5. <em>Meaningless Lewd Confessions</em> by Sad Zahermazo
The sudden emergence of the author who turned the literary world upside down always came with a big question mark.
—Is this writer actually any good at writing?
Of course, "good writing" can be judged by various standards.
Sentence structure, narrative flow, plot, realism, and so on.
By those metrics, Sad had one clear shortcoming.
Realism.
If magical realism was the foundation of imperial literature, no one would use that as a criterion.
But considering that literature was mostly for nobles who could read—things changed.
For them, books were just entertainment.
Snatched up to cool their heads amid the chaos of politics and administration.
At least Princess Charlene's obsession with literature kept it from being outright scorned…
The day she died, though, literature's status would plummet.
Naturally, most nobles didn't want deep thoughts from their books.
They just craved stories of people like them facing thrilling trials or achieving the successes they dreamed of.
That's where realism became the yardstick.
It always dragged Sad's evaluations down… until now.
This was all before the publication of Meaningless Lewd Confessions.
"So, what's the verdict?"
"Universal acclaim, Your Highness."
In the princess's chambers.
Charlene, who usually shoved books straight into her study even when maids brought them, had carried this one to her private quarters. She eyed her chamberlain.
"Skip the obvious. Why the acclaim?"
"They're all raving about the realism."
"……Realism?"
She hadn't cracked the book yet.
Even as Sad's biggest self-proclaimed fan—who'd sent an anonymous pussy stamp—Charlene fretted.
What if it has stuff I never imagined? Or worse, exactly what I did imagine?
Such worries kept her from opening it, even after returning to her room and climbing into bed.
"Sad isn't the type to get praise for that."
"You're right, Your Highness."
"Something like 'no writer sticks to the same style forever'?"
As a writer herself, Charlene knew.
Tell her to revisit the theme from her childhood poetry contest entry now, and it wouldn't come out the same.
Even fleeting experiences could reshape one's thoughts in an instant.
That White Knight and Juliet felt similar was the real anomaly…
Suddenly, worry gnawed at her.
Has something changed for Sad?
I need to read it right now.
Charlene steeled herself with a sliver of courage.
「It's a stormy night.
The young ladies at the salon can't make it home—the carriages can't even move.
"Just a downpour," one says.
Everyone nods. They have to believe it.
With only the coachman as male company, the all-female salon hangs in dull boredom…」
…No men?
A flicker of disappointment crossed Charlene's face.
Like her own perverted cravings, she'd hoped for a tale of a man fucking women like bitches.
Disappointed but curious, she turned the page.
「"…Bored? How about we share stories?"
The suggestion sparks thought. It doesn't last long.
In this idle time with nothing but tea and snacks, something's needed to kill it.
"I heard something," one ventures.
Eyes turn as the young ladies perk up from their small talk.
"They say on stormy nights, any words spoken get washed away by the rain."
Superstitions vary by region, so the ladies from afar just nod.
"So, how about we each share a secret?"
Not fully buying the myth, they plan to hear and forget.
"I'll start."
Amid the dismissal, the lady at the head of the round table speaks first.
"I love my little brother dearly."
Sounds like typical sibling affection—but
"Enough to run away where no one finds us and hold a wedding."
The salon freezes.
"What? It's a secret the rain will wash away, right?"
The shock leaves chaos. Could be bluff—but
"Don't believe me? I can go into detail."
For some reason, unable to endure the boredom, they lean in…」
Thud.
Charlene slammed the book shut, face sour.
Her chamberlain caught the weary look and bowed swiftly.
"…Tired."
"I'll withdraw."
No need for more words.
Already in nightclothes for bed, nothing left to prepare.
The chamberlain bowed low and slipped out.
"…."
Charlene watched with one narrowed eye, then—click—door shut, she transformed.
No trace of fatigue; fingers marked the page, flipping it open.
Me, little brother? Out of nowhere? Too heavy a topic to dive into!
The writing hooked her.
Knowing this was her Sad made her heart pound unbearably.
In public, she feigned disdain for Sad, aloofly rejecting vulgar trends…
But she'd anonymously published fanfic knockoffs of White Knight.
No one knew it was her—even Sad.
As a princess craving to be treated subhuman by him, that stung.
If only he'd blackmail her for "plagiarizing," forcing shameful acts.
Crushing her thoroughly like in his stories—she'd even penned a recommendation under her name…
But such petty ploys meant nothing against true Sad.
「…If you want proof, I'll prove it. Even if you say stamp it with my pussy… I can.」
…Pussy stamp? He got my letter!
Clutching her pillow, Charlene savored fan triumph.
Hand drifted to her unknowingly soaked pussy…
Squelch.
She dove fully into the book.
…Whispers of soaked panties and sheets that night stayed among the laundering maids.
In a rural barony's lord's office, far from the capital.
A woman's hand trembled, unfit for the title.
「…Even as my little brother, he was still a man.
Those thick, heavy hands pressing my lower belly…
"I'll make your womb remember pleasure," he said. So romantic.
Remembering it now… hnng…」
Yuli's hand shook violently.
Clutching Meaningless Lewd Confessions, penned by her brother.
"That crazy bastard…"
She'd never not cursed his every move.
This topped it.
Not naming names, but broadcasting their private secret?
What if someone sniffed out real incest?
Forget that—why spill her weakness: the uterus?
Exposing her pathetic pussy that squirts from a mere womb touch…
…She imagined the scolding, but couldn't say it to his face.
"Crazy bastard, really…"
If only she could see him.
She wouldn't say it.
Never dreamed her "dead" brother from the capital lived—let alone bared it.
Trembling hands set the book down, cupped her damp face.
"If you're alive… send a letter, not this…"
She sobbed quietly, shoulders heaving just enough to tell.
Pure creation in writing? Impossible.
Even Shakespeare based King Lear on English folklore.
Content differentiates, but sources show.
Mine? The Decameron.
Plague isolates folks; ten days of king game and tales, some lewd… roughly.
Salon stories helped, but starting from scratch? Tough.
I never aimed to rival it.
Made it more erotic tales, blending salon secrets.
Not chasing timeless classics—what's the harm?
Just make bank.
"Fun?"
"Hnng—w-what?"
"You've been glued to that book."
"……."
Nearly a month at the Montre mansion.
Lots happened… nah, mostly fucking.
Easier tallying non-Kiara-sex days.
Engagements rarely break; we're basically married.
Hearts opened recently—honeymooners.
Least that's my take. Kiara?
Maybe not.
She's buried in a book—in her fiancé's bed, between his legs, back-hugged.
"…Can't help it."
"Why?"
"Book club, duh…? Even if it's weird now, reading and chatting's the same. And this ain't just any book."
Fair—my work twisted the club rotten.
Why the jealousy, though?
Me, jealous of myself? Hilarious.
Just confess? I'm the author.
…But salon-to-book screams lazy; she'd be bummed.
Sis stuff? Old news, our secret—fine.
But Kiara hearing her intimate confessions printed? Irritation incoming.
Hypocrite? Sue me—prime material.
"…What kinda life does this author live?"
"Huh?"
"Every book feels… off. Like they've lived it."
"……."
"Incest, girl-on-girl, affairs… Hard to fake that."
"…Yeah."
"So maybe they saw it all?"
Saw it, yeah. Mostly pics, but sure.
"Weirdest part?"
Kiara spread the book, showing me over her shoulder.
Dense text one side; opposite, massive illustration.
Familiar style to me.
"Quiliar lady's art, right?"
"Looks like."
"How's a writer buddy her?"
"Dunno…."
Half-month memory: requested illustrations for finale; Opheli whipped 'em fast.
Best artist alive.
If only sans courtship letters between pics.
Had to sneak-burn 'em from Kiara.
Thud.
Kiara shut it, staring hard.
"Adrian. Know what?"
"What?"
Hugging tighter from behind, closing the gap—skin to skin.
"This guy's shaking literature hard."
"Yeah?"
"Imitations flooding already."
"…Week old."
"Dunno. Writing quick?"
Nope.
I slaved a fortnight—sans nightly sex.
"So, uh… book club, hnng—maybe other books too… ahh, Adriaaan…."
I nuzzled her neck to drown it.
Other books? Petty spite.
She kept talking; eyed the nightstand stack.
"…Some Lewd Confessions Washed Away by Rain?"
Grabbed one casually—title's a riot.
Plagiarize decently, at least. Not screaming "I copied Sad!"
Plain cover: no ills, probably…
……?
Familiar band crumpled my face.
Why's this bitch princess obsessed with me?
"Adrian? What's up?"
"…Nothing."
Tch.
Moping hurts me.
"Worried—kyaa?! Armpit there…!"
To melt my brain in her scent, I buried my nose everywhere, inhaling deep.