Chapter 10

Natasha spent several days in a friend’s warehouse in mid-March with her band. The empty London building, with questionable acoustics, became Bitches Against’s practice space, and the punk rockers used the vacant venue to hone their music.

I travelled to the industrial estate in Ealing after work one day and watched the crazy musicians create a wall of sound that would be the foundation stone of their new album and their autumn tour. It was the first time I had met every member of the group together since the morning after the London show, and when Natasha hugged me as she came offstage, her bandmates raised a few glances.

They were far from friends when practising; I witnessed three aggressive spats in less than 45 minutes as they yelled their artistic differences at each other. Faye bawled at Maddison, Yasmin screamed at Paula and Natasha, and my girlfriend kicked her water bottle at her best friend while they hurled insults at each other. No subject was off limits as the five combative women hollered abuse and they squared up to each other aggressively.

Yet, the moment the practice session finished, the anger dissipated, and they were mates again. It was weird witnessing my beau go from a psychopathic colleague to best buddy within a few moments.

Two days after my visit, a member of the council’s environmental health team inspected the warehouse, in response to complaints about noise. When the band didn’t play, the dull hum of machinery from other units provided a background murmur, while the shouts from the mechanics, working in the garage in an adjacent building, punctuated the mechanical whisperings. Yet, the council decreed the amps, guitars, drums and microphones were contrary to regulations and legislation, while the factory buzz was not. Bitches Against could no longer practice their music in their loaned unit.

Natasha and the band contemplated several alternatives, but I offered them the annexe for their sessions. The building was a self-contained space with my gym equipment in the upper room and an unfinished bathroom and half-finished kitchenette on the ground floor. The nearest property to my remote house was Belmont Hall, over 200 metres away. I had no neighbours to complain about noisy punk rockers apart from a small wood of wildlife, and I had never heard of a squirrel make an environmental health noise complaint to a council.

They gleefully accepted, and they arrived the following Monday. I could hear them - just - from my study. Whereas I used to have their music playing in the background while I worked, I suddenly had the band. They added six punk covers of mainstream hits - including a fabulous rendition of Geri Halliwell’s Look At Me, a spine-tingling take of ABBA’s Mamma Mia and a simply incredible version of White Wedding. Faye and Maddison had written their own songs too for the new album, as yet untitled, and Natasha’s powerful, anarchist vocals delivered their wonderfully composed pieces.

I felt honoured to have them and gleefully made them lunch each day I worked from home. The five rockers were happy to pose for pictures for me to post on the fan club forum and social media, so I had several images of the girls making aggressive gestures at the camera.

At the end of the week, after four practice sessions, Natasha and I ordered takeaway, and afterwards, we went upstairs to our bedroom. I ate her to three orgasms, wrapping my tongue around her delicious slit as she lay on the bed. She stroked my hair and ground her cunt into my face as she climaxed, and then the wondrous beauty covered me with a post-cunnilingus golden shower in our en-suite.

After I gulped some of her bitter honey, Natasha asked me if we could host the band members on the weekends. Their record company had booked them into a recording studio at the beginning of May, and they desperately wanted to practise. The two guitarists, Maddison and Paula, lived together in North London and the daily thirty-mile journey on the M25 was onerous.

In addition, three of the members had part-time employment, including the green-haired, pint-sized Paula, who worked as a bank sexual health nurse. I didn’t know this about the lead guitarist and could imagine embarrassed teenagers seeing the punk rocker and having to explain their erotic proclivities, knowing that the lesbian medic had a far crazier history between the sheets than anything they admitted to.

I phoned a local builder and booked them to finish the annexe; the tiling in the shower needed to be completed, and the kitchenette required finishing, but he could not fit me in until the following month. I ordered three basic metal frame double beds and mattresses for the top floor and when they arrived, Natasha and I took four hours to assemble them in the upper room, which became the dormitory. I moved my gym apparatus to the corner and placed a sheet over the sports equipment.

I was absent over their first weekend at my abode. An old school friend was engaged to be married, and I travelled to the Mediterranean for a couple of days of drinking and debauchery. Natasha told me to “enjoy myself” and my girlfriend sneaked a packet of condoms into my suitcase. She had more confidence in my ability to pull women than I did!

My mates teased me about the viral video, but I reminded them that I was screwing a “musical superstar” and not many of us had punched above their weight so much in the dating stakes. My friends were desperate for me to recount the sordid activities and I relayed the events of Bristol and London as we drank on the first night. The glazed eyes and groinal bulges were a direct result of the booze and my candour.

We rented a villa on the island and hit the bars and clubs. It was an expensive trip with the cost of alcohol, flights, and accommodation. On the second night, seven of the nine lads bagged a sexual hookup while they holidayed. Every member of our entourage was married, engaged or in a serious long-term relationship and I believed I was the only guy who had a partner who would have encouraged any extra-curricular shagging. I returned with the catatonic groom, Tubby, and tucked him in bed with a bucket as my friends stumbled into our hired house with sexy ladies and lustful intentions.

I may not have snagged a lay on the island, but I was no angel on the hedonistic holiday, which was awash with rampant debauchery and excessive drinking. It was inevitable that my kinkiness would get me involved and on the last full day of our break, we partied with the hen parties renting villas on either side of us. We stocked our fridge with a considerable amount of booze from the local supermarket, and clothes became optional as inhibitions evaporated in the hot springtime Sun. I saw, but did not experience, plenty of female cunt, and in between their random hookups, my fellow attendees on the trip revealed to our new friends my history with Natasha.

I exited our villa on Sunday evening to see three members of a drunken hen party, squatting over Tubby, squeezing their bladders over an inebriated and curious groom, while his debauched best friend cheered on the twenty-something half-naked women. Cum leaked from their cunts as they recycled several glasses of lukewarm Prosecco over the overweight, nude man.

“Really?” I asked. “Most people think it’s a bit ... kinky.”

“Yeah. It is,” she giggled and downed the last of her warm wine. The bottomless woman was a younger version of the bride. They had the same button nose, innocent expression, devilish green eyes, wavy dirty blonde hair, lithe frame and pert “B” cup breasts.

On her left ankle, she had a tattoo of Bugs Bunny screwing Jessica Rabbit, doggy style, and on her right ankle, the energetic rabbit was spanking Lola, with the female submissive possessing reddened buttocks and a flushed face. She spoke with a deep Mancunian accent that sounded aggressive and domineering, scratching my arousal as she presented a filthy naivety.

She grabbed hold of my hand and took me to their villa’s garden next door. “So, did you expect your sister would want to give a golden shower?”

“No. Cath’s not the one to try that sort of stuff.” She smirked, picked two bottles of brightly coloured alcopop from their fridge, and passed me a drink. “Holly,” she said, introducing herself. “But I do want to do it. I heard rumours.”

I pursed my lips. “What? That my girlfriend and I play with watersports every day. I eat her out to numerous orgasms and she pisses on me and I enjoy it?” My alcohol intake directly impacted on my candour and the innocent-looking vixen nodded. She gulped.

“Yeah.”

I guided her to a wicker armchair on their outdoor decking. We heard the debauched orgy from next door as I rested the calves on the soft arm rests, sliding her butt to the edge of the seat.

I knelt in front of her and took a moment to admire this stranger’s exposed pussy. Holly shaved with little bits of rough black stubble around the tops of her mons. She mewled gently as my lips encircled her inner thigh, softly kissing her tender flesh. Her muskiness permeated and her horniness radiated as I danced around her open slit.

She gasped when my tongue slid over her pussy, brushing against her clit as I sucked gently for a few moments on her sensitive button. She squirmed and touched her breasts through her thin top.

She tasted of arousal. Her fragrant lust dominated my senses, and my finger slipped easily into her slippery cunt. She groaned as I pressed against her G-Spot, rubbing her ridged wall as my tongue worked her clit.

Moans and mewls became squeals; she swore loudly as my second finger rubbed against her erogenous zone, and her body shook. Her cunt quivered and pulsed as her climax cascaded through her.

“I need to piss,” she barked, and I glanced up at her. Her lust-crazed expression shouted her intentions and my cock hardened. Her fingers pulled her cunt lips apart, inches from my nose as I stared into her wet, musky snatch, spread wide.

Holly’s urethra pulsed, her butthole puckered, and a jet of pale yellow piss landed on my cheek. She giggled as I plunged my face into the flow. Her stream was a gentle gush; when Natasha urinated over me, she did it when her bladder was desperate for release and she fired a deluge of pee into my mouth. Holly was a succession of surges.

Tangy, zesty astringency, laced with lashings of perverted humiliation, I gulped Holly’s tart excretions like it was the nicest of wines. Her eyes widened as I slurped at her salty, bitter urine. My lips swirled over her pissing slit as I sprayed tepid pee over her thighs, my face and the chair. She swore loudly, squirming in the armchair as my tongue toyed with her clit and I drank her piss.

I saw her expression. A mixture of arousal, intrigue, and disgust as I sipped her vile nectar. I was deeply horny; Natasha had programmed me to lust over the sight, smell, taste and feel of a woman’s elixir, and Holly’s flow was an erotic delight and a nasty degradation. I wanted more.

My fingers plunged into her wet cunt the moment her dribble ebbed, finger banging the delectable Mancunian as my mouth worked her button. She panted, squealing and crying as her second orgasm swept through her, shaking her body and leaving her breathless.

She stopped me from continuing. We drank from the yellow alcopops in her garden and talked before returning to my villa next door. The party had tailed off and Tubby, soaked in female piss, sat on the bottom step, talking to Holly’s sister, the bride, who had a lustful look in her eye.