Chapter 2

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 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 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.”