Nureki Chimuo Archive

For the first time in two years, I bound the Yokohama noblewoman, Hide Ishitani-san.

(For details about this, Hide-san, please refer to my sixth paperback book, “Bondage: As Long as I Live,” published by Kawade Shobo Shinsha. Those interested may find it informative.)

As I bound Hide-san’s hands behind her back, I found myself unconsciously comparing the sensation to that of Rakka-san.

Two years ago, the sensations I received from both women were almost identical.

Though identical two years ago, they now felt quite different. I intend to write about that.

Writing about these two women, Hide-san and Rakka-san, now means writing about my own heart.

And for someone in my profession, I feel compelled to write this down.

Binding Hide-san this day was, so to speak, “work.”

That is, it was a video shoot commissioned by Company A.

It was, of course, my first time interacting with Hide-san in the context of this filming job.

Binding Hide-san had become “work,” but binding Rakka-san was not “work.”

Therefore, comparing the feelings of binding the two women is fundamentally wrong.

Through this real experience, I clearly felt and recognized that day that binding for “work” and binding for personal pleasure are entirely different things.

It’s rather foolish to only now realize such an obvious, straightforward truth.

It’s an embarrassingly stupid story, the kind you wouldn’t dare tell anyone.

But then, I’ve always been a fool at heart.

I’m a careless, shallow, illogical person who can only react on pure instinct, a thoroughly frivolous human being. That’s why I never noticed something so simple until now.

It’s a drama, so to speak, with the working title “Married Woman Confinement Bar.” Or, to be a bit pretentious, let’s call it a docudrama.

Hide-san plays the married woman who gets kidnapped and confined.

The man who kidnaps and confines the married woman, repeatedly binding and untying her to torment her, is played by me.

A drama for just the two of us. Only the situation is set. After that, the camera follows only my actions.

It is undoubtedly a documentary, but I move with the awareness that this footage is meant to be seen by others.

These are images designed to excite the viewer, arouse desire, and induce a pleasurable mood.

Providing pleasure to others as a job (that is, service work) often brings little pleasure to oneself.

Sometimes the pain outweighs the pleasure.

I feel like someone might scold me, “What’s painful about doing what you love? Stop complaining!” I want to elaborate on that point, but I’m afraid I’m veering off course again, so I’ll hastily steer the conversation back.

I kidnap Hide-san, bind her hands tightly behind her back, and wrap her in white cloth, layering it two, three, four times.

I lift her skirt, cut off the white panties she’s wearing with scissors, strip them off, and stuff them into her mouth, rolled up. I make her bite the white cloth between her teeth, holding it so she can’t spit it out, and tie a gag around her face.

Over that, I drape an even wider strip of white cloth over her mouth and nose, looping it around the back of her neck and tying it tightly.

Hide-san momentarily struggled for breath, her throat making gurgling sounds as she writhes, her shoulders twitching.

(After filming ended, Producer Ako told me she was present and felt her own heart constrict at the cruelty of my method of applying the gag, nearly fainting from the sight. She is a highly sensitive, kind-hearted young lady.)

Besides Ako, a young man named I-kun was present. He was the cameraman for this shoot.

New cameramen are most welcome.

I welcome fresh, sharp-sensed new cameramen over moldy, old-fashioned veteran cameramen, even if their camera skills are immature (though in reality, they weren’t immature. They were modern young people, fully proficient with digital cameras).

Old professional photographers are overly confident and fail to notice their own sensibilities have become stale.

Ako, young cameraman I-kun, and then the performers, Hide-san and me.

Only these four people were present at the shoot.

It was the ideal number, exactly as I had hoped.

Adding more staff would inevitably result in the conventional AV video look.

When it’s just me and Rakka-san alone for “pleasure bondage,” I absolutely never use a gag.

Why?

The answer is simple and clear.

It’s because if I were to do something like a gag, I wouldn’t be able to kiss her lips.

With a single rope, I bind Rakka-san’s hands behind her back in about thirty seconds.

The moment I finish tying her up, I kiss her lips. I kiss them fiercely.

I entwine my tongue with hers and kiss her violently, with great force.

I force my tongue into her mouth. The roof of my tongue stretches to its limit.

Next, I twist my tongue into her mouth. I push it in with such force that the tip of my tongue nearly blocks her throat.

It’s pure pleasure.

At this moment, I am erect.

And she has fainted.

When she was sitting in the chair, her body slid down from it.

Using considerable strength to prevent injury, I support her body and make her land softly on the floor.

She is almost unconscious, and I think she would definitely be injured if I didn’t support her body. Sometimes she slides down from the chair head-first with such force.

After falling from the chair, she lies motionless on the floor. She cannot get up on her own. She is in a kind of half-consciousness.

Therefore, Rakka-san is fundamentally unsuitable to be a model.

She cannot perform the “model act” of moving her body according to another’s instructions.

However, Hide Ishitani-san can perform the model act.

If Hide-san were a woman like Rakka-san, who would immediately release all her tension and faint the moment she was bound with rope, I would not have written that kind of video script.

(The detailed script for this video is also published in “Bondage: As Long as I Live.” However, it never actually came to filming.)

This was also the first time I placed a gag over Hide-san’s mouth and nose.

Even during the dozen or so sessions of “bondage pleasure” I spent alone with her two years ago, I never used anything like a gag.

The reason for not doing so is largely the same as in Rakka-san’s case.

Furthermore, I don’t have a strong fixation on gags myself.

Therefore, this was the first time I ever gagged Hide-san.

I had no choice but to do it.

After all, the scenario was “Married Woman Confinement.”

I went to all the trouble to kidnap her, so it’d be a real problem if she started screaming for help.

After filming wrapped, I asked Hide-san.

“How was the gag? We did it pretty intensely and realistically, so it must’ve been tough, right?”

Then came her answer.

“I actually like having my mouth covered and struggling to breathe. So it was great!”

Ah, I thought.

I’d never known that. If she’d told me two years ago, I would have done her favorite gag during our private bondage play sessions back then.

(This is my fundamental stance when engaging in private bondage play. In my heart, there is always the desire to give the woman pleasure, to offer her ecstasy. This desire has almost become lust. Her joy becomes my sexual pleasure. I absolutely won’t do anything she dislikes. It’s impossible for me to force her to do something she refuses. What I do is commonly called “S” behavior, but I believe my true nature is actually very strongly “M.”)

After successfully kidnapping her, dragging her blindfolded up the narrow, steep stairs, and then securely binding her hands behind her back to prevent escape, I told Hide-san, “This is the opening scene of the drama, a crucial part, so please don’t just lie there quietly. Resist. Try to escape. To restrain you, the way I tie the ropes will be a bit rough, but I want to create an intensity not seen in previous bondage videos. I want to go all out with realism.”

She nodded.

She readily understood my aim and desire. She’s a smart woman.

And she resisted quite fiercely.

I used my strength to grab her left and right wrists, twist them up behind her back and apply the ropes, which was hard work. Her resistance was filled with genuine emotion.

Thanks to that, I believe we captured the scene exactly as I envisioned. It should be ten, or a hundred times more stimulating and erotic than inserting a foreign object into a woman’s genitals (though only for bondage enthusiasts, of course).

The more fiercely she resisted and struggled, the rougher and more violent my binding technique must have become.

(I still haven’t seen this footage.)

I can’t recall many times in my memory when I’d cast aside the so-called “beauty of bondage” and tied up a woman with such seriousness, such force, such intensity.

“That first binding scene, did it hurt?”

“No,” Hide-san replied.

“Even when resisting with all my strength, there’s pleasure in surrendering to a man’s power, in being futilely stripped of freedom and bound.”

Her words were phrased slightly differently, but this was the essence of what she told me.

“Ah, I see,” I thought.

The masochistic sensation made perfect sense.

Her response contained no coquetry or clinginess, it was calm and restrained. It had an intelligent resonance.

In that, I saw her sense of shame.

I saw a deep, heavy shame, though it didn’t show on the surface.

The Hide Ishitani from two years ago was there.

It wasn’t just a private game between two people in a love hotel. It was a drama with the camera’s eye right there. Precisely because of that, I could see a different side of Hide-san, distinct from the one from two years ago.

The intense multiple gags by my hand, and this violent bondage too, were first-time experiences for her.

(Though I don’t know if she’d experienced anything like this at the hands of someone other than me during these two years. I don’t ask about such things. I have no desire to pry. Even if I did ask, I doubt an accurate answer would come from her mouth.)

Regarding that day’s shoot, I still asked her a couple more hasty questions. Perhaps I was excited.

I somewhat rudely demanded she explain, in concrete terms, how she felt about the way I tied her today.

That was what I wanted to know. For instance, I had her wrap both arms around the back of a sturdy pillar and kept her bound there for quite a long time. At that moment, the pillar became a complete instrument of torment.

Normally, I would sink the rope five millimeters into her flesh, but this time I sank it over a centimeter.

The pillar between her tightly bound wrists and arms must have become a rigid shackle, inflicting unprecedented pain upon her body.

“I can’t say how it felt to be bound by you just yet. I think tonight, when I get home, take a bath, and my mind settles, the events of today will gradually come back to me.”

Hide-san answered in a low voice, her expression calm.

That was it.

Even if asked such a thing, she couldn’t possibly answer.

I had asked a foolish question.

This shooting location was extremely cramped.

In front of her, besides me, are the producer, Ako, and the cameraman, I-kun.

It was bound to be embarrassing to voice her inner thoughts aloud.

Unless it was someone she felt completely comfortable with, she couldn’t possibly answer such a question honestly.

I wanted to know her inner thoughts and had other questions I wanted to ask, but with Ako and I-kun nearby, I couldn’t bring myself to ask them either.

My psychological state around this point is somewhat, no, quite delicate (the kind of delicacy you’d write as “bimyo5” in katakana).

After finishing up for the day, the four of us left the bar we’d rented as the filming location together.

Wait, hold on. Right, I absolutely must write that Hide Ishitani-san had beautiful breasts, just like she did two years ago.

They were even more beautiful than two years ago. Compared to two years ago, there was an erotic glow to the breasts themselves.

There was a sweetly matured sex appeal seeping out from within her perfectly rounded, full breasts.

The moment I sensed it, I wondered if she had a man right now.

A man who wasn’t her husband.

And I felt jealous.

I tormented those beautiful breasts. I tormented and teased them relentlessly, in ways I hadn’t two years ago.

The four of us left the bar and walked slowly toward Ginza Street.

Then, only Hide-san got into a taxi.

I breathed a sigh of relief.

After all, I had finished the job.

Both Hide-san and I received our appearance fees from Ako’s hand and signed the receipts.

The appearance fees were cash, what you’d call “too pay.”

Watching the taxi carrying Hide-san drive away, my thoughts were with Rakka-san.

Just as I thought of Rakka-san, perhaps Hide-san, inside that taxi, was thinking of someone who had taught her the pleasure of the gag.

ビミョー: bimyo means delicate, but also doubtful or questionable.

Ako and I-kun said they’d take the JR Yamamoto Line back to the office. The camera and other filming equipment was light enough for I-kun to carry with one hand (which was also as I’d hoped. If surrounded by multiple lighting fixtures, recorders, monitors, and other filming apparatus, the bondage realism I aimed for would vanish).

I said I was heading to the Kabuki-za theater next, and to Ako and I-kun, “Thanks for your hard work. See you later.” I said my goodbyes and turned my back on them.

It was precisely the time the evening performance at the Kabuki-za had just begun.

The first act featured Tamasaburo in “Ten Kinds of Incense” and “Fox Fire.”

I planned to watch the second act, “Naosamurai.” Naojiro was played by the contemporary Kikugoro.

The title was “Snowy Evening on the Irrigated Path in Iriya.”

It’s one of my favorite plays. I watch it two or three times a month.

Kikugoro’s “Naosamurai” is a signature piece of his house, performed year-round, but I prefer the Naosamurai played by Nizaemon, with his long, slender legs.

The bleak, pitiful, and foolish love affair between the high-class courtesan Mitsuzo of Edo’s Yoshiwara and the lowly rogue Naosamurai.

A tragic sentiment, with one foot already stepping into the world of death.

Walking toward the Kabuki-za, I found myself feeling like Naosuke.

Though I, a late-stage elderly man, short, with stubby legs, a round belly thrust forward, carrying a bag with a dozen ropes slung awkwardly over my shoulder, shuffling along, was no match for Naojiro, the epitome of a stylish late Edo-period man, my mood had completely become that of Naojiro.

The rain falling in the intensifying spring chill turned to snow as dusk fell. The sound of Ueno’s bell echoed over the winding, thin stream, eventually flowing into the Tadagawa at Iriya Village.

Humming the jorui6 song, “Secret Lovers in Spring Thaw,” I crossed Mihara Bridge on Harumi Street, heading toward the Kabuki-za.

Traditional form of Japanese recital music.