Letters to Elaine 5: N15 1994

Dearest Elaine;

Do you ever think about that upper maisonette off Stamford Hill Road? I can never place if it was Wargrave Avenue or Gladesmore Street, but I remember the landmarks perfectly: St. Ignatius' looming on one side and the sticky floors of the old Moll Cutpurse pub on the other. We took the top floor, that little attic conversion with the bathroom right next door, a whole floor of privacy that felt like a secret kingdom suspended high above the chaos of the street.

Gods, that area was a shithole. And not in the curated, "look at me, I'm edgy" Shoreditch way that would come much later. This was real, grinding poverty; a low, persistent hum of neglect, want, and desperation that hung in the air. We only moved there because Martin knew the owner and got us a sweetheart deal. It was cheap, and in those first months, before the realities of the place, the burglaries, the constant low-level threat, bled through our front door, it was utterly glorious. I was at the law firm, miserably counting down the days until my inevitable sacking, and you'd just started at the University library.

That place was a crucible for you. The whole chaotic, vibrant, slightly dangerous environment seemed to ignite something latent within you. You absorbed it all, the 24, hour Voodoo luck shop with its strange promises, the flagrant drug dealers on the walk from the tube, the silent, purposeful flocks of Hasidic Jews in their sombre finery, and blossomed. You shed your old skin and became a London girl at last, puissant and formidable, utterly at home in your glorious sexuality.

I remember you coming home one afternoon, cheeks flushed with excitement, brandishing a dog-eared copy of Nancy Friday's My Secret Garden. It was an offering, an invitation. Suddenly, our fantasies, whispered in the dark during sex, had a new, richer vocabulary. We weren't just talking dirty; we were narrating a collaborative script in real time. This new openness coincided with your "more is more" phase. Stuffing you has always been a perennial pleasure, I know. You love that feeling of being stretched to your limits, of being completely filled, that sharp, almost uncomfortable little ouch just before the deep, resonant "oooh" of pleasure that tells you just how much you can take.

One night, the flat was ours. The air was warm, and the sounds of the street below were a distant, muted soundtrack. The courgettes you'd bought from the greengrocer on the high street--chosen with a connoisseur's eye for their thickness and length, superbly fresh, were sitting on the kitchen counter. We decided to use them sans latex. The idea of the pure, unmediated sensation, the slightly rough skin, the fine, soft hairs of the vegetable against your delicate inner tissues, was a thrill in itself. You always did prefer the ersatz to the predictable, a real-world object over a formal sex toy.

I lubricated them with generous amounts of KY, though your cunt was already extravagantly wet, slick with anticipation. I eased the first one into your waiting arse, your body tensing for a moment before relaxing, taking it in. Then, the second went into your cunt, your internal muscles clenching around it. You lay back, a gasp on your lips, your body completely, wonderfully full. I didn't stop there. I gently replaced the courgette in your cunt with the cold, smooth, heavy weight of a glass Coke bottle, the iconic shape a perfect, profane fit. Then, while you were completely stuffed, I fed my hard cock into your waiting mouth. You took me deep, your eyes locked with mine. "Airtight Laney."

Glorious.

Then came the main performance. I pulled out of your mouth, and we shifted onto the bedroom floor. On your back, legs spread wide, you began the slow, deliberate work of sucking the courgette out of your own cunt, your focus absolute. It emerged with a soft, wet suction sound that echoed in the quiet room. As you gasped, I moved between your legs, lifting them high, and my cock, slick with your saliva, pushed into your waiting, pliant arse, replacing the other courgette. I slid in deep, the feeling utterly sublime. At the same time, I took up the rhythm with the heavy glass bottle, pistoning it in and out of your ridiculously wet vagina, while your free hand found your pearl-like clit and worked it into a desperate frenzy. The asynchronous chaos of it was staggering: the deep, slow thrust of my cock inside you, the rapid, percussive plunging of the bottle, and the frantic blurring of your own fingers. The sounds were a symphony of filth--your choked moans, the wet slap of the bottle, my own ragged breathing.

Gods, I came so deep in your arse then, a guttural roar tearing from my throat. It must have been only the third time I'd ever buggered you bareback to completion. But it was the only time, as your body convulsed around me in the first waves of your own orgasm, that I immediately pulled out and, taking one of those large, smooth courgettes, plugged my own fresh ejaculation back inside of you. I pushed it in deep, sealing you completely. And then I just watched, mesmerised, my hand still working the bottle inside you. I watched as your anus pulsed rhythmically around the solid green form, your own climax cresting, your body clenching and unclenching in powerful, beautiful waves. There was never any fear; I'd watched you engulf and expel objects just like it before, your superb core strength and immaculate Kegel control just one more breath-taking layer to the perfect, beautiful, unforgettable filth of it all.

But I wonder, Elaine, if we'd stayed in that flat longer, if the burglaries hadn't driven us out, if we had truly leaned into the feral, creative spirit of that place. I have this flash of a memory that never happened, a speculative ritual that feels so real it almost hurts. Imagine this: a high mass of our own devising. You, naked and kneeling in the centre of the living room, surrounded by an offering circle of mundane talismans procured from the various 'mongers' of Stamford Hill and Seven Sisters. From the ironmonger, a length of very heavy, cold chain looped loosely, beautifully, around your full breasts, its weight a constant, delicious reminder of your captivity and promise of tightening and focus.

From the fishmonger, not the flesh, but the clean, smooth, opalescent interior of a large scallop shell, now filled with warm, expensive olive oil. From the household monger, a set of wooden clothes pegs, their crude spring-loaded mouths clipped in a perfect, painful line along your labia. Highlighting the free pleasures of friction and clit to come.

And the voodoo shop... we'd have gone beyond the joke and into its true language. The labels didn't just promise luck; they whispered of compulsion, of release from inhibition, of binding one person to another's will. I'd have bought the "Controlling" and "Obey Me" oils, the High John the Conqueror root. In our ritual, I would anoint you with them, my fingers tracing sigils of ownership onto your skin, painting your clit, your nipples, your lips, with strangely warming and tingling oils, while I murmured the whispered, appropriated promises into your ear--not as belief, but as intensely powerful erotic text. Your cunt would be plugged with a fat, richly knobbled, and waxy parsnip from the greengrocer, and I'd have taken the clean, smooth, opalescent interior of a large scallop shell from the fishmonger, filled with warm olive oil, and slowly, reverently, poured it over your glorious, offered arse.

Then, in the wildest corner of my mind, comes the strangest vision: taking the large. Fat, live whelks we'd bought in a paper cone, and one by one, placing them on you. Feeling their slow, wet, muscular probes explore the crease of your arse, your inner thighs, the lips of your vulva, an impossible, transgressive exploration of sensation, an alien touch in our most intimate theatre. It would not be a scene of grubby transgression, but a magnificent, baroque piece of private art. Utterly taboo, meticulously staged, a total immersion into the darker, more profound desires we were only just beginning to name, all enacted within the perfect, unassailable safety of being completely and utterly mine.

Yours...

E