But to say that she was an author who knew less than twit about sexual tension because she had no experience, would be an gross understatement.
When he saw Vivian’s sullen expression, Thatcher realized that he had made a mistake and flinched a little with a worried expression. No matter how close they were as friends, currently, the other side was, philosophically, like a talisman that brought in an endless supply of money.
It would be troublesome if her feelings became bruised and decided to sign a contract with a different publishing company. It was no different than slitting the belly of a goose that laid golden eggs with the intent of giving Vivian some stimulation. He hurriedly added onto his previous words as if he tried to make up for lost ground.
“To be honest, I have no objection with publishing your manuscript as is. Even then, you’d still be the author that will receive the most attention within the Empire.”
The publishing company already expected Perdi’s new novel to be a hit. This was because they knew her popularity better than anyone else.
“However, just understand that an author who shows no growth would not be able to write for long. This is especially important since you’re going to continue writing as your job.”
These statements were true. As an author, who paved the road for a new genre and trend, it was dangerous for her to continue to stray into a deadend. If this continued, and the once popular erotic novels shrivelled away, she would be criticized for plagirizing her own plotlines.
“Just act adequately – adequately. I believe in you.”
Perdi was the talk of the town! The pioneer of an original, innovative trend! The Empire’s new hope in the literature market!
Vivian narrowed her eyes and leered at Thatcher who had started to fawn over and massage her shoulders. It seemed like it was time to toss a carrot after the whipping.
“Become a pervert?”
Of course, just because one was a pervert didn’t necessary imply they were bad people, but Vivian was the author of erotic novels who sold fantasies to the people. It was hard to embody a romantic male protagonist who didn’t exist in real life when she had no experience. She had no choice but to become a pervert.
As she drew an unusual expression on her face, Thatcher clicked his tongue and tsked as if she knew too little.
“I’m not talking about a real pervert who peeks at everyone and everything. I’m telling you to write about a man, who is disinterested and cold to all except the female protagonist, and his inner beast.”
“His inner beast…….”
“To speak like your novels, it’s to make your readers’ tongue pang with the scent of purity and innocence like lemon-flavored candy.”
At those words, Vivian pouted.
Vivian’s novels were based on how she wished to love if she could find the perfect lover.
Her ideal partner was gentle and loved ardently. A simple action – such as looking at each other’s faces – would bring about love in their eyes and a sweet smile on their faces. This love would be as ticklish as their first love.
“It has to burn hotter – brighter. As their gazes tangle, their tongues would as well. They would be numb with sensuality, as if today was the last day of their lives, and they wouldn’t care that others were watching them…….”
“Have sex that is.”
“……I’m not sure.”
Thatcher had asserted sex scenes like a preacher of sex.
“Erotic novels are childish in that they are only refreshing. It should feel more soft, wet, dirty, and sloppy. Like if sex started in the bedroom, it should continue in the bathroom, then the stairs and living room…….”
What was said afterwards were obscene stories and jokes too dirty to even listen to. Even the creator of erotic novels, Vivian, couldn’t help but question if Thather ‘was an animal or a human’.
She calmed down the raging bull and summarized their lengthy ramble about sex into a single sentence.
“In summary, the male protagonist is currently too clean and needs to be unsurpassed in carnal matters?”
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