Chapter 5

Natasha and I had a lovely, low-key Christmas. We exchanged gifts - I bought her a new Hi-Fi as her set had been damaged in the move, and she gave me a “I Love the Spice Girls” T-shirt which the punk rocker gleefully urinated over seconds after I slipped it over my head.

We drank lots, ate a decadent spread and video called our families, before she pissed on me once more, and I devoured her clit until she had several wonderful orgasms. I cannot recall ever having a better Christmas Day, alternating between the sordid and the tranquil.

We travelled to the budget hotel in Preston on Boxing Day and arrived at teatime. The cramped shower cubicle in the en-suite of our twin bedroom did not provide any practical opportunity to engage in any filthy activities, so after eating out at the local pub, we had a few drinks and went to bed.

My parents hosted a familial dinner on December 27th and Natasha received plenty of attention from all of my relatives. She played with my eight-year-old niece, had a quiet chat with my dad about “the good ole days of punk rock” and then gave advice to my younger sister about dying her hair. “You must be good for him,” I overheard my mother tell my lodger. “I’ve not seen him so happy. We never liked that Samantha girl. She was too ... exploitative and materialistic.”

“He has a generous nature,” Natasha replied. “I worry I’m taking advantage of him and I don’t mean to. He’s just so genuine and ... nice!” My mother scoffed at her concern.

“He must like you, as he’d never have coloured his hair for anyone else. You must bring out the wild child in him!” Natasha giggled at my parent’s observation. By the time we left to walk back to the hotel at 8pm, I believed the day had passed without incident and my friend was well-loved by all of my relations.

Natasha waited until we reached the corner of my parents’ street. “I fucking hate not being able to fucking swear all fucking day! Although your dad dropped a few fucks when your mum wasn’t about! I wish my dad was half as cool as your old man. My dad is a fucking prick.”

“Right!” I muttered.

“And your niece said ‘twat’ and ‘asshole.’ I guessed that’s OK for an eight-year-old. Especially as she used it to describe Justin Fucking Bieber. I just agreed with her.” She sighed. “If she’d used that language to talk about Alice Cooper or Sex Pistols, we’d have had words. Now, I need a fucking drink or three. I wasn’t getting pissed at your folks in case I said something I shouldn’t, but I need some beers inside of me. Pub?”

She sank a few pints at the bar opposite our hotel, and we retired to our room. The following day, Natasha woke up tense, and said little as we drove through Lancashire and Cumbria. I had booked a small two-bedroom apartment in Windermere centre, that came with a car parking space and walking distance to Natasha’s parents’ abode.

We cooked dinner together, and we watched a film cuddled on the sofa as the rain pattered on the window. I could tell the thought of seeing her family distracted her as we viewed the saccharine British Romantic Comedy without complaint.

I let Natasha have the master bedroom, with the king-size bed, and I woke early to make breakfast. She ate in silence and her hands trembled as we left the house. I held her hand as we walked in the weak December sunshine, with the bracing wind swirling around us.

Natasha’s family lived between Bowness and Windermere, and we had a fifteen-minute walk to their narrow mid-terraced house, set over four storeys. Svetlana, Natasha’s youngest sister, was a lithe blonde-haired, blue-eyed girl with a broad smile in an oversized Christmas jumper, and squealed as Natasha opened the garden gate. The young lady barely waited for her elder sibling to put her bag of presents down before she flung her arms around my friend and gave her a pained look. “Adam and Dad are having words in the front room. Best avoided.”

“Let me guess. He invited Joseph?” Natasha muttered and the bubbly girl nodded.

Natasha groaned and explained to me. “My younger brother is gay. Dad doesn’t like it. He says it will piss off Jesus or cause Constantinople to flood, or something. It’s all fucking religious bullshit.” I rolled my eyes and the two sisters shrugged. “So, how are you? I’ve not seen you since...”

“ ... August, when I travelled to see you at your concert in Penrith,” Svetlana finished. She gestured at me. “Why didn’t I get to see you wee on stage over a fan?”

“Oh, you saw that?”

Svetlana giggled. “The entire world watched, Nats. My friends thought it was great. Although I don’t think Dad will let you do a repeat piddle today. We might see fireworks if you do!” Natasha kissed her sister on the side of the cheek. “A few of my mates have asked if that’s a familial trait. Two of them have subtly enquired if I want to piss over them. I guess they secretly want me to.”

I sniggered. “Is it a familial trait?”

“I’m training to be a doctor. I see more than enough bodily fluids! They are not sexy at all. Boys are just disgusting to want me to piss over them. And in their mouth? Ewww! C’mon, let’s find Mum. And Aunty Myroslava is here too! Olga’s so big now.” Natasha and I traded smirks as the trainee physician opened the front door.

I heard raised voices coming through a closed door. An elder man shouted loudly about satanic abominations, while a younger voice offered, “he fucks me every single day” as a pithy response. I followed Natasha down a set of stairs to the kitchen to a lower ground floor that opened out into a large garden with a bubbling, swirling beck meandering in front of the back fence.

My new lodger introduced me to her family, and they were all forthright extroverts. Her mother, Ruslana, was in her mid-fifties with long brown hair and a broad smile. She embraced Natasha and then me, hugging us tightly with a vice-like grip. Her eldest brother towered over his petite wife, who spoke with a Liverpudlian accent and had a Christmas-themed top that showed all of her cleavage. Their child, a toddler, noisily barged his toy car into ankles and legs with no sense of guilt, while adults calmly stepped over him. Natasha’s aunt sat in the garden puffing away at a cigarette and drinking a can of cheap lager while her tight, inappropriate dress rode higher; I would easily have been able to see her underwear had she worn any. She smirked when she saw me, and I knew instantly that she had recognised me from the widely shared video.

Lastly, there was Olga. The pregnant 20-year-old spoke with an aggressive tone to her voice, a mixture of the Eastern Europe dialect and British language, but smiled as she spoke. “Bloody twins,” she moaned to us and patted her distended stomach. “And I’m not due until March. They’ll roll me into the hospital by then. I’m so fat.”

The house was a mad, wild circus. Natasha and I sat in the kitchen as Ruslana cooked, but people came and went, stopping to get alcohol and to chat. Someone had some music on somewhere, but I only heard snippets through the raised voices and laughter.

Natasha’s father was a rotund gentleman, with square rimmed glasses and a retreating hairline. He wore a crucifix around his neck and his poorly fitting trousers stretched taut in some places and flopped loosely in others. He called across the kitchen to my friend. “I see you still have an unnatural colour hair. And you’re in that silly band.”

A hush descended as the punk rocker faced her father. Natasha gulped. “Yes. It was your fuck ... fecking fault ‘cause you bought me a karaoke machine when I was ten. Remember?” My lodger downed her glass of wine and turned away from the lay preacher.

“Now listen here,” he barked. “About that video...”

Natasha interrupted him. “This is my friend, John. He works in IT in the City. And makes loads of fecking cash. And is respectable, I think.”

“Yes, hello,” I muttered and held out my hand. “It’s a lovely view you have here. I live in the countryside near London, but this is something else. I love the Lake District. There is a sense of tranquillity you just don’t find elsewhere. What do you do?” I babbled and conversed with the middle-manager; he reluctantly shook my hand with an uneven grimace. I was used to dealing with egotistical and controlling people from work and steered the discussion away from Natasha, much to her relief.

It worked and my friend handed out her presents; an uneasy peace existed between my lodger and her father until after Christmas Dinner when the two had a blazing row in the garden. They had both been drinking considerable amounts of alcohol, and it felt inevitable. Ruslana watched on from the kitchen with a distressed look on her face.

Natasha stormed into the house, grabbed her bag and coat and took two steps towards the stairs. “Where do you think you’re going, young lady? I haven’t finished with you.”

“I’m twenty-nine and I am done with your fucking bullshit. You’re just a nasty, judgemental prick. Who the fuck cares if I am in a fucking punk rock band? Who gives a monkey’s that your son has a boyfriend? You tried to bully us when we were younger because you’re a fucking cheap, inadequate cunt who wouldn’t dare pick on anyone his own size. And I’m fucking fed up with it. Come near me again and I will break your fucking bones.” There was complete silence as Natasha yelled across the room. “I don’t know why Mum ever chose you, but she could have done so much better and you need to fucking wise up before she realises that and you die alone and fucking friendless with just Jesus and PornHub for company.”

I followed Natasha out of the kitchen, and she slammed the front door as she tore out of the house. My friend didn’t stop running until she reached the crossroads at the end of the street. She leant against a church wall and took great lungfuls of air and wiped her eyes. “You OK?”

“No,” she cried through tears. “No, I’m fucking not OK.” I held her tightly, and she buried her face in my shoulder as I hugged her. “Just want one day when he doesn’t have to be an arsehole!”

Natasha calmed down as we walked back via the pub opposite our rented abode, and my tipsy friend downed a pint of ale. We stayed for three drinks before the intoxicated girl tugged at my arm. “I really need a fucking slash. And to come. We either do it here or at our apartment.”

I finished the dregs of my beer and hurried across the road; we undressed in the hallway, discarding our clothes before we closed the front door. We entered the small bathroom. Between the tub and the wall was a tiled shelf to hold toiletries, about a half-a-metre wide, and Natasha perched herself on this ledge, with her left leg resting on the side of the bath against the wall, and her right leg hanging over the side.

I knelt in the tub. My lips touched her pussy, and I swirled my tongue over her clit. She gasped and grabbed the side of my head, holding my face against her cunt as she released her bladder into my open mouth. “Drink my fucking piss, you disgusting perv.”

The stream smashed against my tongue and I gagged on the sudden influx of liquid hitting the back of my mouth. My eyes watered as gulped down mouthfuls of her piss, jettisoning onto my tongue like it was coming from a hosepipe. She groaned in relief as her bladder emptied, while her pee ran down my throat and dripped from my chin.

Beautifully warm and delightfully nasty. Her heavenly piss continued to flow. Slightly bitter, with overtones of humiliation, the vulgar, nauseating liquid was a treat to my senses. She pushed my face down as her bladder depleted, covering my hair and back with her waste water. “You’re a fucking dirty fucker,” she snapped as her jet became a gurgle. She moaned loudly as my tongue probed the delicate folds of her cunt. “Yeah, I know I need a shower.”

Lustfully musky, I adored every lick of her feminine pungency. She tasted delicious and my lips worked her clit, eager to bring her to orgasm. My hands explored her thighs and her tattooed stomach, and she ran her fingers through my drenched hair as I pressed against her cunt-hole.

She never stopped me as I slid my finger inside, pressing against her slippery walls. One finger became two, and then three. She groaned loudly as my tongue swirled over her clit and my hand massaged her G-Spot.

Natasha swore, and she ground her hips against my hand. She gasped and moaned as the pressure built inside her cunt. Panting, she gulped, shouted an obscenity at me and her pussy contracted, squeezing my fingers as waves of ecstasy cascaded through her body.

My lodger smiled at me, gulping huge lungfuls of air. “I need a shower,” she panted. “You can fucking go next.” She glanced at my erection. “You need to sort that thing out!”