In the weeks and months after Natasha and Bitches Against had bagged their first Number One record, at Christmas, life had continued at a weird pace. My fiancée and I adopted a female-led relationship around domination and, apart from my office when I attended a video call, I rarely wore clothes in the house or garden.
She paddled or spanked me several times a week; she pegged and urinated over me daily and we expanded our chest of bedroom toys considerably. Natasha became insatiable, and I joked it was “pregnancy hormones” as her overactive and depraved nymphomania barely stopped thinking about sex or kink.
Monika and Jamie had also returned from their Christmas break with renewed libidos. My Friday night sessions continued with the hot teenager, who liberally wielded her strapon dildos and expanded my submissiveness. One week, her friend witnessed the dominatrix peg me in a short kilt, and another, we had a “slumber party” with her “boi”, and four of his gay friends. We watched a Bruce La Bruce film with plenty of explicit homosexual sex scenes, and when the movie finished, the seven of us used almost two boxes of condoms. Much to Natasha’s glee and Monika’s amusement, I had become a submissive, bisexual bottom with a ravenous sexual appetite.
For Jamie’s birthday, Monika and I bought him lingerie from a trans-inclusive retailer, and the non-binary exhibitionist paraded around their flat, flaunting their lithe body in the translucent garments, before we took the promiscuous slut out for the evening to a wonderful restaurant I knew. They finished it as a star performer in their own gangbang film, with two dominant women and three bisexual men.
One Friday night, after a very passionate bout of cunnilingus and pegging, the dominant teenager passed me her tablet and showed me an erotic story. We sat in her bed as I read the well-written tale about an older man and a young dominatrix. It was highly arousing, and it turned me on as I digested page after page.
“That’s mine,” she admitted. “It’s only chapter one, but all of them are doing brilliantly on the site. I’m up to Chapter Eleven. The sub is going to his first gangbang in the next instalment!” She chuckled as her hand gently stroked my erect cock under her duvet. “Nats said it was brilliant.”
“It is,” I replied, and saved the link on my phone for my journey home. “Is it based on me and you?”
“A bit.” She smirked. “You don’t mind, do you?”
“No, of course not. It’s very flattering. Especially the description and size of my manhood. You’ve been very generous.”
She giggled and kissed me on the cheek, whispering in my ear. “Your cock is bigger than Jamie’s right now. They’re back in their cage.”
When I visited Monika’s flat on Friday nights and Saturdays, Natasha often entertained Faye and Nessie; her best friends loved to stay with her, and she confessed she enjoyed having guests at home when I was away. It was the mark of a healthy relationship that we could spend time apart without feeling jealous.
The band received considerable royalties for their Christmas song and even more when their previous albums saw additional air play because of their fame. Faye said they cashed three times more money in December than they had over the past seven years combined, and this sudden influx of cash provided opportunities, which they argued over. Nessie found the solution; an underground nightclub in Watford had recently closed its doors, and the girls visited the premises, interested in investment. They offered a decent sum, which the owners accepted, and the plans for the Punk Rock Cafe took hold; the soundproofed venue furnished the rockers with rehearsal space during the day and it promised a generous income when open in the evenings. They planned to make it a go-to destination for hard rock enthusiasts, while also giving smaller bands exposure.
Personally, it was good to see them investing their windfall in their future and their business plan was robust and well thought out. When she was not a dogsbody and merchandise saleswoman on tour, Nessie worked in the Punk Rock Cafe as a supervisor. Together with their new manager, Roberto, eight barmaids, and two barmen, the venue reopened with a blaze of publicity in late February. I went to the opening night, and Nessie never stopped working and managing the bar. I had only seen her selling branded stock at the gigs and as part of the sexual games we played, but in the band’s hospitality venture, she oversaw the staff and kept the operations running smoothly. The submissive minx acted with authority.
Faye and her new partner wanted to buy their own property and found a one-bedroom flat near their proposed Punk Rock Cafe. It was modest, but they had the income for a mortgage company to approve their application, and the sale progressed quickly. Outside of work, Nessie was the same dirty, submissive slut; she kept Scott as her “Straight Fuckbuddy” and his home was not that far from the small abode she shared with her lesbian sweetheart. One Sunday afternoon, she came to visit us with a plugged arse and obscene markings daubed over her skin. Her overnight rendezvous with her lover had started after the late night Saturday shift and had continued until the early morning as her casual sex with Casanova and his friends had taken turns in using her until dawn.
When the band practised and the club was not open, she made herself available and Natasha shared video footage on the band’s private WhatsApp group of the young woman being sexually tormented. One of the inexperienced barmen confused his shifts and came to work four hours early and saw Nessie blindfolded, stripped, tied to the bar and with a vibrator fastened to her cunt. He accepted Faye’s offer to “fuck the slut” as his boss had her umpteenth orgasm of the day.
Natasha had already arranged for my favoured builder to renovate another of the spare bedrooms into a nursery. She had refused to ask the ultrasound technician what gender our baby was, so we had the room decorated a neutral yellow shade. My fiancée also wanted us to get a nanny. She did not want to leave the band, but she required space and time to practise and to go on tour. We discussed it, and she reached out to Suna, the childcare assistant. The punk rock chick was unhappy on the South Coast and we travelled to meet her one Sunday. This – as we explained – was not primarily a sexual arrangement. We needed to employ someone to look after our newborn child when it was born, and to assist my soulmate as a new mother, not to be compelled to provide cunnilingus to my bisexual partner. Although – as Natasha reiterated – she would not discourage any carnal activity in the house.
Suna accepted the offer to become our Nanny, with a start in August, a fortnight before Natasha’s due-date.
With all this personal expense, I leapt at the opportunity to join a FinTech startup. Alongside a generous package as Chief Technical Architect, I had options to receive shares. The founder was an ex-colleague of mine, and he hoped that his new company, dynamo, would be a bridge between the stock exchanges and end users. Work was busy and the stresses from managing multiple relationships with demanding companies took its toll. I needed my kinky escapes more than ever, especially when I had to speak with potential clients. I was not a natural salesman.
Bitches Against won several gongs at the smaller music awards, and I attended the most prominent of them, hosted at Earls Court in early March. The industry body had nominated my fiancée’s band in the “Single of the Year”, “Best Rock Act” and “Best New Artist” categories and my lover rented six rooms in a budget chain hotel a short distance from the venue.
The girls hired a flatbed truck to deliver them to the indoor arena; whereas most acts chose costly limousines or expensive cars, Bitches Against used a beat-up twenty-year-old boneshaker and then posed for pictures in front of the decrepit vehicle. It encapsulated their aggressive punk reputation perfectly.
The ceremony was an incredible experience; superstars from music and television idly chatted to the band. A children’s TV presenter and Maddison did shots in the bar before the presentation and the loser, the bubbly innocent from CBBC, had to go commando for the rest of the night, which given her flowing gown had two long slits to her waist, was not an inconsequential forfeit.
Three veteran rock legends congratulated the band on their success, with one claiming that it was “fucking awesome” that a “proper music act” got the festive top spot, and Natasha cooed at the praise from the distinguished musician. My fiancée was so enamoured with the unexpected acclaim that I suspected she would have given the renowned icon a blowjob in the disabled toilets if he had asked.
Unfortunately, the girls lost out to established artists for the Single of the Year and Best Rock Act awards, but when the host read out “Bitches Against” for the Best New Artist accolade, the table erupted into a frenzy of excited cheers, shrieks and yells.
Camera bulbs flashed as the five women strode to the stage and collected their stylish trophy, with Faye and Natasha saying a few cheeky words of thanks. It felt other-worldly. I had followed Natasha and the band across the UK, admiring and adoring them for their high-energy music, and my journey had led me to the centre of London at the most important date in the musical awards calendar, cheering my fiancée for collecting the recognition they were long overdue.
I had to wipe my eyes as she stood on the stage, basking in the congratulatory applause from the distinguished guests. My phone did not stop vibrating in my pocket as family and friends messaged me.
The Christmas Number One made them famous, but the award cemented the band’s place in history. They were illustrious, starlets and idols, guaranteed to have offers to play at festivals. We cheered and watched the rest of the awards ceremony as the band took selfies with their figurine before we stumbled into an after-party. The nightclub, a short taxi-ride away, was an exclusive venue for the musical acts and a renowned DJ provided the atmosphere.
After a short time, we shuffled back to the hotel; I was glad to leave the fashionable destination as I felt on display as we partied. The tabloid paparazzi snapped us exiting, and it was not the fun, anonymous life we had.
The bar inside the hotel was busy; several attendees in the audience of the awards ceremony had stayed in the same establishment, and a live music venue nearby had finished their late night set. Revellers recognised Natasha, who gleefully signed autographs for her admirers before the band seated themselves at a table.
“Just come with me,” she whispered after we had both finished our first drink. Several fans had joined the award winners to chat, and the raunchy, fun-filled chatter had given way to a couple of drinking games. Natasha kissed me on the lips and led me out of the bar and to a ground floor room in the new annexe section of the hotel. Her hands touched my flanks as she unlocked the door to the disabled-friendly bedroom and guided me inside.
“This isn’t our room,” I replied. “We’re on the second floor and…” She put her finger on my lips.
“I know. This is our special place. But I want something,” she cried and pressed her mouth to mine. We kissed and my pregnant fiancée embraced me, navigating me backwards. She pulled my jacket from my shoulders, discarding it to her left, and unbuttoned my belt. Instinctively, I broke our embrace to untie my shoes and kicked them to one side, as my unfastened trousers fell to the ground. I stepped out of my socks and suit slacks.
Natasha was in heat as I pawed at her punk rock outfit, and she guided me backwards.
Into the bathroom.
The wet room comprised a tiled floor, with a central drain, low toilet, sink, and shower. “I want to give you my piss,” Natasha giggled and picked up a plastic bag on the closed lid of the seat. Two handcuffs on a long metal chain that she looped around a handrail so the rings dangled onto the ground.
“I’ll just strip off,” I muttered, and Natasha’s palm slapped my chest.
“Get on the fucking floor as you are,” she spat, and when I lay on the cold beige tiles over the drain, she grabbed my hands to fasten my wrists to her restraints. My limbs rested on the ground, but when I moved my arm, the chain, through the handrail above me, forced my other hand upwards through the taut metal links.
Natasha photographed me in my predicament and then discarded her flimsy lingerie underneath her black skirt. I watched her squat over me, rubbing her clit with her left hand. She pressed her jewelled finger inside her cunt, fingering herself as I stared at her shaven mons, splayed snatch, and puckering anus.
I wanted the woman I loved to squat further, and press her feminity into my face. I desperately needed to run my lips over her clit and taste her arousal. My cock tented in my white underwear as her excited pussy was inches from me. But Natasha hadn’t come for an orgasm. She chose to defile me, and as I stared up at her, a stream of honey yellow piss splashed from her cunt. I closed my eyes and opened my mouth as Natasha’s warm pee fell from her exposed snatch.
Musky, acrid and vile. And delicious. Her elixir was intoxicating as I swallowed mouthfuls of her waste, like I always did. The taste reassured and excited me. The smell had become my happy place and the feel of the warm humiliation soothed and aroused. I loved her degradation, as the fluid bounced from my cheeks, lips, hair, and chin, soaking into my white shirt. I stared at her wondrous cunt as her stream slowed, and she smiled at me as she stood up.
“Don’t go anywhere,” she chuckled.
“Natasha,” I squealed. “Where are you going?”
“To the bar, silly. But we’ll be back shortly. Piss Boy. You’re going to drown in pee tonight,” she promised. Her shoes clacked on the tiles and when she removed the key card from the holder beside the door, it deactivated the lights, submerging the room into total darkness.
I could not see a thing. I smelt and tasted piss. My skin felt cool from the drying liquid, and I heard a television in the adjacent bedroom, but time had scant meaning. I could sense very little, and had to lie in the puddle of pee, soaking into my clothes.
The bright lights flashing into life overhead followed the sound of the door unlocking, filling the room with intense white illumination. I blinked as the lithe frame of Paula stood in the doorway. The tattooed guitarist, with her vivid green hair and wicked wit, held a bottle of beer as she ambled over to me. “Natasha loves you so fucking much if she’ll do this for you!”
The lesbian pulled her leather trousers to her knees and squatted over me, forcing her cunt to a couple of inches from my nose. She placed her chunky boots on either side of my head and I inhaled her musky scent before she released her bladder, jettisoning watery piss into my face.
My cock strained the confines of my boxer shorts as the lissome, hairless lesbian urinated over me. She squatted as close to me as she could manage, spraying as much of her bitter nastiness into my mouth. I eagerly gulped the tepid liquid, sniffing and enjoying the piquant aroma of the lead guitarist.
Then Maddison perched her bottom on my sodden face as she forced her cunt against my eager lips. The inked musician groaned as my tongue explored her slippery pussy, and I flicked her clit until her thighs shook. The blonde punk sighed as she straightened her legs and discharged a torrent of strong, yellow pee onto my skin. The surge flooded my mouth, my nostrils and my hair as my eyes watered and my heart rate lurched.
Maddison had waterboarded me with her urine. I gulped a mouthful of her intensely pungent flow and my throat burnt with the rancid stream of piss. But it kept coming. The tattooed wildchild took an age to empty her bladder, soaking my clothes and face as the dominant punk rocker defiled and degraded me. And then she left without saying a word.
Faye, Nessie and Yasmin did likewise. The band’s submissive slut doused the bottom of my white shirt and underwear in her weak, pale effluence, but Faye’s full-bodied stream made my eyes water once more.
The band debased me, using me as their toilet once more. My body shivered through their liquid waste, hugging my wet garments to my skin. Every drop of piss that fell from the six women was a tonic to my shameless arousal. I loved them drenching me in their pee and abusing me. I adored the domination of the punk rockers and worshipped them for their brutal mistreatment. They could do no wrong.
Natasha returned a little while later, holding the hand of an unknown girl. The petite, brown-eyed young woman, with a black and neon pink crop top and shorts, giggled when she saw me, restrained and marinading in piss. “Oh, my…” she muttered in a South London accent. “What the…”
“You wanted the full Bitches Against experience,” Natasha sniggered and looked at me. “Hannah discovered us ‘cause of that fucking video in Bristol.” The young woman swayed in the doorway, surveying the scene. Her gaze was a mixture of incredulity and curiosity, and she stroked her chocolate-coloured hair behind her ears as she licked her lips.
“So, what do you do?” She asked.
“We piss on him. Keep your boys in check or they take fucking liberties.” Hannah’s hands scratched her exposed midriff as a smile crept over her face. We watched Natasha hike her skirt to her waist and squat over my head. “You get yourself comfortable and unload. You’ve pissed like this at festivals, right? Cover the pervert and go.”
“Aren’t you engaged to him?”
“Yes, and… He’s a guy. A fucking reprobate. You need to show boys who wears the trousers.”
I sighed, waiting in suspense, as my eyes focused on her on bewitching snatch. Her muscles quivered and a short jet of piss fired from her splayed pink, coating my face and chin. “That’s mad,” Hannah squealed, but the bizarre scene excited rather than repulsed her and she eagerly took Natasha’s place when my fiancée’s bladder had run dry. The stranger pulled her shorts, tights and underwear to her knees and waddled to put both feet on either side of my waist. She scrunched her body and sighed as her pee sprinkled from her lips.
I could barely see them; her rosebud winked at me as she covered my belly button in warm, bitter urine that splashed over my sodden shirt. She giggled as she stroked herself free of piss drops and washed her hands in the sink opposite. “That’s crazy,” she muttered.
“Keep your bitches in line,” Natasha replied. “And your life is much easier.” She promised, and the dominant women walked away from me without muttering another word.
Neither did Nessie nor Faye. Or Natasha’s next guest – a mixed-race slender woman in her mid-thirties with a navel piercing and long black braided hair. Zara’s slit rested on my nose, and my tongue enthusiastically probed her clit before her champagne splashed over my flesh, covering my skin with her harsh, peppery piss.
The band brought eight strangers to defile me, including three guys. Hannah and a new friend returned on their own, using the keycard which Natasha had presumably lent them, to cover me in their ivory-coloured piss. The bar must have done good trade with the frequency of the visitors, and I even had to wet myself, covering my saturated white underwear with more fluid.
The room stunk of urea. My hair, skin and clothing reeked of pee, as the sadistic band members had wickedly defiled me. Nessie was the last person to use me and the submissive pressed her clit into my soaked face and rode my tongue until her thighs quivered. After her climax, she squatted over my sodden briefs and emptied her bladder over them.
Natasha entered the bathroom as Nessie finished and my fiancée looked down at me. “You’re disgusting,” she spat. Her leather boot rested on my chest, pinning me to the floor as she spoke. “I’m going to untie you, and you either walk out of this door in those clothes or you go buck naked. Return to our room and shower.”
“Can I wash here? Please?”
Natasha’s boot dug into my skin. “Fuck off. And when you have a shower, clean that arse of yours.”
I gulped and nodded; I knew what that meant. Her fingers unclipped the metal rings around my wrists and I scrambled to my feet, dripping pee from my sodden clothes. She held out a key card, and I took a towel from the rail to dry my soaked hair and face.
She snatched the white cotton from my hands and swore at me, thrusting the navy plastic card into my wet palm. “Go!” she demanded. I paused; I didn’t want to streak through the corridors, but I stunk of fetid filthiness. The hotel was not huge and heaving, but I could easily meet someone the moment I stepped outside of the room. My suit, socks, and shoes were not where I had left them, and I saw the scowling glare of my fiancée. “I have your stuff safe upstairs. Now fuckin’ move, slut!” She barked, and I nodded.
My heart pounded as I opened the bedroom door. The sounds of televisions from neighbouring bedrooms faintly echoed in the corridor. To my right, I heard the commotion of the bar and reception, and straight ahead was the entrance to the stairway. I stepped into the stairwell, looking up the staircase and hearing nothing. My bare feet left wet outlines on the lino as I took the stairs two at a time.
When I reached the second floor, I heard yells and voices above me. A couple had stepped into the stairwell from the top storey as I peered through the glass panel.
Three people stood on the other side of the door, waiting for the lift. I gulped; I couldn’t go into the corridor without meeting strangers, and the voices of the guests from the top floor grew louder as they descended the stairs. My skin, soaked with piss, felt more clammy. Frozen in fear, my mind panicked. I watched through the window, desperate for the loiterers to depart.
“We could take the stairs!” One of them muttered and my heart skipped. I considered bolting to the first floor as the chattering reached the storey above. I took a step back when the most welcome of dings sounded from the other side of the panel.
I gave them five seconds to enter the lift before I pushed open the glass door and sprinted, running past them and along the corridor. They saw a man in his underwear, and a long stained dress shirt and a second or two after I had rounded the corner. They probably smelt the piss, but I couldn’t wait any longer. I collapsed against the wall, pressing the key card into the lock and discarded my clothing as I entered our normal en-suite.
I breathed lungfuls of air as I showered in the hot, clean steam. A blissful cleansing as I washed the vile waste from my skin. I smiled as I recounted the constant supply of pee splashing over me. The soothing submissiveness I felt as stream after stream of warm golden yellow liquid soaked me, and after I finished my shower, I took the douching kit which my fiancée had left and cleaned my insides.
It was typical Natasha; degrade, humiliate and defile me with lashings of piss, and then sensually peg me until I was exhausted. I loved her unconditionally, and when I stepped out of the en-suite, she smiled at me, leaning against the wall with a can of beer in her hand. She had a black strapon dildo and a large bottle of lubricant on the desk, alongside her enormous suitcase.
“Get on the bed,” she ordered. “Arse up. Did you enjoy your little treat?”
“It was disgusting,” I replied as I knelt in the middle of the duvet.
“So yes, then?”
“It was fabulous. And nasty, as always.” She chuckled as she pulled my feet, dragging me down the mattress, to where she had a pair of soft ankle cuffs that fastened to the metal rail at the base of the bedframe.
“Kneel up,” she demanded, and she attached a fabric collar to my neck, affixed with velcro. Her hands gripped my left wrist and pulled it behind my back to fasten onto a strap connected to the black choker, and she repeated this with my right hand. She had tied my arms behind me and restrained my ankles to the bottom of the bedframe. My exposed rump hung invitingly over the side of the mattress as she gently patted it and pressed on my shoulders to push my face into the bed.
I couldn’t see everything what she did next; I know she put a white towel underneath me. She photographed me and squirted lubricant into my backside, but there was a tense two-minute wait as she readied herself.
The door creaked, and I looked across at the band entering the room. And three of the strangers filling the bedroom. “Wow! You weren’t joking,” Hannah squealed. I saw the punk rock crop-top on the lithe woman as she wandered to the side of the bed, staring at my restrained nudity.
“Of course not,” Natasha replied, rubbing my exposed buttcheeks. “You keep the fucking bitches in line. I told you that. I have plenty of dildos and harnesses. This little slut knows who is boss.” The smooth tip of a smaller dong pressed against my lubricated whorl as my fiancée slowly pushed the toy into my butt. I groaned as she spoke, slapping my buttocks. “I got the whore to clean himself. He’s so obedient.”
My stiff prick twinkled as my soulmate described me like that. The assembled audience opened beer cans as they observed my defilement at the end of Natasha’s dildo. She held the back of my wrists for leverage, pulling me onto her cock as she fucked me.
I drifted; the entourage heightened the submission as they watched, commented, and joked about my situation. Natasha had restrained me, plundered me and humiliated me and my loins radiated horniness. My soul relaxed and floated, savouring my fiancée’s control and my docile capitulation.
Another penetrator replaced Natasha as the band donned harnesses and dildos, taking turns to fuck me. I recognised the voices as the red-haired Yasmin and inked Maddison, powered their bigger toys into my sanctuary and left me panting and desperate for release. Nessie and Faye were more measured as they sodomised me.
The wildchild of Hannah watched with glee, and I saw Natasha put a strapon harness around her waist. The fan had to remove her shorts and my fiancée selected my favourite black dildo. Thick, stout, with realistic veins and a slight curve that rubbed against my prostate. “If I do this, you do it naked,” she said to her friend with a wide grin. “I’ve never done it before. You have, Juliette. You’ve pegged your man!”
Her mate chuckled and replied, but I never heard the response. I was too focused on the party in my backside and I groaned as Faye’s cock slipped from my well-used hole. Pre-cum poured from my dick over the previous thirty minutes and a large wet spot had formed on the towel.
Natasha helped Hannah line up the condom-covered dildo with my whorl and to coat the appendage with slick lubricant. My body sunk as she edged forward, pressing the rounded glans of her rubber prick into me. I sighed as she tentatively filled my rectum, driving the toy deeper into me until it flicked across my prostate.
It felt good. Fantastic. I ground my hips as she rhythmically fucked me. Slowly, as she seemed scared or intimidated by the act of butt-fucking a guy.
But she did not need to be hesitant. Natasha said words to her and Hannah held onto the strap attached to my collar, ramming her fake prick faster and faster into me. I groaned with every exhalation. Pre-cum poured from my dick as my body lurched into a dry orgasm that sizzled every fibre of my being.
And another. Hannah’s firm motions caused me to submerge inside my pool of orgasmic arousal as explosions detonated deep within my loins. Pre-cum streamed out of my cock as the first-time sodomite brought me closer to a bone-shaking, violent climax.
“He’s quite the fucking slut!” someone said, and they were not wrong. I begged her to go faster, harder, deeper. I wanted Hannah to roughly fuck the orgasm from me; my body itched for my peak and tears streamed from my eyes as I gasped and grunted in desperation.
I saw Hannah’s friend on my right. The tall, nude woman wobbled as she watched her mate sodomise me. Small bosom, long golden hair, a fuller body and a thick forest of pubic thatch. She grinned as she noticed my expression, and put the cheapest, flimsiest harness from our collection over her naked frame. The short, thin black dildo slotted in the O Ring and she used both hands to roll a condom over the shaft.
I didn’t want Hannah to stop, but when Juliette filled my backside, she grabbed my waist to pull me onto her prick. She drunkenly sniggered. Her friend photographed her. “Did Dave really enjoy this?” The stranger asked.
“Yeah. Ask him. Do you like this, whore?” Juliette laughed as she painfully slapped my buttcheeks, sending me deeper into my subspace. She dominated me, thrusting her cock deep into me as she bawled with laughter. My climax built, but she wasn’t quite hitting the right angle for me and her penetration kept me on the edge of ecstasy.
When she withdrew, I looked at Natasha. “Hannah, please,” I begged. “So close.” My fiancée roared with a humiliating cachinnation. “I need it.”
“Do you want to fuck this slut again?” She asked her guest, who coyly giggled. The audience snickered and a few moments later, I felt the amazing feeling of Hannah’s cock filling my arse. I loudly groaned as her prick stroked my prostate.
And she was assertive in her penetration, vigorously pounding my butt with her dick. My pleasure intensified within, building in my loins as I whimpered. My body fizzed with sexual energy as she smashed her toy over my sensitive button, bringing me closer and closer to my orgasm.
I could not prevent it and no longer cared who witnessed it. I cried as I shook; the bubble of tension in my prostate burst and a wave of intense sexual ecstasy cascaded through my torso, electrifying every pore in my flesh.
Cum drained from my prick, and Hannah kept pounding my butt. A second orgasm detonated within me before the first had finished and my skin sizzled as the tsunami of pleasure radiated from my backside. My toes curled, my muscles pulsed, and my soul fizzled as the incredible stranger brought me to ecstasy.
Breathless, I yelled in extreme bliss as my body sparkled, savouring the aftershocks.
There was silence. The large pool of cum underneath me was a testament to the skill of Hannah and her magical dildo. My muscles relaxed, and I could not move. I never sensed what was around me; my body drained of all senses as I processed the euphoric sensations floating across my flesh.
I felt Natasha’s hands on my ankles and wrists, but even after she untied me, I could not move. Her fingers dragged the towel from underneath me, and she wiped my dripping cock. I opened my eyes to see just Hannah and her friend in the room.
“Thank you,” I muttered at the bemused girl. “You were incredible.” I pushed myself into a sitting position and took a large lungful of air, spent from the evening’s exertions.
“Really?” Hannah asked incredulously, and I nodded.
I was naked, and the clothed women smiled as I reiterated my gratitude. “Totally. That was amazing.” The young woman blushed. My pregnant fiancée re-entered the room from the en-suite, having deposited the cum-covered towel in the cleaning basket, and smiled at me. “And thank you,” I said to her. “That was the most mind-blowing experience.”
“Good,” she muttered and picked up two white T-shirts from her suitcase. “These are just leftover merch, but as promised, a signed shirt.” She took a permanent marker pen from her suitcase and put the clothing on the desk. “Thanks for butt-fucking my boy, Natasha,” she read out as she scribbled it on the garments and passed them to the strangers.
I thanked them once more before they left, and I cuddled my fiancée as we drifted to bed. My partner caressed and spooned the award they had won as I coddled her.
We saw the two women at the morning buffet in the hotel dining room-cum-bar, and they wore the clothing which Natasha had provided to them a few hours previous, with the humiliating autograph daubed across them.
I blushed when I recognised it, as at the time I imagined that every person in the hotel knew that the alluring women had sodomised me, but in hindsight, I doubt anyone read it.
But that day was a scarcity; I rarely saw all the girls together. Natasha and the band began work on their eighth album and often travelled to Watford to practise in their own space. I missed having them in the annexe, but I spent at least three days a week in London at my new employer. I had a desk and a small office on the second floor of a managed block, near the British Library; it was within walking distance of the mainline train stations and Underground stops, and I enjoyed my lunchtime walks.
We had plenty of customers to serve and manage, and the sales team kept adding me to meetings with prospective clients. The virtual calls were OK, but I had to travel to some, and that wasted valuable time. One such gathering, on the other side of the city centre, with a brokerage house, ended with their Chief Technical Architect declaring to the assembled coterie of sycophantic acolytes that our platform “was not mature enough” for them to consider as they were “a serious outfit.”
I seethed for two days because of his withering slander, and I needed Natasha to help me relax. She restrained me, spanked my exposed buttocks, whipped my back, urinated over me and then forced me to provide analingus and cunnilingus to abate my tension.
Two weeks after the show, our hedonism appeared in the latest Popbitch. “Which band, known for their wild adventures, engaged in golden showers and a pegging gangbang to celebrate their recent awards success? Best not tell Santa, eh?” Natasha chuckled as I read out the newsletter to her.
“They are so obsessed with us,” she replied. “I love them to bits, but there are so many other crazy musicians. It helps our image, though. You know the teen princess from Disney who had a bubblegum hit?” I looked blankly at her, and she shrugged. “I can’t remember her name, either. I know there are fucking hundreds of ‘em but this little angel has contacted us. Faye’s dealing with it because her record company has asked the girls to do a single with her. They want to, umm… rebrand her… as less goody-two-shoes and more rebellious.”
“Are you going to do it?”
Natasha snorted. “Faye said yes. She’s met her. I’m just looking forward to the fucking video ‘cause if they need her to have some of our attitude, then we are not holding back. She needs to rock with us! The whole nine yards.”
“Oh,” I muttered. “Does that mean she might get the full Bitches Against experience? With their innovative toilets? And submissive sluts.”
“Perhaps,” she suggested, and chuckled. “If we can wangle the opportunity. But I think we might.”
I didn’t believe life could become much sweeter.
