I hope you and the boys are well. How's the new baby? I trust you've resisted the urge to smother it this time! And dearest Papa, how is he? Is he still suffering terribly from his HIV? Well, we must all look on the bright side - at least he will never pursue his silly, fanciful dreams to become the Pope anymore. And I'm sorry that we did not have a proper party for my twenty-fifth birthday, it's just I went out with my friends for a meal.
I attach with this letter a soiled condom, Mama, to prove that I am using contraception like you suggested. I also saw the most delightful pink dildo that you have ever seen. I purchased it and have sent it by recorded post. I do hope that it will find you well!
Now, Mama, oh sweet bosomy Mama, I have written to explain why you will receive a letter from the courts soon. I have been arrested on the suspicion of some terrible things. I seem to be suffering from bad luck and bad circumstances, Mama. I will relate to you the true story, and I know you will believe me. It truly is a sad story of misunderstandings.
A boy with lovely blonde hair lives with his Old Papa. I suppose the correct English would actually be "lived with", but that is irrelevant. The sweet, innocent, darling boy is about nine. They live in number 13, opposite me. Personally I have taken a dislike to the sweet, oh-so-pretty boy. It is my firm and honest belief that he is no less than a scoundrel. You see, this sad and woeful tale begins at 3pm on one fine day. I heard noises coming from the back of my house and found the darling boy in my garden. I asked him politely what he was doing there, but all I got for an answer was "Retrieving my ball, sir!". He said it oh-so-innocently, Mama. He is such an adorable child. And then he screamed, "LOL JK! YOUR MOM HAS BIG TITS! I COULD SUCK ON THEM ALL DAY", picked up his football and began to scramble over the fence.
It was the nastiest of things he said and I was deeply upset
Truly wounded. I clutched at my pain, believing myself to be stabbed, the pain was so intense. Recovering myself, I pulled the charming child from the fence and tossed him to the soil. He looked at me with utter distaste and asked of me, in the politest and most melodious honey tones you shall ever feast your ears upon: "What the fuck, sir?". So startled was I by his most handsome of voices, that I almost fainted right then and there, Mama. I asked him again - shaking, now, though - "What is your business in my garden, dear, sweet boy?'.
He stood up, punched me in the stomach, with a fist clenched as strong as iron. My beautiful white shirt was so horribly creased and it got my blood up, oh it got my blood up, I can tell you, Mama. I was bubbling with rage, my dearest Mama! The good doctors told me later that I was suffering from some minor internal bleeding. You know I'm hardly ever annoyed so. I am the most agreeable man you should ever meet! You can vouch for me on that, Mama. I pulled the lovely boy from the fence, again, and pinned him against the garden shed with my body. I attempted several times to reach for my telephonic machine without letting the boy go. I tried everything, Mama. I tried to use my hips to pin him down, but I just could not reach the telephonic machine.
The boy started wailing a bit and wailed "Fuck me! You're a retarded wanker!". At that point I thought that his suggested course of action seemed the most appropriate, Mama. It would make him happy and it would make me feel like I'd punished him sufficiently. Hopefully I would drill some manners into him. That is what I honestly thought as I began to carry out his request. I tried to do it gently, Mama.
He started crying loudly and screaming "STOP!!!" - but I'd decided that he was a child who needed firm discipline, so I took him inside to avoid worrying the neighbours. I do hope you think I did good, Mama! I only try to do what you would want of me Mama, to please you, Mama. I laid the boy on that darling little white couch that Aunty Shipman bought for me last Christmas. Carefully I sat on top of the youngster to finish his punishment - this way I assumed both of us would be in relative comfort. I know what is good for children. They must be taught to respect their elders! Don't you agree, Mama? Oh, I know you must agree!
I think we were on the couch, rising and falling, for about an hour. He screamed throughout and, oh, it was so dreadful for me. He just wouldn't stop his screaming. Sometimes he yelled for his dog and sometimes he moaned in pleasure. I just didn't want him trespassing on my property, or anyone else's - that was all. It was such a terrible experience for me, Mama! What that boy put me through is oh so indescribably horrible! Indescribably!
I pled with the youth
I kept asking he say he was sorry so that I could stop, but he insisted on shouting, like a little bothering pest, "Rape!!". He spat it right back at me. In my face. He was so rude, Mama! His spittle was oh so awful! He refused to apologise. My Johnny and my sack were so terribly chafed after an hour - you know how they're so tender. So I slowly sat up and released the boy from my loving grip.
But he just lay there on the couch rolling around and sniffling to himself. It was so dreadful - like those films where people go insane. Then he started yelling at the top of his voice. He started calling out to the neighbours. He was not even grateful!
Oh Mama, I had to think very quickly. I could not decide on anything but quieting the young blighter, in case the neighbours came to find out what was going on. So that is what I did, Mama. I needed something to gag him with, but the only thing I could think of was my big boy. You know how much you enjoy when we do that, Mama? I thought he might enjoy it just the same. I thought I might wipe the tears from his face with a smile. I had to be quick, Mama, so I forced my bishop into his mouth, to gag him. The little wretch started gnawing on it, though, trying to free his mouth. I decided that I had probably punished him enough and could send him on his jolly way then, so I removed my dong from his mouth, picked him up, gave him a gentle nudge on the back and sent him back home.
I must admit that I nudged him on the back with my nailbat - you know the green one that I adore, so - because I was holding it at the time and had temporarily forgotten. Once he'd left my house I could here him walking off crying and muttering things about me, so I hurried out of the front door, after him, Mama.
People were beginning to stare
So, thinking fast, I was left with no option but to fuck him up so as not to disturb anyone. I happened to have a crowbar handy, as well as my nailbat, which I used to aid in silencing him. When the silencing was complete I decided I should take him directly to his Old Papa. However, when I knocked on the door no one answered. Oh, I was so traumatised by then, Mama. I decided, that as a patriotic citizen I should look after him until I could contact one of his relatives.
I have no spare rooms or beds in my small house, as you know Mama, so I had to lock him in Polly's birdcage. I'm sorry, did I forget to tell you? Polly died of breast cancer two months ago, it was terribly sad for everyone.
When he broke the birdcage I had to improvise, so I took him to the cellar and locked him in a dusty mummy-like object from Uncle Donald's collection. Do you remember the few things he left me in his will? Those odd, mediaeval things. The object I chose to keep him in is what is apparently known as an Iron Maiden, or so I'm told. Supposedly they have spikes on the inside - which must have been terribly uncomfortable.
I kept the boy well, Mama
I slipped food through a hole into the so-called "Iron Maiden" and let him listen to the radio occasionally. And sometimes I let him listen to that soothing voice, that enchants me. I did look for his parents, but I could not find them, Mama. And then three weeks later - oh Mama! - I came home to find policemen and women at my house. I would, perhaps, not have been so shocked if there were a few policeman, but as soon as I saw the policewomen, I knew something serious was going on.
And that, Mama, is why I'm now writing this letter. I'm in a terribly cold, awful prison cell. Oh, it's so cold, here - I think my fingers may drop off. And that, Mama, is why I shall be appearing in court. As you can see, it was all one big misunderstanding, and I will have to explain this all to the judge. Maybe I can have a private word with him, before hand?
With the deepest of deep love, Your darling boy, The one with the blue eyes!
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