Nureki Chimuo Archive

The person called Rakka-san never resisted, even when I took my rope from my bag and bound her. She never said “no.” Even when kissing, she never turned her face away to avoid it. Except when tying her in a love hotel room, I bind her suddenly, without warning, whenever I feel aroused. When I’m not aroused, I don’t bind her (obviously). I like doing it suddenly. When desire takes hold, I grab her arms and twist them behind her back. She raises her wrists high, crossing them near her neck. Her wrists are slender and white, how beautifully shaped! Without any effort, I can instantly bind her wrists behind her back, one wrist over the other. Thanks to her compliant submission, those crossed wrists form an erotic shape so pleasing that I can’t help but admire it. At these moments, I get an erection. Getting an erection means this is when my sexual desire peaks. The same for kissing. We once visited a publishing house together in a building on a quiet back street in the upper part of Okachimachi. After finishing our business, in the dim shadow of the staircase on the building’s first floor, I suddenly cupped the back of her head with my left hand, lifted her chin with my right to tilt her face up, and pressed my lips against hers. I pressed them together and sucked hard. We remained standing. She made no attempt to pull away, accepting my lips. I kissed her again and again, sucking on her lips. When I pulled away to check her expression, she smiled, looking a little pleased. Seeing that face, I felt relieved. It wasn’t a face that looked troubled. There were people passing by outside the building. It was a bold act.

(Back then, after, which love hotel did we go to? Was it the one behind Yushima Tenjin? Or was it the slightly more upscale Ryokan13 in Asakusa’s Tawaramachi with the all-cypress bath?) I’m an old man, nearly 80, short in stature with an ugly, bulging belly, short legs, thinning hair that’s balding on top, and my eyesight’s been failing lately. As for what I wear, it’s shirts for 500 yen, jackets and pants for 1000-yen each, bought at the corner of Ito Yokado. And cheap boxers made of flimsy fabric, three for 1000-yen. I’m a pitiful man who looks utterly unpresentable from every angle. So why is Rakka-san so kind to me? Tears of gratitude well up inside me. My only redeeming quality, if you will, is that I can somewhat skillfully perform “bondage” that pleasantly stimulates a woman’s body and mind. It’s like being a massage therapist who uses rope, you could say (lol). For me, rope is like a god. No, this isn’t the time to write such things. I’m planning to conduct an experiment to use Rakka-san’s body as a model to try the “peasant rope,” and I’ve properly prepared the rope for it. For her sake, since she refuses to be photographed, I’ve even brought a sketchbook and three 4B pencils. However, neither the sketchbook, nor the 4B pencils, nor the hemp rope I had prepared got used that day. I no longer had the energy for such laborious tasks. In a room on the third floor of a love hotel, with a fancy name hinting at “Paradise by the Pond,” I took out the special rope I always used on her when tying her up. Then, with her still fully clothed on the bed, I bound her hands behind her back, tightening the ropes until they dug into her skin. The rope I use for Rakka-san is designed so that no matter how hard I pull, it won’t leave deep marks on her wrists. Yet it offers just the right amount of restraint and a satisfyingly firm grip. When loop over the chest and tighten, it gradually digs in, a rope that will certainly please any woman who enjoys bondage. It possesses a visual beauty too. While lacking in the harshness of hemp rope, it subtly torments a woman's mind and body. Though not intense, the restraining sensation that gradually tightens around her arms, chest, wrists and upper body, enveloping her, is highly pleasurable for this woman who has such a delicate sense of touch. (I understand that feeling well, as I myself had to be in a woman’s body. If I didn’t, I couldn’t be a rope artisan.) After finishing tying one rope, I gave the last firm tug, pulling the wrist cord upwards. As if unable to endure it, her body bent into a crooked shape and collapsed on the bed. She turned her back to me, lowered her face, and stopped moving. She curled up like a shrimp. She was ashamed to let me see her face. That’s why she buried her face in the futon. Ryokan is the term for a traditional Japanese-style inn.

But, it’s the sight of those wrists bound together high behind her that is the very source of my dazzling pleasure. (Ahh, you editors of SM magazines who know nothing of this intense, profound source of pleasure, who make no effort to know it, who believe a man’s pleasure lies only in the woman’s genitalia. Please, know this truth. I don’t ask you to understand it sensually. Just grasp it conceptually, as knowledge. Know it.) The spot that stimulates a man’s sexual nerves right now is her wrists, bound behind her back. Those beautiful, agonizingly tempting wrists are now exposed before my eyes. Unfortunately, no woman possessing this eroticism of the wrists has ever existed in my past. Rakka-san, I am not writing this to merely flatter you. Bound wrists are, for me, the most bewitching of all erogenous zones. Rakka-san’s bound wrists embody the very essence of her sexual allure. “How lovely! How beautiful! I feel it!” I gasp aloud. Two times, three times, I repeat the same gasp. I stroke her round buttocks over her skirt. Her butt is well shaped too. Not too big, not too small, they’re ideally firm and nicely shaped. After slowly caressing her, I reached for the hem of her skirt and slowly lifted it up. She twitched and clenched her legs. I slowly, slowly lift her skirt, my hands filled with lewd thoughts. Even my movements are a bit theatrical, I think. I slide the black pantyhose down from her hips. Her panties are black as well. Black panties suit Rakka-san perfectly. I don’t think I have any particular underwear fetish, but when it comes to Rakka-san, I find myself strangely drawn to it. The other girls working in Rakka-san’s office say she’s the boss they admire. “Rakka-san has such a graceful, straight posture, and she’s so elegant and beautiful, you know.” Am I only a fetish guy when it comes to a woman with a noble scent? The sheer black panties slowly slide down from her hips. Her white, round, perfectly shaped buttocks appear. He moans, “Uh, uh, uhhhh….” She offers no resistance. She doesn’t utter words like “no” or “stop.” Is she too embarrassed to make a sound? Or has the shame itself become pleasurable, leaving her speechless from sheer delight? I bury my face between the cleft of her exposed, fresh, white, soft, well-shaped butt. Rakka-san’s body is odorless. Completely odorless from head to toe. It feels clean. I like people who are odorless. I dislike women whose bodies emit a strong odor. It’s an innate preference, so there’s nothing I can do about it. Many of my AV actor friends say they prefer women with strong body odors. They find it sexier that way.

I stick out my tongue and lick between the folds of her butt. I extend my tongue right up to her ass and the immediate vicinity of her genitals, licking them. Hey, hey, hey, some of you might be thinking, “That’s definitely something a masochist would do, not a sadist.” But whether I’m M or S, my instincts tell me to do it, so what can I do? Come to think of it, I never liked the act of putting my mouth or tongue on a woman’s body and licking it. Especially putting my mouth on her genitals felt unclean, and I didn’t like it. However, I don’t feel any sense of uncleanliness about this Rakka-san. One major reason is that her body is almost odorless. Furthermore, her personality is fastidious. She possesses a cleanliness that suggests good upbringing, and a decisiveness that cuts through her likes and dislikes as neatly as a sharp blade. She has a sense of transparency. That sense of cleanliness makes even her crotch feel clean. Her hands tightly bound behind her back, her skirt pulled up, her pantyhose and panties pulled down to her knees, her butt fully exposed, and an ugly old man like me pressing his face into the valley between her bare white flesh and licking her crotch is like a “Beauty and the Beast,” and if this were depicted in a picture it would surely become a pose expressing male sadism. After all, the man is following his own desires and exposing the lower half of the woman he has bound, doing whatever he wants with her. Grasping her shoulders as she curled up like a shrimp in a diagonal prone position, I turned her on to her back. Then I pull off her skirt, pantyhose and panties, all of them. I slide them off her ankles, remove them from her body, and let them fall under the bed. Each time something she wore was torn away, she moaned “ah, ah, ah, ahhh….” She let out a small moan, wriggling her hips and squirming slightly. But she didn’t resist strongly. I pulled her legs together and stretched them out, pinning them down. I straddled her around her knees, making sure she couldn’t move. Her lower body was now fully exposed, yet my hands still hadn’t touched her. I undid the hooks on her blouse and pulled it open. She’s wearing a bra. With her hands tied behind her back, the straps won’t come off. I grab the bra and pull it up, exposing her breasts. They’re soft. When I cup them, they feel squishy. I grasp one, kneading the nipple with two fingers. I pinch the nipple hard, tormenting it. “Uh, uh, uhhhhh…..” She moans, but doesn’t say “stop.” She doesn’t say “it hurts.” I press myself against her body, sucking on her breasts, rolling her nipple with my tongue. Sucking hard, biting lightly.

“Ahh, ahh, ahhhhh….” She let out a low moan and twisted her body, hands bound behind her back. It was a sharp, beautiful sound, full of emotion, but I couldn’t understand its meaning. Was it feeling? Was it pain? I couldn’t tell. Or perhaps she didn’t know herself. Hands bound behind her back, she lay on the bed as her breasts were relentlessly kneaded, her lips sucked, her nipples sucked and bitten, her tongue sucked. Could she possibly feel pleasure from such torment? She must, I thought. I had no choice but to believe it. She was the type of person who would never say something like, “It feels good.” I pulled my face away from her breasts, stretched my neck and sucked her lips next. I thrust my tongue into her mouth and licked it all over. She had no bad breath. I like the mouths of women without bad breath, very much. I cannot kiss women with bad breath. Ugly old man that I am, I have this fastidious streak. I press my tongue flat against hers, rubbing her upper and lower lips. I lick the inside of her lips thoroughly. Repeating rough kisses, I bite down hard on her breasts again. I suck her nipple into my mouth, making slurping sounds. Wet with my saliva, her breasts and nipples glisten. I thrust my tongue forcefully between her upper and lower lips, penetrating deep inside as if thrusting my penis into her vagina. She gasped for breath, tilting her chin up and moaning, “Uuuh.” The white flesh of her throat writhed erotically. If I were a young man, coming this far, I would likely be unable to resist the surging lust welling up inside. I would spread her legs, bend her knees, and thrust my raging member deep inside her. But, I find myself hesitating to take that step. What the world calls “foreplay” drags on endlessly. With Rakka-san, I never tire of it. I could go on forever. I was originally a “pervert” who didn’t fixate much on “normal” sex, and on top of that I am an old man. The foreplay caresses of an elderly man with diminished erectile function felt like they lasted forever. They could go on for three or four hours. With her as my partner, I once kept it up for five hours, taking breaks along the way. Because I had no urge to ejaculate, it could go on forever. There was a time when a book called “The Power of Insensitivity” sold well and the term became popular, but in my case, it’s truly “The Power of Deviance.” Come to think of it, this “Power of Deviance” is the driving force behind my current activities. The “Power of Deviance” requires an opponent. If Rakka-san weren’t here now, my driving force would cease. My mind and body would wither away instantly, turning me into a miserable old man, covered in wrinkles. This is the true nature of Nureki Chimuo.