Why did the customers want so many adult novels?
Owen felt a bit embarrassed about it.
Ever since he bought 'A Strange Journey in Dreams' the first time, he had managed to convince his brother to ignore it and had immersed himself in its pages in the privacy of his room. However, when his brother returned home, he immediately discovered Owen's little secret and unceremoniously confiscated the book. The worst part? He had only read the beginning!
After the book was taken away, Owen had no choice but to return to the bookstore and buy another copy. Heaven knew how long he had waited to read the rest of the story — Herrman's printing press wasn't exactly efficient. In the past, adult books only sold a few dozen to a hundred copies, which was already considered good, since everyone had different tastes. Some liked these kinds of stories, others preferred different scenarios. But 'A Strange Journey in Dreams' had already sold over a thousand copies. If you added in the rural and overseas sales, it was possible that it had reached ten thousand.
Yet Herrman didn't blindly expand his press just because of this one bestseller. Though he did buy a few more printing machines, he kept the budget within reasonable limits. After all, if 'A Strange Journey in Dreams' sold out, those extra machines would become wasted resources.
As a result, the supply of the book never met the demand. Owen had purchased his first copy right on the spot. But after it was confiscated, it took him over two weeks to finally get another one.
Damn it, those two weeks were torturous. So when he heard the second half was about to be released, he didn't hesitate to queue up at the bookstore again — this time, he was going to buy ten copies!
Of course, not all for himself. One was in case his brother confiscated it again, one to hide and savor slowly, and the remaining eight were for his friends. The book was so popular that he could easily resell the extras — maybe even at a markup.
And since he had enough pocket money, buying ten novels was well within his budget.
However, the bookstore owner Joseph didn't agree. The supply was limited — if Owen bought ten, that meant nine other customers would leave empty-handed. What's more, if people started reselling the book for a profit, they might make more than the bookstore itself. That, Joseph absolutely would not allow.
So, he firmly told Owen he could only reserve two copies — and only for one day. After organizing his own store's reservation list, Joseph hurried off to report the situation to Herrman.
Herrman took the matter seriously. He immediately dispatched messengers to inform all bookstore managers that each customer could only reserve two copies.
Of course, some might try to game the system — reserving two copies at every bookstore. The total haul could still be significant. But there was nothing they could do about that. Each store owner only recognized their own regulars; they couldn't identify customers from other shops. And with no form of national ID system, there was no reliable way to track buyers.
Yes — at that time, there were no IDs. People had only their birth certificates to prove their identity, which, while similar to a household register in terms of information, lacked photos and were too formal to carry around casually. No one would use a birth certificate just to buy a book — that was absurd and impractical.
So Owen could only reserve two copies. He thought about reserving at other stores, but the one-day pickup limit deterred him. Holiwell Street wasn't far, but visiting too often would definitely raise his brother's suspicions.
As for his friends…
"So go and reserve your own copies," Owen told his friends one day as they gathered in a tavern like usual to enjoy a bit of leisure. The tavern was crowded and smoky — a typical social spot for young people like them. "If you don't hurry, you'll have to wait forever again."
"Is it really the second part? The official second part?" one friend asked curiously. "Last time I went, they said it wasn't out yet, but they were selling other people's sequels. I bought a few, they were okay."
"It's true," Owen nodded firmly. "The bookstore owner told me himself — the manuscript's already at the press."
"Then it'll probably take another week or two," his friend sighed. "And only held for a day? Are we supposed to keep checking every day?"
Owen couldn't have his home address tied to Holiwell Street, and if he wanted to get the book the moment it arrived, he'd have to check daily. "Maybe I could ask my servant to stop by on his way out, but if he goes every day, my brother will get suspicious."
Ugh, all this just to read a book.
"Maybe you can hire a runner," a friend suggested. "As soon as new stock comes in, he can tell you right away."
That wasn't a bad idea — quick, efficient, and not too costly.
"I've been hearing you guys talk about this book forever," said another friend who rarely joined in on these adult topics. "What makes it so good that you're all so obsessed?"
Though Owen constantly praised the book, he never brought it to public places or shared it with his friends. If someone else discovered it, it wouldn't just be embarrassing for him — his whole family could be shamed. So whenever someone asked, he'd just suggest they buy a copy themselves. "It's really good. If you're curious, buy one and read it."
The friend shook his head and sighed. "My father isn't as lenient as your brother — he doesn't just confiscate books, he uses the whip."
Owen shrugged — there was nothing he could do. He wasn't about to risk his own hide by lending it out.
After a long and anxious week, the runner finally brought word that the bookstore had new stock. Owen rushed over — it was crowded, and the current reservations were already booked out a month in advance — and brought the books home. While the house was empty, he carried two wooden boxes up to his room, carefully hid one, and opened the other.
Inside was the same beautiful cover and dust jacket — identical in design to the first part, even the title was unchanged. At first glance, it looked like the same book. Owen hesitated. Did he buy the second half?
Nervously, he flipped past the blank front pages, and saw unfamiliar words — this was definitely new content. No doubt, it was the second part. The publisher probably designed the two volumes to look identical on purpose, to avoid public scrutiny. After all, if the covers looked the same, who would guess the contents were so different?
"This is like a game of wits," Owen murmured. "Publishing a book isn't easy."
He took a deep breath, reverently, and began to read.
It was just as good as ever. He had tried some of the other unauthorized sequels, but none gave him that same thrilling sensation. After thinking about it, he realized it wasn't just the vivid sensual descriptions — it was the unique atmosphere the book created that drew him in.
It was hard to describe — perhaps it was the teasing, a finger grazing across a chest, a firm hand gripping the curve of a hip, or soft, scattered kisses. The whole story was charged with tension, as if a single spark could ignite a roaring fire.
And the male characters! 'A Strange Journey in Dreams' really pushed the boundaries — from unrelated noblemen, neighbors, the husband's colleagues, to a friend's brother, a childhood sweetheart who became a carpenter, and even the sister's husband. The limits were being lowered step by step — any lower and Owen couldn't imagine what might happen next.
"That's enough, that's already too much," Owen thought, his heart racing. He felt like he was dancing on the edge of morality. It wasn't that he feared this book would corrupt his worldview — that was already well-formed — but rather that, after reading something this exciting, could he even enjoy other stories anymore?
Still, he had to admit — the thrill of crossing boundaries was intoxicating. He especially savored the interactions between the lady and her friend's older brother. This character's personality was quite similar to Owen's own, making the emotional entanglements feel even more immersive. As he read, he couldn't help but fantasize.
Ah, if it were me— well, no, I don't have that kind of courage. But thinking about it isn't a crime, right? There's nothing wrong with imagining, is there?
When he got to the part with the sister's husband, his last bit of conscience kicked in, and he skipped over it. Although he had read plenty of adult novels, this plotline was still a bit too much for him. But he believed that moral boundaries could always be lowered — he just needed some time.
He turned to the part featuring the carpenter. Unlike the refined, courteous, gentlemanly image that society now favored, the carpenter was strong, brawny, muscular, even a bit rough.
But once he got going, with his wild, powerful, sweeping moves, and those unusual positions that gave the lady such novel pleasures — Owen's heart started racing again. He couldn't help but imagine the scenes vividly.
"This is… way too bold," he muttered, hastily closing the book. His face was burning. He even rolled up his sleeves to check his own muscles.
Compared to the carpenter in the book, he was severely lacking. That was a little disappointing. Still, he was deeply intrigued by the fresh and imaginative descriptions. If it were him… he probably didn't have the strength or stamina for such advanced positions.
"This author really knows a lot," he murmured in awe. "He must be a very strong man himself."