Rage Against the Latrine Ch. 01

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Breakups are never easy. I’d known Samantha for over eleven years, since my University days, and we’d been dating for nine. We’d even floated the idea of marriage, but I’d never proposed and she never pushed it. There was no need to change what we did. We were happy.

After graduating from University, I worked at a bank’s IT development department and specialised in the interconnect between the bank’s core system and the London Stock Exchange. Five years ago, I left to become a freelance consultant. Last year, I became mortgage-free and owned my detached four-bedroom house in a picturesque hamlet, just outside the M25, outright. Two weeks ago, I came home early and witnessed my girlfriend engaged in energetic sex on the lounge carpet with our neighbour’s eighteen-year-old son.

We both said words that could not be unsaid and my ex-girlfriend packed and left that night. She said I was not a tiger in the bedroom, but I knew that. I am a passive lover who loved to be led. I wanted to try fetishes and kinks my girlfriend did not and I could not dominate and ravish her. That wasn’t me. I am no alpha-male but a submissive or a gentle companion.

My sudden change of relationship status allowed me more time with my leisure pursuits. I had three hobbies. I watched my local football team, played computer games, and I ran the official fans’ club of a female rock act. Bitches Against were my favourite band, and after attending a concert in a London park seven years ago, I set up the fans club with two fellow men, also entranced by unpredictable rockers.

The band comprising five women, all of a similar age to me, was incredible; their music was intoxicating. A steady mix of original songs combined with punk rock covers of legendary artists. They stuffed every performance with high-energy beats, powerful vocals and incredible guitar solos. We loved them, and I toured the UK to see them play whenever I could.

I combined most of my city breaks with attending a concert by Bitches Against. Samantha hated them and on our most recent holiday, she visited the cinema while I partied with the punk rockers I loved so much. Our fan club, run online, numbered several hundred. Each of the band had their devotees, but for me, it was the lead singer I was most enchanted with.

Natasha was special. Bright neon pink straight hair that reached her shoulders, an innocent face with a smile that could light up Blackpool promenade. She always wore tops with plunging necklines to expose her cleavage and had the most forceful, potent voice that could have demolished skyscrapers. Her energetic vocals left me fired up and excited for hours after every single concert.

She was one in a million. A treasure. And she made me feel amazing. After my breakup, I played their music for days. Every one of their seven albums streamed on repeat. I relived every concert, every performance, every moment of Natasha’s incredible voice. I re-imagined the warm clubs, the open air festivals and that freezing night on the banks of Loch Lomond with snow-capped mountains in the distance as they raised money for their Scottish guitarist’s home town.

The breakup with my cheating ex also gave me an opportunity. Bitches Against’s latest tour was ending with a just a handful of concerts left. I had already seen them on their “From Bags to Bitches” tour four times, and had tickets for their closing date in London in December. However, without Samantha to argue, I bought a ticket for their show in Bristol for that weekend and booked a cheap hotel near the venue.

It was part of the council’s Halloween and bonfire night celebrations. In The Downs, part of the city’s public open space with panoramic views across the river and the iconic suspension bridge, the council had installed a funfair, an arcade, a pop-up pub tent, and a music stage. Everyone in the park would hear the Bitches Against concert, but only those with tickets would get inside the cordon to see them.

It was mild for the time of year, and the vast bonfire, along with the body heat of 1,000 spectators, warmed the arena. Natasha and the band entered to a raucous reception; they held bottles of beer and the band swept through their first eight songs. I stood at the front, against the stage; görükle escort it was the closest I had been to the band in years. Their early gigs were in clubs and bars and there was no distance between the musicians and the audience, but as their profile rose, they played at venues which had greater separation and security personnel between the musicians and the fans. This was not the case at Bristol’s bonfire celebrations, where I was at touching distance.

I bought another beer at the intermission, and a few minutes later, the band returned. They did another song, and I saw an element of discomfort in Natasha’s face as she hit her final lyric. “This is a shout out to Bristol Town Council,” she cried. “As they’ve fucking closed all the fucking Portaloos for us bitches on this side of the park. Where are we supposed to fucking piss?” She asked.

“On stage!” A voice cried, and she laughed. She did another song and another. But the beer had an effect and I could see her squirm as she finished her next incredible musical performance.

“Who wants to get fucking pissed on?” She asked, yelling at the crowd. I was three feet away from her, and I was too excited. Of course, I yelled, putting my hand up and cheering as she raucously guffawed. She was joking, but she clocked my enthusiastic self-nomination with a broad smirk and started her last song of the night. Wake Up by Rage Against the Machine.

The beat of the speakers caused the stage to vibrate. The air trembled at the sound of Paula’s aggressive guitar and the ground quaked at the movement of the drums. An emotional overload to finish the set. To draw the performance to a close.

Every hair stood on end as Natasha started the punk rock anti-establishment anthem with incredible intensity. And during the vocal interlude she looked at me. She pointed at me. “Get. On. This. Fucking. Stage.”

I froze, overwhelmed. Almost 100 concerts spread over 30,000 miles, and Natasha – the object of my punk rock obsession – had spoken to me for the first time. Five brief words that made an order. I could not resist her, but my feet could barely move. Spellbound, I put my trembling hands on the top of the temporary stage and pulled myself onto the wooden platform, kneeling in front of her.

Her blue eyes gave a menacing welcome. At that moment, I felt like I was her prey and as she held the microphone close to her mouth and sang, “yeah, yeah, back in this,” she pulled me by the back of my T-shirt onto my back. I was flat out, looking upwards at the twinkling dots in the night sky.

She stood over my body; her black leather boots on either side of my head and as she sang the second verse, she pulled her black leather trousers to her thighs. Captivated, enthralled, transfixed, as I saw her bare arse.

Perfection. Not a single mark on her luscious derriere from the wonderful rocker. My cock rose in my pants and she squatted inches from my face. I saw everything. Her heavenly, exquisite pussy lips were less than a foot away from me. I thought I was dreaming. Natasha, wonderfully sexy, talented Natasha, squatted over me, baring her gorgeous butt and hairless, divine cunt. I wanted this moment to last for a lifetime, but if it had, then what was to follow would never have happened.

My mind was agog with sensory overload, that it never occurred to me what she would do. Everyone in the audience knew as they witnessed the lead singer threaten to urinate over a volunteer. They had seen me enthusiastically nominate myself and climb on stage. My conscience was still processing the sudden appearance of the radiant woman’s private anatomy. I would remember that image until the day I died.

The first squirt of Natasha’s urine was a surprise. Blissfully warm, it landed on my forehead and made me jolt. I had seen it leave her smooth slit, but my mind didn’t register it until it landed. Immediately, I remembered, and my cock hardened.

The next stream was constant. She fired it across my face, as she never dropped a beat. The true professional continued to sing as she urinated on an obsessive fan. I’d never had a golden shower as Samantha had always refused, but Natasha made that fantasy a reality. In front of 1,000 people, the punk rocker pissed over me. I closed my bursa merkez escort eyes as the powerful stream bounced off my face, my lips, and entered my mouth.

Astringent, acerbic, bitter liquid that was the most heavenly of nectars. It filled my nostrils and soaked into my hair, my T-shirt and my skin, the wonderful scent of the fantastic punk rocker’s waste.

The stream came faster, hitting my open mouth and filling it with the pungent liquid. My cock strained as my tongue tasted the salty, warm fluid. It was revolting, disgusting, horrible, vile, and beautiful. The pressure of her eruption forced some down my throat. More of it cascaded over my lips. My senses became overwhelmed by the acidic contents of Natasha’s bladder.

She leant further forward as she sang, forcing the stream onto my white T-shirt, soaking my clothes with her piss. A dose of warmth in the cooling night.

My cock itched. I was a touch away from filling my underwear with cum. As I breathed in Natasha’s excretions, my body danced on the precipice of orgasm. My mouth was awash with the acrid taste of her piss and my body lay in the pool of her liquid waste.

I was in a mess. A horny, unsatisfied, excited, humiliated mess. One thousand people, some of whom knew me through the fan club, had witnessed Natasha urinate over me in public. They had seen me volunteer and enjoy it. They may have seen my erection in front of my trousers as the punk rocker had defiled and degraded me.

But I didn’t care. Her stream dwindled to a dribble and then a few drips. I wanted more, and I watched, almost disappointed, as she pulled her leather trousers to her hips. I couldn’t move, as I didn’t want to expose my erection or leave the cooling puddle of piss. Mostly, however, I didn’t want that moment to end. Her boots were still inches from my face as she continued to sing and perform. When she stomped her feet, drops of her piss splashed onto my face.

Heavenly humiliation.

They finished the song, accepted their raucous cheers, and the band left the stage. I stumbled to my feet and shook my head. I reeked of pee and the nighttime air met with the wet clothing. It was cold, and I shivered. I waited for a couple of minutes and was about to leave when Natasha strode onto the wooden platform with a couple of towels and a spray bottle as the crowd dissipated into the evening. “Can’t expect the staff to clear up my fucking piss,” she barked and threw me a towel.

I wiped myself dry and helped her to clean up her puddle with her disinfectant spray. “John,” I introduced myself as we finished. “I run the UK fan club for Bitches Against.”

“I thought I recognised your face,” she said as she laughed. “So, I just fucking pissed over a fucking mega-fan!” I must have smiled as she took the piss-soaked towel from me.

“Yeah, but I’ve been to enough gigs to know to expect the wild and wonderful.” I smiled at her, thanked her for an incredible experience, and left to go back to my hotel. The following day, with a head full of memories, I travelled home, and I framed the piss-stained Bitches Against T-shirt on my office wall, where it took a prominent position amongst their memorabilia. Three minutes was all it took from being hauled on stage to the experience ending, but I had replayed that encounter a thousand times.

It had been incredible. I would be the event that I would replay every time I masturbated. My golden shower had platinum status in my wank bank.

However, the incident was so incredible that a fan posted footage on the Internet, and the clip went viral. A footnote from the show became the major story. Natasha was on the national news. Vilified. The band hurriedly cancelled their next concert in Swindon because of the furore, and politicians demanded that the Police prosecute the band for indecency. Self-appointed moral guardians frothed and my hands trembled as the media sought the identity of the man who she urinated on. People speculated about lawsuits and trials.

I reached out to the band, and Natasha followed me on social media. I got to privately message her, and she apologised to me for what happened.

Natasha never ceded to anyone. That’s why I adored her. She never cared if she bursa sınırsız escort upset or offended. That was their problem, not hers. She was an unconquerable, unstoppable force that smashed any resistance, and her first DM to me was a short, meek set of words.

Her public statement was worse. She asked for forgiveness and expressed remorse and regret at the incident. The media circus had broken her and there were rumours that their record label and management team had threatened to sever ties with the band.

But my job is problem-solving. I troubleshoot and I fix, and I contacted a media outlet who had covered the story prominently. Their social media platform had commented that their “influential commentator” would do a piece about the incident and I told them I was the person underneath Natasha on stage. I offered their presenter an interview for his programme. The television company, after checking my story, accepted my invitation.

I sent a private message to Natasha and suggested that she tune in to watch and at 9pm – as they filmed the show for broadcast later that evening – I connected via my webcam to the studio in London.

The presenter was a smarmy mix of arrogance and pomposity. “John runs the fan club for Bitches Against and he was the person who Natasha disgustingly urinated on during a live show in Bristol. He joins us now. John, that was absolutely revolting. You must be ashamed of yourself.”

I smiled. “Revolting yes. If it really was pee.”

“Pardon? We saw it, we have the video. It was pee, and it was disgusting.”

“It was a simple bet with the lead singer of the band. As you said, I run the fan club and we know the girls very well,” I lied. “A bit of warm water in a concealed bag around the abdomen, pushed out through a thin tube hidden by the shirt. It looks very realistic from the angle of the video, doesn’t it?”

“So you are saying it is a trick?” He asked in disbelief.

“Yes,” I replied. “But then, only the most gullible people get outraged by tricks and illusions.” His brow furrowed. “Basically, the wonderful Natasha and I had a sportsman-like bet she wouldn’t be able to fool the audience and her bandmates into thinking she’d wet herself on stage. A few beers were drunk, and she took the wager. She went that step further, which is just pure Natasha. She’s an artist and likes to push boundaries. It amazed me at what she pulled off. She had you lot fooled, didn’t she? Quite the little minx!”

“That’s one of the weakest arguments I’ve ever heard, and you’ve had two days to come up with this feeble excuse. If this was a wager as you claim, what was it? What was the stake?” He spoke aggressively and dismissively.

I gulped, as I hadn’t considered this question, and scratched my nose. “Unfortunately, I have to dye my hair pink like Natasha.” The moment I said it, I regretted those words, but it seemed plausible and I could hear the grumbling of the audience behind him. “For the last show of the tour, I have tickets and I will have pink hair. This was a hoax that you and all the gullible media fell for. You don’t honestly think the lead singer of one of Britain’s best bands would urinate over a fan on stage? How foolish are you?”

“Are you suggesting that this is all just a shabby attention-grabbing trick?” It was as much a question as an insult.

“Did you say that about David Blaine, or Paul Daniels? Do you think David Copperfield actually walked through the Great Wall of China as he claimed, or do you understand it was a trick to entertain?” I waited for a second. “These things aren’t to be taken literally. You understand Santa is not real, don’t you?” The interview ended quickly after I started taunting the insolent presenter and I got myself a whisky to steady my nerves.

An hour later, as the network broadcast the show, my phone rang. Natasha called me from the social media app and my hands shook as I spoke once more with the legendary rocker. “That’s fucking amazing. I can’t believe he fucking bought it. You’re a fucking genius. Thank you, so fucking much.”

I think – like me – she had drank a little. “You’re welcome. And thank you for an amazing experience on Friday. I’d imagine that you’d stop getting so much hate online, and the record label might stop being dicks, now?”

She snorted. “Yeah. But you better come to our show in London. And you fucking better have pink hair. Like me,” Natasha demanded. “I fucking won the bet, remember. And I am going to have some fun with you on stage. Again.”

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