Letters to Elaine 9: Highgate 1995

Dearest Elaine;

Do you remember a dinner party Highgate? It would have been April1995. This was before the heat of summer, before our game with the window and the imagined telescope. The flat still felt freshish, a new stage full of promise. We decided to throw a proper dinner party, a rare burst of adulting. Tim was there, of course, and we had Martin over, along with two friends from the law firm where you'd briefly temped and I was miserably employed: Deborah and Janet.

I remember the evening so clearly. The smell of the lamb I was roasting, the endless flow of cheap but surprisingly decent red wine. It was a fun night, genuinely. The conversation was loud, fuelled by booze and legal gossip. Martin, ever the early bird, made his excuses and left around seven. A little later, around eight, the evening fractured. Tim, restless as always, announced he was heading out to meet friends at a pub in Archway. At almost the same moment, Janet decided she'd had enough wine and was going to make a move. The two of them leaving together was just a coincidence of timing, a brief sharing of the doorway before they went their separate ways into the London night.

And then there were three.

Us, and Deb. The energy in the room shifted instantly. The performance of being hosts for a larger group fell away, leaving something more intimate, more volatile. The wine kept flowing, and Deb, whose intense curiosity about our dynamic was always simmering just below the surface, started probing. I'd once drunkenly let slip to her that you were partial to the occasional bout of sodomy, a piece of information that had clearly ignited her imagination.

You were magnificent that night, Elaine. Flushed with wine, your wit sharp and playful, you leaned into her fascination. Deb couldn't take her eyes off you, her gaze a mixture of clinical appraisal and raw wonder. It's no secret now where her life ended up, but back then, her drunken confession that "she wasn't into girls, but if she was, and she wasn't, but if she was, she would be into girls like you," was just another log on the fire.

In reality, the night fizzled out. Deb got very drunk, very touchy-feely in a clumsy way, and even tried to sneak a peek at you in the toilet before she poured herself into a cab around eleven, leaving a thick haze of expensive perfume and unfulfilled tension behind.

But that's not the story we tell ourselves, is it? That's not the one we replay.

What if, in that boozy, intimate quiet, amidst the ruins of the dinner plates and the flickering candlelight, I had decided to direct our little one-act play? What if I had caught your eye across the table and said, with a quiet authority you'd have instantly recognised, "Elaine's feeling a bit warm. Aren't you, darling? Why don't you take your top off for Deb?"

I know, without a shadow of a doubt, that you would have done it. I can picture the slight, challenging smile that would have played on your lips. No shame, no hesitation. The prompt wouldn't have been to take a top off; it would have been more fundamental. I'd have just said, "Why don't you show Deb what you really look like under that dress?"

And you'd have stood, the quiet rustle of fabric the only sound in the room. The dress would have slithered to the floor, leaving you standing in nothing but one of those black bodysuits you favoured -- that single unitard-like garment that was your only layer. Deb's wine glass would have frozen halfway to her lips.

The real performance, the true act of intimate revelation, would have been what came next. You'd have reached down between your own legs, your movements slow and deliberate, finding the poppers at your crotch. The room would have been silent enough to hear them. Snap... snap... snap. Three small, sharp sounds of release that would have echoed like gunshots. Then you would have simply shrugged the straps from your shoulders, and the whole garment would have been peeled down, slinking over your hips to join the dress on the floor. In one fluid motion, you'd have gone from dinner guest to completely, gloriously naked. No bra lines, no underwear. Just you, your glorious, heavy breasts bare to the lamplight and your muff on full, perfect display for Deb's suddenly silent, hungry stare.

Deb would have been transfixed, her breath catching in her throat, a voyeur suddenly handed an all-access pass to a show she didn't know she'd bought.

Then, with your nakedness established as the new reality in the room, I would have pushed further. "Deb," I'd have said, my voice low. "You were always so curious about that rumour... about Elaine's tastes. About sodomy."

Deb, her eyes wide and now taking in every inch of you, would have just whispered, "Is it true?"

And you wouldn't have answered with words. You'd have given her the answer with your body. You'd have turned, and leaned over the dining table, your hands flat amongst the crumbs and wine stains, presenting your magnificent, naked arse to her. A perfect, exquisite, and utterly undeniable offering.

The scenario unfolds so clearly in my mind. I would have stood behind Deb, my hands on her shoulders, a silent puppet-master. "Go on," I'd murmur in her ear. "You can look closer. You can touch. Elaine doesn't mind, do you, darling?"

Her hands, so used to the clinical precision of marketing reports and legal paperwork, would have been hesitant at first, then more certain. I see her fingers tracing the curve of your bare hip, then moving higher to cup the full, heavy weight of one of your buttocks. She'd be inspecting you, appraising you, her professional curiosity colliding with a burgeoning, undeniable lust.

Then we'd bring in the props. Not pre-planned toys, but profane objects from our domestic scene. The long, dark green courgette I hadn't used for the meal, an empty wine bottle, its glass cool and heavy. I imagine myself taking the bottle of olive oil from the table, slicking them both as Deb watches, her fascination now mixed with a palpable, nervous energy. I see myself guiding Deb's hand, encouraging her to explore you right there as you're leaned over the dining table. I'd have her part your labia, testing the entrance to your cunt, first with the cold, blunt tip of the bottle, then with the unyielding length of the vegetable. I see your head thrown back, hear the low moans escaping your throat as another woman's hands, for the first time, taught you the pleasure of being filled.

But the real act, the true exploration, would have required a more formal stage.

"That's enough inspection for now," I'd have said, my voice low and authoritative. "A proper examination requires an altar." I'd have led you from the dining room and into the living room. Instead of the floor, I'd have cleared the surface of that heavy, wooden coffee table. With a firm hand on your back, I'd have had you lie down upon it, your head at one end, your legs spread wide at the other, splayed out like a magnificent sacrifice.

Then, with a slow, almost clinical precision that would have made the act all the more debasing, I would have taken the props. But I wouldn't have reached for the clean, predictable lines of glass. No, the moment called for something far more profane, something perfectly ersatz from the wreckage of our dinner. From the bread basket, I would have selected a mini baguette, slightly stale--its crust hard, its promise scratchy and real. A truly profane toy.

I'd have doused it in olive oil, but we both know the oil wouldn't tame its texture completely. I can see myself pushing it deep into your cunt; not a clean, easy glide, but an abrasive, friction-filled violation that would have made you gasp, the rough crust a constant, undeniable presence inside you.

Then, while your cunt was impaled on that absurdly domestic, yeasty plug, my attention would turn to your arse. This time, no props. This would be personal. I would have coated my own fingers--two, then three--in oil and slowly, deliberately, worked them into your twitching arsehole, stretching you wide, feeling your inner muscles clench and flutter around me.

There you would be, elevated on our coffee-table altar, completely helpless and utterly full; your cunt rudely stuffed with bread, your arse stretched wide around my knuckles. Your body presented as the magnificent, debased centrepiece of our shared experiment.

This is when I would turn my attention to Deb. "Now," I'd murmur, my gaze locking with hers across the table. "I believe it's your turn to make a contribution. Elaine has a fantasy, you see. She's always wondered what another woman tastes like."

Deb's eyes would have widened, a spark of pure, undiluted comprehension flashing within them. And without another word, I imagine her hiking up her skirt, reaching underneath, and with a soft rustle of fabric, pulling off her knickers and tossing them onto the sofa.

"Go on," I'd have instructed, "She's waiting for you. Get on the table."

I would watch as Deb, now emboldened, climbed onto the coffee table with you. She'd kneel, then slowly, deliberately, lower herself to straddle your head, positioning herself to sit directly on your face. Your reaction would not have been one of submission alone; it would have been one of rapturous, desperate bliss. This was it. The moment you'd only whispered about, delivered on a platter. Your head would be pinned to the hard wood, your body plugged and immobilised, but your mouth, your tongue--they would be free. I see you, Elaine, your tongue darting out eagerly to lick and taste and nibble at this new, magnificent cunt presented to you, your soft moans muffled by Deb's flesh as you devoured her.

It would have been two women in heaven, both rapt and utterly lost in a new world of sensation. Deb, gasping and starting to ride your face, a casual dominance taking over as she discovered her own pleasure in your eager worship. You, finally exploring the taste and texture of another woman in the most humiliating, perfect context imaginable.

And only then, with you both consumed by your shared exploration on that makeshift altar, would I have made my move.

I would have knelt on the floor beside the table, anointing my cock with the same oil, and without a word, pushed myself deep into your beautiful, offered, and already-stuffed arse. The courgette would have been forced out by my entry, a soft, wet pop of release onto the rug below to make way for the real thing. I'd have fucked you with a slow, deep, powerful rhythm, my hands gripping the edge of the coffee table for leverage, while you were being ridden by Deb. The three of us locked in a symphony of glorious filth--your face buried, tasting your ultimate fantasy; Deb crying out, dominating you with her pleasure; and me, buried to the hilt inside you, enjoying your absolute depths.

In that moment, a question would hang in the air. As I looked up from your labouring body, my eyes would have met Deb's over your head. Her face flushed, her expression one of wild, ecstatic disbelief. Would we have kissed? No. Our bond was not that of lovers. It was something stranger, a sacred, profane pact with you as the central, holy text. A kiss would have been redundant. Our connection was our shared gaze over your body, our silent, mutual acknowledgement of the incredible act we were co-creating. We were friends, bound not in romance, but in the collaborative act of your undoing and your ultimate fulfilment.

Our climax, when it finally ripped through you, would have been a cataclysm. A silent, screaming event that convulsed your entire body. It wouldn't have been for just one of us; it was an orgasm born of triangulated pleasure. It was for my cock buried deep inside you, for the raw, scratchy friction of that ridiculous baguette still plugging your cunt, and most of all, for her. You'd have come for the heavy weight of Deb's body, for the shocking intimacy of tasting her, for the utter humiliation and ultimate triumph of having your most secret fantasy realized at the exact moment of your total debasement. You would have come for the glorious, exquisite shame and beauty of it all.

Afterwards, in the fantasy, there would have been only the sound of three sets of ragged breathing in the candlelight. Me, still buried inside you. Deb, collapsed and breathless against your chest. You, utterly wrecked and spent beneath us both on our makeshift dais.

Alas, we'll never know. The real night ended with a cab door merrily slamming shut and the lingering scent of perfume.

But what remains is more potent than a simple memory. It's our most exquisite ghost, an almost perfect, unresolved masterpiece in the private gallery we built together. The night ended clean, but the fantasy never has to...

Yours...

E