Chapter 3

I hesitated as I crossed the plush dining room. I had paid the exorbitant fee to have breakfast in Natasha’s expensive Victorian hotel and had asked to be seated away from the window. The hotelier had allocated the back corner of their restaurant to the band, and the flamboyant lead singer of the punk rock quintet noticed me being shown to my table by a smartly dressed waiter.

Natasha nudged Faye, and they sniggered; I blushed, ordered my food, and read my eBook. I felt the white heat of Natasha’s glances and I ignored them; my eyes focused on the obscene text of a male submissive in a female-led cult. The well-cooked fare was delicious, and after the waiter had cleared my plate away, Natasha left her table with her glass of straw-coloured fluid and sat opposite me. “Here, have one of your five a day.” She put the small tumbler of pale yellow liquid in front of me and smirked. “It’s pineapple juice.”

I knew what it was, and her eyes watched the well-dressed attendants cross the ornate dining room as I hesitated. “That’s ... piss?”

“Of course it fucking is. Skirt, no underwear. What the fuck did you fucking expect? I filled it up for you at the fucking table! When you’ve drunk it, we’ll give you your fucking clothes back.”

“Drink it in front of everyone?” I gulped as I glanced around the room. Families, Christmas shoppers, travellers, and businessmen surrounded us, but not a single person looked in our direction. We were anonymous.

“Of course, in front of everyone,” the pink-haired coquette snapped. She leant back in the chair as I held the warm glass of pale yellow liquid. My hands trembled and her lips curled into a smirk. A malevolent smile as I winced. I smelt the harsh, acrid fluid, and my eyes watered. My prick swelled as I stared at her expectant gaze.

I took a deep breath, brought the acidic drink to my lips and gulped at her pee. My heart leapt and butterflies churned in my belly. The intense taste combined with the overpowering smell as the second and third gulps of the honey-coloured elixir scorched the inside of my throat and turned my stomach.

I took the final swig of her waste and put the empty juice glass on the table with a forceful bang. She grinned as I panted, taking large lungfuls of fresh air from the Victorian dining room. I gagged a little on the pungent taste and the astringent smell lingered on my breath and in my mouth as I drained the last of my Earl Grey tea.

“Good boy!” Natasha patronised, and rose from the table. “Faye will be down with your keks. But they might be a little wet.”

Natasha had not lied; every single member of the band must have urinated on my clothes as the bag weighed twice as much and smelt horrendous. I hurried back to my hotel to pack my suitcase and return home. I messaged Natasha on the train to joke about the strange smell wafting around the carriage, and we struck up a conversation across social media’s direct messaging. Every message made me smile, and underneath the punk rock persona was a normal, everyday wild chick. I may have become enchanted by her personality on stage, but the woman behind that mask was just as mesmerising.

A few days after the London concert, and after dozens of messages, she confided that her contract for self-storage had fallen through when the warehouse suffered a localised fire. With her lease expiring on her flat in Tottenham, it had forced Natasha to arrange for most of her possessions to go into storage before moving to Paula’s sofa for a couple of weeks until Christmas.

“I have space here, if you want,” I offered. “I have a house to myself. It’s near to Chorleywood.” A smiley emoji followed this message, and my heart pounded as I wondered if I had gone too far. Perhaps the super-fan had strayed across an unspoken and unwritten boundary? My fingers hesitated over the chat window and I put my phone in the drawer so I could join a conference call. Never had I been so distracted; I desperately wanted to check my app, but I resisted until the end of the working day.

“You fucking sure?” Natasha asked, and then added. “Can we come see on Saturday?”

“Of course,” I replied with my heart pounding, and spent the week by counting down the days to Saturday. Even my work colleagues teased me as I seemed “excited” about the weekend.

Faye and Natasha arrived before lunchtime in Faye’s twenty-year-old scarlet Mini hatchback, splashed with mud from the lanes. The pink-haired woman swore at me as she exited the car. “You fucking live in the middle of fucking nowhere!” The lead singer called.

Faye smiled and gestured to my sprawling Edwardian property. “Nice gaffe, John!”

“Thanks!” I made them a drink, and showed them around the four-bedroom house I used to share with my ex-girlfriend. Natasha gasped as she walked into my office. On the longest wall and above my desk was all my memorabilia from Bitches Against. All seven album covers, framed tour tickets and signed photographs. In the centre of the display was an unwashed white T-shirt that Natasha had urinated over when she hauled me on stage, encased in a sealed frame. “Wow!”

“You don’t get to run the fan club if you don’t like the band,” I muttered.

“All the pictures, John. The signed photos and artwork. They’re all of me.”

I blushed a new shade of scarlet. “That one up there,” I showed, pointing to a small photograph of the five members of the group. “That’s all of you. And that one over there is just Faye.”

She put her hand in mine and smiled. “I’ve never thought that anyone would be like this with us.”

“Your music is fantastic,” I replied. “All of you are amazing. And you are the most talented, fabulous singer.”

“You only say that because she pees on you!” Faye joked from the doorway.

I looked away, but Natasha didn’t stop holding my hand until we were in the garden. I gestured to the extensive building beside my cobbled driveway. “That’s a converted barn. The previous owner had wanted to build an annexe, so they put a new roof on, damp coursed it, insulation, heating, second floor, and so on. Granny was going to move in, but then she kicked the bucket before she could and I’ve not done anything with it. But if you need a large space to store stuff, that’s empty.”

I swivelled my keys on my finger as we meandered across to the other building on my property. The thirty-foot long room was chilly and echoed. Faye opened the door to the installed bathroom. “It’s half-done. You’ve got half a kitchenette and a whole toilet, but no shower.”

“I know. It’s dead space. I just haven’t needed it, but in the New Year, I’m getting some fitness equipment. I had thought about finishing it and renting it out, but my ex objected. There is a gym that’s closed down in Tring and I’ve bought some of the gear, so some of it will be my home gym.”

Faye nodded and then gestured around her. “I live with my mum and my sister and our entire flat is smaller that this room.” I know she didn’t mean to, but it made me feel guilty, and I said nothing until we were outside in the weak winter sunshine.

“There’s a pub half-a-mile down the road. Let me get you lunch? They do some wonderful grub.”

“Does it come with a beer?” Natasha asked.