Curse of the Denizen: 8

Curse of the Denizen: 8

Curse of the Denizen 1

I walked all the way from The Denizen to Dance Square with Cheung Lik. Once he’d disappeared into the development I hailed a cab. Not long after I passed through the portal of Flash Photography in the Dalston district of Hackney. An assistant greeted me.

“I want you to identify the sitter in one of your portraits.”

“We don’t give out names here. Our discretion is never knowingly undersold.”

“It’s the exception that proves the rule.”

When I handed over the photograph I’d found in Tao’s flat, a fistful of what locals quaintly call ‘Bobby Moores’ went with it. As soon as the assistant saw the twenty-pound notes he smiled and there was a twinkle in his eye.

“As you say, the exception proves the rule. This lady is rather famous, or at least notorious, it’s Woo Gam.”

“Woo who?”

“Woo Gam. She’s a pornographic actress whose biggest hit on the dark web is Chinese Communism A Load Of Pork Balls. It’s quite a movie because it features Woo giving blow jobs to a number of high-ranking Chinese Communist Party officials, all of whom were caught on camera without their knowledge. What’s more she gets them all excited and then refuses to bring them to orgasm unless they repeat various ultra-leftist critiques of the Chinese state she mouths at them. Some people believe Woo is a communist sex witch using high magick to overthrow Maoist state capitalism. She’s rumoured to belong to a secret society called the International Communist Coven or ICC. Of course there are those who insist Woo is really working for Chinese intelligence, that the officials she targets are either corrupt or the victims of party feuds and these sex and heresy tapes are just a convenient device to throw people out of office and into jail!”

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Either my expression or something else about me afforded the assistant considerable amusement.

“In that case why didn’t my online attempts to search for Woo throw up any results?”

“Those who are notorious in the shadows of the dark web generally remain unknown in the light of Google or Yahoo results.”

“What is Woo Gam’s address?” I asked.

“It’s info@communistsexmutant.com.”

“I require her private address.”

“That, I’m afraid, I don’t have.”

I pulled out another fistful of Bobby Moores and was furnished with the information I required.

“Woo Gam lives with another porn star called Mary Millington at 222 Royal College Street in Camden.”

As I sped towards Camden in a hire car, I tried to assimilate the information I’d gleaned. It wasn’t easy, my avenging angel was a blue movie sex siren!

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Royal College Street proved to be a nice old-fashioned sort of place, and 222 a small block of flats. It was not plush but the impression its exterior made upon me was a pleasant on.

I tired various bells and eventually got hold of Mary Millington. “Can I come up? I have news of Woo Gam.”

I was buzzed in and on the second floor I was greeted by a tiny blonde sex bomb. Mary was dressed in studs and leather. She used a judo throw to haul me into her flat, where I landed flat on my back on the floor.

“Take your clothes off and don’t look at me.” Mary instructed. “Once you’re naked I want you to take all the high denomination notes out of your wallet and hold them in your mouth. Then you’re to crawl on all fours across the room and give the money to me.”

I did as I was told. Afterwards Mary made me lie with my chest and stomach on a bolster. She made me stretch my arms out in front of me and shackled my wrists together. My legs were bent at the knees and my backside was resting on my ankles, and Mary also chained me feet together. She put a blindfold over my eyes, put a gag in my mouth and took a switch to my backside. She beat my bottom hard with dozens of strokes. What happened next was even more peculiar.

“You need to relax.” Mary told me. “You have a very tight arsehole and you need to stop contracting the muscles if I’m to get even a small buttplug up it. You need some serious anal training.”

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When Mary had inserted the buttplug she told me she was going out for a few hours and that this anal stimulator had better still be in place when she came back or I’d be in real trouble. Then she put on a looped recording and jacked up the volume before she left. There was a mixture of white noise and rock and roll, and repeated through all this was a woman reading aloud from The SCUM Manifesto by Valerie Solanas:

“The male is completely egocentric, trapped inside himself, incapable of empathizing or identifying with others, or love, friendship, affection of tenderness. He is a completely isolated unit, incapable of rapport with anyone. His responses are entirely visceral, not cerebral; his intelligence is a mere tool in the services of his drives and needs; he is incapable of mental passion, mental interaction; he can’t relate to anything other than his own physical sensations. He is a half-dead, unresponsive lump, incapable of giving or receiving pleasure or happiness; consequently, he is at best an utter bore, an inoffensive blob, since only those capable of absorption in others can be charming. He is trapped in a twilight zone halfway between humans and apes, and is far worse off than the apes because, unlike the apes, he is capable of a large array of negative feelings – hate, jealousy, contempt, disgust, guilt, shame, doubt – and moreover, he is aware of what he is and what he isn’t.”

“Although completely physical, the male is unfit even for stud service. Even assuming mechanical proficiency, which few men have, he is, first of all, incapable of zestfully, lustfully, tearing off a piece, but instead is eaten up with guilt, shame, fear and insecurity, feelings rooted in male nature, which the most enlightened training can only minimize; second, the physical feeling he attains is next to nothing; and third, he is not empathizing with his partner, but is obsessed with how he’s doing, turning in an A performance, doing a good plumbing job. To call a man an animal is to flatter him; he’s a machine, a walking dildo. It’s often said that men use women. Use them for what? Surely not pleasure.”

“Eaten up with guilt, shame, fears and insecurities and obtaining, if he’s lucky, a barely perceptible physical feeling, the male is, nonetheless, obsessed with screwing; he’ll swim through a river of snot, wade nostril-deep through a mile of vomit, if he thinks there’ll be a friendly pussy awaiting him. He’ll screw a woman he despises, any snaggle-toothed hag, and furthermore, pay for the opportunity. Why? Relieving physical tension isn’t the answer, as masturbation suffices for that. It’s not ego satisfaction; that doesn’t explain screwing corpses and babies.”

“Completely egocentric, unable to relate, empathize or identify, and filled with a vast, pervasive, diffuse sexuality, the male is psychically passive. He hates his passivity, so he projects it onto women, defines the male as active, then sets out to ‘prove that he is Man’. His main means of attempting to prove it is screwing. Since he’s attempting to prove an error, he must ‘prove’ it again and again. Screwing, then, is a desperate compulsive, attempt to prove he’s not passive, not a woman; but he is passive and does want to be a woman.”

“Being an incomplete female, the male spends his life attempting to complete himself, to become female. He attempts to do this by constantly seeking out, fraternizing with and trying to live through and fuse with the female, and by claiming as his own all female characteristics — emotional strength and independence, forcefulness, dynamism, decisiveness, coolness, objectivity, assertiveness, courage, integrity, vitality, intensity, depth of character, grooviness, etc – and projecting onto women all male traits – vanity, frivolity, triviality, weakness, etc. It should be said, though, that the male has one glaring area of superiority over the female — public relations. He has done a brilliant job of convincing millions of women that men are women and women are men. The male claim that females find fulfilment through motherhood and sexuality reflects what males think they’d find fulfilling if they were female.”

“Women, in other words, don’t have penis envy; men have pussy envy. When the male accepts his passivity, defines himself as a woman (males as well as females think men are women and women are men), and becomes a transvestite he loses his desire to screw (or to do anything else, for that matter; he fulfils himself as a drag queen) and gets his dick chopped off. He then achieves a continuous diffuse sexual feeling from ‘being a woman’. Screwing is, for a man, a defence against his desire to be female.”

While this soundtrack was blasted into my ears, I could feel the buttplug shifting around between my arse cheeks. I struggled to keep it in for a long time, but it eventually fell out with a soft plop. When Mary eventually came back, I don’t know how many hours later, this was the first thing she noticed.

“Oh you naughty boy, you’re let your buttplug fall out. Now I’m going to flog you and peg you as punishment.” Mary screamed.

The porn star lifted my blindfold briefly and showed me an enormous strap-on that she said would make me bleed when she screwed me with it. I found out later that she substituted it for a smaller one once my blindfold was secure again, since I was an anal virgin and not ready for the ‘big boy’. After I was flogged and banged, Mary put a dog collar around my neck and after untying me led me by a lead into her bathroom. She threw my clothes in with me and told me to clean myself up.

Once I’d showered and was back in my clothes, I found Millington sitting in the living room and acting as if nothing had happened between us.

“So what’s up with Woo?” Mary asked.

Curse of the Denizen 9

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