In December, I wrote a short 3,000 word story about a female punk rock singer who urinated over a fan on stage, partially inspired by real-life events. I enjoyed the tale and played with the characters in my mind over the following days. I said I would write more chapters if there was positive feedback.
There was.
I had plenty of comments and the story fared well in the "scoring." So, I wrote more.
Out of principle, I never release a chapter until I have written and edited the entire book. But, four extra chapters became six, and then eight, and there are now two dozen chapters on my hard drive. Over 70,000 words of golden showers, female domination and absolute filth with a plethora of additional characters. It's about 80-90% finished. Mostly, it needs editing.
I hope to complete the entire story before Easter. But I didn't want everyone who asked for a continuation to wait any longer. I promised I'd write something in the weeks after the first chapter, and it's been nearly three months. So, here is the next instalment and I will release the remainder as they become ready.
If you have not read the previous chapters, then please do so, as the following story won't make much sense.
* * * * *
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.
