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To my beloved readers: today I bring you a more popular tale, plucked for once not from these hallowed halls, but instead from the nation of my birth, but I caution you. Its contents are at best depraved and not for the faint of heart.
There was once upon a time a Doctor of impeccable reputation, thought of so highly throughout the provinces that one might have thought him a worker of miracles rather than the purveyor of simple modern medicine. At the aged thirty-eight, to match his seeming disposition, God saw fit to bless him with remarkably handsome features befitting a man ten years his junior, a commanding height, and an enviably regal bearing for a man born without blue in his veins. Strangers thought him kind, his contemporaries thought him shrewd and capable, and monarchs thought him the best that money could buy, naturally.
It is only natural, however, that if one is to truly know the character of a man, then the only person to consult is his wife, and if anyone had known that such a role had been filled, perhaps the fate of his secret bride would not have been so very terrible.
(Fake-Cut to a story)
(ooc: Someday I'll write a full chapter again! A lot of what can be read, here, is the usual De Sade fare, overly purply porn, but this leans more toward his more fucked up tales like Justine and the 120 Days. What unfolds can be described best as a lurid retelling of the famous Bluebeard fairy tale of old, with elements of his old writings in terms of style, but more polished. He still has a tendency to describe certain acts, events, and body parts with such ridiculous metaphors that it takes away from some of the seriousness of what's written. The intent, here, is a horror story, not a tale of titillation, but old dogs -- they learn new tricks slowly.)
There was once upon a time a Doctor of impeccable reputation, thought of so highly throughout the provinces that one might have thought him a worker of miracles rather than the purveyor of simple modern medicine. At the aged thirty-eight, to match his seeming disposition, God saw fit to bless him with remarkably handsome features befitting a man ten years his junior, a commanding height, and an enviably regal bearing for a man born without blue in his veins. Strangers thought him kind, his contemporaries thought him shrewd and capable, and monarchs thought him the best that money could buy, naturally.
It is only natural, however, that if one is to truly know the character of a man, then the only person to consult is his wife, and if anyone had known that such a role had been filled, perhaps the fate of his secret bride would not have been so very terrible.
(Fake-Cut to a story)
(ooc: Someday I'll write a full chapter again! A lot of what can be read, here, is the usual De Sade fare, overly purply porn, but this leans more toward his more fucked up tales like Justine and the 120 Days. What unfolds can be described best as a lurid retelling of the famous Bluebeard fairy tale of old, with elements of his old writings in terms of style, but more polished. He still has a tendency to describe certain acts, events, and body parts with such ridiculous metaphors that it takes away from some of the seriousness of what's written. The intent, here, is a horror story, not a tale of titillation, but old dogs -- they learn new tricks slowly.)
