:: Article

Excerpt: Tokyo Sodom

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By Stephen Barber.

The following afternoon, Junko arrived at Angeliko’s suite at the Park Hyatt, carrying two cellophane-wrapped packages on coat-hangers. Angeliko was still asleep after the previous night’s activity and the digitally-induced orgasm she had received from the idoru’s cock. Junko was determined to return the favour which Angeliko had shown her the previous evening, of tonguing-out the henchmen’s noxious semen from Junko’s drenched, spasming cunt. Angeliko was sprawled on her back across the bed in the same position in which she had collapsed in neural exhaustion on returning to her room, her gorgeous body naked, the firm globes of her awesome breasts tipped by nipples that remained erect even in her deep sleep, as she dreamed about her brief sighting of the idol’s flickering cock as one of his henchmen tucked that ghostly instrument of fuck back into his trousers. Junko began to tongue Angeliko’s clitoris with her vermilion-lipsticked mouth, then raised Angeliko’s rear-end slightly to get at the opening of her anus, which was still crusted by traces of Kim-X’s dried-up, glittering semen.

The sensation of Junko’s tongue on her asshole awakened Angeliko, and she asked: ‘So, what’s lined-up for today?’ In order to answer, Junko had to stop tongue-fucking Angeliko’s beautiful anus, and for the next few minutes, as she outlined their schedule, Junko alternated between speaking in quick bursts and ramming her malleable tongue as far as it would go, pivoting it inside the mouth of Angeliko’s well-muscled rectum.

‘As you know, I’m bent on world-wide anti-consumerist revolution,’ Junko began, her tongue breaking off its slurping of Angeliko’s asshole. ‘Before long, there will be a new series of riots on the avenues of Shinjuku, in the wake of the projection on Tokyo’s image-screens of your multiply-fucked anus. The 60s riots which you saw on the image-screens at the Genet Bar last night will pale into insignificance compared with what I’m planning. This time, the riots will bring down Japan’s malevolent corporate elites and its corrupt political cliques, and we will institute an all-encompassing Return to Zero. Narita Airport will be razed to the ground and the land returned to the peasants. All of the millions of decadent, fad-obsessed J-teens will be sent out into the countryside for compulsory re-education.’

Junko interrupted her revolutionary monologue to resume her tonguing of Angeliko’s anus, corkscrewing her tongue nearly three inches up that asshole while simultaneously probing Angeliko’s cunt with three speed-blurred fingers; Angeliko was starting to writhe on the bed with the first convulsions of her orgasm, squeezing her own nipples and spitting out obscenities.

‘Today, I will show you our greatest enemy,’ resumed Junko. ‘The Japanese neofascists, who want a return to the imperial militarism of the 1930s, when our armies rampaged down the coast of East Asia, massacring untold millions and unleashing chemical-war. As you know, our unfortunate defeat in the Pacific War put an end to all that, and ever since, we have had no army at all, just a Self-Defence Force. The most hard-core militarists want to start with the restitution of the Kurile Islands, off the northern tip of Japan — those islands were slyly seized by Stalin for the Soviet Union at the end of the Pacific War, just after the destruction of Hiroshima and before the American Army arrived to occupy Japan in its defeat. The islands have never been returned, and the first target of the hard-core neofascists is to make Russia restore them to Japanese ownership. To that end, the neofascists drive black-painted vans around the central Ginza district of Tokyo, blaring-out militaristic songs and speeches at maximum volume. That’s where we’re going today,’ she concluded, switching her attention entirely to Angeliko’s asshole, working her tongue and fingers relentlessly to wring a ferocious orgasm from Angeliko, who kicked-out her heels in the middle of her neural spasms; one heel drove its way into Junko’s left eye-socket, leaving a near-black bruise which made Junko feel relieved that she had brought her eye-patch with her.

‘Why would the neofascists agree to meet us?’ asked Angeliko, when the convulsions of her orgasm had started to fade. ‘It’s true that Slovakians are natural-born fascists. In the Second World War, we were the only nation in Europe that actually paid the Nazis to take our Jews away to Auschwitz! 20,000 of them, at the cost of 50 crowns per deportation. But neofascists are always paranoid, so they’ll take some convincing to meet us.’

‘This hard-core group has been receiving sizeable donations from the Sato Corporation in preparation for this moment,’ replied Junko. ‘And, to make absolutely certain they’ll accept us, I’ve had special replica uniforms made for us both — exact copies of those which our greatest writer, Yukio Mishima, designed in the late 1960s for his private army of imperial neofascists, the Shield Society.’

Junko unwrapped the packages she had been carrying, revealing two elegant uniforms. She tried hers on. The dark-grey, silk-engrained fabric of the jacket buttoned-up at both sides, topped by a high-necked black collar. The jacket was belted high at the waist to emphasise the chest region, since Mishima had been proud of his bodybuilding-enhanced upper body. In Junko’s case, the design of the jacket emphasized her perfect Mount Fuji-shaped breasts with their distended nipples. The well-cut trousers,with their black stripes at each side, were cut tightly over Junko’s sleek rear-end, and ran down to knee-length leather boots. The uniform was completed by stylish white gloves and a black cap; the silver badge attached to the front of the cap combined the Japanese imperial insignia with Mishima’s personal emblem, which merged the Japanese characters for his name with a death’s-head skull.

Junko looked awe-inspiring in the uniform, and Angeliko’s cunt immediately started to ooze juice and rev towards another orgasm. After she had taken a leisurely bath, she tried on her own uniform; the jacket enhanced the phenomenal globes of her breasts, and she slicked-back her white-blond hair so that it was just visible beside her razor-sharp cheekbones, under the cap. Junko had added a personal touch of her own to the outfits, and both she and Angeliko were now wearing tight panties emblazoned with the Rising Sun icon of Japan under their uniform trousers.

‘We look great,’ enthused Angeliko as they looked at their uniformed reflections in one of the suite’s full-length mirrors. ‘Let’s seize power right now, restore the Emperor to his full god-like glory, and institute the Great New Push down to Singapore.’

Junko pouted in disapproval, then handed Angeliko the satchel containing the film-camera,and ushered her out of the suite:

‘We’ve got to hurry. Our meeting is in ten minutes, and we have to get right the way across Tokyo to the Ginza district. These rabid militarists are died-in-the-wool ass-fuckers — premium-quality buggers, like Mishima himself — and, with any luck, you’ll have your anus stuffed with neofascist liquid fuck by the end of the afternoon.’

The limousine carrying them across the city stalled in traffic outside the Imperial Hotel, and Junko and Angeliko walked the rest of the way to the Ginza Crossing, in a consumerist zone of department-stores and tech-conglomerate showrooms. Even as she climbed-out of the limousine, Angeliko could hear the blasting cacophony of the neofascists’ low-quality amplifiers; the white-noise frenzy of voices and feedback ricocheted backwards and forwards off the Ginza towers, becoming more and more distorted. Angeliko thought: It’s worse even than a Keiji Haino concert. The Tokyo police never intervened to stop the neofascists’ transmissions; those fanatical militarists’ powerful backers in the Japanese government made generous donations to the police on a regular basis. The thousands of pedestrians around Ginza seemed oblivious to the speeches and songs that were being emitted from the Rising Sun-decorated black van positioned at one angle of the intersection, simply putting their hands to their ears to try to drown out the ear-splitting noise. Junko banged with her fist on the side of the van,and a door slid open in its side. The interior of the van was a chaos of rolled-up balls of paper and long-discarded noodle-ccontainers, airless and stinking of sweat, with a space cleared in its centre for a long table, which held an archaic-looking microphone, from which some wires led up to the loudspeakers fixed to the roof of the van. There were only two nervous-looking men inside the van, both of them in their fifties, with shaven heads and black uniforms noticeably less elegant than those worn by Junko and Angeliko. They both had scarves tied around their foreheads, with Japanese characters inscribed in their own blood on the white fabric: ‘Determined Until Death’. One of the men was barking rapidly into the microphone, reading from a crumpled piece of paper, spit flying from his mouth; simultaneously, his speech was blasting at extreme volume from the loudspeakers. Once they had climbed inside, Junko bowed deeply to the two neofascists, and the one who had been broadcasting to Tokyo’s consumerist hordes interrupted his speech in mid-denunciation, turned off the microphone’s transmission and offered a curt nod to Junko in return. Once the neofascists had taken a close look at the Shield Society uniforms worn by Angeliko and Junko, their eyes opened-wide in admiration and lust, and Angeliko could see some commotion going on in their ill-fitting uniform trousers.

Junko introduced the neofascists to Angeliko and remarked: ‘This is one of our most distinguished allies from the West, on a fact-finding visit.’

The neofascists looked suspiciously at Angeliko, and glanced at one another in alarm — they clearly didn’t like Westerners at all, though the sight of her uniform-distending nipples appeared to have appeased their xenophobia to some degree.

‘Are you from the Lichtenberg Chapter?’ the one who had been broadcasting asked Angeliko in shaky English, assuming that she was from the ex-East German neofascist heartland.

‘No: the Bratislava Chapter,’ Angeliko corrected him severely.

‘The Lichtenberg Chapter are lily-llivered waverers, and we will cull them without mercy in the coming struggle for Purity.’

In return, the neofascist delivered a raving tirade about the Russian-held Kurile Islands, throwing in a denunciation of the USA to boot.

By that time, the small-talk was over, the neofascists’ cocks were straining painfully against their uniforms, and one of them was urgently mumbling to Junko in Japanese about an ‘initiation ceremony’. Junko motioned to Angeliko with her eyes,and they both undid the buttons of their uniform trousers at the same moment, remaining careful not to spoil the smart cut of their tit-hugging jackets. Then, they each leaned over one side of the table and slid down their uniform trousers to their knees, revealing their gorgeous rear-ends, still wearing their Rising Sun-emblazoned tight panties, which made the militarists grunt in approval when they saw them.

Junko and Angeliko were now facing each other across the table, the microphone between them, almost mouth to mouth; Angeliko’s cheeks had flushed from the airless heat of the van and from her anticipation of the neofascistic cock which she expected to penetrate her asshole at any second. Her juice-oozing panties were being slid down over the mouth of her anus. To Angeliko’s surprise, she felt cold metal against the corrugated pink skin of her anal mouth, rather than a hot cockhead. She glanced backwards,and saw the handle-end of a razor-sharp samurai sword start to disappear into her asshole. The sensation of centuries-old, death-delivering steel being rammed into her anus made Angeliko convulse with a volatile mixture of fear and ecstasy,but she made sure that her Shield Society-inscribed cap remained perfectly straight on her white-blond head. The neofascist drove the sword’s handle into Angeliko’s rectum for a couple of inches before withdrawing it, then stepped to one side, gripped the handle in both fists and swung the huge sword backwards over his shoulder, as though gathering the momentum to decapitate Angeliko with one blow.

‘This is a family treasure,’ the neofascist explained proudly to Junko, taking one hand off the sword’s handle to stroke his substantial cock.

‘I could slice off this Westerner’s beautiful head in one stroke, just as my father beheaded at least one hundred imperial Britishers and Dutchmen in the jungles of New Guinea, with this very sword. Those were acts of mercy, of course — the Britishers had surrendered in disgrace, and no longer deserved to live.’

Angeliko was livid. She wanted her asshole filled with rigid cock, right now, and she was past caring who fucked her. She reached up, knocked the sword out of the neofascist’s grip with one violent blow, and pulled him towards her by his cock. The neofascist looked wistfully at his sword; its blade, worn-down from over-use in the humid jungles of South East Asia, had shattered on impact with the wall of the van. He decided he would punish this devilish Westerner with the hardest ass-fucking she had ever experienced, and he drove his ten-inch-long rod of rock-hard fuck-meat deep into Angeliko’s anus in one stroke.

At the same moment, the other neofascist had embedded his own cock into Junko’s beautiful rectum. Junko and Angeliko were still facing one another across the table, their mouths only a half-inch apart. The gasping neofascists had soon established a relentless rhythm, driving their cocks in and out of the two anal tunnels at a steady rate of thirty thrusts each minute. The only way in which Junko and Angeliko could steady themselves was to grip the microphone on the table between them, and Angeliko’s white-gloved fingers accidentally switched-on the button which activated the microphone and the loud-speakers on top of the van,which came to life in a furious wave of wailing feedback.

As the neofascists’ ass-fucking rhythm intensified, they began to chant the names of islands. The black-uniformed fucker with his cock driven ten inches-deep inside Angeliko’s anus loudly chanted the names of the Kurile Islands — ‘Habomai, Etorofu, Shikotan, Kunashiri!’ — while the other ass-fucker was reciting the names of the Okinawan islands, off the southern coast of Japan, which had been seized by the Americans and turned into chemical-leaking waste-dumps of obsolete military hardware. Angeliko’s anus was being driven into a state of explosive ecstasy by the relentlessly pounding cock-thrusts, and her mind had been propelled into near-hallucinogenic delirium by the incessant chanting. She began to repeat the names of the islands after the neofascist had yelled them out, then a convulsive orgasm suddenly hit her and she let out a long series of high-pitched screams, one for each of the fourteen thick spurts of militaristic semen that were being shot deep into her anus. Junko’s orgasm hit her at the same time, and she was also gasping in full-throated ecstasy.

Outside on the Ginza intersection, the puzzled crowds listened to the sounds of screaming orgasm being blasted from the van’s loudspeakers, above the recitation of the Kurile islands’ names. The sounds of Angeliko’s screams impacted on the glass-faced sides of the mega-cconglomerates’ showrooms and department-stores, increasing in volume as they were carried from surface to surface.

Inside the van, the neofascist who had ass-fucked Angeliko pulled out his mania-driven cock, and wiped the still-spurting cockhead on her Rising Sun-emblazoned panties. Incited by Angeliko’s Shield-Society uniform and by her captivating asshole, that militarist was proud to have shot an inordinate amount of liquid fuck, and it was only just beginning to dribble from Angeliko’s anal mouth. As her mind rapidly re-focused from its descent into the void of delirium, Angeliko heard the echo of her final orgasmic screams outside, and realised that she had been broadcasting her ecstasy to the entire population of the megalopolis — or, at least, to everyone in earshot in Ginza and the surrounding districts.

Furious that the impact of her film’s projection, scheduled for four nights in the future, might be impaired by this premature evidence of her ass-fucking mission, Angeliko was soon beside herself in anger. After buttoning up her uniform trousers, she gripped the neofascist ass-fucker by the throat and starting cursing him in her native Slovakian:

‘Metrovy kokot do tvojet mama riti’! (A three-foot-long diseased cock up your mother’s anus!)

‘Pojeb sa’! (Fuck yourself!)

‘Jebal t’a chory’ pes’! (I hope a sick dog fucks you!)

She kept on cursing into the face of the nonplussed militarist, until Junko calmly took Angeliko’s arm and reminded her that it was a matter of urgency for her to film the neofascist semen that was now starting to seep from her anus. As she left, Junko turned to the neofascists, bowed and politely thanked them for hosting Angeliko’s fact-finding visit. The fuck-addled neofascists bowed cursorily in return, their eyes still glazed from their headlong exertions. Angeliko was already heading for the toilets in the Sony Corporation’s product-showroom at the other side of the Ginza intersection. In the tiny toilet-cubicle, she pulled down her uniform’s trousers, ripped-off her spunk-sodden Rising-Sun panties, and bent forwards over the toilet-seat to film the still-gushing flood of seed.

Then she turned round, sat on the toilet and pressed the ‘Buttock-WW’ button on the panel beside her. A jet of warm water shot upwards, flushing the neofascistic semen out of her anus. By the time she came out and rejoined Junko on the Ginza intersection, Angeliko was still incandescent with rage.

ABOUT THE AUTHOR
Stephen Barber has been hailed as “the most dangerous man in Britain” by The Independent. The Times has called his work “brilliant, profound and provocative”. He is a noted cultural historian and author of many acclaimed books, including Burning World, the best-selling biography of Edmund White, Tokyo Vertigo, Caligula: Divine Carnage, Projected Cities, Jean Genet, Fragments of the European City and two studies of Antonin Artaud, The Screaming Body and Blows And Bombs. His writing has won many awards and been translated into Japanese, French, German and Italian. Formerly Professor of Digital Media at the University of Tokyo, he is currently Professor of Media Arts at Kingston University.

First published in 3:AM Magazine: Friday, July 7th, 2006.