Her eyes bulged, and the colour drained from her face. She looked shocked. “Oh!” I muttered as she ran her fingers through her pink hair.
“How the fuck am I supposed to be a mother? I can barely look after myself.” She gulped. “Shit! This can’t be fucking happening.”
“Well, if we kept it, we could try parenting together? We’ll manage between us.”
Her hands trembled as she took the pregnancy test from me and she stared at the pink strip. “What the fuck do I know about babies?”
I sniggered. “You’ve used nappies. And bottles. And baby-grows.” She wiped her eyes as she reluctantly smiled. “I’m sure we’ll be fine. If you want to have a child with me. Just think, they could inherit my IT ability and your musical talents. The sky will be the limit.”
“Or they might have my rebellious nature and sex drive and get themselves expelled before the age of 14. I cannot be a mother. I just can’t. How can I go on tour with a child? I can’t be responsible for a baby. I’m not ready for that.” She gulped and looked across the room. “I know you want to know. As I would ask if I was you. I’m sure it’s yours from Oxford. I don’t do bareback fucking, normally. And nothing since that day. I don’t think I’ve had any split johnnies, either.”
“I wasn’t….” I muttered.
She sighed. “But as I’ve bedded around three hundred partners this year. And over two-thirds of them have been blokes, you should fucking ask. You have a right to a DNA test.” She gulped and bit her lip. “But I’m sorry. I just can’t go through with a pregnancy. I will not risk fucking up a child like my parents screwed me up. It’s not fuckin’ happening.”
Natasha and I talked endlessly about her positive test; I promised to support her, and she booked an appointment with our local medical centre. They confirmed her pregnancy, and we discussed a termination, but the more we spoke, the more she softened on motherhood.
Although I argued against it, I am not anti-abortion; I believe it is a fundamental right for a woman to choose, but seeing some of my friends and colleagues have kids, made me want to start a family. And if I had a child, I wanted it with someone wonderful who I loved, like Natasha.
On Monday morning, when we had the positive test, she was 100% certain that she could not be a mother. By dinnertime, it had slipped to 90%, and it was 50-50 by lunchtime on Tuesday. We discussed the practicalities of having a child in the house. We had the room, and I believed our relationship was robust enough to handle parenthood. I trusted my fiancée implicitly, and I loved her wholeheartedly. I promised to support her decision, whatever she chose to do.
Our discussions about the predicament happened around the band’s promotional activities on their Christmas single. The record label worked intensely to promote the festive hit, and my lover spent most of her days doing interviews or shows, and travelling to and from their engagements.
Natasha revealed her dilemma to the band, and her friends encouraged my fiancée to keep her unexpected pregnancy. On Tuesday evening, ITV interviewed the punk rockers on a late-night culture programme. Faye was erudite, and the well-spoken interviewer asked about Natasha’s previous brush with scandal. “She’s engaged to the guy, and he’s knocked her up, so I don’t think that would have happened if Nats really took a slash over him,” Maddison crudely interrupted. Along with my fiancée’s shocked expression, the additional news that my lover was pregnant became a front-page story.
Bitches Against had become that year’s protest song with a feel good rebellious message. It cut through the crowded field and the odds of the punk rockers having a Christmas Number One, and only their second ever Top 40 single, had shortened incredibly.
I felt a weird sense of pride as I watched the interviews and discussion about them in the media. I may not have sung a note, but Natasha’s success was a delight to watch. She was my partner, and I loved to see her triumph.
Popbitch’s weekly email had plenty of Bitches Against content, including tales from their recent tour. I didn’t doubt a word of the sordid stories that they published. I knew about some of the orgies, drinking games and hedonistic debauchery, but one particular tale about my fiancée, a stripper, an all-male warm-up act and several litres of custard was beyond the typical “girls-on-tour” shenanigans. I wished I had been present.
The band arrived at my house late on Thursday night and we had a quiet night before the big announcement. The punk rockers had agreed to attend a videoconference with the chart show when they revealed the Christmas Number One at quarter-to-six the following day, and all of them were a little preoccupied.
Natasha and I visited the supermarket in the morning to stock the annexe with plenty of snacks and booze, and we made sandwiches for lunch. There was a weird tension about the band; they had never been in this position before, and suddenly they were second-favourite bahis şirketleri to bag the top spot. Rumours on social media suggested they had pipped the reality show winner by the tiniest of margins.
We went for a short walk, and I drove to Rickmansworth to collect Monika and Nessie from the train station; they were both keen to join any celebrations. Fox, Vixen, and others arrived before 3pm and Natasha tuned the radio to play the show through the speakers in the room. The girls stunk of nervousness as the host played the chart from Number 40 downwards.
Many of the songs were Christmas hits from yesteryear, sneaking into a top forty because of the relentless streaming of familiar favourites. Samantha and her friend interrupted after an hour, and I left the band to go to my conservatory with Natasha. Samantha glared at us as we showed them to the glass structure. “You’ll find your outfits on the chairs,” my fiancée said without emotion and when my ex-girlfriend’s companion complained, my lover barked sharply. “The annexe is our sanctum, and we don’t want hidden listening devices or phones or anything coming over. Either you play by our rules or you get lost. Please note the contract you signed which states that…”
“Yes, very well!” Gina snapped. “Don’t rub it in!”
As Samantha stripped, I admired her two new tattoos. The skin was red and inflamed, but over her freshly shaved mons was a prominent 3cm high black Bitches Against logo. On her left ankle was an anklet design with four inked pendants, reading S, L, U and T. Seeing her naked, she had certainly gained a couple of stone since we split up, and she looked away from me as she rolled the fishnet stockings up her legs to her thighs. The dark G-String and then the short, cheap French Maid’s dress made her look like a whore.
The band provided Samantha’s friend with a hoodie, a Bitches Against T-shirt and jogging bottoms to wear, and Natasha watched them dress before we wandered across to the annexe. “Hi all, this is Samantha the Slut. She is being paid an extortionate amount of money to be our entertainment so we’ll be having some fun with her later, but in the meantime she’s here to wait on us,” Natasha announced to the band, to raucous cheers. She gestured towards the kitchenette and the dozen attendees fired drinks orders at her.
Samantha had never had a waiting job, and she found it hard to keep up with the demands of the women. Natasha asked her companion what she wanted to drink and my ex had to serve her best friend. I spoke to Gina; she looked overwhelmed as the boisterous band rowdily shouted. Sam’s friend had a defensive demeanour but relaxed as her alcohol consumption increased, and she saw we had embarrassed Samantha and not abused her.
The tension in the room rose as the radio host got to the top ten and then the final five. The DJ spoke to the reality show winner and to Faye via a videoconference link on the laptop.
Fifth, fourth, third. The atmosphere sizzled as the last note of Mariah Carey’s evergreen Christmas anthem played.
“Do you think you’ve done it?” I asked Natasha.
She gulped. “Fuck knows. But number two is still fucking amazing!”
The chart DJ recounted the top ten as the band crowded around the laptop. His voice echoed from the external speaker as everyone held their breath. “And the Christmas Number One is…” You could have heard a mouse’s fart amongst the silence in the annexe as we strained to hear the presenter. “Bitches Against with…”
The roar from inside the room deafened. Maddison threw her arms around Paula. Faye and Nessie hugged. Natasha wiped her eyes. Vixen and Yasmin hollered in excitement. The annexe descended into a wild, crazy cacophony of excitement as one of the band uncorked a champagne bottle. And then another. And another.
How Faye got into a coherent conversation with the chart show is a mystery. My phone notifications exploded from friends and family as the news travelled.
For half-an-hour, the punk rockers celebrated. The band cheered their success as they digested their newfound fame and fortune. Photographs and stories for social media alongside phone calls with families.
And then they partied. Pressure unwound as their inhibitions evaporated. A dozen pizzas, delivered from the nearest town, were just the start. I had bought plenty of alcohol because I knew there would be some celebration, but the girls needed to unleash buckets of stress from their tour and their chart battle. The wild, hedonistic behaviour came to the fore as Natasha made us all down a couple of pints of beer. Samantha took the longest to empty her glass, and Maddison spanked her gleefully.
Fox fingered Yasmin on the sofa as they kissed, Paula and Natasha stripped and smacked Monika, Nessie sat on Faye’s lap while naked, and Maddison yanked Gina’s jogging bottoms to her ankles to expose her plump derriere as the two women drunkenly wrestled each other.
“Let’s get the paddling pool out!” Monika demanded, and with bahis firmaları a rowdy rumble of excited approval, they attached the pump to inflate the blue pool in the centre of the annexe. Fox placed the commode chair in it, and Natasha swayed as she stood on the bottom step, addressing the band.
“Shall we put our host in? Or Nessie? Or the Slut?” Samantha blushed as my fiancée gestured at her.
Natasha looked around the room and with a broad smile beckoned towards my ex-girlfriend. I watched from afar as they led Samantha to the pool, handcuffed her underneath the seat and blindfolded the plump woman. She did not know what was about to happen to her. She had no expectation or comprehension of what the wild punk rockers planned to do, and I watched my fiancée discard her clothes as she walked around the pool.
Natasha sat on the commode and steadied herself. Her jet of piss landed on Samantha’s face and there was a stillness in the room as we waited for a reaction. Expectant silence.
And then Samantha screamed.
“You filthy fucking slut… uh-huh” She spat out the pee that filled her mouth and she shook her bindings, but my nude fiancée continued to empty her bladder over my ex-girlfriend.
And then Paula. Samantha howled as her face became covered in liquid waste once more and cried as Faye defiled her. I think Natasha reminded the complaining woman of what they agreed in her contract and the implications of a breach as my ex said nothing when Vixen used her – resigned to the degradation, the taste and the smell. Natasha closed the bathroom door and called it “Out of Order” and demanded that everyone empty their bladders over my ex-girlfriend. Samantha’s contractual obligation was wide-ranging, and my ex-girlfriend had willingly and knowingly consented to do an extensive array of debauchery to pay off her debt.
Gina sat motionless in the kitchenette, surveying the scene. “You OK?”
“I’m desperate for a piss. But I can’t… y’know.”
“She’s blindfolded. When you need to go, you need to go. She signed up for this. Don’t feel guilty.” Gina gulped, and swayed drunkenly as she got up and walked to the paddling pool. Her jogger bottoms bunched around her ankles as she sat on the seat and urinated over her friend. A secret she could never tell her.
Gina had come to the party to ensure we did not mistreat Samantha and within two hours, she had defiled my ex. Samantha’s buddy sullied and debased her, soaking her wet hair, blindfold and face with her hot amber nectar that reeked of humiliation.
Natasha and the band had forced this scenario. My fiancée had set up Samantha to be humiliated and Gina sighed as she released the pressure on her bladder, coating my ex’s flesh with golden rain.
It was weirder for me as I seated myself and aimed my prick directly at my ex-girlfriend’s face. The hatred and disgust that I felt when I saw Samantha cheating on me flooded through my veins as I emptied the product of several pints of beer over my podgy nemesis.
I watched her splutter, loved to see her gargle, and she turned her head into the collecting puddles of piss. Her hair, body and whore’s outfit soaked with pee. And when I finished draining my bladder, I turned and looked through the seat. I felt disgust and loathing. She was a shadow of the woman Natasha was.
We lost count of the amount of times someone pissed on Samantha. There were a dozen of us, and we drank considerable amounts of beer and wine – although I moderated my pregnant fiancée’s alcohol intake, much to her annoyance. Our bladders replenished quickly, and Samantha never got more than a few minutes’ grace.
Gina and Monika drank considerable amounts of beer and they were regular users of Samantha’s commode chair. I adored the sight of the seat, bowing slightly with their weight, and then a trickle of light yellow pee fall from their snatch and land on the humiliated maid’s face.
The one person who hadn’t used Samantha was Samantha, and Natasha whooped in delight when she saw a small fountain between the restrained woman’s legs. “The Slut has fucking pissed herself!” She pulled at my shoulder and pushed me towards the pool. “For old times’ sake, go down on the filthy cunt.”
I looked at my fiancée and she stared at me. “Really?”
“Yeah, remove her nasty G-String and enjoy that pissy snatch. You love that perverted shit. I know you do!” I gulped as I undressed, staring at the soaked clothing on my ex. I knelt at the base of the pool and slid her black underwear to her ankles. Leaning into the cold puddle of pee, I pushed my face into her slit.
It reeked of urine. Harsh acidity that made my eyes water as I buried my lips between her squalid crack. She groaned instantly, and my finger pressed into her hole. I forgot who she was as I massaged her vaginal walls in a circular motion as my tongue lapped at her musky, fetid button. She hit her first orgasm as her friend urinated over her once kaçak bahis siteleri more. She had her second before she pissed in my face.
Feeling the warm, astringent fluid jettison into my mouth as I provided dirty cunnilingus to my ex was arousing. Her piss was like her, bitter and caustic, with a pungency that lingered. But the nastier it felt, the more erotic I found it. One finger became two and became three. My arm tired as I massaged her cunt to a squealing, groaning, crying climax.
A cold, wet blob landed on my anus, and I felt the soft touch of my lover massaging the lube into my hole. Instinctively, I knelt rather than lay in the pool, providing easier access to my domme. Natasha pushed the blunt, rounded head of a dildo against my slippery opening, and I groaned as she worked her strap-on into me. Her thighs smashed against mine as she publicly sodomised me. My pregnant fiancée buggered me with a toy while my lips teased my ex-girlfriend’s piss-soaked slit and my fingers stimulated the strumpet’s G-Spot.
And I could barely have been happier. The noises of sex and debauchery surrounded me as the party descended into an orgy. Natasha bucked her hips and ploughed her dick deeper and faster into me as another orgasm rocked Samantha’s body.
“OK Slut,” my fiancée called. “We can release you, but you must come and fuck your ex.” Samantha groaned. “There’s some fucking full bladders itching to fucking unload over you if you want to stay there,” she taunted, and the slutty maid nodded. With a click of Natasha’s fingers, the naked Nessie unclipped the handcuffs. “Strip,” Natasha demanded, and my rotund ex-girlfriend removed the soaked blindfold and sodden outfit.
The nude submissive passed Samantha a towel as she stood up and the chubby woman wiped her face and her body.
“I’m filthy. I stink. That’s disgusting,” she spat at my fiancée. “You’re sick. All of you.”
“You’ve two and a half more hours to go. And we are just getting started,” Natasha replied, with the fake cock buried in my rectum. “You can return to toilet duty or fuck your ex.” When the naked woman relented, my fiancée slid the dildo from my arse and helped smelly Samantha into the harness. They guided the rubber phallus into my gaping backside, and I nearly came from the first stroke.
For years, I had wanted Samantha to try kinky play with me, but she had always refused. Suddenly, I felt what I had missed out on for all that time. A glorious heat across my prostate. Intense power centralised in my loins as Samantha’s strap-on pressed against my anal walls.
My fiancée watched as my ex-girlfriend sodomised me.
There was nothing I did with Natasha that I would not have gleefully explored with Samantha. I begged her to experiment with kink with me and implored her to try a host of depravities while we dated. Having experienced it, I knew that a kinky, polyamorous relationship would have been agreeable, but my ex wanted a boring vanilla sex life. But Sam was a natural debauchee: every thrust into my backside caused me to groan and whimper.
“Faster. Fuck that nasty slut!” Natasha cried, smacking Samantha’s buttocks. “Bugger ‘im like the whore he fucking is.”
Those words, delivered by my partner, were intense. My body rocked by the ferocity of the statement, quivered. I was a depraved, filthy slut. I adored every stroke of the sex toy into my sanctuary.
Samantha’s hands gripped my waist. “I can’t believe you let him go. You’re a fucking moron. He lets me have an open relationship, and he adores being buggered up the poop chute. Harder, slut. Fuck him. Show him that he’s the bitch.” Natasha slammed her hand against my buttocks.
My nose was inches away from a puddle of piss on the floor of the pool. My flesh reeked of urea and my body floated in a haze of humiliation. In front of everyone, my ex-girlfriend sodomised me while my pregnant fiancée encouraged her. I groaned. My skin sizzled, my horniness peaked, and cum leaked from my prick and into the paddling pool. “Fuck, he’s come. Is he gay?”
“Bisexual maybe. But John’s a fucking butt slut. Up the shitter gets him every time.” I took several deep breaths and pushed myself up as Samantha withdrew the dildo from my anus. “No, in you go, piss slut,” Natasha yelled, kicking my buttocks, so I landed with a splash in the puddle. I turned in the pool to watch her walk around the inflatable. She fastened my wrists to the chair and sat on the toilet seat. “Open up,” she teased, as she emptied her bladder on my face.
My familiar position with the band. I was their toilet. Every person showered me, including Samantha and Yasmin who had cum leaking from their cunts – presents from another takeaway driver and Fox, respectively. For over ninety minutes, my lover kept me tied to the commode, luxuriating in the puddles of cool piss and receiving constant showers of bitter nastiness. I smelt disgusting, but I watched the hedonistic fun around me.
My fiancée restrained my former beau and secured a vibrator to her thigh, pressed against her clit. I heard my cheating ex orgasm repeatedly, and watched Natasha perch her derriere on Samantha’s face to force the party slave to rim her, and then provide oral service to the punk rocker.