Rage Against The Latrine: Chapter 29
I left my car in the Lake District and I took the train to Watford before getting a taxi to my home. Natasha stayed in Cumbria for two weeks and persuaded her mother to move in more permanently with Alfredo. They moved many of her possessions from the familial home in storage. Apart from Stephen, the messages from Natasha’s siblings were of support for the separation. Svetlana and Adam expressed relief, given their father’s bullying attitude about their sexuality, and my fiancée called the Police when Matthew showed at Alfredo’s house yelling threats against his wife.
Natasha filmed the altercation before the Fuzz arrived, and I understood why Ruslana had left him. Over a few evenings, her mother had explained and confessed more of the abuse she had received at his hands, and my fiancée persuaded her mum to file for divorce. Alfredo was not her “next husband” but the friend and lover offered sanctuary as she sought to organise the rest of her life.
After my partner returned from Windermere, Monika and “the boi” spent most of their weekends with us. I witnessed their relationship grow and how naturally the teenager performed her dominance. When they stayed, the playful dominatrix treated me to a more sensual pegging, a softer domination and a varied play. On many occasions, her partner and I explored my bisexuality, and often Natasha and the teenage domme doubled up on me. They were beautiful releases.
One weekend day, my fiancée put Jamie and me to work. My pregnant lover marked out a six foot square patch in the marshy end of my garden and told us to dig it down by half a metre. In the spring sun, the harsh physical toil exhausted me, while the two dominatrices sat at a table and chatted. They ignored their naked submissives striving in the mud, and after a couple of hours we had dug a trench eighteen inches deep. In all four corners, and halfway along the top and bottom of the pit, she had us excavate three-inch round holes, which were filled with large metal loops and some quick-setting concrete from my shed. This was for “the future,” she said. After “the boi” and I showered and made tea, the crater escaped from my mind.
A couple of weekends later, we experienced my fiancée’s fiendish imagination. The chains, attached to the metal loops at one end, and handcuffs at the other, were a clue as to the intended use, and after a few days of heavy downpour, Monika secured Jamie and me into the cold mud.
The marshy earth was deep; They had churned it over the day, and I sank into algid sludge. Spreadeagled, naked, and vulnerable. I could barely move my ankles or my wrists as the dominant women grinned as they stared down at their submissives. Natasha, in just her riding boots, and Monika, in Wellingtons and stockings, giggled at me and Jamie.
The filthy puddle underneath me was cold and slimy. I felt the goo ooze between my skin and the women took a garden chair each and placed it beside our heads. Natasha’s feet rested on my chest as they continued to chat. Dirty mud caked my body, and her grassy, muddy boots were inches from my face.
I stared up at the wooden chair, and when she needed to pee, she simply leant backwards and sprayed her warm, acidic piss over me from her seated position. The jet arched through the air and landed on my chest.
Natasha crouched beside me, donned a rubber glove, and smeared the earthy slurry over my body and my face. My erect cock itched as the brown clay-like substance clung to my skin, drying in the heat of the spring day. The girls took videos and photographs. They verbally taunted us, and they whipped our thighs until we screamed. My floating subspace was a delightful experience, and I loved every minute of my torture.
Another weekend, they put strap-on dildos over three of the chairs and Nessie, Jamie and I had to race each other to orgasm by bouncing down on the rubber cocks fastened to the wooden seats. They coerced the “boi” and I to play Soggy Biscuit, and the girls filmed the computer science student swallowing a cracker with our cum pooled on top.
Pregnancy made Natasha hornier and there was no end to the games we played. She became more inventive, more dominant, but also more loving outside of the debauchery. Her actions were not sadistic, but merely an enthusiastic libertine responding to her boundless imagination and her hormones.
One summer’s night, Jamie and I visited the cruising bar on Warren Street together; my fiancée had made some friends at the prenatal classes we had to attend, and she asked that I allow her to host a “Mums-to-be soiree” without male attendance.
The dark industrial bar was exactly as I remembered, and Jamie wore just a neon pink jockstrap as they pranced around their utopia. The room was full of arousal and the non-binary slut was in heaven. I hadn’t finished my first beer before the student had fellated a man three times their age. Within twenty minutes of our arrival, dominant tops had strapped the playful nymph into a sling and they were being railed by a succession of thick pricks.
This was their new favourite place, and while Jamie was spit-roasted by a group of tattooed football hooligans, I sat on a sofa next to a naked couple. Opposite me, a tall black skinhead lounged in a chair; his splayed legs proudly advertised his meaty cock rising from a bushy pocket of pubic fuzz, the only hair on his smooth espresso-coloured skin.
He was muscular and defined, without being sculpted, but everything about him screamed confidence. A small smirk crept over his face as he saw my gaze land on his semi-erect cock and he nodded towards it. “Ain’t gonna suck itself, whitey.”
Those words, delivered with such disdain, were my kryptonite. The presumption that I wanted to blow him was humiliating, and his body language of indifference and contempt captivated me.
I fell forward onto my knees. I didn’t even contemplate not fellating him. My lips touched the end of his circumcised prick and the warm, velvet sponge slipped against my tongue. “Ask,” he snapped. “Beg, faggot.” His hand roughly grabbed my jaw as he glared at my submissive gaze.
“Please, can I suck your cock?”
Those words came from my mouth; my debasement aroused me as I stared into his expression, stuffed with snickering derision. He sneered at my shameful pleading and slapped me across the cheek. “Get suckin’, whitey.”
Sweat, arousal, manly musk filled my nostrils as my lips sunk over his tip and slowly worked down his shaft. His muscular hands grabbed the side of my head as I edged my mouth further and further down his erection, taking more of his thick meat into me.
I ran my tongue under his frenulum and sucked it as I pleasured his cock, but I wasn’t in control. He steered my head onto his dick and ground himself into me, forcing his prick to the back of my throat.
I gagged as he did it; I had not completely trained away my gag reflex, and I struggled as he took his pleasure from my mouth. Not used to such rough cocksucking, the dominant top gave me no respite as they pillaged and plundered me. But the powerlessness of the situation was an incredible delirium. When he released his grip on my head, I bobbed quicker, worshipping that black meat as passionately as I could.
My ardour boiled. My cock tingled. My glassy eyes focused on nothing but the dark shaft sliding into my gob. The taste, the sensation and the smell delighted every fibre in my body as I enthusiastically blew this dominant.
He held the side of my head and removed his glistening cock from my mouth before he put the soles of his feet on the armrests of the chair. “Suck my balls,” he demanded, smirking as my lips touched his greasy, salty orbs.
Smooth, weighty and delicious, I revelled in this new humiliation as I gently took each testicle in turn and sucked it. He grunted as I did it, sneering at the control he had over me.
When he put his feet back on the floor and forced his dick into my face, his hands slapped my cheek as he fired abusive comments at me.
“Faster, white boy.”
“You like that, cocksucker?”
“Suck it, faggot!”
For those minutes, he owned me. His confidence and his dick transfixed me, and I groaned into his prick as my lips worked the shaft crammed into my mouth. My tongue poked at his frenulum as I bobbed and I felt his cock tense further. He held my head as he grunted.
“It’s comin’ whitey!” He squealed, groaning as his cum smashed against the back of my throat. I had to swallow every drop as his prick pulsed and several waves of his thick seed filled my mouth and lined my oesophagus.
My cock sparkled as he did this, before he released his grip and pushed my forehead. Dazed, I lay on the floor at his feet for a few seconds before stumbling back to my seat. “Wanna a beer?” I asked him as I panted.
He sneered. “I don’t date…” he sniggered mockingly.
“No, I’m not looking for a date. Just, I’ll buy you a drink.” He relaxed a little more with a bottle of local lager in his hands, and we sat on the stools. Race play and black domination were his kinks, and he came to the cruising bar to explore and satisfy them. He was warm and friendly outside of the sex, and I watched as he approached a middle-aged white man, said a few words and then roughly took him to a playroom to fuck him. It was a fetish I didn’t realise existed, but thinking that sounded naïve.
I left with Jamie a short while later, after I had buggered them in the swing and filled a condom. They adored the club and already wanted to return the following night.
Monika encouraged Jamie’s exploration and their relationship went from strength-to-strength; they both found the cost of living in London to be astronomical and Natasha offered the lovers the use of our biggest spare bedroom for the next two academic years from September. When a tearful Monika asked why, my fiancée happily explained. “You make John feel fucking fantastic. You dominate him differently to me. I’ll be on tour and I need someone to keep an eye on him who I fucking trust. Plus, I like my bitch having plenty of bisexual sex and your boi gives him that.”
Natasha’s old Fiat 500 provided the ability for Monika and Jamie to get to the train station when they needed to go into the city. Personally, I believed living so far away from London detracted from the University experience, but the debauched couple leapt at my fiancée’s offer and for financial reasons alone, I could understand why. They had spent several weekends with us, and the thought of having the pair of hedonistic students every day was quite delicious.
We also had the odd visit from Ruslana. Natasha’s mother said little about her divorce, but the freedom from her abusive husband had given her a new lease of life, and she boasted that if she was not working, she was on a date or at the club. Her nymphomania was in evidence when she visited Sarratt Green with Svetlana, and my future mother-in-law urinated over me in the mud pit and pegged me after a few glasses of wine.
Female Domination came easily to the mature woman. She adored being in control and effortlessly spanked, humiliated, and defiled me in front of her daughter. I loved feeling her hands on the back of my knees as she pushed my thighs into my chest and penetrated my butt.
In truth, I think she enjoyed every kink, fetish or sexual act. She loved to have a variety of partners and her latest date, a twenty-year-old “toyboy” was a deeply submissive kid. As the three women chatted, she admitted that she had recently stolen his anal virginity and introduced him to sex toys and cunnilingus.
The record company released the band’s single, with the bubblegum princess, exactly a month before Natasha’s due date. The girls promoted the song with the innocent vocalist, and although I had time to meet her, a security behemoth surrounded her at all times. Her management was keen for the delicate coquette to absorb some of the reputation of Bitches Against, but were not so enthusiastic about the punk rockers leading the sexy naif astray. The uncouth reprobates had limited opportunities to sully the mind of the musical royalty, and this did not include a trip to our annexe for “unsupervised recording practice” without the imposing bodyguards.
The artist based the front cover art of the single on an infamous German drawing, and the painting of the six musicians, all engaged in libidinous pursuits, was incredible. I had a copy printed and framed for my office wall. Bare-breasted Natasha had her dress hiked to her waist, and she was urinating onto a suited gentleman. An unclothed Faye hid most of her body behind her guitar. Paula had a spliff the size of her arm. Yasmin had a paddle in one hand and a whip in the other, while a topless Maddison had a large bottle of vodka on her lips. Finally, the racily dressed teenage ingenue had her arms around an unknown man, kissing him.
The musical collaboration, Party Time, shot to the top spot, and the band celebrated with their second ever Number One hit. The conservative media objected to some lyrics in the music and to the promotional material, but this seemed to please the punk rockers more than the song’s success.
I also made a bet with Natasha after their Christmas victory, that if she had another Number One single, I would get tattooed, and three days after their collaboration reached the musical crest, she booked me into Maddison’s tattoo parlour. She chose the design, and inking the black Bitches Against logo hurt, but I loved the symbol adorning my chest, over my heart. Chas inked the names of the five band members written in a circle around their emblem. It took three hours, but the end product was awesome.
Three weeks later, as August drew to a close, Natasha went into labour. I was in London when her waters broke and I reached the hospital just an hour before Anna Ruslana was born. Suna had moved into our smallest bedroom the week before, and the pink-haired woman quickly adapted into a good regime with us. Technically, we employed her for 45 hours per week, but she did so much more.
The help and assurance she brought to my partner was crucial. I had never really seen a maternal side to my fiancée but as she held her swaddled baby in her arms; the toughness melted in her eyes. The woman who had impenetrable confidence was scared. Suna helped in every way, and when Natasha took our newborn to the “Mothers and Babies” group in the village, our nanny advised other new mothers, too.
I was glad that we had four weeks of settling in before Monika and Jamie arrived; they moved into Sarratt Green in late September, at the start of their University term. Monika’s parents eyed me with suspicion, especially when their daughter threw their arms around me and hugged me tightly while screaming. “I’ve got new underwear to show you and I’ve missed you so much! Where’s the little one?”
Jamie’s family were even stranger. They arrived the following day, having reconciled to a degree with their child. They chatted with Natasha and me in the garden over a cup of tea, but were more interested in politics and current affairs than who their offspring had moved in with. It would be a cold day in Hell before I voted for their political party, but they still seemed keen to canvass us.
Within an hour of their parent’s departure, the student had dyed their fair hair scarlet, and changed their masculine clothes for a tank top, skirt and stockings. Monika cracked open her strap-on and defiled their butt.
I bought a couple of desks and chairs on the top floor of the annexe; my house, which had been a quiet sanctuary for so long, had more people than ever, and I wanted to give the two students somewhere tranquil where they could go to study when they needed to.
Monika and I shared a hobby; within a week of moving in with us, we found that we both enjoyed cycling, and we serviced Samantha’s old bike from the shed. It wasn’t brilliant, but it meant we could spend Sunday mornings cruising around the Chiltern Hills and we’d often have a pub lunch several miles from home.
It gave us time together, and I loved seeing the beautiful student in skintight Lycra; we chatted as friends and as regular lovers, and she confessed her worries and troubles. I couldn’t help her with her studies, but I was as much a friend as I was her occasional submissive.
I found being a father to be challenging; I was used to the woman in my life making never-ending demands, but baby Anna was an exacting challenge that had very specific requirements. I always doubted that I would ever have the patience to be a parent, but I quickly adapted. My daughter feasted several times a day on Natasha’s breasts and grew at a faster rate than the health visitor expected. By the time she was six weeks old, she was in clothing for 3-6 months.
On Tuesday nights, Suna always babysat and the four of us walked into Sarratt Green to play the pub quiz. Our team regularly topped the charts. If we didn’t win, Natasha and Monika would “punish” me and Jamie with paddles, whips and canes; if we won, the girls provided strapons and golden showers.
I also had my birthday, and I had a “respectable” dinner party on Thursday, where my business partner and friends came and dined.
On Friday, Natasha had some fun planned.
She blindfolded me, led me into the bedroom, fastened my wrists and ankles to the bed, and then pressed a lubricated dildo against my rosebud. I was ready for the intrusion, doggy style, and I groaned, as the rubber dong applied pressure to me, gently opening my ring up.
I jerked when an unexpected mechanical whirr filled the room, and the dildo thrusted deep into me. Her present to me was a fucking machine, similar to the one I had enjoyed with Adam at Derek’s party.
The apparatus savaged my body, drilling a faux prick into my backside. I arched my back so the tip of the penetrating toy scraped across my prostate, and the strong motions were incredible. Far better than the machine I used in the Lake District, Natasha’s present Tommy-gunned my butt, tickling my sensitive spot. I was helpless and my lust built with the stimulation into me.
Wave after wave of shivering ecstasy coursed through my restrained body, sending jets of pre-cum onto the duvet. I felt my orgasm building; I squealed and cried louder and louder, telling my dominatrix how close I was. Inches from heaven, she stopped the motor, and I sobbed in frustration. My dick wept as I begged her to let me finish.
I got something else, and I knew Monika’s touch and her favourite dildo; she opened me up and sensually filled me with her strapon, rubbing against my rectal walls with her faux cock. I floated once more, as my lust mounted, brick by brick, until I could smell my apex swelling inside of me.
She stopped and withdrew her toy from my hungry hole. Powerless, I cried out, imploring them not to tease me any more.
But they did. I didn’t recognise the next two plunderers of my backside. I guessed one may have been Suna, but I was both blindfolded and fettered so I could not see. Natasha controlled me, and she offered my rectum to these anonymous assailants to ravish. I had no say in the matter.
I had no orgasm either; the women raking their dildos across my prostate were excellent at keeping me on edge, ceasing their anal fucking as I got close to my promised climax. My balls itched as tears streamed down my cheek. My lust made me desperate as another mounted me.
Jamie.
I recognised their meaty specimen as they stretched my ring, and a firm hand gripped my waist. The warmth of the dick against the cooler rubber of the strapon. Their cock was fantastic, as they jack-hammered into me, drilling their prick into my sanctuary until it spasmed and filled their condom.
Natasha finished on me. I knew what she felt like as she pounded her toy into me, slamming her feverish body against me. Our thighs smashed together as her dick worked my prostate, drawing my lust to the point of no return. I yelled, screaming as the wildest climax enveloped me, cascading from my loins and sweeping across my flesh.
Cum poured from my cock, leaking continually from my flaccid prick as the sexual euphoria and relief glided from my balls to my brain, exciting every fibre in my body.
My anus twitched as she removed her dick, leaving me gaping and desperate for more, and she returned to the bedroom ten minutes later to remove the restraints and blindfold.
“I’m not fucking telling you who did that to you,” she giggled. “But I go away in a month’s time on tour, so this is to keep you well fucked,” she added, patting the expensive machine.
The following day, my fiancée threw a birthday party in the annexe for me, with our friends from the band. After a couple of hours, they blew up the paddling pool, retrieved the commode seat, and my fiancée handcuffed me – fully clothed – to it.
She forced me to drink her rich, acerbic pee when she put a funnel in my mouth, but everyone else just showered me in piss. It smelt disgusting, but Natasha had trained my libido to respond to the taste of humiliation and the smell of urine.
My friends debased me by covering me and my clothes in their pee. They drank the beer and wine, which I paid for, to replenish their bladders so they could urinate over me. In public view, they defiled me.
Despite it being my birthday, they put Nessie into the pool too and Scott gleefully debased her, soaking his fuckbuddy with golden pee. It felt like the old days, before Natasha and I were engaged, when we were in the exciting experimental phase. Each week, my girl found something newer and dirtier to try. A greater humiliation from a filthier mind. She challenged my limits every day as the wonderful punk rocker exposed me to bigger debaucheries.
I knew how excited Natasha made me, and how energised I became. As my fiancée forced a bladder of burning piss into my churning stomach, I floated, drifting into a relaxed, heavenly submission. I adored the control she had over me, and every disgusting act she initiated.
My birthday party, and I was swimming in filth, humiliated and degraded, as my fiancée and her friends fraternised and binged. The annexe became a bacchanalian orgy of drunkenness and lewdness as revellers stripped and fornicated while I was the latrine.
The toilet.
The man lying in revolting clothes as the wassailers abused me.
Finally, at the end of the evening, Natasha let me shower, and then in the privacy of our bedroom, she sunk her mouth over my prick, licking the tip. “This is a rare treat,” she reminded me, drawing her lips over the full length of my shaft.
It felt good; Natasha’s blowjobs always did. I stroked her pink hair as the punk rock fellatrix drew gasps and groans from my lascivious self. I groaned and panted in arousal as my fiancée’s tongue swirled over my frenulum.
My climax bubbled from within. I squealed at my lover as I neared the edge, and she continued to bob on my prick, drawing my orgasm from me, until she swallowed my seed with a wide smile on her face.
“That’s your fucking blowjob for the year,” she added as I lay panting in the bed, satisfaction churning through my body.
“That was incredible,” I told her, as my fiancée sidled towards the en-suite.
“I know. I’m very good at blowjobs. I just don’t think men deserve them.”
At the beginning of November, my fiancée wanted to do a weekend away from Sarratt Green. The tour was fast approaching, and she wanted to be certain that her nanny and her partner could cope with the baby and without her. Natasha and Faye went on a brief road trip, going to Northampton, Cambridge, and then Welwyn to see punk rock bands at intimate gigs. This was close enough for my fiancée to return home if she needed to, but Suna and I had no problems with Anna Ruslana, and my woman got a well-deserved break.
The following weekend, she got a message from a group of guys that Bitches Against had played with previously. The boyband, The Rainbow Warriors, were stalwarts at the Pride festival the girls often performed at, and the rockers were excellent musicians.
They didn’t live locally, so when Natasha invited them to play at their Punk Rock Cafe, they also stayed in our annexe in Sarratt Green. It may have been a few degrees above freezing in my garden, but from the moment on Friday afternoon when the guys arrived in Hertfordshire, the five men wandered around bare, or with minimal clothing.
They were in their early thirties, and were all over six feet tall, dwarfing my partner. They had plenty of muscle definition, and four of them had prominent tattoos on their chests.
Natasha cooed over them, and over dinner, they paid her lots of attention too. Once Anna had gone to bed, my fiancée explained. “After we played together last year, we went out drinking and got so pissed. I said to Jack if he streaked down Richmond High Street, I’d blow him, and all the guys did. Jack’s cum is sweet ‘cause he eats lots of fruit, but Nessie and me spent the night playing games. And stuff.”
I knew what “stuff” meant, and I watched my lover sit on Jack’s lap and fondle him, putting her hand into his bulging shorts and giggling coquettishly. Nobody said a word as Natasha felt up their lead singer, kissing him and stroking his bare chest. “Shall we go to the annexe, boys?” The punk rocker asked, and she rose from her seated position, and glanced at me. “Don’t wait up.”
Her actions were humiliating. I had never considered myself a cuckold before, although I met most of the description. My fiancée and I had an open relationship, but she rarely excluded me so completely from her sexual games so openly. Natasha crossed the driveway to enter the annexe with the Rainbow Warriors, with the express intention of fucking them. I watched her wrap her arm around Jack as she sauntered between the cars and entered the long barn.
My fiancée, my woman. Screwing another. Other men would feel her lips across their pricks or taste her succulent slit. They would part her cunt with their erections and pound her pussy until they came.
She did not even invite me to share. My tummy bubbled with butterflies as I watched the door close to the annexe. Envy, jealousy, and apprehension consumed me. I had a burning itch to enter the room and join their fun, and poured myself a glass of whisky to satisfy my frustrated curiosities.
Everything burnt. I ventured into the dark night and heard squeals of female arousal from an open window. My cock hardened as the sounds carried in the inky black of the nighttime sky and I desperately wanted to enter the room, but they had locked the annexe from the inside.
I slept little, and in the morning, when I went down to the kitchen for breakfast, my fiancée stood beside the fridge in just her flimsy underwear. “Hiya,” she seductively called.
I couldn’t stop myself. I snatched the sausages from her hand and tossed them against the worktop. I forced my lips against hers, as we kissed, and then pushed my woman over the low breakfast bar. She shrieked as her arms hit the wooden top, and I yanked her underwear to her ankles, ripping the translucent mesh in twain. “You still horny?” I spat.
“Very,” she muttered, as my hands roughly parted her knees and spanked her derriere. I rubbed her slit, and my fingers glided over her slippery skin. “They woke early,” she admitted, boasting about her further acts of unfaithfulness. “And they wanted stuff. But I…”
“You’re a slut, aren’t you?” I interrupted.
“Yes,” she squealed as my fingers pressed against her slippery opening; she murmured as I fingered her and rubbed her clit.
“You’ll fuck any man, won’t you?”
“Yes,” she groaned as I flicked her button. She whimpered as I frigged her, taking her closer to orgasm, before I lined my erect cock at her opening and speared her pussy with my prick.
I fucked her in full view of the kitchen window, as our guests milled about outside and upstairs. I smashed my dick aggressively into her, not seeking her enjoyment, as I reclaimed of my fiancée. Natasha was my slut, and I wanted her.
The bottomless punk rocker groaned with every exhalation. She sighed and grunted with every thrust as I pounded the wanton nymphomaniac with rampant zeal. My dick pummelled mercilessly into her. I should have had this the night before, until my slut chose to entertain others. I rammed it harder and harder, screwing my woman. Until my orgasm smashed into me, and I filled her cunt with my seed, groaning as my cock pulsed. My hands rubbed her flanks as I sighed, coming down from my high.
“Fuckin’ ‘ell,” she muttered. “Not seen you like that. Did I tease you too much?” She chuckled and as I stepped back, she kissed me.
“A bit,” I replied, smiling at the wonderful musician. “I love you.”
“I know you do. And I love you. But…” she coughed and whispered in my ear. “This is my most fertile time of the month, and you have just come inside me.” She bit my lobe. “We’ve only skipped johnnies once before, and we have one child.”
“Oh,” I replied.
“Yeah, you didn’t think before you got fucking horny, did you?” She chuckled and reached down to her slit, showing me a big globule of cum that had leaked from her pussy. “I’m going to get cleaned up and then go to the pharmacy for the morning-after pill. And you can make breakfast for the five guys who spent all night shagging me and used a condom each time.” My bottomless fiancée smiled as she closed the door behind her, and I took a frying pan from the drawer.
Apart from screwing fellow musicians, Natasha was incredibly busy, and the band finished their new album; the girls spent a few days in London recording it, and I heard of many violent arguments as their creative spirits clashed. Faye sent me an advance copy of one song, as they mentioned me in the lyrics.
Gossip, about the fabled e-mail newsletter, featured me in the verse as they taunted the infamous publisher of scandals, rumours, and tittle-tattle. Their fearsome reputation of wild musicians had boosted their career and, clearly, they wanted to encourage further stories in the forthcoming Popbitch circulars of their excesses.
Of which there was plenty.
Natasha usually toured September to December, but Natasha’s pregnancy had delayed this a little; the band arranged their new tour – The Worst Bitch – to start from late November and they had European and American legs for the first time. The Bitches had gone international.
It was not something that my fiancée could have countenanced if it was not for Suna. The former nursery nurse was a childcare expert and helped us as parents adapt to our new roles in life. I adored having the punk rock exhibitionist with us, and we spent many evenings chatting and playing music.
She admitted that for the first time in years; she felt appreciated, and for her birthday, we paid for her to spend the week in Iceland, visiting relatives. It was the least we could do.
In mid-November, I stood at the Punk Rock Cafe for the start of the Bitches Against tour. This gig was an intimate, private set for friends and families of the band and record company. The stuffed venue came alive as the five punk rockers performed their old favourites, as well as several songs from their new album.
At the end of the show, Natasha called me on stage, holding out a white T-shirt for me. “I came to see Bitches Against and all I got was this lousy T-shirt,” she announced, reading the text across the front of the garment. Printed on the back was. “And pissed on. And a fiancée. And a baby.”
“Wear it,” my dominatrix demanded, and I discarded my shirt to do as she ordered. She addressed the crowd. “It’s been a fucking crazy year for us. And most of it would not have happened if it wasn’t for this superfan.” She giggled as she glanced at the band. “So, tonight is the first stop of our biggest tour ever. And we’re going to end our set with our song. A throwback to yesteryear. We will finish on Wake Up By Rage Against the Fucking Machine.”
She grabbed my top and pulled me onto the floor; I didn’t expect it, and stumbled to the ground, turning to see Natasha standing over me, pulling her leather trousers to her mid-thigh.
I understood. In front of everyone, she squatted over me on stage as she yelled into the microphone, performing for 200 people in their club.
My cock strained, my eyes watered. My heart pounded. Waiting for my fiancée to do the dirty. To defile me, humiliate me and cover me in her waste. To do once more what she did in Bristol. Where our adventure began.
Exactly two years since we first met, she was doing it again. In public. Debasing, humiliating me. The dominant woman steadied herself.
My Natasha. The punk rock superstar, unattainable goddess, incredible dominatrix and my fiancée, screamed into the microphone as she released a jet of urine into my face.
And it tasted divine.
