Letters to Elaine 6: Wiltshire 2027

Dearest Elaine;

Let's imagine a future. Another July. The text message arrives: "He's taking them to Normandy for a week." The itch begins instantly-a deep, specific resonance. We are no longer just desperate lovers grabbing at time; we are architects, and this weekend will be our masterpiece.

The theatre is your house. The whole house. Saturday will not begin with pleasure but with a ritual of transformation. The kit I bring will be discreet but purposeful, containing a professional medical enema bag and a selection of what you once called "stingy things." In your pristine marital bathroom, you will kneel on a towel as the "cruel washing" begins. I will use a coarse, natural-bristle brush, the kind for scrubbing root vegetables, and a bar of cheap, antiseptic soap-the kind that stings and smells aggressively of hospital corridors. I will scrub your glorious arse, your inner thighs, the lips of your vulva, my touch clinical and devoid of caress, my focus on absolute, almost abrasive, cleanliness. The humiliation is the point: to be treated not as a lover, but as a specimen being prepped for a procedure.

Then, the true cleansing. The enema is deep, administered with the professional calm of a technician. But this time, it's not just water. It's a saline solution, a detail we've discussed-the clean, salty sting of it a further step into medicalized humiliation. The goal is to leave you utterly empty, a clean slate. After you have privately, shudderingly evacuated, you are ready.

Now, we move to the kitchen. The anointing begins, but not on your skin. I've brought an almost unrealistically large veterinary syringe filled with pure, medical-grade liquid paraffin. It is without scent, unnervingly impersonal. I lay you over the sturdy kitchen table, your arse raised high. This isn't a lubricant; it's a filling. I slowly, methodically, depress the plunger, pumping your freshly cleansed rectum full of the warm, thick, heavy liquid. It's an internal violation without friction, a sensation of being stretched and weighted from within that you've only ever imagined. The deep, aching pressure speaks to your core desire to be stuffed, but in a new, profoundly invasive way. To make it more than just a feeling, I add a few drops of almond extract to the paraffin, not enough to burn, just enough that the faint, marzipan-like scent will linger for hours, a secret, internal perfume that only you and I know is there.

While the warm, heavy paraffin settles deep inside you, I turn my attention to your cunt. It is plugged with the long, unyielding shaft of a huge leek or other outlandish vegetable we've used before, a familiar friend, its botanic presence a comforting anchor in the strange new territory we are about to explore. You are bound by our history and anointed with the promise of this ritual. On the floor of your own living room, your arse is where the truly alien enters our theatre.

I'd have procured them earlier that day, not from the familiar mongers of your high street, but from a specialist fishmonger deep in the city, a place of strange maritime smells and cold marble slabs. Kept cool and dormant in a wide-mouthed thermos, I would bring them out: whelks. Large, fat, their mottled shells like strange jewels, still alive. I would select the largest one, its shell heavy and cold in my hand, and show it to you. I'd let you feel its weight, see the slow, shy retreat of its dark, muscular foot as it sensed the warmth of my skin. This would be a sacrament of the unknowable.

I would place it, shell-down, not at your anus, but just above, in the deep channel of your spine. And we would wait. The true art of this fantasy isn't in the act but in the agonizing, exquisite suspense. The first touch would be just the chill of the wet shell on your warm skin. Then, slowly, tentatively, the creature within would emerge. You would feel it before you could picture it: a slow, wet, muscular probe, utterly alien, beginning its blind, methodical exploration. It is something non-phallic, without intent or lust, a piece of pure, amoral nature sliding across your most private landscape. I would watch your face for the flicker, the tiny tells-the widening of your eyes, the sharp intake of breath as its fleshy foot touches the delicate, hyper-sensitive skin of your crease. Would you flinch? Would you moan? Would a new flower of atavistic terror or a wholly unknown ecstasy bloom inside your nervous system? The slow, slimy trail it would leave behind, a glistening path of seawater and slime on your skin, would be a mark of its passage, a testament to this impossible violation.

The game is not about insertion; we might never even attempt it. The point is the threat, the sublime horror and beauty of that cold, alien touch, of voluntarily submitting your body to a sensation so far outside the bounds of normal human eroticism. I would take another, and another, placing them around the glorious, offered target of your anus, creating a living, shifting constellation of primal life on your skin. They would be a council of silent, probing witnesses to your beautiful humiliation. Each slow, deliberate exploration by their muscular feet would be a new wave of transgressive sensation washing over you, a fresh reminder that we had moved beyond all known maps, into a territory of our own baroque, brilliant, and utterly unforgettable design.

Your torment would be one of growing suspense. The weight of the paraffin deep inside you, the impossible, alien exploration happening on your skin, all combining with a very prosaic but increasingly desperate need to pee, a desire you must hold. As you lie there, teetering on the edge of a new kind of precipice, I would begin the interrogation. My voice, calm and detached, would cut through the quiet.

"Tell me what it feels like," I would murmur, my mouth close to your ear. "Describe the weight inside you. The feel of our visitor. Describe how badly you need to piss. Describe the taste of almonds you can almost imagine." I would make you narrate your own humiliation, your own burgeoning desperation, your voice a choked whisper echoing in your own living room.

Only after you have confessed everything, confessed your complete urgency, would I approach. The release you crave will be granted, but not in a toilet. I would gently lift you to your knees on the cold kitchen floor. As you kneel, I would hold a large, stainless steel mixing bowl beneath you. Make you masturbate while you wait for the order, The permission, when given, timed to your orgasm, would unleash a long, helpless, shuddering release. The sound of it filling the bowl, the steam rising, the utter, abject humiliation of the act-this is the true climax of this submission. We would finally be exploring the water sports we've only ever whispered about, and you would never have been more beautifully, completely broken.

Afterwards, I would help you up. I would lead you back to the living room, a place forever changed. I would gently remove the invaders from your skin, their service concluded. I would take the leek from your cunt, slick with your own juices. And then, finally, after hours of ritual and torment, I would take you on the sofa. I would take your arse, the paraffin a strange, unnervingly perfect lubricant that makes every sensation new. It would be a raw, possessive claiming. I would come deep inside you, bareback, mixing my own heat with the sterile, scented oil still filling you. And I would leave you there afterwards, wrecked and beautiful and sated, knowing we had not just repeated a fantasy, but had built a new, more profound and profane memory, scratching the itch in a way we never, ever had before.

After you are sated, our private mass concluded, you might think the ritual is over.

But that was only Saturday's indoor work. On Sunday, after you have finally, blissfully washed out and evacuated the now cool and uncannily thickened paraffin, would come the final procession. We would drive out, deep into the Wiltshire countryside, to a pre-scouted location: a derelict, forgotten chapel I'd found on an old OS map, its roof long gone, its stone walls open to the sky, miles from any road. This would be our true cathedral. Here, in the centre of this sacred, ruined space, I would have you stand, naked under the open sky. I would tie a single silk rope around your waist and affix the lead, not for control, but as a tether, an umbilical cord connecting you to me in this wild, empty place. This is where your body becomes the altar once more.

And this is where the final, quietest act of possession would take place. I would produce a small, clinical-looking kit. A sterilized needle, a tiny vial of India ink. This is the secret mark we've sometimes whispered about, an ersatz tattoo, a sacrament of pain and ownership made real. I would have you choose the place, a location so private on your body that no one else would ever think twice about it. Perhaps the pale skin high on your inner thigh. With immense care and precision, I would dip the needle in the ink and, with one swift, sharp prick, administer a single, perfect, permanent dot into your flesh. It would be a sharp sting, a tiny bead of blood, an indelible mark of this moment. To any observer for the rest of your life, it would be just a tiny mole, a freckle. But for us, it is a holy relic, a secret star in our private constellation.

A sacrament is not a conclusion; it's a consecration. And it must be sealed with a different kind of worship. As the tiny sting fades, leaving a mark that only we understand, the air itself seems to shift. The patient, ritualistic energy of the weekend evaporates, replaced by a sudden, feral hunger. Your eyes, which had been downcast in submission, would lift to meet mine, and I would see not a subject, but a predator, a partner in this beautiful profanity. The primal need, held in check for so long, would finally break free. In two strides I would have you pressed back against a crumbling stone wall, its rough texture a wild contrast to your smooth skin.

It would be a furious, almost desperate fucking, a return to the purely carnal. My mouth would crush yours as I hiked you up, your legs wrapping around my waist, my hands gripping the ancient, lichen-covered stone on either side of your head. I would drive into you right there, standing up, each thrust a brutal, possessive statement against the unyielding wall until you were sobbing, a raw, keening sound that would be lost to the open sky as you came hard and violently. But we wouldn't be finished. I would carry you, still impaled on my cock, to the centre of the ruin and lay you on the grass-choked flagstones. Without pulling out, I'd flip you over onto your hands and knees and take your beautiful, offered arse, fucking you into the earth itself. It would be a raw, definitive claiming--a messy, glorious bang to punctuate a weekend of sublime ritual--coming deep inside you on the floor of our makeshift cathedral, scratching the itch so completely it would echo for months to come.

Yours...

E