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The Devil's Kiss

On the outskirts of the small village, Fetterloc, there is said to be a wooden shed that acts as the gateway to a world of hedonistic pleasure. Unassuming, and seemingly abandoned, this dilapidated 5 x 5 ft. structure is believed to be the entrance to the otherworldly brothel known as 'The Devil's Kiss'. Although the shed has long stood, abandoned, on the outskirts of the farming steads, no one is sure when these stories began to arise. Initially only rumours and heresay, told with bitter breath and drunken slurs, more and more people began to speak of the wondrous things inside the simple shed. Believed by the sensible townsfolk to be the drunken hallucinations of desperate men, little attention was given to the stories.   More recently, however, the rumours have caught the attention of the local Madam. Believed to be the cause of her dwindling clientele, she has begun to collect information regarding the strange occurrences near the edge of the forest. Additionally, a rise in missing peoples cases has turned the attention of the local guard toward this strange structure as well. Impossible stories of wildest forms of satiation leak from the slats, no customer ever feeling anything short of existential bliss. Consistent to all accounts, other than the hedonistic satiation, is the mention of the owners of the establishment. Whenever questioned, customers talk of a gorgeous, dark-skinned man forever bare-chested and muscular. Eyes of liquid gold and a voice that could soothe the most savage beast. Beside him, an elegant, dark-skinned woman with lips like satin, eyes that stare into one's soul and a body-tight dress that will get a heathen to their knees.   Investigations of the shed have led to nought, with local guard finding nothing but an empty 5 x 5 ft. shed, rotting and moulding. Further lending to the belief that this is but a mass hallucination, shared through desperate thoughts and whispered fantasies. As yet, no one of repute has returned to tell a similar tale. Perhaps, no one ever will.
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