Nureki Chimuo Archive

I got so excited and carried away that I ended up writing only about the beauty and eroticism of Rakka-san’s body. I still haven’t written everything. There’s more I want to write. I must write more meticulously and carefully. For example, when describing her wrist and fingers, it goes like this. The balance of bone, flesh, and the blue veins visible beneath the skin on Rakka-san’s wrist is perfect. The translucent whiteness of her skin makes the blue veins lurking beneath appear beautifully erotic. The way the flesh curves from her wrist to her five fingers is smooth and delicate. All five fingers are slender, supple, and long. Each knuckle displays a subtle, sensual curve. You understand why I’m so particular about the color and shape of her wrists, and the feel when I grip them, because when I bind her, the wrists are the very first place I tie the rope. If there’s no sensuality in her wrists, I simply can’t bring myself to bind her. And it is these five white, translucent fingers that touch my eighty-year-old penis, gently cradling and massaging it. All I seem to do is praise Rakka-san’s body. If I don’t stop at some point, I’ll look like some perverted old lecher obsessed solely with her physique. Well, I suppose it’s understandable if people think that. They say love makes you see blemishes as dimples, but this feeling is slightly different from ordinary infatuation. It’s not that simple.

To offer a slight explanation, the beauty of Rakka-san’s physique and appearance seems directly linked to the purity and nobility of her spirit. It is a sharp, sword-like beauty. Yet explaining this to a third party and gaining their understanding is difficult. My personality and Rakka-san’s are eerily similar, and we get along really well. However, my spirit is tainted. The purity and fastidiousness that Rakka-san possesses have worn away, and I possess almost none of it. In this context, “disposition” refers to a tendency toward a certain inclination. According to the dictionary, the original meaning of “disposition” is “temperament, tendency of character, nature.” “Sexual preference” and “disposition” carry quite different nuances. It is the similarity of our sexual preferences that binds her and me together. I, who grew up uneducated in a poor family in the downtown area (I’m not deliberately putting myself down, it’s a fact), and she, who grew up without hardship under strict, disciplined parents (this is an environment I surmised from conversations with her. Modest and intelligent, she never uttered a single boastful word about her upbringing to me. She is a truly intellectual person.) and acquired a higher education. The fact that our inclinations are so strikingly similar is, for me, an extremely fortunate circumstance. Whether it was the whims of fate in this world, the capriciousness of the gods, or the providence of heaven that brought her and me together, it is something I am grateful and deeply thankful for. Still fully clothed, her upper body bound with her hands tied behind her back, her lower body exposed, she lay sprawled between the legs of a desk and chair in the dimly lit office. I gazed at her pale, beautiful form, utterly entranced. The bliss brought by eroticism makes me feel faint. She lies with her backside facing me, her entire body bent over. Occasionally I reach my fingers into the valley of her white buttocks and stroke it. She jerks and convulses, bending her back even deeper. Every nerve in her body is heightened (or so I think). Yet if I don’t touch her, she lies utterly still, like a corpse. If it were a normal man, faced with a well-formed white ass lying exposed before him, he'd probably be thrusting his raging cock into the woman’s exposed crotch. That’s what’s normal.

But I don’t do that. How beautiful, truly beautiful. Why is it so beautiful? Repeating these meaningless murmurs, I just gaze at it. Sometimes I lightly touch it with my fingertips, but for a while, I just gaze at it. This way, the pleasure is deeper. That’s my sexual preference. No, let’s drop that pretentious term “sexual preference.” That’s just my sexual desire. And she, too, must surely find the pleasure deeper in this state (I think. I’m not her, so I can’t know for sure. But I think so.). I believe beautiful things are erotic. I believe erotic things are beautiful. Beautiful things are pleasure. I feel it. Taking advantage of her having her back and butt facing me, I couldn’t hold back any longer and started to masturbate. It’s embarrassing for her to see me masturbating. I hesitate. But I want to. Three times now, I couldn’t hold back, held my breath, and actually did it. Right here in this office. Oh, Rakka-san, please don’t laugh. Please don’t despise me. Since I’m writing such an embarrassing thing, Rakks-san, I hope you’ll forgive me for writing what you yourself find shameful. We’re both equally embarrassed. I hooked my fingers under the hem of the blouse still clinging to her upper body and slowly pulled it up. She blushes at the sight of her breasts. I want to see the eroticism in her movements as she blushes and squirms. While watching, I want to touch those breasts. Not over her clothes, but directly. Just gazing would be fine, but I want to touch that elastic, round flesh, grasp it with five fingers, and knead it. I use only one rope when I bind her because I want to pull up the hem of her clothes. Even if a rope is tied around the chest, if it’s just one, lifting the clothing from below can expose the breasts. Lift up the undershirt and push the bra up from below. I grasp her bare breast in my hand, then press my face against it and devour it with my mouth. I suck the soft breast deep into my mouth. Rakka-san doesn’t wear perfume or anything like that. That’s why it’s good. I like her natural body scent. No, she’s actually someone who hardly has any body odor. That’s what’s good. I don’t like women who wear artificial scents. I can’t stand women with strong body odor.

I knead her nipple with the tip of my tongue. My tongue tip moves deftly as my fingers. Ah, ah, she moans softly, her shoulder’s trembling. It’s a low gasp, like a sigh. She's the type who’s extremely shy about speaking up (or so I think). Speaking up at a time like this is just rude. She’s the kind of person who knows the word “rude.” When filming them naked and bound, there are actresses who, at the crucial moment, suddenly start screaming and writhing their bodies. If it’s an expression that comes naturally from genuine pleasure, it’s a blessing for the creator. When all the staff get into that mood, it often results in a great work. But there are actresses who, to curry favor with us, emit fake moans and exaggeratedly writhe their hips. To give an extreme example, there are actresses who cry out “Oh, yes, oh yes!” while spreading their legs wide open themselves, deliberately exposing their crotch. You don’t have to force your voice like that. If you’re feeling it, just feel it naturally. Going that far just makes it feel fake, the director cautions the actress with a laugh. But then again, there are directors who actually enjoy that kind of exaggerated acting (actually, the latter are more common). Why do they overact? Because it makes them seem more dedicated to their work and increases their chances of getting hired. But audiences who pay to watch this kind of film aren’t fooled by such shallow acting these days. (Far from being fooled, I’m furious.) I still want to see the true form of a woman’s heart and body that feels this unique sexuality. Nothing is more stimulating or moving than a genuine reaction. Ultimately, realism resonates with our hearts. A renowned professor of sexual psychology once said, “It has long been understood that the volume of moans is by no means proportional to the degree of pleasure. Generally speaking, women with hysteria tend to moan loudly, and inversely, the intensity of their orgasms is low.” These days, people who seek out this kind of footage or photos already know all about this stuff. It’s the people trying to make money off it who are way behind the times.

If you ask me, it’s like this: “The firefly that burns itself up is more passionate than the cicada that cries out in love.” It was a dodoitsu46 . They sang it even when American bombers flew overhead. It was a time when there were no songs but military songs. I disliked the popular songs of the time, like “The mane of a wet foal,” or "Come on, come on, little cedar, wake up.” Instead, I sang dodoitsu. Well, that was my father’s influence. Since I was fourteen or fifteen, my songs have been dodoitsu. Rakka-san is truly a “silent firefly." The silent firefly achieves a higher orgasm. It is high, and it is deep (as I now believe, gazing at Rakka-san’s state of blissful fainting). With just a single rope binding her hands behind her back, she’s already half-passed out, sliding off the chair and collapsing onto the carpet. I knew this was no ordinary pleasure. But I want to know. To know, and to feel even more secure. I want to be certain that I am giving her body and mind an even deeper, inescapable, decisive pleasure. I am possessed by that desire. When I repeatedly, persistently, directly stimulate Rakka-san’s body, stripped nearly naked, with my lips, mouth, and fingers, is it actually more about my desire to probe the depth of her pleasure than my own? If I said that, would she be angry? Of course, I have the desire to satisfy my own lust. That lust is what comes first. So I suddenly tie her up with rope. Then, while staring at her back as she lies naked on the floor, I masturbate (I masturbate but don’t ejaculate; if I ejaculate, well, being an old man, that alone exhausts me, and I can’t continue with the act afterward). Then, the desire to explore the depths of her pleasure surges up violently. My desire to see Rakka-san, who during the daytime office hours is so intellectually strong and rational, excelling as a graphic designer and earning acclaim as a copywriter, becomes more sexually uninhibited. There is a small part of me that wants to make the silent firefly cry out clearly and loudly, even if just for a moment, even if just with a single word. That desire to hear her cry out louder is the male, or rather, the male animal, instinct to confirm the woman’s orgasm. Unrhymed non-metrical Japanese popular love song or limerick in the 7-7-7-5 mora pattern. A mora is a segment of Japanese language that describes how long the sound is held. For example, while Tokyo is two syllables, it is four mora.

But, Rakka-san. You don’t have to cry out in a high-pitched voice. If I see you screaming or crying, I might lose my desire to play with you. No, I won’t lose it entirely, but my passion might be halved. Men are selfish creatures. So you are perfectly fine just as you are. In fact, you just as you are, is precisely the form I most cherish. I bury my face in Rakka-san’s crotch. My body is lying on top of Rakka-san’s naked form. Oh, what on earth! I’ve somehow ended up taking off my pants, then my boxers, meaning I’m now completely naked from the waist down. Those pants and boxers lie carelessly discarded on the carpet. What a vulgar sight. By day, it’s a “sacred” office with only women, dedicating their lives to their jobs. Within it, a grotesque old man, naked from the waist down, presses his face into the crotch of a young woman’s body, sucking her clitoris into his mouth and playing with it. The clitoris I sucked into my mouth, and the labia too, were soft as freshly pounded mochi. I bite down on that soft flesh until I can barely breathe, kneading it with my tongue. And at this moment, my crotch is also above her face. Our bodies are entwined. Without me even asking, she opens her mouth and welcomes my cock inside. Ah, how grateful I am. And then, she gently envelops it in her warm, moist mouth. Ah, ah, thank you, thank you. Along with the movement of her tongue, her feelings make me so happy and grateful, enveloping me in a feeling of bliss. The silent firefly, though it may not sing with its mouth, tells me with its actions of feelings far deeper than words could express (Or so I think. Since I am not her, I cannot say for certain, but I think this). I suck, lick, and devour her clitoris with all my might. I spread her labia with my fingers and lick inside, pushing the tip of my tongue deep inside. The tip of my tongue is hot, wet, and tightly gripped. My nose, mouth, and even my jaw sink into her wet warmth. Rakka-san is someone who carries no scent in that part. She is odorless. I am deeply grateful for that.

(This is my first time confessing.) I actually dislike the smell that comes from that part (I really dislike it). I’m not saying this to please her, I genuinely dislike that smell. I always run away from people who smell. Rakka-san is someone whose breath doesn’t smell. She gives off a clean and refined impression. They say people whose breath doesn’t smell also don’t smell down there. It’s truly presumptuous for a man like me to say this, but I find the act of pressing my face against a woman’s crotch extremely unpleasant. Yet with you, Rakka-san, it doesn’t feel unclean. Because your scent is beautiful. I truly want to thank God for this. How wonderful that you brought me someone who matches my preferences so perfectly. My heart and body are so base, ugly, and impure that the gods, unable to bear the sight, brought me a woman who is the complete opposite. Pure and noble. Because I am so impure, did God bring her to me to purify that impurity? Just like the Kannon47 who saves all evils. What a stylish god. What a tasteful god. Or perhaps, a mischievous god. I never climax in her mouth. That is, I don’t ejaculate. It’s my nature, no, my constitution, that I simply can’t ejaculate in someone’s mouth (or maybe it's just a habit). Rakka-san sucks me earnestly and wholeheartedly, so that part of me becomes sore from too much friction. So I pull myself out of her mouth. Then, changing positions, I pressed my lips against hers once more, slipping my tongue inside. If I were to place my lips there immediately afterward, then slip my tongue inside, wouldn’t I end up sucking on my own thing? It was such a strange thought that flashed through my mind. But I quickly dismissed that fantasy, sucked on her lips, slipped my tongue inside and entwined it with hers. Avalokiteshvara (Bodhisattva); Avalokitesvara; Kannon; Kwannon; Guanyin; Buddhist deity of compassion.

After licking, sucking, and biting her nipples, I return to kissing her lips. After kissing her thoroughly, I shift my position dramatically once more, lower my face to her crotch and lick around her genitals. I repeat it endlessly. It feels like the relentless persistence of an old beast that has caught its prey. When I enter a love hotel, I do this over and over again, so it absolutely cannot be contained within just three hours. Even in the office, I always keep this up for two or three hours. Time just flies by. If it were merely a matter of inserting my penis into her vagina and ejaculating for satisfaction, it wouldn’t require this much effort or time. But, but…I still can’t help but wonder just how satisfied she really is, and what level of pleasure she’s actually experiencing. Go, go, go! I scream, and when it’s over, I can imagine the satisfaction, and I can feel at ease. But since this isn’t that kind of game, I still can’t help but worry.