Absinthe POD Print

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By Tony-Paul de Vissage

Absinthe…the drink they call the Green Fairy…addictive and deadly, destroying sanity.

Absinthe…a beautiful young man, as seductive and habit-forming as the liqueur for which he’s named…amoral and beguiling, once he’s tasted, he can never be forgotten.

A marquis’ son raised in a New Orleans whorehouse, ripped from his lover’s arms and thrust into the world of French nobility, Absinthe strives to be what his father wishes. He may escape his past but his voodoo teachings follow him, causing death and madness to those he loves.

Cursed before he was conceived, born noble, forced into debauchery, then rescued by a father’s love…but is he really free?

Absinthe…behold, a beautiful monster.

Gay Historical Erotica

Sensuality rating: 5

Cover Art by Bev Haynes

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Price:
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Description

Prologue

Nouvelle France

Port Bayou St. Jean, Louisiana

May 24, 1704

 “You bastard. How dare you even think of abandoning me in this uncivilized place? I rue the day I married you.”

The coffeepot barely missed the Marquis Delafée’s dark head as it crashed against the door. Splintered bits of china embedded themselves in the mellow oak as streams of dark liquid trickled down the polished surface, soaking into the carpet’s thick nap.

“As do I, Madame,” was his rigid reply. Mon Dieu, if I don’t get out of here, I may kill the bitch! “If there’s anything I regret more, it’s the fact your father wasn’t prevented from dipping his quill into your mother’s inkpot and creating you in the first place. I swear the world would be a better place if that had never happened, and I a much happier man.”

“That’s right, revile me,” she spat at him. “Now that you’ve spent my dowry on your mulâtre sluts and your debauches, I’m no use to you, so you plan to leave me here, go on your merry way and just forget me.”

“I assure you, my dear wife, sailing across an ocean has nothing merry about it,” he informed her. “As for my pleasures…they may be sluts but anyone would be welcome after spending a night plumbing your ice-filled cunt.” He was just as vicious in his reply, though frighteningly restrained, the words bitten off with precision. “You needn’t worry about your dowry. It’s unspent and I shall leave it for you. You’ll need it for the upkeep of the plantation as well your own welfare. After all, I wouldn’t want anyone saying I left you to starve.”

That stopped her verbal assault. For a moment, a very long moment, in which the two long-term combatants stood staring at each other.

Étienne-Phillipe Armand David Vaurien and his wife had been wed for seven years, and as far as His Lordship was concerned, that was seven years too many. They’d been amiable for approximately the two hours of the wedding ritual and the length of time it took to arrive at their wedding chamber. From the moment the door shut until now, they had been in mortal combat, mostly verbal, sometimes physical, as the smashed coffeepot proved. Now, at last, Étienne’d had enough.

The letter he received three weeks before had set him free.

He was sailing on the morning tide back to France, having decided to quit both his wife and the hardly-civilized country in which he’d been forced to live since his father exiled him to Port Bayou St. Jean, just as he also forced him to marry this harridan who’d made his life a living hell since the age of nineteen. The Marquis’ excuse was that he needed someone to oversee his sugar cane plantation and no one but his son and heir would do. His real reason was the Vicomte Mauvais’ excesses, those vain attempts to escape his unhappy home life, were beginning to reach the Regent’s ears.

 

 

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