Naked letter, p.1
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       Naked Letter, p.1

           Lucus Anthony Ren
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Naked Letter

  Naked Letter

  By Lucus Anthony Ren



  Lucus Anthony Ren

  Naked Letter


  © 2017, Lucus Anthony Ren



  ALL RIGHTS RESERVED. This book contains material protected under International and Federal Copyright Laws and Treaties. Any unauthorized reprint or use of this material is prohibited. No part of this book may be reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage and retrieval system without express written permission from the author / publisher. Limit of Liability and Disclaimer of Warranty: The author / publisher has used its best efforts in preparing this book, and the information provided herein is provided "as is," and makes no representation or warranties with respect to the accuracy or completeness of the contents of this book and specifically disclaims any implied warranties of merchantability or fitness for any particular purpose and shall in no event be liable for any loss of profit or any other commercial damage, including but not limited to special, incidental, consequential, or other damages.

  Dedicated to my wife Beixi whom I truly love for her inspiration, thoughts and trust. Without this...time here would not be.


  Consequences of your action go pretty damn far.

  Think now. While you can. It will start soon. You'll be distracted.

  Remember. As if you can't forget. His sweaty face, greased-over, severely scared from acne. Rancid burnt meat, and beer jetted from his mouth. His breath poured into my eyes burning from the gas. He yelled something which I still have trouble understanding. Either I was to stop and drop my pants, or stop dropping my pants, or stop and drop. How the hell could I do anything with his sizeable weight pressing on me? Drop what? Do what? The yelling increased. His not entirely chewed food, splattering my glasses. His tobacco stained teeth almost mating with mine. I couldn't breathe. I was passing out when I felt the warmth of my own crap fill between my legs. I woke in foreign police detention nothing clearer.

  That was a year ago. I think. I don't want to think. That is a problem for me. I chase my tail when thinking. Now, I spend the moments in staleness. Some moments have their own ones, but I try not to go in there either. I will always be that shy-fem. The others bitch of my poetic residence. When wanted, I was taken. Gruesome at first, but you learned conservation in prison is nonexistent. I bled so much those early weeks I thought it not possible to live. Movements ratcheted pain along the spine through to the brain. Abused repeatedly, I simply passed out. Considered fresh at sixty-two years of age, it was not uncommon being anal rape, simultaneously giving blow-jobs day and night. I learned I had to detach from the element to survive. Think of anything but the present action being preformed. Summer holidays. Signing lucrative business contracts. Getting drunk. Making money. Saving the world. Anything but salty cum sliding down your throat with three more cocks waiting in line, and one shoved up your ass. You were assaulted any time or place. For hours. No contest with guards or inmates existed.

  I tried fighting at first. Protect myself, my honor. How they loved seeing you cornered, squealing. Now I am addicted to the chase taking part in the abuse and taunting. There will be fun tonight and I can't wait till I fuck and drop dead exhausted. Do I love their tight holes, praying for their pathetic mothers rescue, forgiveness? I am that parody helping them pray. And they do scream their calls to God! Reflecting off rotting walls and ceilings, falling finally to the floor, these dead hopes washed away with blooded water, flowing down drains, collected in that transgressor of Elysian Fields, that abode of the blessed after death. Maybe it's been more than a year.

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