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.
* * *
Two months of dating a punk rock superstar and the reality had not really sunk in. Natasha was perfect, and my colleague's comment that my infamous girlfriend had her own Wikipedia page amused me. We updated it to reflect her new relationship status, and I became an editor on the free encyclopaedia site to significantly enhance the profiles of every member of the band.
In the City, the Japanese North Osaka Banking Corporation offered me a year-long position at their London headquarters, which paid a generous weekly wage for the duration of my contract to design their stock market interface system from the ground-up. It meant little to Natasha until I explained the vast sums of money hitting my bank account. She thought it was obscene that one person could earn in a week what she scraped to make in several months from her music, and I didn't disagree. I got lucky.
The differential in earning power did not interfere in our relationship. We were equals. Natasha may have had all the authority inside the bedroom - and the bathroom - but she had as much choice as myself when we bought our food for the week, or apportioned chores. We worked as a team.
We had plenty of vanilla sex; I loved devouring her slit as my fingers probed her G-Spot when she lounged on the sofa or on the bed, and I adored screwing her, spearing my covered prick into her until I breathlessly filled the condom. We experimented with sexual positions and kink, as much as we dated as a couple. Natasha enjoyed our trip to the bowling alley, appreciated the surprise tickets to the punk night at an Aylesbury nightclub, and we didn't want to leave the Harry Potter Experience in Watford as we were having so much fun. Our union was not just built on filth and fucking.
Her car gave her freedom, and when I worked, she often left the house; I know she called on Faye or her friends, or explored some of the Chiltern Hills, when I holed up inside my study with my work. I never kept track or her, just as she never kept track of me. There was an implicit trust between us.
Of course, Natasha treated me to plenty of golden showers. Her combative attitude and personality ran through her sexuality and she adored dominating her partners. I regularly witnessed her dominance with Nessie, where my girlfriend sexually bullied and controlled the willing submissive. I experienced it mostly when she liberally coated me in her pee or forced me to guzzle it.
The act was a defilement: a nasty, disgusting, revolting activity that never ceased to arouse. She often did it after a few beers or when she had drunk plenty of fluids, and when her bladder had filled to burst. Then she squatted over me, usually my face, and sighed as the amber liquid tumbled from her waxed snatch. Warm, acidic, delicious and plentiful, as she verbally teased me. The debasement was sheer excitement, and the feeling of Natasha's piss covering my nose, lips, hair, and body, and then sinking down my throat, left me horny.
Like a pig rolling in muck, I adored Natasha's humiliation of me. Generally, she would let me clean her dripping cunt, and my tongue would swirl over her clit as I sucked the last of her droplets from her smooth slit. I relished every second of her sadistic urination as she understood what I wanted and gave me what I needed.
Outside the bedroom, I enjoyed working for the Japanese bank; my European colleagues in IT and the Finance sections were skilled people and my managers in London and Osaka were relaxed. I was expressly told that they didn't care whether they saw me every day, as long as the team accomplished the project by the deadlines. A large bonus depended upon us hitting the agreed milestones, and so I spent two or three days in the UK headquarters each week.
On my third Friday in my new job, I sat in my private office, on the fifteenth floor of a skyscraper near Liverpool Street, when Natasha called. "Are you still in London?"
"Yes," I replied.
"My cousin was in Cambridge for a funding interview, but they shut the West Coast Main Line. Some fucking train derailed so she can't get back to Windermere. She's stuck."
"Where is she?"
"London. Kings Cross, I think. Can you help her?"
I got Natasha to text me her phone number and sent Bohdana my office address. An hour later, a receptionist escorted a nervous, smartly dressed eighteen-year-old with golden hair and deep blue eyes to my private room. I vaguely remembered her from the party at Ruslana's house, and I smiled at her. "I just need to speak to Geoff and then we'll see about your train. Help yourself to a drink."
"Thanks. Natasha said it would be closed all day according to the news." She smoothed her pantsuit, and sat down on the comfy armchair with a giant textbook, and started reading. My girlfriend was correct; the derailment had stopped all trains going between Lancaster and Carlisle. While no-one was hurt when the freight train had come off its tracks, it had done a significant amount of damage to the railway and services were not expected until Saturday night or Sunday morning.
I offered Bohdana one of my spare rooms until she was able to return to Windermere, and she gratefully accepted; the alternative was a "rail replacement bus service" after taking three separate trains for six hours, and I wouldn't wish such torture on my worst enemy. Her arrival changed my weekend plan, so I made a discreet phone call before we left for the day.
I chatted to the protegee as we travelled to Rickmansworth on the Underground train. She was smart and had bagged a place at the World's top University. She had applied for two companies to pay her tuition fees in return for a graduate employment contract when she completed her four-year degree.
