Rage Against the Latrine Ch. 02

In December, I wrote a short 3,000 word story about a female punk rock singer who urinated over a fan on stage, partially inspired by real-life events. I enjoyed the tale and played with the characters in my mind over the following days. I said I would write more chapters if there was positive feedback.
There was.
I had plenty of comments and the story fared well in the "scoring." So, I wrote more.
Out of principle, I never release a chapter until I have written and edited the entire book. But, four extra chapters became six, and then eight, and there are now two dozen chapters on my hard drive. Over 70,000 words of golden showers, female domination and absolute filth with a plethora of additional characters. It's about 80-90% finished. Mostly, it needs editing.
I hope to complete the entire story before Easter. But I didn't want everyone who asked for a continuation to wait any longer. I promised I'd write something in the weeks after the first chapter, and it's been nearly three months. So, here is the next instalment and I will release the remainder as they become ready.
If you have not read the previous chapters, then please do so, as the following story won't make much sense.
* * * * *
I was the centre of attention when I socialised with dozens of the Bitches Against fan club before the curtain call on the tour. We drank beer and ate in a nearby pub as the people who I mostly knew as avatars came to life in the flesh. I'd seen many of them previously, and over the years, I had shared journeys and evenings with a few. We joked and talked about the band, and several devotees of the female punk rockers chastised me for not sharing my inside friendship with the lead singer with them. Two of the other administrators, a married couple from East London, were aggrieved that I kept my wager with Natasha secret from them. I apologised, but I couldn't tell anyone the truth: I had met Natasha once, and she had humiliated me by urinating over me. I had no clandestine rapport with her, nor a bet.
The last date of the Bitches Against tour was a heady blend of amazing performances and uncontrolled energy. The band left me spellbound and entranced, from the first beat of the first song. People recognised me in the crowd, and strangers came up to me to joke and talk. I had been to a local salon a few days previous to bleach my hair and then dye it an outrageous pink. My work colleagues used to seeing me with short brown hair, sniggered, but we all knew they had seen the video and had heard about the bet. Everyone had. Natasha and I had become a viral sensation.
It was an intense carnival atmosphere at the last gig until the punk rockers reached their iconic finale: Wake Up, by Rage Against the Machine. Natasha called me out by name and the 10,000 strong crowd cheered as I made my way through the throngs of fans at the front of the audience. Like the show at Bristol, Natasha summoned me onto the stage before her concluding performance. This time, I knew it was not to urinate over me: the venue provided access to toilets backstage, and Bitches Against were not foolish enough to attempt the same stunt again, especially given the furore of the previous week. Their London concert had sold out in minutes after Natasha's urination clip went viral, so the lead vocalist of the band had another trick to perform.
I felt apprehensive as venue security allowed me onto the raised platform. The bright lights dazzled, and a draught of heat from the stage equipment swirled around me as I faced the talented rock star I adored once more. "This is John. He is the fucking manager of our UK fan club and we had a bet," Natasha said into the microphone. Her voice filled the auditorium as she spoke. "If I could convince the crowd in Bristol that I had fucking pissed on stage, he would have to dye his hair pink." The theatre cheered and laughed, and the fans hollered as she gestured to them. "Now put your fucking hands behind your back," she demanded of me.
I complied. Natasha commanded me, and so I obeyed unflinchingly. I did not know what she had planned, but the fuchsia-haired woman always pushed boundaries. As my hands touched my clothed buttocks, one of her bandmates roughly held them until I felt click across both wrists. She cuffed me. The cheering from the fans grew as Natasha ran her hand through my coloured hair.
"The bet was to dye his fucking hair pink." She lifted my hoodie and T-shirt to my nipples, exposing my hairless chest, and nodded as the audience laughed. "Nothing here." She paused, soaking in the laughter from the crowd, as her hands gripped both sides of my jeans. She looked at my nervous expression.
Natasha wouldn't, would she? Humiliated again by the same woman in consecutive concerts?
"This cunt called me a 'little minx' on national television." The crowd booed as she uttered those words and she yanked my jeans to my ankles, exposing my navy underwear to the audience. Her thumbs toyed with the elastic on my clothing. My cheeks burnt, my body shivered, and I looked at the uncontrollable woman eager to smash Eryaman Escort boundaries.
They were my limits. It was my humiliation.
She saw the fearful look in my eyes, but it meant nothing to her as I squirmed. Unable to prevent her from stripping me naked in front of the concert audience.
She laughed sadistically as she yanked my boxer shorts to my ankles, exposing my prick to her patrons. "Ah, this hair is not pink!" She cried. "He has welshed on his fucking bet!" The arena burst into wild laughter as one of her support staff threw something to her, which she deftly caught. She shook the can of hair paint and pulled my T-shirt higher so she could spray my spattering of trimmed pubic fuzz with the bright magenta colouring.
Her wild application of the aerosol paint also included my dick, and with my hands cuffed behind my back, I couldn't shield myself to protect my dignity. She revealed my flaccid member to thousands of punk rock fans as she coated it in neon pink. Desperate to reduce my exposure, I folded my torso. "Stay there," she demanded, and I squatted as the lead singer moved away from me. I couldn't leave the stage. I was half-naked, exposed, restrained and humiliated as Natasha sang Wake Up, by Rage Against the Machine.
Her signature song. My cheeks burnt as the audience snapped hundreds of pictures of my bright pink prick while Natasha delivered the closing moment of their tour, captivating ten thousand fans with an intense performance. It brought back memories when I was underneath the incredible singer, feeling her pee rain down on me. My cock stiffened, and I turned in embarrassment to shield my arousal once more.
After the band finished and left the stage, the arena emptied. I stood, unable to go anywhere, with my hands restrained behind my back.
Five minutes stranded on stage, I worried and called out to the empty room.
Ten minutes, I panicked and yelled.
Fifteen minutes later, Natasha sauntered onto the raised platform with a smirk and a beer in her hand. "We have a fucking problem. Paula's left the keys in the fucking hotel."
I gulped. "Well, can I... where are you staying?" She swigged her drink from the bottle. "Although I live near London, I got a room too, just in case I needed it. You might have done something to me."
Natasha sneered. "You expect me to go back to my fucking hotel to get the fucking key? Fuck off, you fucking entitled piece of piss! We're at the fucking Royal Guildhall. You'll just have to fucking wait." Natasha tipped the beer bottle into her mouth.
"That's over the road. I know 'cause mine's next door. It's two minutes away." She giggled at my indignation, looked me in the eye, and emptied the dregs of her lager into my briefs around my ankles.
"Oops!" I bit my lip as she expected a reaction and she pulled my damp underwear to my waist, followed by my jeans. "Well fucking come on, then!" I found it difficult to walk with my hands fastened behind my back. My balance was skewed, and I struggled to maintain the pace with Natasha. She took two more bottles of beer from their stash backstage and promised her bandmates she would "see them later."
Several of the venue employees smirked as Natasha led me into the cold night-time air, openly swigging from the bottle of complimentary ale. The dampness on my underwear made me to shiver, and it was uncomfortable walking. Everything seemed soggy down below as I followed the lead singer, and Natasha took me to the top floor of the exclusive hotel to the large palatial penthouse. I waited outside their room and she returned with a key that freed my wrist. "Thanks," I muttered. "Nice apartment you have."
"We always splash out on a suite for the last gig of a tour. Treat from the record company."
I massaged my sore wrists; the handcuffs had left a telling indentation. "I understand if you don't want to, but there's a bar downstairs. Can I please buy you a drink?"
"No, of fucking course not," Natasha spat. "What do you fucking take me for?"
"Oh, sorry!" I muttered, looking away from the dominant woman.
"No. I'm not having one. You can get me several drinks. I've had a shit few weeks and I want to get fucking rat-arsed now the tour's over." She ran her hand through my pink hair and pushed me towards the lift. I loved her humour, and when we got to the bar underneath the hotel, and opposite the back entrance to the venue, she said to order her "anything alcoholic." I bought her five pints of beer - one from each of the draughts they had on tap. "Fuck me, I am going to piss like a fireman's hose later." She caught my smirk and raised her eyebrows. "You like the fucking sound of that?"
I blushed and changed the subject. "Why have you had a shit few weeks?" I asked. "If you don't mind me asking."
She sighed and collected her thoughts. "If any of this turns up on Popbitch, your arse is fucking history," she warned, alluding to the popular celebrity gossip e-mail. "Although, we know Faye and Vixen drop them stories, anyway." She cleared her throat and downed some Escort Eryaman of her beer. "Four weeks ago, my boyfriend split up with me. We'd just got back from the gig in Southend and we had a fight, so when the lease on our rented flat expires next month, I'm fucking homeless. One-bed flats 'round here aren't cheap, y'know? I can't afford 'em and we can barely manage the place we've got now between us. So I'm moving to sodding Windermere with my parents or I'll kip on Paula's sofa. Then, some lowlife nicked my car and fucking wrote it off. Insurance gave me sweet FA. Then, the entire media attacked me for pissing on someone, and our record company threatened to ditch us. Band went fucking mental at me and I had a punch-up with Faye. So altogether shit, really."
"I'm sorry to hear that." I sipped my drink in the silence. "Ten days ago, I split from my long-term girlfriend. I came home early and saw her fucking my teenage neighbour on our sheepskin rug. It ended an eleven year relationship." Natasha snorted into her beer. "A day or two later I was underneath you getting pissed on!"
She sniggered. "Sorry, that's fucking rough. My boyfriend came out as gay and moved in with his new master. He was always bi, but he prefers 100% cock to dick with occasional cunt." Natasha took a deep breath and necked an entire pint of IPA. "That's a cracking good stuff."
"Samantha's problem with me," I mused. "I wasn't alpha male enough. Bought a house, helped her out financially, but wasn't macho for her."
"Yeah, I can fucking see that." Natasha snapped. "Oh, come on, you took a golden shower. I fucking humiliated you on stage tonight. Would you do it again? Of course you fucking would! You were fucking harder than the Sudoku that Paula does every fucking day. You fuckin' loved it, didn't you?"
I gulped. "Well..."
"Why did you let me piss on you?"
"I guess I enjoy being dominated," I confessed, and she smiled at my admission. "I like being degraded and not in control. It's something I've wanted to explore and never did with Samantha. I've always wanted to go deep into BDSM, but my ex never would. You made some of those curiosities and fantasies come true in Bristol," I admitted. "And tonight, I suppose. It's... powerful. And addictive."
Natasha slurped her drink. "You are just like Gary. He'd take my strap-on every day. He wanted to get pissed on, smacked, beaten. And he played at the gay sauna and bent over for everyone. His arse had more traffic than Trafalgar Square. Whenever we had sex, I had to be in control."
"Could you be any other way?" Her hands trembled over her stout. "Could you live with an alpha male? Ordering you about?"
"For a shag or two, of course. I need a good rogering every so often. But with all my boyfriends, I've been the dominant one." She smirked as downed the second beer. "Ahh, that's excellent too. It's fucking hot under those lights. You sweat your tits off! Need to rehydrate." She continued to be candid and honest; Natasha was an open book as she recounted her life, the tour and the crazy events on it. She revealed what had happened in Bristol. "I was fucking desperate. Everything was bloated, and I felt so fucking alive. I pissed over Gary all the time and with some of my one-night stands. Kinky men adore it, and I like kinky men. I'd have drink after drink until I was fucking bursting and then I'd piss over them. It's always so fucking amazing. Almost like an orgasm. Incredible. I fucking love it. And in Bristol, I was about to burst. You seemed so keen, and I was so drunk and busting, I just emptied over you. It felt good. Great. Fucking fantastic."
She smiled as the clock ticked by, and her phone vibrated several times, but she ignored it. She was blunt and truthful about everyone and everything; I may have seen the band's lead singer through rose-tinted glasses, but Natasha was simply wonderful.
After she drank the last beer, a Belgian lager, she smiled and stood up. "Come with me. There's something else I want to do before I need to fuck off with the girls and get trolleyed." I hurriedly finished my second pint of ale and scurried after the lead singer. She said nothing as she strode towards the lift and selected the top floor.
"Are we..." I asked, and she put a finger over my lips to silence me. Her eyes sparkled as we rode to the penthouse, and she unlocked the door to the band's vast suite with her key card.
The moment she entered the room, she turned to me. Her voice dropped an octave. "Get those fucking clothes off. Lie in the bath." As the words left her mouth, she flicked the light switch in the bathroom of the luxurious apartment. I couldn't refuse. Her tone was sharp and aggressive. Natasha possessed the same domineering attitude that had caused me to become so entranced by the lead singer and I became as powerless in front of her in a London hotel as I was at the concert in Bristol.
She barked a command at me. No room for negotiation, not a request or suggestion, but an uncompromising demand that I had to follow. I gulped and pulled my Eryaman Escort Bayan jumper and T-shirt over my head. She smirked as I placed my tops, shoes, socks and trousers beside the sink. "And my underwear?"
"No, leave them on." I clambered into the freestanding, large white bath, with my toes resting against the drain hole. I knew what was coming. My heart fluttered as she pulled her grey leggings to her ankles and I glimpsed her bald cunt once more. Absolute perfection. I wanted to spend hours with my lips pressed against that wondrous beauty only a dozen inches from my face.
My cock danced with excitement as I rested my head against the cold white enamel. The backs of her knees propped on the lip of the bath. I stared at her milky thighs and shaven lips in expectation. She groaned, and the first jet of her pale piss splashed against my torso.
I opened my mouth to catch a few splashes as the pints of beer unloaded from her bladder in a fierce stream. Natasha rocked her hips, aiming her torrent of pee onto my face and then down my chest. Bitter on the nose, acrid and nasty on the tastebuds, yet wonderful and delicious on the mind. I gulped a mouthful of her waste and then another as the warm liquid flooded across my body and soaked my boxer shorts.
The room smelt of urine. I reeked of it, but Natasha continued to shower me with her piss. She covered my skin; with my hair saturated and my underwear drenched, I could have stayed underneath the glorious woman all day, bathing in her waste. I laid in her undrained wee, puddling around my body, as her jet became a dribble. She ran her fingers through her lips and shook a dozen drops onto my forehead and pulled her leggings to her waist.
"You must be desperate too," she muttered as she knelt down beside the bath. Her hands pressed against my damp belly button and I groaned. The desire to release my bladder was suddenly very uncontrollable. "Piss," she demanded, and pulled the waistband of my underwear to sit underneath my balls and erection.
I looked down at my painted dick, aimed straight at me, and squirmed. The pressure felt too much and with the smell of acidic urea permeating my nostrils and tastebuds I grunted and released a jet that touched Natasha's hand.
At then I couldn't stop; two pints of beer flooded out of me, and the stream hit my chin and my face. Natasha giggled as I urinated over myself. She replaced my waistband over my pink pubes so my erect prick wet my underwear, soaking them, as I sighed in relief.
"Boys are fucking disgusting," Natasha muttered. She picked up my clothes and took my wallet, hotel key card and phone from the pockets, before dumping the garments in the large puddle at the end of the bath with a smirk. "I got a night out with the girls so you can piss off now. In your fucking underwear."
"What?" I panicked. "But... I can't go in my... Can I have a towel?" I asked. "Please. At least let me dry myself."
"Fuck off. And those clothes are staying here." My erection stiffened. She leant against the bathroom wall and smiled. "No-one calls me a fucking minx on national fucking television. Dry yourself on your keks, put them in a fucking bag and fuck off with your boxers, your wallet, your phone and your key." She glanced at her watch. "You have thirty fucking seconds, you filthy fucking cunt, before I call Security."
I slipped as I stood in the bath and frantically dried myself. I had soaked my navy boxers and as I tried to wipe my face or torso free of her piss, I just smeared it over my skin. She laughed at my frenzied actions, as I shoved my wet feet into my trainers, grabbed my personal affects. "When do I get everything back?" I asked.
"Tomorrow. After breakfast. If I fucking decide, you can have them." I gulped.
"But I can't go in the street in just this," I muttered. "Please Natasha, can I..."
"Fuck. Off. You. Filthy. Cunt." She yelled and pushed me towards the exit from their hotel suite. Natasha opened the stout wooden door, and I stumbled out of the band's luxury space and into the corridor.
Laughter. Cruel maniacal cackling filled the passageway.
The rest of the punk rock band stood in front of the lift as I left their penthouse suite. Paula, the diminutive punk rock chick with green hair. Yasmin, the bi-racial redheaded drummer with a dozen piercings, and an attitude problem. Maddison, the heavily tattooed bass guitarist with dirty blonde hair and a vicious streak. And Faye, with bright ruby pigtails, matching lipstick and a camera to record my humiliation. "He's wet himself!" She yelled as I bolted past them, running towards the stairs.
"Of course he fucking has," Natasha cried from the doorway to the suite. "Smile, piss boy! Look at the camera!"
The wild cachinnation echoed from behind me as I flung myself down the fire escape and hurtled down the staircase. Adrenaline coursed through my veins, and I was too excited to feel the cold fabric on my skin. My legs powered down the stairs until I reached the ground floor. A sign on the external door warned that opening the exit to the street would trigger a security alarm. I looked through the glass window of the internal door leading to the foyer. Guests traversed the atrium of the luxurious hotel, with footmen and staff serving their clientele. It was an impossibility for me to get to the main exit without being seen.