Zi Shou began filling in the content.
"A beauty of sixteen, her body soft as cream."
The moment he put brush to paper, Zi Shou felt that would not do.
It was too elegant, too literary.
Zi Shou could not gauge how tolerant people of this era would be toward a little porn.
For a long stretch of ancient history, literature had been remarkably permissive. The Eastern Han writer Zhang Heng had written the "Song of Shared Feelings," describing a couple's feelings on their wedding night from a woman's first-person perspective. Not only had it been wildly popular at the time, but later generations had also praised it highly, calling it "beautiful but not obscene," saying it "entrusted lofty sentiments to verse," and interpreting it as "an allegory for a subject's service to his sovereign."
As for that even more famous book, the less said, the better.
Zi Shou felt that if he made his writing too artistic, people might actually regard it as a highly refined pursuit. Even if it had no deeper meaning, they might imagine something extraordinary into it and scramble to imitate him. Even the parts that would get a 404 might be explained away as artistic necessities.
Judging by everything that had happened before, there was a very good chance it would all go to hell that way.
Zi Shou weighed his own literary abilities. He probably could not produce a masterpiece of refinement anyway, so he decided to dispense with elegance altogether and charge headlong into vulgarity. This absolutely could not be a story with vulgar bits; it had to be vulgarity with bits of story.
Zi Shou took a fresh sheet of paper and started again: "A Bin's was less than satisfactory."
He did not want anyone thinking his work was short and