Letters to Elaine 7: Edinburgh 1992

Dearest Elaine;

Edinburgh, 1992. Remember that flat? An absolute disgrace, a large, shared testament to entropy where five would-be engineers built their dens. I was the one who already knew I was failing out. It was into this glorious mess that you arrived, a beacon of focus from Aberdeen University. Driven, brilliant, the antithesis of my academic slide. Your arrival on Friday was a frantic compression of want, your growing sexual appetite--that burgeoning, baroque taste for decadence--met by the rush of two people grabbing at stolen time.

The script was simple: strip, kiss, lick, fuck, a quick clean-up, then out the door to drown ourselves in cheap beer and the noise of a crowd.

Saturday morning was the predictable penance: the dull, low throb of a hangover. The night before, fuelled by lager, your body had become a familiar playground. My tongue and fingers mapped your pleasure, and a fluted Belgian beer bottle became a favoured prop--I still remember the solid, unsettling weight of it plugging your cunt while I devoted my mouth to your clit. It was a kink we were just discovering. You admitted preferring the precise control of your own finger for the final ascent, but confessed that the bottle's constant, stretching pressure added a thrill that was both psychological and deeply physical.

Mid-morning, the pale April sun did little to lift the gloom, and a new craving simmered in the aftermath. It had to be buggery. A need I'd nursed all night. You, flushed with a desire to be filled, offered no resistance; the small pile of foil-wrapped condoms was our only nod to caution. I posed you face down on the creaking mattress, wanting the pure visual of your offered arse while your own hand went to work below, our silent, intimate collaboration. That water-based hand lotion was a poor, slick substitute, making the initial entry a moment of focused friction. I chose a textured condom, wanting to savour every single millimetre of your heat.

There's a sublime quality to buggering a beautiful woman in the weak, watery sunshine of an Edinburgh April. It's a perfect balm for a hangover, a solvent for any small resentment that might have curdled overnight. In our growing catalogue of intimacies, I introduced a new detail: two of your bronze hairpins. Your hesitation was brief but palpable before you let me clip them to your nipples, the slight, pinching weight a tiny anchor of submission before you rolled onto your front and splayed your legs for me. A private, voyeuristic thrill pulsed through me--not for any real observer, but for the one in my head who would appreciate this carefully staged scene of controlled abandon.

Your moan was low, primal, halfway between a growl and a groan, and it spurred me on. The buggery was slow, firm, deep. You came first, a sudden, violent arch of your back, your cry choked into the cheap pillow. The shift in your libido was instantaneous, making you insistent, almost desperate, for me to withdraw just as I neared my own apex. As a considerate lover, I complied, sliding out and cleaning up before being rewarded with your hands and mouth. I left the hairpins in place, glinting against your skin as I spilled myself onto your breasts, the contrast of casual kink and tender post-coital bliss still sharp in my memory.

It wasn't yet lunchtime. We had just over twenty-eight hours.

The post-coital high was fading, replaced by a quiet, slightly unnerving sense of gravity. This was new territory. This version of you--uninhibited, implicitly demanding--was an electrifying discovery. Past encounters had been loving, but safe. This weekend felt different. Raw. We were right on the edge of something.

"You alright?" I asked, noticing the profound thoughtfulness behind your eyes.

You shifted, the tangled sheet rustling. "Just... processing," you said. "That was... intense."

"Maybe too intense?" I ventured.

You shook your head, your focus snapping back to me, sharp and clear. "No. Not too intense. Just... new." Your eyes searched mine. "I liked... giving you the reins. I liked being..." you trailed off, a delicate flush creeping up your neck, "... unfettered."

The word hung between us. It wasn't about subjugation, but liberation. "Unfettered how?" I asked.

"Like I could just be," you explained. "Just follow my instincts. Not worry about being 'good', or polite..."

"... restrained?" I offered.

You nodded. "Maybe. Or maybe just... under different restraints. Ones I choose to wear."

That was the moment. "Remember the bottle?" I asked.

Your eyes widened. "You liked that, didn't you?"

"I liked watching you explore that feeling," I admitted. "I wanted to see what was good, or just... interesting to you."

"It was," you admitted, your voice becoming a husky whisper. "It is."

I stood and walked to the grimy window. My back to you, I said, "I need to be honest. I liked watching you unleashed. It wasn't about control. It was about... wanting to see where you would go if I held the map. About facilitating your rawness, and being stunned by your trust."

I turned back. Your eyes were bright, a flicker of pure excitement burning within them.

"So," you challenged, your voice a barely-audible breath, "what are you going to do about it?"

We went to a Boots on Princes Street. "Baby oil," I told the pharmacist, a woman with a faint, knowing smile. "The plainest kind."

Back at the flat, our real ritual began. I poured a pool of it into my palm--do you remember the clean, clinical smell?--and anointed you, slowly, deliberately. I watched your face for every reaction. I took your hairpins, tracing them over your oiled skin, the sharp, metallic rasp making you shiver. "Do you like that?" I'd ask, and your ragged breath was all the answer I needed.

I had you on your front, your arse offered in a gesture of pure trust. I didn't just touch you; I mapped you, I catalogued you, watching for the subtle clench of muscle that told me I was in the right place. "What if I...?" I'd whisper, my fingers exploring the delicate crease of your buttocks, your labia. "Or maybe...?"

Your moans deepened into sounds of pure, surrendering instinct.

"Tell me what you want to try," I urged you gently. "Tell me what feels tempting."

And you told me. I can still hear your voice, muffled by the pillow, a breathy, vulnerable confession. "I... I want to be... overwhelmed. I want to be... consumed. I want you to just take over." And then that nervous, breathless giggle. "But... nicely."

I smiled. The key had been turned. "Then let's see what happens."

This time I put you on your back, legs parted, opening you completely to me. The afternoon was for a deeper lesson. I picked up the slick, empty beer bottle, and taking my time, I slid the cold, heavy glass of its neck into your cunt, pushing it in until you were completely, shockingly full. I remember the sharp hiss of your breath, the way your inner muscles spasmed and then clenched around it, accepting it. You were plugged, taken, an object of my attention.

Your eyes were wide, watching me. I oiled my fingers and brought them to your arse, which was already twitching. I worked you open, slowly, getting you used to the intrusion, and then replaced my fingers with my cock. You were so tight. I pushed in, stretching you, filling your other hole, burying myself to the root inside your beautiful bum. The sight of it... you, on your back, your cunt stuffed with the beer bottle, your arse impaled on my cock... it was the most exquisitely filthy thing I had ever seen.

I started to fuck you. A slow, deep, punishing rhythm. You had nowhere to go. I watched your hands go to your clit, your fingers a desperate blur as you chased your own release. The sounds in that room... the wet, slapping noise of the bottle as I pushed it deeper with my pelvis, the slick sound of me pulling out and pumping back into your arse, your choked sobs of being overwhelmed. You came with a strangled scream, your whole body convulsing, your cunt clamping down hard on the glass inside it as I felt your arse clench around my cock. That was my trigger. I came deep inside you then, a final, guttural roar, spilling myself into you, claiming you completely.

For a long time, I just stayed there, buried inside you. I remember leaving you just like that for a minute after I pulled out--glistening with sweat and oil, your cunt still plugged, my jizz cooling inside your slightly gaping, well-used arse. Do you remember the smell in the room? Oil and sex and our sweat. Do you remember the faint red lines the hairpins left on your skin? They were the map of where we had been.

Yours...

E