Speaker 1: Welcome back, my sexy, sweethearts to another lesson in the
art of writing erotica. You're in luck. This is not
merely an episode. This is scripture. Tonight we slip into
episode twenty one. Nice number, old enough to drink, young
enough to blush our topic twenty one rules of erotica.
Follow them and your words will make hearts race, thighs
pressed together, and breaths catch. Ignore them and your readers
will close the book unsatisfied. And we can't have that,
can we? Now? I give you not suggestions, but rules
twenty one commandments of heat. Ink them into your body,
stroke them into your sheets, Break them if you dare,
but first learn them. Rule one. Begin with hunger. Every
erotic tale starts with desire. If your characters don't ache,
neither will your readers. Her fork never touched the food
under the table, Her thighs pressed tight, pulse racing at
the sound of his laugh. Rule two. Delay is divine.
Rushing is the death of arousal tease, stretch, let them wait.
His lips hovered an inch from hers. She leaned in desperate.
He smiled and pulled away. Rule three. Every caress must
change the story. Each touch must shift the balance of power,
love or risk. When his fingers brushed hers at the office,
she didn't just tremble. She realized the line between them
had vanished forever. Rule four Consent is queen. Yes is sexy,
even in taboo games. Trust is the fire. Say the
word and I'll stop, He whispered, rope dangling. She smirked,
don't you dare. Rule five, Pain without pleasure is just cruelty.
The sting must shimmer with sweetness. Her gasp, but the
sharp slap melted into a moan when his lips soothed
the mark. Rule six, emotion makes the flesh electric. Skin
is only skin until feeling spark through through it. He'd
kissed a girl once before, sloppy and forgettable. But when
Professor Lane pressed her mouth to his in that empty office,
it felt like his chest might explode. Her lipstick smeared
against his lips, her hand cupped his jaw like she
was claiming him, And suddenly it wasn't just kissing. It
was forbidden, impossible, dangerous. His whole body jolted, not because
of her tongue, but because she was her, His professor,
the one who lectured on Milton by day and now
had him hard and desperate in her office chair. Every
nerve burned with the secret, with the wrongness, with the
hunger he'd never felt until now. That was what made
her touch electric. Rule seven. Variety is the spice of
the scene. Shift, pace, rhythm, tech, mixture, surprise keeps desire alive.
He kissed her, slow as a man, lips, soft tongue, teasing, careful,
like he thought she might break. But when the shift
rippled through him, his body snapped larger, hotter, harder. His
growl vibrated against her throat as his teeth grazed her skin,
and suddenly the tenderness was gone, replaced with wild urgency.
She gasped, half in fear, half in need, clutching at
his shoulders as he pinned her to the floor. One
moment sweet surrender, the next claws and hunger. She never
knew which she craved more, the man or the beast,
and that unpredictability was what left her begging for both.
Rule eight right the ache, not just the release. Denial
is foreplaythed beneath him, begging. He traced her skin with
a feather, never giving what she needed. Rule nine. Power
is the pulse, control and surrender are the heartbeat of erotica.
She gripped his wrists, pinning him down. For once, he
was the one begging. Rule ten. Bodies are experiences, not maps.
Don't chart anatomy like a textbook. Show what happens when
it's touched, teased, or pushed. The gasp, the shiver, the
claw of fingers and sheets. Sex isn't a diagram of parts.
It's a chain reaction. She guided his hand lower over
the soft heat between her thighs. He froze, mind racing
with where exactly to put his fingers, But she shook
her head. Stop thinking about where, she whispered, Think about
how it makes me feel. She pressed his fingertips against
her clit, rolling slow, and her sharp inhale told him
more than any manual ever could. He forgot the diagram
in his head and learned her instead. Rule eleven. Silence
is as sexy as sound. A hush can scream louder
than moans. She bit her lip, stifling a cry. The
silence between them pulsed hotter than any shout. Rule twelve.
Desire is never clean. Let it be messy, raw alive.
Their bodies slapped together, loud and shameless, sweat dripping down
her spine as she clung to him. His teeth left
marks on her shoulder. Her nails carved lines into his back.
The sheets were already shoved to the floor, the bed creaking,
the air thick with the smell of sex. She was
crying out nonsense words spit on her lips, Hair tangled
across her face, and he loved her like that, wild
and wrecked desire. Isn't neat, It's soaked, scratched, tangled, dripping.
Write it like the chaos it is. Rule thirteen world building,
his foreplay, the setting flavors, the seduction. The booth sealed
with a hiss, neon lights flickering as the vr rig
sinked to his pulse. In an instant, she appeared not
a pre recorded fantasy, but a living avatar, reading his
every thought. Her skin shimmered with programmable tattoos that pulsed
when he touched them. Her moans tailored to the rhythm
of his heartbeat. When she straddled him, the seat beneath
his body shifted pressure, heat, even scent, leather, sweat ozone outside.
A dozen other booths glowed, strangers moaning through thin walls.
But inside this capsule she was his alone, coded to
his every desire. In erotica, the world isn't backdrop. It's
a second partner, bending every rule of reality to heighten
the seduction. Rule fourteen, less can be more. Sometimes one
word is hotter than pages of detail. Her breath was
hot against his ear, sucker. She whispered, mocking and sweet,
like she owned the word and him. He nearly came
undone from that alone. Rule fifteen. No two lovers are
the same, make them unique, quirks and all. One was thick,
slow and steady, stretching her so full she could barely breathe,
making her melt with every long, punishing thrust. The other
was slimmer, faster, sharp with need, the kind who made
her laugh between gasps as he devoured her in frantic rhythm.
She told herself she should choose, But why each one
gave her something the other could not, And so she
kept them both, one to fuck her brains out, the
other to leave her heart pounding. Rule sixteen. The climax
is not the end. Afterglow lingers, don't abandon It was
still echoing when she collapsed against him. Slick trembling. Her
nails etched into his shoulders. He was panting, sweat dripping
down his spine, but he didn't pull away, not yet.
Their bodies stayed locked, pulsing together, the heat between them
refusing to fade. She laughed, suddenly, breathless, delirious, and bit
his shoulder hard enough to make him groan again. Round two,
she whispered, dying for it, voice hoarse. He kissed her,
aggressive and desperate, tasting everything they'd just done. They were exhausted,
but the fire was still alive. In the aftershock. He
pressed his face to her neck, voice breaking as if
confessing a crime. Fuck, I think I love you. Rule
fantasies deserve respect. Every kink holds truth. Treat it as sacred,
he confessed his shameful craving. She didn't laugh. She leaned
close and said, show me Rule eighteen. Seduce the senses, invoke, taste, scent, sound, touch.
Her mouth opened against his neck, catching the salt of
sweat on her tongue. Leather from his belt pressed cool
against her hip, the smell of it sharp and intoxicating.
Sheets bunched under her fists, scratching across her skin as
his weight pinned her down. The slap of flesh, the
scrape of his breath against her ear, the sudden sting
of her nails dragging down his back. Every sense lit,
every nerve alight. Rule nineteen dialogue is foreplay. Words are
as intimate as touch. Say it, she demanded. He groaned,
resisting her, but finally giving in. He blurted it out
in a low, ashamed whisper, I need you. Rule twenty
Vulnerability is the ultimate strip tease. Naked souls are rarer
than naked skin. She trembled as he touched her. I've
never let anyone see me like this. Rule twenty one.
Break the damn rules. Yes, darlings, after all, this commandment,
this ceremony, this discipline. Remember, erotica thrives in transgression. Rule
rules are meant to be broken, bent, teased, toyed with.
These twenty one are invitations, not shackles. Learn them, Love them, then,
in the privacy of your pages, disobey them. He wasn't
supposed to be there, she wasn't supposed to want him.
But when the lock clicked shut, every rule shattered, and
there you are, my loves. Twenty one Rules to rite
desire that lingers long after the book is closed. But
remember rules are not shackles. They're lace, meant to be untied,
and the door opens only when you dare to turn
the lock. Now go and make them sweat and make
them beg for more. This is Vivia signing off with
a wink and a kiss. Stay naughty,