My Dearest Aubrey:
I have good news and bad news.
First, I love sending you written letters while I’m serving time in a minimum-security federal prison.
No emails here.
The art of handwriting letters is a lost one, and it turns me on to think you are opening them in private.
You don’t show them to your husband, Foster, do you?
If you did, I would enjoy it. You told me he has become boring in between the sheets, and maybe one of my letters would help you get a better fuck from him.
Or at the very least some jealousy. (You wrote me that he still fumbles in bed. What’s up with that? And you say he only takes you out on Wednesdays? WTF?)
I would help you out in person if I could. But it’s hard to fuck you from so far away.
And I understand why you can’t make conjugal visits.
What would everyone say?
I’d give them something to talk about.
If you’ll reconsider coming here, I will be ready and waiting; I’m hard as a rock as I write to you.
(I’ll take care of business after I have mailed this.)
Now I’ve given you the bad news: (that I can’t be with you for now.)
The good news is here!
I’m getting early parole! So I will be able to see you in person in about six months.
I am going to fuck you so hard you won’t be able to stand. And I’ll do it in front of your husband—so he can learn what it’s really like to please a woman like you.
And you’ll have to give up your billionaire fantasy, Ian Henshaw III. Although your letters about the way he takes charge of you are incredible.
I pass them around the cell block (I hope you don’t mind; your name is redacted.) I don’t need the other billionaires here getting any ideas about taking you themselves.
Although I think you’d like them all.
We’ve all embezzled, and we’re all serving our time, but your letters are the high point of our lives here on cell block seven—no dry sheet in the house after midnight.
I wish you would send some photos, but I know you can’t. It would jeopardize the psychiatry practice I bought for you.
On another note:
Is Ian still playing mind games with you? I’ll kick his ass when I get out of here.
Snot-nosed bastard.
Once I’m back, he won’t be the only one with a couple billion in his bank account.
I’ll have to work at getting my money back, though. You know they took it all when I was convicted. But I have enough money in offshore accounts to buy a small country, and I will use it to dick over every bastard who has crossed me. (Including Ian, if he is still in the picture.)
On to other things:
Think about divorcing Foster. I know I introduced you two before my trial began, but that was for your security. As you know, I take care of anything you need when I am available, but as I said before, I can’t do much from prison.
By the way, thank you for not getting pregnant with Foster. I will need you to bear my own heirs in the near future.
Won’t that be fun?
If you start working on divorce proceedings now, we could be together in September or October at the latest.
As for Ian Henshaw III, I don’t mind sharing for now (I know you have a penchant for billionaires), but be ready to give him up when I get back into town, or I will destroy him. Then you won’t have a choice but to be with me.
You know you belong to me, don’t you?
As for your psychiatry practice, I like the idea of your writing a book about the sexual habits of derelict fathers, sons, and husbands. You know I can bankroll your publishing if you need me to, but I get why you want to publish it yourself.
After suffering through your boring relationship with Foster, you want your own money and accomplishments.
Can’t say I blame you.
So what do I get out of the deal?
Hopefully, your devoted admiration of my power and my desire to ruin you for any other man.
Love at last,
Former Senator,
Roman Hayes
P.S. I don’t hear too much from the legislature these days. Although, I must say, we condemned public officials have so many sordid stories to share with each other. (Your name hasn’t come up. I wouldn’t allow it.)