Letters to Elaine 10: Belgium 1992

Dearest Elaine,

Do you remember Belgium? July 1992. That sprawling, slightly soulless holiday home in Westend, a place defined by its sheer, windy flatness and the greyness of the North Sea. It was our first 'family' holiday, wasn't it? An experiment I have never wished to repeat. The two weeks were an exercise in navigating the well-meaning, stifling pressure of my parents and the resentful boredom of my younger sisters. I escaped into cheap lager far too often, becoming a boorish, drunken caricature you had to endure, while you retreated into novels with a quiet, saintly patience.

But even amidst that low-grade domestic war, we found our moments. The stolen hours when they'd all inexplicably decide to spend a whole day in Bruges or Ypres. The house would fall silent, the air instantly changing from fraught to permissive. The sex we had then was not just urgent; it was a detonation. A frantic reclamation of ourselves fuelled by my consumption of cheap lager and a nihilistic, roaring rage at my predicament, and by your quiet, bottomless, incandescent need. It wasn't a seduction; it was a siege. It began with me pushing you over my knee, my anger and desire manifesting in the first spanking that was meant to sting. Not a loving tap but a volley of full-handed slaps that left the print of my hand glowing a perfect, stinging red against your pale skin, each impact drawing a shocked, half-sobbing gasp from you that was pure, exhilarating fuel. That led to the frantic plundering of the kitchen for props. Two empty brown beer bottles, still warmish from where I'd finished them.

With you on your front on the living room rug, arse still flushed and tender, I didn't have to ask. You just opened for me. I slid one of those inert, unyielding glass necks deep inside your soaking wet cunt, and then used the other, with only a smear of your own juice for lube, to brutally, shockingly plug your arse. You were pinned, stuffed, utterly possessed by these crude, domestic objects, your small whimpers muffled by the cheap carpet. This, of course, was the turning point. Staring at the sight of you, helpless and debased, the thought of sheathing myself in latex felt like an obscenity, a denial of the moment's raw, transgressive power. This was a battle, and I needed to feel everything. So for the first time, I came to you without caution. I shoved into your tight, bottle-slicked arse without a fucking word, the gasp ripped out of you wasn't just pain, but the sound of the final restraint snapping. That was the magic spark. For the first time, our timing synchronised completely; our shared desperation at the situation found its explosive release, and your scream of orgasm as your hole clamped down on my bare cock was the trigger that tipped me over with you.

It was almost perfect, but it needed one more brutal flourish. My finishing punctuation. I yanked out at the last second, turned you over, and even as your orgasm still wracked your body, I shot my load all over your face, across your parted lips and gasping mouth, marking you, claiming you, overwriting every miserable moment of that holiday with our own magnificent, private sacrament of filth. This was the true foundation of what we were becoming; a profound act of trust articulated not with words, but with beer bottles and spunk and the thrilling, unrepeatable recklessness of being young and full of rage and desire.

But that was the holiday we were given: a single, priceless diamond of absolute filth buried in two weeks of suffocating coal. That afternoon was a convulsion, an act of pure, desperate instinct. But what about the one we should have had? The one we would construct now, with thirty years of shared language and the fearless trust we've built, applied to the magnificent, uninhibited canvas of our younger selves?

Let's re-write it. Let's erase my family and give us those two weeks, a palace in Westend, and unlimited freedom.

It starts, of course, on the Folkestone to Ostend ferry. But we wouldn't be on the deck. We'd have booked a cabin, that anonymous liminal box with a bunk, a basin, and a lock. The thrum of the engine an elemental pulse beneath us. In 1992, the plan would have remained unspoken, but in our superior version, I'd have told you what was coming. You would have arrived with a shiver of dread and desire already firing in your blood.

There was no formal declaration. There couldn't be. The moment the cabin door clicked shut behind us, isolating us in that shuddering metal box, was the only declaration needed. You turned, met my eyes, and sank to your knees on the grim, thin carpet before my holdall had even slumped to the floor. There was no discussion. There was only action, a unified, feral understanding that a ritual was required.

My belt, a wide strip of black leather worn soft and curved to my hips, was off in a single fluid motion. No care was taken. Your wrists were hauled back and lashed together to the cold outflow pipe under the sink. Rough, quick, brutally effective. This wasn't BDSM; it was an exercise in pure practical logistics. You were restrained. Now, what was there to use?

My hand wouldn't have gone for a crinkling plastic bag of obvious tricks. I'd have knelt in front of you and violently unzipped my own worn travel bag, grubbing inside past badly-folded T-shirts and spare socks. My fingers would have been searching, not for a toy, but for an opportunity, and they would have found it: my old Maglite. The heavy, four-cell D-battery one. A dense, unforgiving club of black, knurled aluminium. It wasn't a toy; it was a tool, something I kept for breakdowns. Utterly functional, and in that moment, the most profane object on earth.

"Our own pillar of light to explore the darkness," I'd whisper, the words a rough parody of poetry. I'd anoint its smooth, glass lens-end not with purpose-bought lube but with a hasty, spit-slicked hand. This was crude mechanics. Holding the back of your neck with one hand, forcing your face toward the floor, I'd push that cold, weighty mass into you. It was not a seduction; it was an act of brutal occupancy. The blunt force of its circumference stretching you, the sheer solid weight of it filling your cunt with something so alien, so utterly non-sexual, your entire body went rigid, a bowstring pulled taut. You were impaled on pure function, taken by an object designed to dispel the very darkness it was now inhabiting.

With the heavy weight of the torch still burying itself deep in your cunt, and my other hand digging through my jeans, I found what I was looking for: a whole, heavy handful of loose change. Pounds, fifties, twenties... a gritty, grubby selection box of British currency. Holding the Maglite steady, keeping you absolutely full, I began feeding the coins, one by one, into your other hole. Each coin was a tiny, cold breach, its milled edge a point of sharp definition as I pushed it past your sphincter. I felt you clench on each new violation, the first pound followed by a clinking, metallic procession of its lesser brethren.

Then, the exquisitely beautiful part of the act began. Slowly, deliberately, I began to withdraw the Maglite, centimetre by slow centimetre. For every unit of volume I emptied from your cunt, I replaced it by pushing a small, grubby handful of coins into your arse. It was a perfect transfer of violation, a grotesque barter system. As one blunt intruder receded, an entire chorus of lumpy, uneven, chillingly cold metal was funnelled into you. You weren't being emptied; you were being filled from another direction, turned into a heavy, chiming sack of loose money. A human purse.

I would fuck you, of course. Where? In the hot, wet, utterly ravaged sheath my torch had just abandoned. Now, with your arse weighted and audibly filled, making every slightest movement a symphony of humiliation, I pushed into your freshly-vacated cunt. With that second, heavier invasion, the true claiming could begin. The sound of our bodies would be obscene enough, but now it had an accompanying music: the constant, faint, damning chink-chink-chink of metal on metal from your rectum with every single one of my deep, possessive thrusts. I fucked you until all I could hear was that sound, and all you could feel was me filling you again, my hot jizz spilling deep into the very place I had just finished desecrating with an instrument of light.

For a moment we'd lie there, wrecked, you a glorious mess, stuffed with my semen in one hole and the day's journey money in the other. Utterly, fundamentally, completely broken open. And then, I'd deliver the quietest, cruellest blow of the day. A flat, clinical command, stripped of all passion.

"Get them out."

The memory sharpens to a final, perfect point of high definition. I leaned against the vibrating metal wall outside, my ear trained for the culmination of our ritual. It was not another soaring orgasm, but the muted, profoundly dismal sound coming from within that chemical-stinking, rocking toilet cubicle: the plink... plonk... clatter... of grubby currency falling piece by exhausted piece into the cold ceramic bowl. A sad, profane music, a solitary accounting forced upon you at your most broken. We didn't just unravel you in that cabin. We made you pay for the privilege and then audit the sordid transaction yourself.

When you finally emerged, staggering slightly with the movement of the ferry, you weren't defeated, not in the way a victim is. You were evacuated. A hollowed-out space that radiated a strange, shimmering stillness. The drive off the ferry and through the bleak, windy streets of Ostend was conducted in an absolute, loaded silence. You stared out of your passenger window, but I know you weren't seeing the slate-grey sky or the flat Belgian landscape. You were feeling the lingering ghost-print of a pound coin's rim around your tired arsehole, the phantom weight of my cum cooling inside your cunt. I drove, feeling the resonant power of a creator who had just watched his art piece reassemble itself after total demolition.

It was this profound transformation that we carried across the threshold of the holiday house. So when we finally unlocked the door to that sterile, aggressively bland rental, it was like two astronauts in full pressure suits stepping into a mundane suburban kitchen. The very air was different to us. We arrived not merely primed, but as beings from a new dimension of our own violent making. To us, the cheap furniture, the spotless linoleum, the bland floral curtains -- they weren't real. They were just props, set dressing. The house, therefore, could never be our temple or even our home; it became our laboratory. It was an inert, soulless vessel into which we would pour our chaos for two glorious weeks, a basecamp for a series of carefully planned attacks on the very concept of sanity and normalcy.

The first ritual began with a 'shopping list'. Not one written on paper. In our bedroom, I'd have had you stand before me, completely naked, like a freshly wiped slate. My implement was not a ceremonial quill but a standard-issue blue Bic biro. Starting at your collarbone, I began to write. This wasn't a love poem, or even words of possession. This was an errand list. 'Mayo - Thickest', I wrote on the heavy globe of your left buttock. 'Vinegar - Strongest', a sharp script across your right kidney. I etched 'Laundry Pegs -- Hard Wood' down the delicate skin of one inner thigh. On the inside of your wrist, where a pulse beat furiously, the single word, 'Rope'. And then, the final blasphemous touch. Directly above the soft thatch of your muff, in stark, clinical capitals: 'EIEREN' - the Flemish word for eggs. Your entire body became the living parchment for my intended debasements, a walking instruction manual for your own violation.

Then came the performance, the part impossible in any other context. "You know the list," I'd say, handing you your purse and a jacket. "Go and get the shopping." You'd have to walk into that generic Belgian Spar, browse the aisles, queue at the checkout, all with the secret of what lay written beneath your clothes like a series of invisible, ticking time-bombs. Your polite smile to the checkout girl would be a mask over the humming dread of the crude blue word scrawled over your arse, of the shopping items being a direct menu of your own submission. That walk through an anonymous town square was more thrilling, more truly perilous than any audience in a garden; you were not a statue for anonymous eyes, but a walking, breathing text of pure filth hiding in plain sight.

The climax of that first day, enacted upon your return with the incriminating bags of 'provisions', was not about spanking. It was about fulfilling the grotesque prophecy I had written on your flesh. Having you unpack the groceries was the first part of the ceremony, with me inventorying the instruments as you laid them out on the kitchen counter: the fat jar of mayonnaise, the sharp tang of vinegar from its bottle, the harsh wooden clothes pegs... and the flimsy cardboard box of half a dozen pale brown Eieren.

I led you from the kitchen, through to that large, tiled wet-room. There, I had you kneel, a supplicant before an unseen altar, and formally presented me with the eggs. You understood. The ritual had moved beyond simple humiliation and into the realm of the profoundly bizarre. While you stayed kneeling, perfectly still, I went to the kitchen and began to prepare. There was a unique horror in the sound--you listening to me methodically running the tap, the clink of eggs placed carefully in a pan, the soft hiss of the gas ring firing up. Absolute, unnerving domesticity in the service of absolute violation.

I returned not with a symbolic duo, but with a full Pyrex bowl of peeled, steaming, slick, and slightly repulsive hardboiled eggs. And the command was simple and clinical: "Assume the position. Let's load the vessel."

The act of filling you became a marathon of quiet horror. Each egg, still unpleasantly warm, was a solid, undeniable intrusion. One went into your cunt, then one into your arsehole. Then a second into your waiting cunt, alongside its brother, requiring you to strain, to create an impossible new internal dimension. Then a second pushed past the first in your arse, each one a solid plug driving its predecessor deeper. Your body, already a sealed biological unit, was stretched beyond its rational limits, forced to accommodate an entire clutch, a nest of dense protein. Six eggs. Three deep in each channel, distending you from within, making it almost impossible to maintain your position on your knees. You became a living, breathing incubator for a pagan mockery of life. A human Kinder Surprise, impossibly full of inert, ovoid things.

You were a marvel of flesh made statue, a groaning, weeping vessel stretched to a state of almost perfect immobility. You thought the conceptual horror was the point. You thought the feeling of containing a warm, dead weight brood was the full expression of my intent. But this was merely the overture. This act, Elaine, would not deny the visceral truth of our lust. It was merely the stage upon which that truth would play out.

I would have explored this new form you'd taken. The sight of your holes, warped and swollen around the sheer volume they contained, was an intoxicating landscape. Your labia, stretched impossibly tight over the final visible curves of egg. The puckered rose of your arsehole, reduced to an over-stuffed crevice. But my tool for exploring this would be our primary link: my own cock.

"Look at me," I commanded, and your tear-filled eyes lifted to mine as you collapsed forward, resting your swollen belly on the cool tile. And then I took your mouth. I drove my cock between your teeth, fucking your throat with a slow, powerful rhythm that had a clear purpose. Each deep thrust was a form of punctuation, a direct line to your nervous system. Each pull-back forced an involuntary clench of your internal muscles, making you painfully, thrillingly aware of the full, hard, shifting clutch of eggs inside you. Your orgasm, when it finally arrived, was a shuddering, rattling, full-body event, your muffled screams swallowed by my ongoing violation of your throat. My climax followed immediately, an eruption that filled your mouth and coated your tongue, a raw, possessive act that sealed my total ownership of every available part of you.

As the violent, rattling climax finally subsided, your body slumped forward onto the cool tile, just a deep, animal whimper filling the silent room. I waited until your shivering ceased, then I withdrew from your mouth, knelt beside you, and set your finest, most poignant ordeal.

My voice dropped, stripped of all heat and passion, becoming flat, clinical, absolute. "Give them back."

I didn't offer help. I didn't touch you again. I simply stood and leaned against the doorframe, crossing my arms, assuming the role of an overseer at an unpleasant but necessary industrial process. Your task was not simply to give birth to them; it was a solitary labour conducted under a dispassionate, judgmental gaze. I watched as you hauled your spent, aching body into a clumsy, shuddering squat. This was no mystical communion; it was a crude biological transaction.

The true consummation of the ritual was not my orgasm, but the quiet, dismal acoustics of yours. We both listened, our senses attuned to a sound more profane than any scream: the wet, obscene thump as the first egg landed on the white ceramic floor. A sound of something organic and dense hitting a sterile surface. Then another, and another. Your strained groans punctuated each sickening landing. Each one a testament to your labour, an audit of the violation I had inflicted. It was not a gush, but a painful, staggered expulsion, a deep internal battle played out for my detached observation. Six distinct, pathetic notes in a symphony of abject humiliation.

When the last one fell, leaving you empty and quivering, I still didn't move. "Now clean the evidence," I said in that same dead voice. "No trace left." You had to crawl on your hands and knees, gather up my foul instruments--each one slick with your own internal juices--and carry them to the bin. You were not my lover in that moment. You were the janitor assigned to tidy up after the atrocity.

It was only after you had washed your hands, after all evidence of our ritual was contained and sealed, that I walked over, lifted you from the floor, and carried you to the bed. It was there, amidst the wreckage of your senses and the deep-ache of your body, that our connection was finally reforged. We made love then. Not a gentle reunion, but a raw, possessive claiming of the territory I had just so thoroughly conquered and re-mapped. I fucked your cunt, the soft flesh still tender and bruised from its former occupation, re-imprinting my ownership with a different kind of intrusion, until you came again, this time with a cry of pure, desperate, grateful release.

That night established the brutal, brilliant pattern for our two-week holiday. We became architects of "perverse assignments." One evening, our objective was the sea front. You were made to walk the length of the deserted, windswept promenade, stopping at every third lamppost to lift your skirt and flash your bare cunt and arse to the empty, churning North Sea. No audience but me, standing a hundred yards back, and the theoretical, terrifying possibility of a lone dog-walker or a bored local looking out of a window.

Another day was an exercise in acoustic torment. In the packed, echoing space of the Basilica of the Holy Blood in Bruges, amongst the hushed tourists and flickering candles, my whispered command was for you to pleasure yourself under your coat. Not to orgasm, but to get so wet that you could feel it, a rising tide of silent, profane evidence soaking into your knickers while you feigned rapt attention to the ornate altarpiece. Your torment was knowing you were a secret island of pure filth in a sea of public reverence.

Each act was a psychological masterpiece, designed to atomize your sense of self and rebuild it according to our new, shared architecture of desire. We didn't need to repeat ourselves; the world, Elaine, in all its banal glory, offered an infinite supply of new stages for your magnificent, thrilling, beautiful debasement.

The last day began not with melancholy, but with a mission brief from you. Your eyes held a fierce, creative light as you laid out the design for our final masterpiece, a ritual steeped in the bleak, maritime character of our temporary kingdom.

"Go to the harbour," you commanded, your voice low and thrillingly precise. "The chandlery. I want a proper fishing net, rough-knotted nylon. And then the weights. Not the big heavy rings. I want the long ones, the lead 'bomb' sinkers they use for deep-water trawling. Get a dozen of them. And find a can of thick, black, axle grease. The filthiest they have."

This was not a flight of fancy; it was a blueprint for a meticulous, multi-faceted ordeal. I drove to the harbour, a willing acolyte sent to procure the sacraments for our final, profane mass. The grimy can of grease and the string of heavy, phallic, lead sinkers felt illicit and powerful in my hands. This was a direct promise of the filth to come.

Our altar was that deserted stretch of beach. Here, under the oppressive grey sky, you stripped and lay back on a coarse blanket. First came the net. I draped it over you, its rough, diamond-patterned mesh an abrasive second skin. But your design required more than just envelopment. Kneeling over you, I took your magnificent breasts, one in each hand, and began the brutal process of threading them up and through two of the diamond-shaped openings in the net. The rough nylon cut into the soft flesh of your under-boob, forcing your nipples to stand erect and exposed above the mesh, held in a tight, constricting grid. Your gasp was a sharp symphony of pain and pleasure.

Then came the payload you had truly craved. You wanted to be filled, anchored, possessed from within. I opened the can of axle grease, the strong, chemical smell mingling with the salt air. Using my fingers, I smeared the thick, black, industrial lubricant into your cunt and arsehole without ceremony. It was not a seduction; it was the greasing of a machine. Then I took the lead 'bomb' weights. Cold, heavy, and unforgivingly phallic. I pushed one, just one, deep into your arsehole, its significant bulk and density a singular, profound anchor dropped into your core. You grunted, your whole-body clenching around this deep, internal invader.

Then I turned my attention to your cunt. With exquisite slowness, I slid two more of the lead weights inside, one after the other. You were now occupied by three distinct, heavy objects, a solitary, profound plug in your arse, and a shifting, crowded fullness in your cunt. You were perfectly weighted, ready for the ritual's climax.

I staked you out then, using the remaining weights to anchor the taut net to the sand. You were pinned, immobile, your constricted breasts on display, your body a landscape of industrial torment, feeling the specific, distinct pressures of the cold lead that filled you.

I left you there for a time, just to let the reality of your self-designed prison settle in. To feel the single, definitive, deep-seated weight in your arse, to feel the way the two weights in your cunt shifted against each other with your every trembling breath. This was your art, in all its static, beautiful horror.

But art requires kinesis. Kneeling between your staked-out legs, I announced the final movement.

My hand reached down to your cunt and, with a thick, sucking pop, I pulled out just one of the two lead weights, leaving its twin behind. The space it left was a void slick with black grease. I didn't hesitate. I drove my cock into that vacated hole, and the true ordeal began. I fucked you with a brutal, relentless rhythm, the single remaining lead weight in your cunt now acting as a grotesque, shifting, internal ball-gag against my cock. With every thrust, my glans would slam against its cold, hard surface, pushing it deeper, only for it to be nudged back out on my retreat. It was an obscene internal game of snooker, played out inside your body, all while the primary anchor remained lodged deep in your arse. And throughout, the relentless friction of the greased net continued its merciless assault on your frantic clit.

The result was a symphony of chaos. The singular deep pressure in your arse, the shocking clack of my cock hitting lead inside you, and the constant, abrasive fire on your clitoris. Your first orgasm ripped through you like a lightning strike. The second followed immediately, a chaotic aftershock before the first had even subsided. You were screaming into the wind, your voice raw, your consciousness dissolving under the tidal wave of sensation. I held you right on that precipice, fucking you through your third, then your fourth, then your fifth rolling, uncontrolled climax, until you were no longer a person but a pure, unadulterated howl of sensation, a creature broken down and remade by the beautiful, filthy machine of your own devising.

As that final, all-consuming climax shattered through you, I let myself go, pulling out at the last second and shooting my load over your grease-and-sweat-slicked belly, my spunk a pale, pathetic tribute against the industrial blackness. We had done it. You, my magnificent architect of ruin, had achieved your final, glorious vision.

For a long time, there was nothing but the shriek of the wind and your ragged, broken breathing. I untied you, un-pegged you from the earth, and with a tenderness that bordered on reverence, unwrapped the net from your body. Your cunt was red raw, swollen, and exquisitely tender, a beautiful war-torn landscape.

Holding you in my arms, I carried you back to the car. We were done. You had not just commanded a masterpiece; you had willingly endured its creation, pushing yourself to the absolute edge of human sensation, and in doing so, had created the perfect, unforgettable monument to the kingdom we had built together.

The final clean-up happened in silence back at the rental house. A shared, grimly practical ritual in the tiled shower. The axle grease stubbornly refused to yield, clinging to our skin, a tenacious black reminder of the filth we had shared. It took half a roll of paper towels and a significant amount of cheap soap to finally scrub ourselves clean, leaving our skin pink and raw and smelling faintly of phenol. The single most profound act was the last: you, sitting on the edge of the bath, head bowed in exhaustion, as you worked your muscles to finally expel the cold, heavy lead weight from your tired arse. It landed in the empty tub with a dull, heavy thud, a sound of absolute finality.

The drive to the ferry was muted, thick with the weight of our shared experience. The ferry itself was an exercise in aggressive normalcy. We were surrounded by sunburned families, noisy school trips, the smell of stale beer and fried food. We sat at a tatty Formica table, two quiet figures sipping from scalding hot cups of machine-brewed tea, looking for all the world like any other tired couple at the end of a long holiday.

A child at the next table dropped a handful of pound coins, their bright, metallic clatter echoing on the linoleum floor. You flinched, a tiny, almost imperceptible tremor passing through your body. Your eyes met mine across the table, and in that silent glance, the entire magnificent, filthy history of the last two weeks was acknowledged. A secret history of coins and Maglite's, of shopping lists written on skin, of blasphemous rituals with eggs, of being staked out and systematically broken down on a desolate beach.

To any observer, we were just two people. But we knew the truth. We were returning to our lives as sleeper agents. We were artists returning from the studio, our skin still humming, carrying the ghost-imprint of rope and net and lead. We were a nation of two, temporarily disbanded, leaving our kingdom of sublime, ecstatic filth behind us, carrying nothing back but a few tacky souvenirs and the quiet, unshakeable knowledge of the masterpieces we had built in the glorious, windswept dark. And we both knew, with absolute certainty, that it wouldn't be long before we found an excuse to build another.

Yours...

E