Rage Against the Latrine Ch. 22 – Fetish – Free Sex Story

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After the sordid weekend with Natasha’s mother, the only time I saw my new fiancée in the following fortnight was in a Buckinghamshire park, a few days after our hotel orgy. My ex contacted us to discuss the court ruling and, as my lover was in High Wycombe the day after, we met Samantha after lunch on a dreary December afternoon.

The meeting was frosty and unwelcoming. Natasha tapped her fingernails on the picnic bench as she stared at my ex-girlfriend, sat beside her companion. I recognised the well-built woman, but I couldn’t remember her name. I was never good at recalling Samantha’s long-list of friends. “Well?”

“I just can’t afford it,” Samantha wailed. “I am sorry. Please? Don’t do this to me.”

“If you cannot pay, then we’ll apply to the court, who will put an attachment on your future earnings. We can also seek a bailiff to recover the outstanding monies, and a CCJ remains on your credit file for six years after you clear the debt,” I replied, having memorised the law. “Non-payment has a serious implication on your life and…”

Samantha squealed again. “Mummy and Daddy won’t loan me the money. I can’t pay you and you don’t need it. Please?”

Natasha and I made eye contact; we had discussed this eventuality in the previous days and we were prepared for her pleading. My fiancée pointed to my ex-girlfriend’s associate and then at me. “You two, fuck off while me and the fucking slut sort this shit out.” Samantha gulped as I got up from my seat. Her companion argued and only left the bench once the punk rocker threatened them both.

“So, how much money did you make this year?” Samantha’s friend asked me as we strode away from the two negotiating women.

“After tax, just under three hundred thousand, plus another seventy in bonuses.”

“And you are ruining Sam’s life over ten grand?” She spat. “You’re disgusting.”

I sighed and gestured towards a coffee van in the park. “I never cared about the money. Sam cheated on me, and we split up. Her choice, not mine.”

“Best thing she ever did,” her friend snapped. “She’s seen your true colours now.”

“And I kept her stuff safe in the spare room for six months. When she came to collect it, she fought with my new girlfriend and made unfounded claims against me in a court of law that could have had serious implications for my employment. You just can’t treat people like that. I was happy to ignore the money as part of a failed relationship, and move on, but she wanted to get nasty. And that has come and bitten her on the arse. She should learn from it. Do you want a coffee?”

“You won’t sue me for the cost of it?” She spat, scowling at me. When I didn’t respond to her childish outburst, she surveyed the menu. “OK, caramel latte, please.”

The woman mellowed with a Hot cup of Java in her hand, and I learnt Samantha was sleeping on a sofa bed with a mutual acquaintance and had recently left a part-time job in a solicitor’s office. She hated her employment at a fast-food restaurant and struggled with the reality of her restrained circumstances.

We ambled back to the park bench, each holding two coffees; I passed Natasha her drink as Samantha gestured angrily at my fiancée over a four-page document. “What is it?” Her friend asked, concerned.

“This. This is vile. She’s a pervert. A freak. An absolute monster. I can’t do this.” She looked at me. “Have you seen this? And are you happy with this? What’s wrong with you?”

“If you do the two things listed in that fucking contract, on the dates specified, we’ll inform the court before the 28 days has elapsed that you have satisfied the payment required of you,” Natasha repeated, reading, almost verbatim, the first line of the document. “This means that no CCJ will go on your credit file. Alternatively, you can have that black mark on your record and we can enforce the judgement.”

“What’s she gotta do?” Her friend asked once more.

“I’ve got to get two tattoos on my body in permanent ink.”

“Yes, Maddison’s family owns a tattoo parlour in East London. They will do it for Free on Friday at 2pm. Don’t be fucking late,” Natasha replied, and her friend’s face whitened when she read the clause in the contract that detailed the stipulation.

“And the other thing,” Samantha added, her voice seething with resentment. “Is that I have to be their Sex slave for six hours on the 21st!”

“That’s… illegal.” Her friend cried.

I shook my head and addressed my ex. “No. This is a contract to provide particular services that may include sexual activity. It’s not against the law as escorts do it all the time. This is your choice.”

“You could hang around Paddington late at night offering blowjobs for twenty quid and make ten grand to pay us off!” Natasha snapped. “We’re fucking helping you. An offer to get your debt paid in one afternoon and move on. You can do it willingly and go in with your eyes open, or raise your cash another way. As your sexy ex said, it’s your fucking choice.”

Her friend’s face whitened further as she read the description of the duties the band required my former lover to perform to pay off her debt. “This is insane.”

“Yes,” my fiancée replied proudly and put a pen on top of the document. “And it’s up to Samantha. This is a onetime opportunity. We don’t need to do this. I wanted to chase you for the ten grand you owe us, but John is a soft touch and made me come up with a way out for you. So we will have a party and you can be the entertainment. I’m offering you crazy money for six hours work, but you could go into Christmas with a clean slate. Or not. I fucking win whatever you fucking do!” We gave the two women a few minutes to think about our proposal as we took a walk around the West London park, drinking our coffees.

A couple of teenage boys ran up to Natasha to ask for an autograph as we ambled through the splash of greenery amongst the urban sprawl. My fiancée seemed a little overwhelmed at their exuberance.

My ex and her friend scowled as we approached. “I’ve signed your blackmail,” my former lover hissed, and I looked at the signatures of Samantha Roberts and Gina Mason scrawled across the final page of the contract. “Just one condition.”

“What?” Natasha snapped.

“I come too,” her friend said. “I want to be there to ensure you don’t abuse Sam.”

A smile broke over Natasha’s lips. “OK. As long as you do not interfere with the contractual obligations of Nat’s prey,” I replied; they both winced as I spoke. “We will make the arrangements for you to be an observer. You note that clause seven of the agreement is that you are also bound by a condition of confidentiality.”

They both snorted. Natasha and I signed the two copies of the contract and Samantha petulantly snatched a document from my grasp; my fiancée scribbled the location of the tattoo parlour, run by Maddison’s dad, stepmum and brothers in Becontree and circled 2pm. “See you on Friday 21st. 3pm. You know the address!”

The vanquishment of Samantha’s resistance was the only time I saw Natasha inside that fortnight; after Wycombe, she had a hectic schedule of ten events in Shrewsbury, Carlisle, Preston and several towns in Wales, before their last gig in London on a Friday night, a week before the Christmas break.

I had a difficult fortnight at work; key employees made a couple of dreadful and inexcusable decisions, and I had to put in several evenings to correct their ineptitude. I never enjoyed admonishing and disciplining colleagues, but they had caused me significant amounts of stress as the team battled to get our project back on track, and I had to reprimand them for their errors. By the time of that final show in London, I desperately needed to unwind and expel the tension which had collected inside of me.

The musicians booked a former theatre on the South side of the expansive conurbation. The iconic destination held over 5,000 revellers and although it wasn’t the biggest venue they had ever played, it was a legendary site for live music in the city, steeped in history.

Natasha told me she had something planned; the band all the time splashed out on the last show and their 85-date trip around the UK was their longest tour they had ever done. My fiancée dropped hints it would be the “wildest evening possible”, and my beau sent me a list of instructions, starting with the morning of their gig.

First, I drove to an address in South London. The four-storey Georgian complex, set in a gated tree-lined mews, had a small car park, and I took the penultimate space. Tall, wide decaying windows and brickwork, stained with monochromatic algae, gave the building an unloved, shabby appearance.

I met Fox as he unloaded several bags from the band’s rented minibus. The bearded goliath said little, but provided me a key and gestured to the top floor. The staircase of the student accommodation was dark and poorly lit, and I felt a cold draft around the window frames. Natasha had told me to go to “Room 27” of the flat complex and the single bedroom had just a mattress on the threadbare carpet. It was a long way from the five-star suite of the previous year.

I put my bag beside the makeshift bed and left the unwelcoming student housing. I wandered down the street to the gig venue, a mere three-minute walk away, and had lunch with the band. The girls were in exuberant high spirits, and Faye explained the choice of their overnight accommodation.

“They are renovating it. Completely stripping it back, but they needed to use it until the builders finish the new campus, ’cause the project overran. Upper floors moved out last month. Bottom two will move out over Christmas. We know the housing officer, so we paid to have the top floor for the night and do what the hell we want, because the entire place is being gutted soon. We’re throwing a party.”

Natasha giggled as my expression changed. “We’re going to have a lot of fucking fun tonight!” she warned. “And I have so many surprises!” Her excited cheeks matched her bright fuchsia hair as her face lit up with glee.

I stayed in the theatre with the band as a journalist interviewed them; their Christmas song had received plenty of attention and Vixen, their manager, arranged for an influential tabloid reporter to write a feature on Bitches Against. The betting odds on my beau getting top spot over the festive season was 20/1, but these had tumbled significantly since the week before, and a handful of rock legends had backed the all-female group to nab the accolade. They had a couple of precious commodities – freshness and momentum – and the punk rockers had a genuine chance of grabbing the iconic Number One.

I left the venue before the interview finished to meet with the fan club; we all the time met before the last gig of the tour, and the familiar face of Toby had reserved a table in a bar close to the former theatre. I spent the afternoon drinking with him; Frances and Suna arrived and hugged me, congratulating me on my engagement to the beautiful Natasha as we chatted about the punk rockers. After dinner, we entered the dark, drizzly streets outside and excitedly strode to the iconic music venue.

The first surprise was that the ticket my punk rock fiancée had given me was for the “VIP” section; a small roped off area on the far right of the balcony, which had an amazing view of the stage. Never – in the history of attending Bitches Against concerts – had I seen a special space for such attendees.

Svetlana, my fiancée’s beautiful, but straight-laced, blonde Sister, chatted with a girl as they drank, and several of Faye’s, Yasmin’s and Maddison’s family watched from the excellent vantage point as the venue filled with revellers.

The second surprise was a pair of familiar faces – Tubby and Portia – dressed in black, greeted me. My friend explained the tickets were a present from Natasha and the Northern couple travelled by train that morning. Portia’s face was wracked with excitement and guilt; she admitted she had never been to a rock concert before, and my fiancée’s gift had come as a shock. I bought drinks and Suna joined us – who had also received a VIP ticket – and then Vixen, the band’s manager.

The show was a heady mix of sexuality and energy. The girls wore provocative outfits. Natasha dressed in just a skimpy black leotard and fishnet stockings. Paula, with her green hair, clad in a tank top and shorts. Maddison displayed all of her tattoos with a spidery crop top and microskirt. They chose their wardrobe to excite, and their dynamic songs came alive in the enclosed atmosphere with their passionate performances.

Svetlana watched the show in awe, and I spoke to several of the fellow attendees of the “VIP” section. The concert finished just after 9:30, and we waited for the venue to empty. The band joined us ten minutes later, and after spending a bit of time signing autographs, my fiancée led most of the members of the separate grouping out of the theatre’s back entrance and towards the student accommodation.

“Is everyone coming too?” I asked her.

“Yeah, they’re staying with us for the party,” Natasha giggled, as she held my hand. She zigzagged out of the hall, clearly tipsy, as we walked to Weymouth Mews, the Georgian student accommodation. Faye sang as she strolled, her arm around Nessie, cupping the submissive’s buttocks.

Dozens of the band’s entourage joined us. I recognised a few of the men and women in high spirits as we stumbled down the South London backstreets. “All of them?” I asked.

“Sure, we have the fucking space.” She cackled as she squeezed my hand. “We have the top floor and we want a bit of carnage. I know you like that stuff.”

“But Portia and Tubby?”

“Yeah, I got the number from your phone in Oxford when you were in the Shower. You’re shit at keeping in contact with your friends, and you two are both kinky. I’ve heard all about it from his Wife when we had lunch.”

“You met Portia?”

“Yeah, in Preston. Your mate is fucking filthy. He’s as bad as you.”

“And you.”

“Of fucking course. We’ve not done much these last few months, so I want a week of letting go. You understand, right? I want to fucking unload so much sexual energy and filth.”

“Sure,” I muttered and squeezed her hand. Every time I saw Natasha, I felt a pang of excitement in my gut. I adored that woman and I trusted her implicitly. She knew my red lines and my limits and I knew she would approach them but not violate them.

We hurried through the swirling wind and drizzle, splashing in the puddles reflecting the white glare of the streetlights above. Faye unlocked the flat and three dozen people stomped inside, walking up the poorly illuminated staircase to the upper floor.

The band had crammed the worktop in the vast kitchen with bottles and cans of alcohol. Faye opened the chest freezer, now unplugged from the wall, but still cold from earlier in the day, and her eyes sparkled as she used both hands to show her bandmates and friends the immense amount of additional booze, cool to the touch. “We got pizzas being delivered in half-an-hour too.”

“Nice one,” Maddison cried, and she turned on the boombox, sitting on the windowsill. Their music filled the room, blasting off the walls. Natasha tugged my arm as her guests filed into the large student kitchen and she pulled me back into the corridor. She pushed open the first door and gestured for me to enter. My heart skipped as I walked into the dingy beige bathroom.

The musty, cool space had three toilet stalls on the right, and two raised Shower cubicles on the left; the privacy curtains were absent from their rails and the pale brown ridged tiles on the floor and walls were uneven around the blackened grout.

In the centre of the chambers were the portable commodes, but they looked shorter than I remembered. Natasha giggled as I took in the space. “The fucking bogs are for shitting and vomming only,” she explained. “So get your clothes off and I’ll dump them in your room with your wallet and phone and shit. You’re being our fucking toilet, piss boy!”

“Wow!” I muttered, gulping. This was a long way from our pee play with just a handful of people.

“We’ve not done much dirty humiliation ’cause of the tour, and I know it gets you off. Proof that I know you and Love you.” She looked up at me with a cheeky grin. “And I’m going to get so pissed and have some fun. And then there is the party on Friday too. This week will be so…”

“Hedonistic?”

“Filthy and perverted. Like me. And you.”

“And I know you Love me,” I said as I unbuckled my belt and slid my jeans down my legs to my ankles. My fiancée smiled as I eagerly undressed, and she pulled the commode to the front of the raised Shower cubicle.

I laid on the cool floor, with the soles of my feet pressing against the icy wall, and she placed the chair over my face; the legs had been shortened, as the seat was a few inches from my nose. Natasha tugged my hands towards my head and I felt the cold metal handcuffs snap over my wrists, pinning me to the stout steel bar of the commode.

“Enjoy yourself,” she giggled.

“Am I getting Nessie in here too?” I asked.

“Not quite.” The punk rock dominatrix glared at me. “Now, fucking shush. I got shit to do.” The door closed, and aside from the thumping bass of the music from the kitchen, there was silence.

Alone, I steadied my thoughts. The anticipation was as intense as the play; I waited for any sound, and a few minutes later, the door opened. I heard Natasha’s voice in the Shower room and tried to peer beyond the toilet seat, but she was out of my line of sight. “Listen Tubby. Portia fucking knows you did watersports on your stag do and she says she can’t dominate you like you want.”

“Oh God,” the familiar voice of my friend said. He sounded panicked.

“I say ‘want’, but from what she told me, you’ve been begging for it. Desperate to have your sick fantasies explored. So she’s getting pissed. She will have a great time and you are going to tell her you expect her to lose her inhibitions, aren’t you? Nothing is off the table, as we fucking humiliate your sorry Ass. Just like John. And it starts with you being the toilet for our party. Now go to your room, get naked, then find your Wife in the kitchen, tell her she has a Hall Pass and then come back here where I am cuffing you to that commode chair all evening.”

Tubby whimpered. “A Hall Pass?”

“Yeah, ’cause it’s not just your fantasies that are open for fucking playtime.” The door creaked as Natasha spoke with an increasing sharpness to her tone and she muttered to the latest visitor to the room.

Maddison peered through the commode with her scowling face and dirty blonde hair. “Hiya piss boy,” she slurred, holding a bottle of beer in her heavily tattooed hand. The lithe woman had dozens of tattoos and the bass guitarist pulled her microskirt to her knees as she sat down on the seat; her feet rested on the floor, a few inches lower than the raised Shower cubicle.

“When are we getting the other toilet?”

“Now,” my fiancée’s voice announced as Maddison settled. “He’s being a fucking Pussy.”

The guitarist sighed as she relaxed her bladder, and her slit twitched. Her stream started with a few golden drops and then it surged, flowing from her urethra and splashing on her cunt lips as it left her body. “Really?”

The warm liquid spattered across my face; I took a mouthful of her watery elixir of degradation as the deluge streamed over my chin and cheeks. “Yeah! He’s begged his Wife to piss on him and to dominate him and she can’t fucking manage it. So we are going to fuck him over tonight.”

I gulped a mouthful of her acerbic juices, enjoying the feel and smell of her bladder coating me in her tepid waste. Her surge became a dribble and Maddison wiped her slit with tissue and discarded it in the paper bin. “Good. Mum’s coming back here. Fucking Nessie told her what we did on tour last year and she doesn’t fucking b’lieve it.”

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