Tie Me Chicago VIII

Late Saturday morning, having slept in,  I find myself returning to the provocative website of Miss Midori Matsumoto. The mystery of the unlabeled link button continues to intrigue. Is the casual viewer supposed to notice? Or is it there only for those apprized of its presence... its possibilities... that with a click of the mouse, Shabari depictions well beyond the artistically erotic, tasteful prints and photographs of the main page will glare forth... filling both the screen and the mind with evidence of feminine power... Miss Midori Matsumoto’s feminine power.

I am to arrive an hour early in Highland Park... having feigned awareness of the need for preparation. It’s curious. I needed not preparation at the Macon County fair. I extended my hand and that began the loss of self esteem... a temporary loss. From that point I was owned, a captive, lengths of rope enveloping both my form and psyche in the culture of ancient Japan.

Though the crowd of brawny farm workers was greatly enthused, I strangely becalmed. Ownership, capitulation, the realization came quickly that I was to succumb to she holding the free end of the rope. I became transfixed, attentive, focused... on she in charge. Bizarre, but the tent became empty... and I eager to perform for she with the power.... to release... conversely to keep me.

So the secret tab is again clicked. I further explore, suddenly realizing that as I scroll there are videos. How could I before miss such?    
 
More clicks and I find that the offerings are teasers, short clips of less than a minute, longer obviously more complete editions for sale... the price considerable. And such is conducive, correlating with the prices commanded for the masterful scenes of beautiful female models. After all, Miss Midori Matsumoto is a Nawashi... an acclaimed Nawashi... her work to be treasured.

I choose a scene. I click. There is a dark studio like room. Over head lights beam to project Miss Midori, attired in tight leather, and a naked young male obediently standing at attention. As the smiling Nawashi begins, reams of rope unraveling, I note that above is a large circle of metal, dangling from more rope of course. It is evident, the lad is to be suspended.

The mastery is also evident, nimbleness, quickness, exacting loops, placed perfectly symmetrical. With the torso encased, strands of hemp strung between the thighs, Miss Midori tugs at a free end in her hand, establishing her control. Her mouth moves, no doubt uttering a command. It is then that I have the wherewithal to reach forth and turn up the sound.

There comes shock. As Miss Midori leads the captive naked male to a stool resting under the large ring, through the speakers of my computer come the sound of voices, murmurs of approval... excitement... enthusiasm. And more shocking, the resonance suggests males... many... there is an audience... just as that observing me at the Macon County fair.

As the camera lens zooms inward, indicating there is also the presence of a photographer, the genitals of the captive male fill the screen... shaven... sizable as expected... and rapidly engorging.

The screen then slowly turns to blank, the teaser ending, and there comes the sound of cheers, indubitably male. 

I am apoplectic, staring into the blankness, the mouse held stationary as my homophobia rages. Realization that the priapic young male is to be put on display, made to perform for an audience of men... discerning... appreciative no doubt of the art form... but men! It galls. And I have an 8:00 p.m. appointment!

I need to calm myself. And for some reason thoughts of how many years ago the Amazon Eve trained this truculent boy, relieving him of belligerence, flash back into memory.