Hello, my sweet bonerablessed bonerabelle broad. It's late at night and every part of me misses you so dearly, especially my dick.
Sweet Sugar-Titted Baby!
Hello, my sweet bonerablessed bonerabelle broad. It’s late at night and every part of me misses you so dearly, especially my dick. He’s all bloated and angry, getting bent out of shape, dribbling, cursing, and spitting. I pray to baby Jesus that this letter reaches you in high spirits. Maybe you’re on the train, being ogled relentlessly by lusty perverts, on the way to see the married guy you’re having an affair with…
My penis is growing. Not just ‘cause I’m petting it with the left while I write with the right, but because I’m moving out of adolescence. My balls are getting a little juicier, so I can slap them off your ass and thighs with a more booming staccato. They are nicely maintained as well, ideal for marinating in your pretty mouth. I think my hog is getting fatter, too. Just in case your cookie puss is inexplicably stretching out, my added girth will have no problem creating that slippery wet friction that’ll make that sweet gap drool uncontrollably. Also, I have been extremely diligent in working out my tongue—I go to bed every night lapping the air dreaming of your phantom pussy floating above me for at least 15 minutes.
I know you don’t remember some things that we shared anymore, but I know you remember how much I savor the flavor of your delectable vagina, and how eager I am to make you shake, vibrate, and squeal. I used to be an animalistic, spirited, and ravenous lower lip licker, but now I have a repertoire—a set list—for how to suck your box like a champ. My dick is stronger than my mouth, though. I flex it all day and night thinking about you. Today I pictured you in green nurse scrubs looking like a gypsy with big brown eyes staring at my boner while you worked it with your hand job hand. You were working on getting your stroke back. I think you were looking for rashes too, but it’s cool ‘cause my dick is more pristine than any dick you have ever serviced in your life. It’s a miracle, heaven-sent, packaged like a present for you to shove down your pretty throat. I’ll stick it wherever you want it, however you want it, whenever you want it. I’m an awesome dildo, and I’ll hug you with love and tenderness after smackin’ the flames out your ass.
If I had to choose one way to die, it would be with you, alone on an island, dying of starvation. You would die first and then I would get to eat your impeccable ass as I died. I would die a happy man chewing on your fantastic booty. Sometimes I go in the bathroom stall and cry ‘cause I haven’t had your ass in so long. Goddam the white man for depriving me of your truly remarkable gluteus maximus. It should be a crime that I have been forbidden to worship it. It’s only a couple months and then I’ll set up shop in your ass. No more slinging drugs, just slinging sperm from now on—all over your perfectly succulent ass. I think I’m ready to give you a baby, but we should get married first.
I made myself a delightful meal tonight. I put some canned Trader Joe’s chicken breast into a bowl filled with love. I chopped up a cabbage heart so it had some of that radishy spice, some cumin, ginger, garlic, green and red peppers, jalapeno, walnuts, pineapple, and then gave it some honey, soy sauce, mayo, and squeezed in some lemon and sprinkled some pepper. The whole time I ate it I thought about sharing it with you and how nice that would feel. It reminded me of our picnics of old. Like the night before I got locked up, you made me an awesome sandwich and then packed me a leftover sandwich for lunch at work and left a little note saying “I love you!” ‘cause I boned you proper and brought your flowers and generally just made you feel like the most bonerable baby of all time, ‘cause that’s who you are to me: the most beautiful girl in the whole wide world, with a filthy mind that only I can match.
Just a couple more months and I’ll bang you ‘till you’re black and blue and then sing a sweet song about it while I stare into your eyes, holding your hand, explaining that I won’t leave you again. Start stretching. I love you.
(I have written this letter about 100 times. She doesn’t write back.)
Previously - Bummerlicious Incarceration
Bert Burykill is the pseudonym of a guy serving time in a medium-security prison in upstate New York for drug possession. We don’t want to get more specific than that, because apparently the prison doesn’t look kindly on its inmates publishing anything negative about incarceration.