Rage Against the Latrine

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.

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; 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.

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 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.