JUN

The most important thing in my sessions.

It is to wait for the slave's response. I'm impatient. Even when I'm in a conversation, I anticipated the answer and have already prepared. And while I am thinking of the next answer, the conversation becomes nothing but an imaginary creature. Wait, what are we talking about after all? It's a waste of time, like putting the cart before the horse. It's important to think about everything in a logical way, but it's boring if I am stuck with it.

Therefore, I wait for your reaction because I want to see the scenery that I can only see when I get off the rail and off the track. I don't predict anything at all, and I look at you emptying my mind so I would feel genuine disappointment, urge to scold and surprisese. I recognize your body once it has been threw into my daydreaming playground where it have been alone for so long. I am happy to know that the predictions are completely useless.

Hello. How are you doing, lovely M gentlemen?

I love Japanese romantic porn movies. I can't remember how it started, but I remember saying they are art and watching them with all my might. Among them, the work that left a strong impression on me was Tatsumi Kamiki's "Onna jigoku, Mori ha nureta (meaning Woman in Hell, Forest is Wet)". In the Taisho era, the owner of a Western-style house calls out to a girl who is suspected of murder. It's a pleasure garden where the Marquis de Sade and his mistress dominate and keep people through sex and violence...

In a particularly memorable scene, the marquis and the mistress show up just as the girl is being attacked by the guests coming to stay at the western house (they sent the girl to the guest’s room in the first place). "Do it harder!" while holding a handgun to his head. The whip is showered on the ass of the guest who straddles the girl... At the end, they all are connected in the order of the marquis, the guest, and the girl (from the top), and they climax; as soon as they know their guest is drowning in the pleasure, they shot him dead.

I can't help but notice the lingering scenes of the girl, the marquis and the mistress on the guest's blood-stained carpet or sofa; it looked like the boys lying in the field looking up at the sky. I couldn't help but feel a sense of freshness in the room. This freshness makes me feel a pure desire. A pure distortion that is willing to sacrifice anything for its own pleasure, even the mistakes it has made, in order to fulfill its desires and not be held accountable.

It may be a little out of line with the essence of BDSM, but my goal is for you to surrender to that pure desire, and you don't know where you are anymore. I think it's lovely.

Let’s spend some time like that with me.

For me, the ideal dungeon is a classic coffee shop. It's funny how they say "dumplings rather than flowers," and how I love cake more than daily meals. It's the ideal space for me on the road to fructose addiction. In addition, I can enjoy coffee; there is no reason not to visit frequently. For example, the shop has an antique look with a brown color scheme. Your eyes following my every single move as I am tracing the grain of the table with my lazy fingers.

...but the truth is that it doesn't matter where I am. As I've blogged about before, I'm a exhibitionist, kinky lady. I like the rituals performed in secrecy, but I can't stop thinking these days about what would happen if I went out in public. That said, I don't like boring games that just show off the action. I want to add a little bit of disquietness to what seems to bea common conversation.

I want to entwine you with a web of codes that only we can understand, and crush you warmly and softly. I don't think I need anything else, as long as it's me, you, and the words.

It's an afternoon when the sun is leaning down. There is a lukewarm cup of coffee in front of you. She calls your name, and you raised my eyes to see a smiling domina Jun, sticking a piece of cake into her fork and offers it to you. When you approach it , you can smell a familiar smell, but it was a strange smell that you would never have smelled in this place.

You pulled back and shook his head to say no, but domina Jun's demanding eyes don't allow it. "Eat." Right here...! Cold sweat is running through your shirt but you made up your mind and eat it. It's sweet. You raise your voice in surprise, and domina Jun simles. Alas, I can never match this lady. How about a holiday like this?

What is hard play? This is, in a sense, a perennial question. But if you think about it from the play, you may find a common answer. That the sensations we feel are the truth, that the definition exists only in our mind...

Therefore, I'd like to focus on myself this time. In sessions, while exploring the limits of the slave, the domina is also in the process of "liberating" herself. In my case, I'm thinking that the degree of release may be what makes it hard.

In my profession, I tend to try to lean on the weaknesses and limitations of the other person. This ability to empathize with their weaknesses and transform things into forms that were more acceptable to the slave was my greatest strength back then. My empathy was good to them, and maybe even comforting. But that's just the way it is.

Sometimes I look back and think about the path I've taken. I wonder if they actually wanted me to define the border and paving the way so that it would be easy for them to get over it, even if I did it because I imagined their pain.

What gives me the most pleasure in play is the moment when I feel the slave's raw emotion with my whole body. You can miserably fawn on me, or act like nothing. It would be my pleasure if you were yourself at all times. If the same goes for the slave, then I must have been insulting them until now.

If I didn't want anything from the other person, I would be able to remain a kind and sensible girl. If it fits within their imagination, they would feel at ease. However, none of these are confronting them. If I face them with respect, I have to bump into them as I am.

So, I look forward to you. From now on, you bear the role of an instrument to fulfill my selfish wishes. If you writhed in agony because of my great expectation, it is none of my business. Be thankful to be the path I tread, the lump of earth. This is what lies deep within me. This 'liberation' of my nature is my hard play. 

You can already smell the hint of summer lately. As I complained the chilly spring, I began to feel the vivid greens are flourishing. It is rare to be able to take time and feel the change of the seasons. I can't help but write about the seasons from such thoughts.

As I've been letting you know on my blog, I've been working hard to play by myself. I cook, love the greenery, and soak up the sun. Now that I'm living almost like a complete plant in a room, if I stop moving at all, I'll have to accept the idea that I've shifted to photosynthesis, and then retire as an animal. LOL. Now, as for what I want to do after the pandemic, I honestly don't have any particular wishes. Because I can worry about the future but I also don't want to forget to enjoy the situation and time I have now.

A lot of things have already changed because of this pandemic. I feel that current situation has brought the situation of each country (from responsiveness to cicumstances) into the light of day. Our work patterns and lifestyles have been transformed and the fundamental meaning of meeting people has been questioned. The biggest change for us is in our lives, and the stress caused by this must be great.

I believe this is because many of the elements that shapes our lives are habits. It takes a lot of work to change something that you've developed as a habit. (It's pretty tedious if you have to relearn a program that you've turned into semi-auto mode.)

And we don't know whether the results after a change are good or bad especially if it's the first time it happens. This sense of uncertainty can lead to instinctive fear and discomfort. What's more, disregarding individuality through righteousness can make you more stubborn. In my experience, this is something that is emphasized in the medical field as well. This is one reason why life guidance for patients is so difficult. Encourage patient's understanding, forgive the gray areas, and be emotionally supportive...

In any case, isn't it always people's compassion that pushes people's back? So, I'm sure that's what you need even now. I have received various responses and comments on my blog. I wanted to reply to you one by one, but I would like to thank you for it through this column. But...if I had to say, my wish after mitigation is that I'd like to go on a trip abroad. I've been addicted to Thai food, and now I'm craving spices! I am now working hard on my home cooking, dreaming of the day when I can eat delicious food.

The girl is stepping on dry fallen leaves and peeking at life through the disordered trees. She reaches out to touch your cheek while her feet are caught in the large undulating roots of the trees. The little bird seemed to have already begun to turn cold. Its wings were half spread and its beak was open. Reflexively, I knew I shouldn't look. My grandmother had forbidden me to pray over dead animals.

"For whom is your compassion?" I remembered my grandmother's stranger-like profile as she said that. As I gently picked up the little bird, it convulsed with the last of its strength. The little bird's consciousness must have already prepared for its departure, but being held in the arms of its natural enemy at such a final moment must have been a terrible feeling.

After all, it was none of my business. I picked it up on my own, knowing that I couldn't do anything about it. I was so upset by the little bird's powerful counterattack that I almost cried. At any given moment, I'm just another person, and the bird's soft feathers are a needle in a haystack, hurting my palm as I confront that fact. At the last moment, I felt as if my ulterior motive of taking advantage of your weakness and secretly trying to touch your heart had been seen through.
The little bird's body gradually released its energy, and eventually it really stopped moving. My hands felt as if they had been drained of moisture by the dried blood, but I wondered which of the two was responsible for the smeared blood.

I gathered up a few leaves and buried the little bird. It's a good thing I was the last one, I wouldn't have eaten you alive.... In place of the flowers, the words I added were tasteless, leaving only a bitter taste in the back of my throat. This is the story of me, who was just passing by, and you, who was just happended to be found. I wonder if people would describe my life as clumsy, as if I were groping and gouging each other on a whim. But that's okay. Because this pain is love.

Serge Gainsbourg, "La chanson de Prévert" (The Chanson of Prévert)

https://youtu.be/kh-qmQjuZUk

Immediately after the war, the literary world, freed from the control of speech, was in an unprecedented state of excitement.
As if to make up for lost time, new works were being published one after another, and the publishing industry was coming back to life.
The boy who had devoted his youth to the idea in the midst of war was now a young man.
Although he could not make a living as a writer, he was beginning to emerge as a promising new star.
At that time, the young man heard a strange rumor from a familiar editor that there was a great writer whose style of writing was very similar to his own.
When he opened the page of the magazine marked with a crease, he found that the work he was planning to write was on the page. It was an exact duplicate, and even though he didn't remember writing it, the sentence certainly seemed to be his own phrasing and expression.

The young man turned pale with surprise and looked up at the editor, who shook his head with a mysterious expression.
According to the information gathered by the editor, he initially suspected that it was from the young man's enthusiastic fans, but that was not the case.
Not only did no one know what the author looked like, but no one had ever met the person.
According to what the editor heard from a friend, the work was always sent around the end of the month in a large brown envelope, stuffed tightly, with the words written in a mangled mess all over the squares of the manuscript paper.
At first glance, it seemed to be a dubious document, but if you read read it, it was so beautiful that it looked as if it had been revised many times. However, this was only a result of the fact that the person had written in a memo enclosed in the envelope that the series will be stopped if any part of it was changed.

The young man is disappointed and despairs when his current work is announced as if he is writing it in advance.
He is deprived of the fame he was supposed to get, and also feels uncomfortable as if his head is being played with (as if insects are crawling around).
The young man decided that he must meet this man once. The young man found out the man's address.
The man lived in a large mansion on the outskirts of Tokyo, which had apparently survived the air raids.
The young man looked at the mansion through the hedge and saw a woman sprinkling water on the road in front of the mansion. The woman was wearing a crape kimono with a string around the hem.
Her long, soft, and delicate hair was tied up in a bun, and her eyes looked cool with long eyelashes. Unexpectedly, the young man could not take his eyes off the woman.

After watching her for a while, the woman seemed to have finished sprinkling water and went back inside the house. The young man remembered the reason why he had come to the mansion and hurriedly adjusted the collar of his kimono and said loudly, "Excuse me," when the sliding door of the entrance opened and the woman appeared.
"Um, is your husband here? I have no appointment, but I really need to talk."
The young man said the words he had been thinking about in one breath, and waited for the woman to speak. He waited for the woman to speak, and then she told him that she was the only one living here.
The young man raised his voice and asked if the writer was not your husband, to which the woman suddenly raised her lips.
"In that case," the woman invited the young man into the house.

The young man was invited into a large drawing room. The woman serves him tea, takes a sip of hers, and reveals that that is her pen name.
When the young man was surprised, she said aloofly that she did so because there was no way anyone would take her writing seriously if they know the author is a female.
When the young man asked her about his discomfort, as if she was looking into his head, she grinned and said, "Maybe we're alike."
The woman grinned and said, "Maybe we are alike." The young man asked her not to be silly, but she told him to come back tomorrow if he wanted to know the secret.
The young man was sent home without any explanation, but the woman's fearless smile stuck in his mind and he could not get rid of it. And so the young man began to visit the woman.

That was the beginning of this story. Since this is a relay column, there are not enough words to write it like my regular blog.
The first thing that came to my mind when I heard this theme was time traveling.
I'm sure we've all thought at one time or another what we would want to do if we went back in time to the past.
And what would happen if we could interfere with the past and change the future?
The writers who are known as literary giants today, their personalities and the lives they lived back then are very fascinating to their fans.
If I could go back in time and interfere with their youth, I would probably try to publish a book pretending to be one of these great writers.

I wonder what you would think if you found out that there was someone who wrote exactly like you.
Not just writing, but the same works, the same thoughts, the same words, and so on, covering everything related to your personality as if it were a living copy of you.
You will feel a kind of creepiness, a strong sense of fear and disgust sticking to the bottom of your stomach.
At the same time, I thought, you would also feel a strong sense of curiosity.
A person's way of life and sense of values are strongly projected in his or her works, but it is probably impossible for others to completely understand the complex mental landscape of the work.
In this context, he thought that if he found out that there was a work circulating in the world that he could only assume he had written, but had no recollection of having written at all, how could he not be interested in the mastermind behind it?

"That's a comic strip that rightly verbalizes SM." I was told many times that this was the case, but I didn't really care to read it.

Why is that? Because I knew that if I read it, I would be attracted to that relationship. Isn't it too attractive to be able to form a relationship with someone only after a life-or-death situation?

What I sympathized with was the stance of suffering that Kakihara, the villan, had. I also enjoyed how he asserted that "pain is not something you feel, but something you think about."

When Kakihara confronts others who are trying to inflict pain on him, he does not seem to be afraid of them.

Rather, he seems to be begging, "Let me be afraid!" Kakihara's actions and words often make the people around him fearful and describe him as crazy.

However, if you understand his stance, I think you can somewhat...understand it.

If we follow Kakihara's principle, when we are the one inflicting pain, we should not find personality in the person we are confronting. And we should not relax our hands in sympathy with the pain.

I have a great deal of sympathy for the saying, "Pain is something to think about."

I suppose there is a preference that I genuinely like pain, but it surely does not require a relationship. If anything, even a partner isn't necessary.

The kind of play that is purely for the love of pain and the desire for deeper scars is the kind of play that can be enjoyed alone. In order to feel the value of pain more than pain, it is necessary to have Inevitability and relationship.

Inevitability is "the reason or the process that leads to the pain."

Relationships are a major reason to give strength to this inevitability. In our common language, the scar "she" created has a meaning.

Maybe I can't be "Ichi" to Kakihara when I understand this. LOL.

What I find difficult to understand in this story is the main character, "Ichi".

Looking at Ichi, I think that when one exercises pure violence that has no logic of any kind, childhood is an important element. This is what one might describe as pure innocence.

Another characteristic of Ichi that should be noted is that he sees his opponents from his own closed world.

Although he is looking at the other person, he does not recognize the other person as the other person.

He is applying someone else from his own past memories, so it could be said that he is fundamentally denying the existence of the other person.

And because we do not establish an emotional relationship with the other person, he will never be aware of this distortion.

It feels good to see Ichi kills others so easily. The scene in which Ichi, who is oppressed and creeped out in everyday life, weeds out his opponents with a special kick is like a hero show. That is why it is also creepy.

He does not look back at the person he killed, nor does he regret remembering it. The world Ichi sees is like a virtual world that goes on forever.

In the fierce chase between Kakihara and Ichi in the last scene, a peculiar situation arises in which an unidentified old man does play-by-play from beginning to end.

In the midst of this, it is revealed that the inevitability that Kakihara refers to is in fact a fragile one that can only be established with an understanding that does not definitively threaten safety. (that's how I got it.)

I feel that the result of this obsession with inevitability has turned into a tremendous comedy. I feel something unfathomable in this old man, but I think he is the closest in thought to domina.

The essence of the old man is his willingness to change even himself in search of something interesting. The chase in the last scene was probably the ideal situation that old man had in mind.

I would say that he carefully arranged the inevitability of what Kakihara said, and finally reap all of Kakihara's stance by the absolute violence of Ichi...or remind Kakihara that it was meaningless.

I am not confident that I can summarize this well because it has so much information. Then, how did I feel after I've read this? My honest impression is that I was genuinely jealous of them.