Hustler Letters Novels & Stories

Dark hair, sharp jaw, eyes that stared straight into the camera like he was daring the world to blink first. I wrote a stupid letter: Hi, my name is Riley, I am a senior, I like books and coffee, how are you? He wrote back three pages—tight, angry handwriting that somehow still felt careful. Told me about growing up rough, about protecting his little sister, about how the system chews up men like him. Called me “little girl” at the end like it was natural. I wrote again. And again. The letters got longer. Dirtier. He asked what I wore to bed. I told him. He told me what he’d do if he was there. I sent pictures—nothing naked at first, just me in sundresses, biting my lip. Then more. Then ever

He said to himself. “Do you want to know what I have for you?” He asked her sleepy form, knowing she was not conscious to answer him. “I have these letters for you that I have written within your absence. These aren't not all of them. Just a few. Perhaps from two eighty-seven to be exact, these are just five of them, my most…honest writings I have ever carved out,” He told her sincerely but with slight hesitation. He fumbled through the envelopes while remembering those nights when he wrote them. Oh, those awful times.

Arthur moved to stand beside me, a solid wall of support. “Those letters were written by a coward, LJ,” I said, forcing my voice to stay steady. “A man who was too weak to be happy with the life he had chosen. He was telling her what she wanted to hear because he was afraid of her, and afraid of his own choices. It doesn’t make them the whole truth.”

He thought he got that nickname from not giving two fucks about people at work. The truth was, everyone knew. A fuck was just a fuck to Harmon. How many women had gotten an inconsequential after a night with him? I was one of them. Inconsequential. "Let's bounce," I said, tightening my hold on JR's waist. Fuck not being able to perform. I was Olivia Hunter. A born harlot. Tonight it was finally going to come in handy. Fuck Harmon and Billy's secret chats. I deserved to know who the fuck I let into my pussy two nights ago.

Hopping in, I flashed my last cash at the driver. “Malcolm hostel.” The drive felt like it stretched eternity, and by the time I arrived at the hostel, my body was already trembling. Louis was outside, typical omega, soft eyes, long lashes. A cigarette caught between his lips. “Where’s the letter?” I asked, before even reaching him. Snorting, Louis flicked ash from his cigarette. “John…he…he” He raked his hand through his hair, breath trembling with anger. “You know, just go and see what that bastard has done.”

A stack of yellowing letters scattered across the floor. I squatted down to pick them up. When I saw the familiar handwriting on the envelopes, I was thunderstruck, frozen in place. That was my handwriting. The recipient of every letter was addressed by the same code name—"Mr. Z." And the sender was "H." Those were the letters I sent through an anonymous pen pal club during high school to relieve the pressure of being the family heir. At that time, I poured all my confusion, pain, and longing for the future into letters to that mysterious "Mr. Z."

"Yes letters; at first we thought it must be misdelivered because they just contained a few words at times, some of them accusing me of cheating on my husband; it felt weird because I never did anything of such. I was barely out of the house, so how could I have cheated on him? It went on for years, and even the police could not do anything about it; the letters were untraceable, and they did not pose any risk or harm." Marie took a deep breath to pace herself; the story had been bubbling in her heart, ready to make its way out so others could judge rightly what had happened and see if she had done anything wrong. "I suggested we move, hoping that the letters would stop but even after moving

Nestling against his chest, Estelle thought for a while and said, “How about... Hunter?” “Hunter?” “The letter ‘H’ represents ‘home.’ The letter ‘U,’ ‘N,’ ‘T,’ and ‘E’ represents our children ‘and’ the letter ‘R’ represents ‘staying with me,’” Estelle suggested cheerfully. Hearing this, Cristofer smiled and said, “Mrs. Hans, are you hinting that you want me to go home early and spend more time with you every day?” “Yes. Besides, this name has only six letters. It’s easy to write,” Estelle beamed happily.

His hand was strong, proving that he was truly a mafia as described. I don't know why, but I began to breathe heavily. His eyes suddenly monitored my breasts which were slightly exposed as I had stoop low to wipe his face. I saw him gulped gently and continued staring into my bust. I wonder why he did that? Why is he staring at me lustfully? What is in his mind? Couldn't he just let me go? I made a gentle pull to get off his grip, however he tightened it. "You---Look" he paused and relented from saying anything further.

I pressed the eject button on my laptop and the screen went blank. I sat there for a few moments and only one word filled my head. Bastard! Gemma had obviously been set up and now her uncle was being blackmailed. I removed the letter from the envelope and was not surprised to find it had been typed in capitals, using the Times New Roman font. Standard Microsoft. Impossible to trace. HALF A MIILION - GAMEKEEPER’S HUT OXMARKET WOODS – SEVEN O’CLOCK – FRIDAY NIGHT