowness of her waist. All of these are the shapes I idealize. Enveloped in the fabric of sheer black pantyhose, they appear utterly sexy to my eyes. They are precious. They are the curves that stir my deepest sense of eroticism. I stroke her lower body, encased in black pantyhose, with both hands. It feels good. It’s pleasurable. Only now does she bend her knees, wriggle her hips, and show a little resistance. She’s embarrassed (I think). Oh, right, by this time, her shoes would already be off. Or sometimes, I’d take them off myself. I place the removed shoes neatly side by side on her desk so they’ll be easy to find when she puts them back on later. This is always my job, without fail. I hook my fingers over the waistband at the top of her pantyhose and slowly pull them down from her buttocks. They slide off smoothly, revealing her panties. “Please don’t write about things like that,” said Rakka-san. No, that’s not right. She never once said anything like “Don’t write it.” She would never say anything so unreasonable. “Are you going to write again?” she asked, hesitantly and modestly. I can tell exactly how she feels. She wants me to write as little as possible because she’s embarrassed. Putting myself in her shoes, it’s only natural she’d feel embarrassed. I feel compelled to write. This is a record of a man nearing eighty doing such things. A record of how a human lives. It must be a record of truth. The compulsion to write is like the writer’s craft.

I never had any talent for writing. I was lazy, frivolous, and lived as a coward, always thinking only of my immediate safety. It wasn’t until I neared eighty that I finally awoke. As I approached the end of my life, meeting a person named Rakka-san finally awakened me. I answered Rakka-san, “You see, this isn’t about you. It’s about someone else named Rakka-san. The one having her pantyhose pulled down and her panties removed isn’t you, it’s the Rakka-san in the novel. Please read it with that in mind.” “Yes, I know that…” she said. It’s not just lip service, she truly understands. She comprehends the craft of writing. That is her intellect and reason. I am grateful for an intellect that understands, without anger, even when she is written about realistically. Grateful to the point of tears, For someone like me, she is one of a kind. I also love the curve of her buttocks wrapped in panties. The shape isn’t too big or too small, just the right amount of sexy flesh. I pull her pantyhose down to just below her knees. She clasped her knees together and twisted her thighs in resistance. But it wasn’t enough to stop the movement of my hands. I don’t have any particular fixation on women’s underwear, but I always find the color, pattern, and design of the panties Rakka-san wears to be pleasing. I’ve never been put off by them. No matter how cute or sexy a woman is, if she’s wearing frilly red or pink panties, I’d be utterly deflated and my desire would be cut in half. On the set where models are bound for photoshoots, I say all the right things because it’s my job, but I don’t possess that breadth of taste where I genuinely find such girls’ sensibilities cute. I run my hand over Rakka-san’s buttocks, wrapped erotically in a circle by her panties, right over the fabric. A pleasant elasticity. Not hard, not too soft, just the right firmness. No, maybe a bit firm. I prefer them slightly firm. It feels clean. Soft buttocks seem somehow unclean. When removing her panties, I use both hands. As I try to pull them down, she jerks and tenses, turning her back to me in a defensive posture. Yet her butt remains facing me. The movement of her wrists and fingers, bound in a takate kote, is unbearably stimulating. I held her waist with one hand while pulling down her panties with the other.

She let out a pitiful sound, ah, ah, ah, and offered a little stronger resistance. Was she regaining her senses from her fainted state at this moment? She resists, but not so much that it’s impossible to pull down her panties. Ah, ahh, ahh… the sound of crying. Be quiet. You’re going to be stripped naked anyway, and I’ll see your bare ass. I don’t recall struggling excessively or using more force than necessary when stripping off her panties. I enjoy the sensation of her faint resistance and the sound of her moaning as she endures the shame, all while slipping the panties off. How many times have I tied her up and pulled down her panties in this very office? Ten times, no, maybe even over twenty times now. I only do this to her when I’m absolutely certain the office is completely empty and no one else is coming in. Well, that’s only natural. I’d never have been able to pull down her panties if she resisted. This is only natural. If I ever saw her genuinely resisting, I’d be so embarrassed I’d never do that to her again. I couldn’t. I’m a man who gives up easily. No, I’m a coward. My tendency to give up stems from my cowardly nature. I absolutely cannot do things women dislike. I love seeing a woman’s happy face. Seeing a woman’s displeased expression is repulsive. Sometimes female models who dislike being restrained come to shoots solely for the money. When that happens, my cowardly self becomes uncomfortable and miserable, and my work becomes half-hearted. Employers whisper that when Nureki dislikes a model, he cuts corners. Even when taking off the panties, I don’t remove them from the ankles. I hook one leg over the ankle. Since it’s a piece of fabric that quickly curls up into a small ball, there’s a risk it might go missing when putting them back on after playtime. It might be hiding behind a desk leg three meters away. When I accidentally pull them off completely from her ankles, I place them on her desk. Naturally, I’ve also removed her pantyhose by then, so I lay both the pantyhose and panties neatly on the desk for easy identification. Leaving them just lying on the carpet feels like they’d just collect dust. As I’ve written before, I have no particular interest in underwear, so this is merely a matter of convenience.

Well, writing so much about panties like this, it might seem strange to say I don’t have an underwear fetish. When it comes to the underwear of women who let their guard down, I think I might have a little bit of this fetishism myself. Though Rakka-san is so clean-obsessed she could be called a germophobe, she doesn’t seem particularly bothered by this underwear incident. I believe it’s because she’s deeply intoxicated by the rope I’ve tied her with and is already in a state of unconsciousness at this point. The form of Rakka-san’s lower body, bare, is truly beautiful. The raw whiteness of the flesh from her lower abdomen to her crotch and thighs is particularly erotic. I couldn’t help but moan, “So beautiful, truly, truly beautiful,” as I wrapped both hands around her thighs. Not thick, not thin. The way the flesh sat was exquisite, perfectly shaped. I’d rather be called a thigh fetishist than an underwear fetishist. Ah, here I go again, lavishing praise on her body without restraint. There’s no need to string together so many compliments. I recall having already praised every part of her body in minute detail, over and over, within these very lines before. I remembered. With her hands tied behind her back, she slumped from the chair and lay sprawled on the carpet. By the time her pantyhose and panties were pulled off by my own hands and her thighs were being held tightly, her hair was always disheveled. She uses several thin, colored rubber bands to tie her hair back, but they slip off and scatter across the carpet. My eyes, focused around her thighs, notice the rubber bands. I reached out with one hand, picking up each rubber band one by one and placing them on the desk where the pantyhose and panties lay. Since rubber bands are small, if you don’t pick them up when you notice them, they get lost, and then you’re stuck when you need to tie her hair later. At some point, picking up these rubber bands and placing them on the desk became my job. I was about to say, “These rubber bands are cheap, aren’t they? Why not buy them in bulk and keep them in a drawer here on this desk?” but I stopped myself. This secret game in the office should remain nothing more than an accidental happening. I don’t want it to become a rule where we play whenever we’re alone. Isn’t the very essence of this game the surge of desperate desire?

Why did I suddenly recall this rubber band and start writing about it? Ah, yes. What I meant to say was that even though I had exposed Rakka-san’s lower body, I didn’t charge straight for her genitals like the average man. I don’t do things like that in a hurry. Rakka-san doesn’t want that either. Slowly, carefully, I gaze upon the sight of Rakka-san lying bound, beautiful and erotic. I hold her close, caressing and stroking her. Stroking her thighs, her butt, her back, occasionally sucking fiercely on her lips. I knead her breasts. And I believe that my actions, never pushy or aggressive, only deepen her physical and mental intoxication (I think).