Chapter 348
Chapter 348
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Translator: Ebonarch
Chapter: 348
Chapter Title: The Witch's Erotic Novel
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Diana began reading volume 3 of Demonic Deliveryman.
Skimming it from front to back made it blatantly obvious that the author was her mother.
The elegant handwriting was a dead giveaway, not to mention the ink and quill sitting right there on the table.
Chapter 1.
Crime and Punishment.
The witch in love had transformed into something even more beautiful.
Her ash-gray hair, once mocked as drab and ashy, now gleamed with luster like a wolf's pelt, while her seductive lips and dreamy eyes were enough to make every witch on the street turn and stare.
Right from the opening pages.
At first, she assumed it was just one of those so-called romance novels.
You know, like The Sorrows of Young Werther, or tales of star-crossed love between men and women, such as The Red and the Black.
"Her hair is gray..."
And considering the protagonist witch's most prominent feature was described as that very gray hair...
It seemed like her mother, Countess Lucy, had projected herself into the story.
Still, Diana could forgive that with her usual magnanimity.
The early parts were nothing special.
About three or four pages describing how an ordinary but handsome milk delivery boy had captured the witch's heart, much like in volumes 1 and 2.
And from the context, it looked like the witch had been rejected by this delivery boy.
There was even a scene of her sighing on a moonlit second-floor terrace as she thought of his face.
'Ah, why won't you meet with me? You cruel man. This loneliness is thicker than the midnight darkness, sharper than a thousand blades of sorrow...'
"...A witch gets rejected?"
She knew it was unrealistic, but chalked it up to contrived drama for the sake of the story.
Just like those theatrical lines that no one would ever say in real life.
It wasn't much so far, but if she had to give a quick verdict...
"Hmm..."
It was intriguing.
Books deemed "refined reading"—the kind Countess Lucy allowed in the central library—never contained anything like this.
Even when they vaguely touched on relations between men and women, it was always brushed over with ambiguous euphemisms.
By contrast, this book felt like an unknown world she had never glimpsed before.
Or maybe like some cheap, addictive savoriness that clung to the tongue?
Like the worldly snacks her mother occasionally bought her, delivering that primal tingle of stimulation.
She still had plenty of time before the countess returned, so Diana settled into the chair, planting herself firmly.
After much agonizing deliberation, the witch sought out the delivery boy. His cold voice and mocking tone stung her ears.
'Didn't you swear you'd never seek me out again?'
'I did.'
'Didn't you say you despised those who break their promises?'
'I did say that.'
'Then why have you come here? Were your promises to humans lighter than those to witches?'
"Aha..."
It seemed the witch had first declared she'd never see the man again, out of some grievance.
Yet she'd secretly hoped he'd come back anyway, and when she couldn't stand it any longer, she'd gone to him.
Fine up to here.
She could easily infer the plot without volumes 1 or 2.
From there, the witch and delivery boy traded barbs.
'Lies are a grave sin. One that can't be forgiven just because those beautiful lips formed them.'
'I know. That's why I've come here, prepared to accept any punishment.'
Shame colored the witch's face.
The embarrassment and humiliation of a noble witch debasing herself before a lowly man, yet mingled with even greater anticipation.
Her gaze dropped, unable to meet his eyes, before she finally spoke.
'What punishment awaits me?'
'It seems like you came expecting one.'
'I would never.'
'Lying again?'
'......'
"Punishment?"
Diana's head tilted in confusion.
She'd followed along smoothly until now, but suddenly felt utterly lost.
The man punishing the witch?
Absurd enough on its own.
But the witch was waiting for it, and couldn't even deny it?
Understanding was starting to slip away.
"A spanking? Or maybe a walk?"
As she read on in the fluid prose, barely thinking, Diana suddenly hit a pothole that jolted her.
Her eyes flicked side to side.
The delivery boy demanded a kiss from the witch.
On her knees before his healthy male form, her cheeks flushed with lust, she offered her lips—a plea as desperate as begging.
Kiss.
The intimate act between man and woman that had kept Diana up nights lately.
But nothing could match that first shock.
She'd replayed that scene endlessly, convincing herself she'd grown enough that a mere written description of a kiss wouldn't faze her.
But this was no ordinary kiss.
The witch!
On her knees!
Before the man!
Begging for a kiss!
A faint twitch at the corners of Diana's eyes was only natural.
This was seditious filth that tarnished a witch's honor and dignity.
If it weren't her mother's work, she'd demand it be brought before the coven assembly, buried, and burned.
"......"
'You're craving a kiss before even taking your punishment.'
'I was remembering the nights in your arms, our lips meeting.'
'Not me. I haven't thought of you at all.'
'How could you...'
"That impudent bastard..."
Shock and revulsion washed over her.
Yet like a viewer hooked on a trashy drama, Diana turned the page to see how far it went.
And moments later.
If the kiss demand was a speed bump, what came next hit like a massive crater.
The kneeling witch rose gracefully.
Then, like shedding a husk, she cast off the garments wrapping her noble flesh.
With each soft fabric piling on the dirty floor, she reverted to her primordial form.
Her breasts, swollen plump like fruit in season, seemed made for a man's grasp...
-Thud!
Diana slammed the book shut as if she'd glimpsed a forbidden grimoire.
"O-o-o, off with the c-cl-clothes..."
A truth utterly unforeseen and unimaginable.
It struck her like the legendary fruit granting knowledge of good and evil.
Not content with kneeling and begging for a kiss before a man—she stripped naked.
"Th-this... this should never, ever happen! No way!"
No one around to see, yet Diana fumed alone, fists clenched tight, grinding her teeth.
She simply couldn't believe it.
Was this really written by her mother?
The noble, unflappable mother who only ever acted foolish around Diana—authoring such depraved smut?
Not just reading it, but writing it herself?
"......"
But even as she frothed with outrage, Diana's gaze drifted back to the crimson leather cover.
Her breath came short.
Disgust roiled inside.
Yet a strange curiosity kept poking at her mind.
So what was the punishment? it nagged endlessly.
"Ahem..."
A fierce clash between revulsion and curiosity.
Curiosity won out.
Diana glanced around furtively, then reopened the book as cautiously as if handling explosives.
Vulgar, explicit depictions of the female form paraded by in sensual prose.
Forcing them down, she finally reached the true nature of the delivery boy's "punishment."
The countess lay bound on the bed, hands restrained like a pinned butterfly, gazing pleadingly at the delivery boy.
Pleading, servile, debased eyes.
The pathetic sight of herself, led by the yoke of love, amplified her misery.
Paradoxically, it brought the sweet thrill of taboo.
Her shy, blush-pink nipples like crabapple blossoms.
Not even touched by breath, yet hardened in shamelessness, gently stroked by the soft tip of a quill.
Diana tore her eyes from the page for a moment.
"What in the world..."
The delivery boy's punishment wasn't as filthy as she'd feared.
Not compared to the witch suddenly going naked, anyway.
He'd bound the naked witch to the bed.
Then tickled her all over with the feather of a quill.
Imagining the scene briefly, it was... something she couldn't quite put into words.
"...Guess I need to read more to know."
Feeling heat rising to her head, Diana dove back in.
The feather teasing every inch of the witch's body—even the most intimate secrets no one but herself should touch.
'I can't take it anymore. Hold me... please, I beg you...'
'The punishment isn't over yet.'
'Please... ravish me roughly. I can't stand it... it's too much...'
"......"
For the first time, something she could relate to.
Tickling the body with a feather would surely be torturous enough to make one gasp for air.
Of course, Diana had no intention of letting anyone try it on her.
After that, it was mostly straightforward.
The tickled spots got sticky descriptions, and there were bits like "the witch let out lewd moans," but otherwise, it ended with the tickle torment.
The witch's trembling form soon glistened with sweat like night dew.
Her hot exhales carried a sweet, tropical fragrance, and even the lightest brush of the feather now felt like deep caresses, her body ablaze.
'My lady witch, you're soaking wet.'
'Don't say that.'
'Does this feather feel that good?'
'Ah... ah... ah...'
The delivery boy flicked the feather's tip like a knife across her most sensitive nub.
The witch arched wildly, moaning like a beast in heat.
Her thighs, drenched from mere grazes, reeked of base female musk.
"......"
What started as trite romance escalated exponentially in intensity.
Sentences Diana couldn't parse began appearing more frequently.
But.
She might not grasp it all, but she could tell for sure.
This novel was truly, utterly, profoundly obscene.
Just picturing the scenes from the words made her chest tighten and breath hitch with raw explicitness.
Soon, the delivery boy stripped and climbed onto the bed.
A male nude she'd never seen in person was depicted in detail.
Muscles etched from hard labor, taut bronze skin utterly unlike a woman's softness.
But the most shocking was the description of his manhood.
A rigid spear of flesh thrust upward.
Its round head as big as a child's fist, veins bulging, standing unyieldingly erect, pressing firmly against the witch's lower belly.
'Is this what you want?'
'Yes, I want your cock...'
'Be more direct.'
'Your prick... that hot, hard shaft of ecstasy... I crave it deep in my soul...'
Diana devoured every word with bloodshot eyes, forgetting to breathe—until the final line.
'Now I'll put it in.'
The man's cock.
Inserting into the woman's.
"Ugh...!"
Diana recoiled as if scalded by a hot cauldron, yanking her hands from the book.
She shook her head furiously side to side.
If Gehenna weren't a city of witches but ordinary Victorian England.
If Diana weren't a witch but a proper countess's daughter, she'd be of age to debut in society two or three years ago—maybe even engaged—with her looks and all.
But under Viscount Aesod's ironclad no-men upbringing, this stimulus was far too intense.
"Disgusting!!!!"
Diana snapped the book shut, returned everything to its place in a flash, and fled the countess's study like it was on fire.