Speaker 1: Welcome back, my shameless darlings, to another lesson of the
art of writing erotica. I'm your headmistress, Vivia, and tonight
we're turning the tables. For too long, women have been
the ones written as objects of lust, every curve exaggerated,
every glance consumed. But tonight we take that same hot,
hungry energy and aim it squarely at the men. We're
going to objectify them, worship their sex appeal, and strip
them down until they exist only for our pleasure. This
is the lesson I call objectifying men in erotica, turn
him into the sex object. Most erotica objectifies women. We
see endless descriptions of breasts, curves, legs, and how men
lust after them, but men rarely receive the same treatment.
To night, I'm flipping the lens. We're going to objectify men,
exaggerating their bodies, worshiping their sex appeal, and describing them
as lust objects rather than as stoic heroes. This isn't
about disrespect, this is about focus. To objectify a man
in erotica is to say his body is for my pleasure,
my gaze, my desire. So how do we do it?
How do we transform men? To objects of desire. In writing,
there are a few techniques to keep in mind. First,
we exaggerate the body parts. Women get legs longer than
a Netflix series, tits perkier than a cheerleader on espresso,
and pussy's tastier than taco tuesdays. Men deserve the same treatment,
but let's make it hot. Give them arms built to
cage you in, abs like armor, hard and unyielding, daring
you to bruise your palms against them, Shoulders broad enough
to carry you while they fuck you against the wall.
Buns so ripe you ache to sink your teeth in,
and cock so mouthwatering they feel like destiny when they
slide inside. This isn't the place to be subtle. Push
it until he stops being just a man and becomes
the altar of your desire. Next, we make him passive
and displayed. He doesn't do the looking, he is the
one being looked at. Pose him like a model, strip
him with your gaze, and put him under the lights.
And then we focus on texture and size, veins, sweat, thickness, hardness,
not just handsome but delicious, edible, built to be devoured. Next,
we worship his sex appeal. Treat him like a god,
a statue, an altar, make his body overwhelming, magnetic, irresistible.
And finally, we objectify his personality too. Don't stop at
the body, reduce him playfully into rolls, the cock, the toy,
the body you wanted to climb. Let's compare. Here's the
bad example, the ordinary description that does nothing for us.
He was tall, fit and attractive, with a smile that
promised he knew exactly what he was doing in bed.
Now here's the objectified version. He was a walking sin
shoulders broad as a doorway, arms thick with veins. I
wanted to trace with my tongue. His cock bulged in
his jeans like it was smuggling a weapon, begging me
to unload. He wasn't a man, he was a meal.
Now it's your turn to practice. I'll give you three
simple writing challenges. The first is reversing the male gaze.
Write three paragraphs describing a man as if you are
a camera moving up his body. Start at his shoes,
travel to his grind, pause there and linger, then climb
up to his chest, his lips, and his eyes. The
second his body part hyperbole. Choose one feature his arms
his cock or his chest, and exaggerate it until it
feels mythic. For example, his cock wasn't just hard, it
was an altar of heat, heavy throbbing, commanding worship. The
third is making him the ornament. Write a scene where
he is posed, maybe in bed against a wall or
naked in the shower, and describe him as if he
were art. He doesn't move, He exists only for your gaze.
Now let's build a framework for objectifying men. Think of
this as your catalog, your secret manual. For each kind
of man. I'll give you his archetypes, his tropes, and
one shameless way to objectify him in a single line
of heat. Let's start by exploring objectification through race and
see how different cultural archetypes can be exaggerated into raw
erotic fantasy. Let's start with Asian men, who carry precision, stealth,
and mastery in their very bodies. Their archetypes are the
sex ninja, the silent assassin, and the disciplined master. Their
tropes are martial, precision, controlled energy, and the shock of
sudden intensity. To objectify him, you might write, he was
a sex ninja, silent, lethal, perfect. Every thrust landed with
the precision of a blade, every flick of his tongue
a killing strike of pleasure. Now let's pivot away from
ninja stealth. Let's look at the k drama leading man,
the kinky, sex starved monga boy toy, and the polished
boyfriend who tries too hard to be perfect and then
ruins you in private. Their archetypes are the leading man,
the gentle strategist, and the idle boyfriend. Their tropes are
slow burn, confessions, immaculate presentation, protective umbrellas in the rain,
domestic competence, cup of noodles, clean sheets, meticulous aftercare, manga,
bright eyes that turned feral at the kiss, and pleasure
choreography that feels practiced, precise, and over the top orgasmic.
To objectify him, you might write, he apologized as he
kissed me with his hands trembling like a confession scene,
then fucked me with the practiced choreography of a man
who had studied my body like a favorite graphic porn novel.
Or let's go sweeter to filthy. He cooked, he cleaned,
he carried my bags, and then he carried me to bed,
where that perfect boyfriend smile snapped into predator and his
cock wrote the finale across my skin next white American men.
When we talk about white men in fantasy, we often
begin with Americana. The cowboy riding across the plains, the
farm hand with sweat dripping down his chest, the rock
and roll rebel howling from the stage, or the surfer
golden boy striding out of the ocean. They're painted as rugged, independent,
and larger than life. In erotica, we heighten those tropes
until they become pure sex appeal. Denims stretch tight across
ripe buns, cocks that rise like flags on the Fourth
of July, and swagger that smells of leather, smoke and gasoline.
Their Americana archetypes are the cowboy god, the all American
farm hand, the rock and roll rebel, and the surfer
dream boy. Their tropes are rustic heat, blue collar grit,
golden boy charm, and a bad boy streak of rebellion.
To objectify him, you might write, white boycock is fast
food one motion, and I could whip that wiener out
of his greasy denim and devour it like a guilty
drive through meal. However, the so called classic white man
often walks in with an assumed command, the kind of
presence that makes people clear a path without him even asking.
In fantasy, we exaggerate that presence into an intoxicating mix
of fear and respect. Here his archetypes shift to the
sheriff of the room, the legacy ceo, the quiet captain,
the granite rancher, and the prep king. His tropes are
unflinching eye contact, born in authority, the boots that track
in dust and dominance, the key card that opens every door,
and a calm don't bluff me energy that turned spines
to liquid. To objectify him, you might write, he wore
that easy entitlement like cologne. When he unbuckled, I understood
why people followed him. His cock was a verdict, and
I happily took the sentence. Or, if you want it rougher,
He didn't ask for permission, he was entitled to it.
When he slid inside, the room fell silent like a courtroom.
His cock delivered the ruling, and my body obeyed. Of course,
white men also show up in softer romantic tropes. The
prince charming archetype makes him the fairy tale savior. The
golden boy is the quarterback everyone envied in high school,
and the sensitive poet. It is sweet, thoughtful, and romantic.
Their tropes are roses, stadium lights, and handwritten confessions. To
objectify him, you might write, he was calm and logical,
methodical in every move, the steady rock I could lean on,
but beneath that sweetness, his cock strained with quiet insistence,
the kind of cock that promised not chaos but comfort, release,
and the gentlest happy ending written straight into my body.
And then there are the bad white boy tropes, the
prep villain with his smug privilege, the bully jock who
gets off on pushing too hard, the redneck roughneck with
a beer in one hand and a cock ready in
the other, or the rockabilly biker roaring into town. These
archetypes are the smirking bastard, massive jock, the rough neck,
and the leather rebel. Their tropes are cocky smirks, slammed lockers,
pickup trucks, tattoos, and smoke curling off a cigarette. To
objectify him, you might write, he was the kind of
trouble your mother warned you about. Cocky grin, dirty hands,
cock so assertive it could start a bar fight all
on its own. European men carry the essence of old
world decadence, but with accents that make you want to
fuck them instantly at your meat cute. In erotica, their
voices become sex weapons, and their mannerisms are transformed into
bourgeois fantasy. Eastern European men become our vampires, all brooding
intensity and mystery with looks that kill. Western European men
slip into the rolls of spies and detectives, moving through
the night with quiet confidence and sharp suits. From the
North come the Warlocks, the Vikings, and the Conquerors, all
raw strength and mythic hunger. And then there are the Englishmen,
the flirtatious, corny charmers who will tease you to death
with pickup lines that make you roll your eyes even
as you're spreading your legs. Their archetypes are the count,
the spy, the Viking, the warlock, and yes, the cheeky
English gentlemen. Their tropes are Gothic castles, candlelit seductions, espionage
in foreign cities, meat drunk raids, and endless banter laced
with innuendo. To objectify him, you might write, he wasn't marble,
he was Molten, an old world man who kissed he
was drinking from my soul, his accent wrapped around my body,
teasing and commanding at the same time, And when he
took me, I finally understood why Europe conquered the world.
Australian men often swing between rough edged bogan charm and
that old fashioned, slightly chauvinist stick streak. In fantasy, we
lean into both. He's the bloke who calls you love
while handing you a beer, the treaty who smells of
sweat and sawdust, the surfer whose hair is still salty
from the ocean, or the suited up snob who insists
he knows best. Their archetypes are the bogan bruiser, the
beach god, and the old school chauvinist. Their tropes are
slang that sounds like foreplay, shirts off before the sun's
even down, a cocky laugh that dares you to argue,
and that pushy I'll I'll tell you what's what attitude
that somehow makes your thighs spread. To objectify him, you
might write, he called me love with that lazy drawl,
smirked like he already owned my body, then dropped his
jeans with zero ceremony. His cock was thick, blunt, and swinging,
like it belonged to the outback itself. Crude, cocky, chauvinistic
as hell, and fuck it worked next. Latino men. Latino
men in fantasy are unapologetically intense. They are passionate to
the point of obsession, generous to the point of spoiling,
and fiery to the point of picking fights just to
fuck you harder after. Some can be mama's boys, some
can gaslight when they slip into bully mode, but all
of it folds into a lust that feels larger than life.
Where a white man might walk out of the room
to avoid confrontation, the Latino man relishes it because the
arguing is part of the foreplay, and the make up
sex is always volcanic. Their archetypes are the passionate lover,
the mamma's boy charmer, and the firebran bully. Their tropes
are dramatic arguments, fierce generosity, family ties that shape their identity,
and devotion that burns hotter than jealousy. To objectify him,
you might write, he argued with me until my cheeks
were flushed and my hands were shaking. Then kissed me
so hard I forgot what we were fighting about. His
cock slammed into me like the exclamation point on every
word generous, relentless, and absolutely mine. Next black men. Black
men in fantasy are written as saviors and heroes, protectors
of passion. Some carry the weight of struggle on their shoulders,
but what defines them is the comeback, the moment of epiphany,
the enlightenment that transforms them into men who rise with
elegance and power. In erotica, we heighten them into billionaire romantics,
big spenders who live in abundance, with sensual features so
striking they feel like caricatures of desire, Lips sculpted for worship,
voices deep enough to rattle the soul, skin as decadent
and addictive as chocolate, and bodies built to lift us
to heaven. To objectify him, you might write, he carried
himself like abundance itself, his cock thick and elegant, his
voice a gospel that demanded I open my thighs. He
spent like a billire, fucked like a savior, and kissed
like he was baptizing me back into life. He was
a cathedral of muscle, a savior with a voice like thunder.
When he pushed inside me, it felt like resurrection, like
every wrong in the world was forgiven in the Gospel
of His cock Next Indian men. Indian men carry a
unique blend of hard work, spirituality, and sensuality. In fantasy,
we turn that tension into something irresistible. Some are expected
to marry through arrangement, and if you fall for one,
you'll have to wonder will he rebel for love or
will he be the traditional man who leaves you for
a bride he has never met, And sometimes two years
later he might return begging for an affair. That conflict
between duty and desire makes him magnetic on the page.
Indian men can be both macho and tender, disciplined yet indulgent,
spiritual but achingly carnal. Some carry a touch of feminine grace,
and yes, some are even virgins until marriage, which makes
the first taste of pleasure all the more explosive. His
archetypes are the Kama Sutra king, the devotional lover, and
the fire god. His tropes are arranged marriages, secret affairs, tantrik, stamina,
and the intoxicating pull of a double life, half sacred,
half forbidden to objectify him. You might write he was
a furnace wrapped in golden skin, eyes dark as sacred oil.
His cock was a temple pillar. He kissed me like
a prayer, but whispered that he belonged to someone else,
and then fucked me like I was the only woman
who had ever existed next Middle Eastern men. Middle Eastern
men in fantasy often carry the aura of the sugar daddy.
He's immaculately groomed, brows tweezed to sharp perfection, cologne like
liquid gold, and always ready to indulge you. This is
the man who will spend on you, spoil you, and
even push you to become a millionaire under his wing.
Some women find the chauvinism part of the thrill. He
won't let you show cleavage. He's overprotective, domineering, controlling, always
wanting to know where you are and what you're doing.
In erotica, we exaggerate this into a dizzying mix of
luxury and obsession, power and possess as archetypes are the Sultan,
the sugar daddy, and the domineering protector. His tropes are
designer suits, black cards, chauffeured cars, silk sheets and the
intoxicating command to do as I say, to objectify him,
you might write. His cuff links glittered as he took
my phone, growling that I would answer only to him.
Then he spread me on sheets that probably cost more
than my rent, his cock ruling me harder than his
money ever could. And finally, mixed men. Mixed men are
the vision of futuristic perfection. They often walk the world
feeling like they don't fully belong to one race or another.
That sense of being outcasts can turn them into lone wolves,
carrying a brooding independence that makes them perfect for shifter erotica,
and yet in reality and in fantasy, they are also
some of the most desired men. Strong, modern, empowered, and
free of boundaries. They are the blended beauty of many worlds,
skin kissed by every continent, faces sculpted into impossible harmony.
They embody strength without borders, lust without labels, and the
kind of a lure that crosses every line. Their archetypes
are the hybrid god, the evolutionary ideal, the tomorrow man,
and the lone wolf shifter. Their tropes are sci fi, futuristic, fantasy,
next generation beauty, and animal magnetism. To objectify him, you
might write, he looked like tomorrow, neither this nor that,
but something beyond, something more. His cock was the law
of a new world, the blueprint of pleasure without boundaries.
And when he took me, I belong to no one
but him. Now let's move into body weight and shape,
because every kind of physique carries its own erotic power
when you know how to objectify it. Lanky, skinny men
carry a sensitivity that feels almost supernatural. Their bodies give
them a kind of sensual superpower. They can't hide their
reactions to pleasure, and every shiver runs straight through to
their bones. In their eyes, you see how deeply they feel,
and that gaze makes your own body come alive. At
first they seem delicate, almost porcelain, but then the strength
reveals itself, agile, attuned, and endless responsive. Their archetypes are
the wire, the sensitive predator, and the porcelain flame. Their
tropes are trembling awareness, agile passion, and the shock of
delicate strength. To objectify him, you might write, I didn't
just want to touch him, I wanted to watch him. No,
I wanted to stare he was moving art fragile yet feral,
his body quivering like a tuning fork. Every nerve exposed,
and every thrust was a hyper sensitive jolt that lit
me up, as if he were wired directly into my skin.
Gadbods bring warmth and hidden power. Yes, every woman wants
that guy. His archetypes are the domestic beast, the hidden hammer,
and the pillow daddy. His tropes are cozy but dangerous,
snugly but commanding, the dad next door who becomes a
porn god. To objectify him, you might say, his gut
pressed into me, all warmth and weight, while his cock
drove in like a secret weapon. He was just irresistible.
Obese men embody flesh as abundance, their very presence a
reminder of luxury, appetite, and decadence. Their archetypes are the feast,
the overwhelming, and the bacchus lover. Their tropes are luxurious excess,
gluttonous passion, and the shameless worship of overwhelming flesh. To
objectify him, you might write, every inch of him was indulgence, meat, sweat,
and heat, a banquet of man spread wide before me.
His body wasn't something to be touched, It was something
to be devoured, and when he went down, his mouth
had a mind of its own. With that kind of
eating addiction, I never wanted him to lose weight. I
wanted him to stay hungry. Muscular men are living superheroes,
walking around like they were cast straight out of a
comic book. Their archetypes are hercules, the gladiator, and the
living statue. Their tropes are comic book perfection, Jim God, fantasy,
and cocks wielded like weapons. To objectify him, you might write,
he was built like he lived in the gym, every
flex begging for applause. His chest was an altar, his
arms steel bars, and his cock. Oh, of course, his
cock was the scepter he expected me to worship. Fine.
I bowed, but only because the damn thing deserved its
own franchise. Next we turn to height, where size and
proportion shape the way a man's presence dominates the page.
The giant at six foot five and above is not
just a man. He is the ultimate trophy. His archetypes
are the colossus, the gentle titan, and the living wall.
His tropes are bodyguard, lust, size fetish, and athlete worship.
Every woman tiny or not, loves to feel small. And
dainty in his shadow, because the taller he is, the
hotter he burns, and the deeper his cock goes, his
voice is lower, his heat is stronger, his manliness impossible
to ignore. To objectify him, you might write, he was
a skyscraper of sex, a basketball god, a medieval king,
with a cock that could colonize my ovaries, staking its
flag so deep inside me that my whole body belonged
to him. His fist once split a table in half
just from pounding it for more beer. The same hand
that groped my breast with hungry force, kneading it like
warm bread, and made me come in two seconds flat.
Every inch of me wanted to climb him, to worship him,
to surrender, because when you're wrapped in the arms of
a king like that, you're not just being fucked, you're
being conquered by pure scale. The tall man from six
feet to six four carries a kingly presence. His archetypes
are the dark prince, the model, predator, and the athlete.
His tropes are long stride, broad dominance, and runway perfection.
To objectify him, you might write, he walked in like
the room was his runway, long legs, broad shoulders, a
cock that swung like it signed autographs. He was built
for sports that I made him play me instead. The
average man from five seven to five eleven is the
perfect fit. His archetypes are the golden ratio, the every
man god, and the wall fucker. His tropes are boy
next door turned insatiable, lover cocked at the perfect angle,
and unassuming perfection. To objectify him, you could write, he
was the golden ratio of men, perfectly built to fit me,
fold me, pin me. Not too tall, not too short,
just a cock at exactly the right height to pin
me against any wall. The short king from five to
two to five six is compact dynamite. His archetypes are
the firecracker, the scrapper, and the wolf cub. His tropes
are underestimated strength, explosive stamina, and climbing passion. To objectify him,
you might write, he was small only in height, never
in impact. His cock hit like tnt, his tongue like wildfire.
He climbed my body like everest, and every thrust felt
like fireworks. The pixie under five two is delicate but dangerous.
His archetypes are the fairy prince, the androgonists, muse, and
the porcelain devil. His tropes are fragile beauty hiding wicked energy,
ethereal faces corrupted by sex, and angels who fuck like demons.
To objectify him, you might write, he looked like a
fairy prince who'd wandered out of a dream. Delicate, luminous,
almost too pretty to touch. But his cock was pure mischief,
magical and wicked, the best orgasm machine I've ever known.
All Right, I know you've been waiting for this one.
Let's talk about cocks eyes, because whether it's massive, average,
or small, every cock can be transformed into the ultimate
object of desire. Hung monsters are mythic. Their archetypes are
the porn god, the destroyer, and the sacred stud. Their
tropes are worship, cock as character and whole stretching legend.
To objectify him, you could write, his cock wasn't a cock.
It was a magical unicorn horn that lifted me into
the clouds, stretching not just my pussy but my imagination.
With every thrust, he proved that fairy tales are real.
The so called average cock isn't average at all. It's
the ideal, the one that fits every fantasy. The archetypes
are the dream lover, the every day god, and the
universal stud. The tropes are competition, versatility, and the kind
of perfection that makes everyone fight to be the one
wrapped around it. To objectify him, you might write, oh,
this wasn't just a cock. It was the cock my ideal,
your ideal, the one every one secretly wanted. When common
turns into competition, his perfect stretch becomes the prize everyone
is begging to take home. Smaller cocks are redefined as magic.
Their archetypes are the hidden treasure, the obsession, and the ruiner.
The tropes are unexpected superiority, addictive perfection, and secret supremacy.
To objectify him, you could write, his cock wasn't small.
It was a living sex toy. Tight, perfect, addictive, better
than any toy, better than masturbation, better than big. After him,
I didn't want anything else. He ruined me for size forever. Finally,
let's finish with character traits and quirks, because personality itself
can be exaggerated into pure sex appeal. Nerds are a
feast of awkward hunger. Their archetype are the geek god,
the brainiac stud, and the accidental porn star. Their tropes
are fogged glasses, shy genius, and the reveal of hidden
sexual power. To objectify him, you might write, his glasses
fogged as he went down on me, a geek god
on his knees. Shy boys are blush toys. Their archetypes
are the hidden jewel, the obedient virgin, and the koi angel.
Their tropes are stammering lips, hesitant hands, and slow surrender.
To objectify him, you might say, every stutter made me wetter.
Cocky guys swagger in. Their archetypes are the bad boy,
the smirk, and the alpha tees. Their tropes are dirty grins,
arrogant stamina, and cock first confidence. To objectify him, you
might write, he smirked like he owned the room and
my pussy. Obsessive lovers devour. Their archetypes are the worshiper,
the devourer, and the starved saint. Their tropes are endless kisses,
desperate oral and relentless worship. To objectify him, you could say,
he kissed like a starving man, like my body was
the only food he'd ever taste. Again, Creepy guys bring
that shiver of danger you can't quite resist. Their archetypes
are the stalker, the dark watcher, and the twisted teas.
Their tropes are lingering stairs, unsettling intensity, and taboo thrills.
To objectify him, you might write, his stare crawled over
me like smoke, and even though I knew I shouldn't
want it, my pussy clenched as if he'd already touched me.
Annoying guys get under your skin until you want them
inside you. Their archetypes are the teas, the pest, and
the endless talker. Their tropes are relentless banter, smug grins,
and infuriating persistence. To objectify him, you might write, he
wouldn't shut up until I shoved his cock in my mouth,
and then finally, finally he was quiet. Bullies and rude
men become the dark fantasy of being conquered. Their archetypes
are the jock, the bastard, and the roughneck. Their tropes
are taunts, forced proximity, and dominance games. To objectify him,
you might write, he shoved me again the wall, sneering,
and when his cock pressed into me through his genes,
I hated him almost as much as I wanted him.
Challenge guys turned sex into a competition. Their archetypes are
the rival, the sparring partner, and the obstacle. Their tropes
are push pull dynamics, playful resistance, and one upmanship. To
objectify him, you might say, we wrestled until I pinned him,
but when his cock slid into me, it was game over.
Taken men are forbidden fruit. Their archetypes are the husband,
the cheater, and the untouchable. Their tropes are wedding rings,
stolen moments, and desperate secrecy. To objectify him, you might write,
his ring scraped my thigh as he spread me, and
the guilt only made my orgasms shore. Feminine men seduce
with sensitivity and depth. Their archetypes are the pretty boy,
the gentleman listener, and the spiritual charmer. Their tropes are
tailored clothes that fit just right, conversations that actually mean something,
and a willingness to cry, to care, and to connect.
They're spiritual, metaphysical, tuned into energy, and they make you
feel seen. To objectify him, you might write, he listened
like a saint and spoke like a poet, every word
softening me until I opened his eyes glistened when he
cried but his cock stayed hard as truth, sliding into
me with a tenderness that left me undone awkward. Men
makes messy and real. Their archetypes are the bumbler, the accident,
and the fumbling sweetheart. Their tropes are tripping overclothes, nervous hands,
and accidental brilliance. To objectify him, you might write, he
fumbled with the condom, nearly dropped it, then slammed into
me so hard I came before he found a rhythm.
Silent men seduce with absence, their mystery, pulling you in
deeper than words ever could. Their archetypes are the stoic,
the quiet shadow, and the stone wall. Their tropes are
few words, burning eyes, and primal actions that speak louder
than anything they could say. To objectify him, you might write,
he didn't speak, didn't smile, just unzipped, shoved me over
and until silence became screaming. Funny men lure you in
with humor, then destroy you with unexpected heat. Their archetypes
are the comedian, the joker, and the fool king. Their
tropes are teasing, playful banter, and sex that is messy, surprising,
and hilarious. To objectify him, you might write, he made
me laugh so hard I almost cried, and then his
cock made me cry for an entirely different reason. Broken
men ache with shadows, and that pain makes them devastating
in bed. Their archetypes are the haunted soul, the tortured artist,
and the damaged beast. Their tropes are emotional scars, dark intensity,
and sex as raw catharsis. To objectify him, you might write,
his cock was therapy, and every thrust was a confession
I gladly took between my thighs. Golden boys shine so
brightly it almost feels unfair, their perfection begging to be undone.
Their archetypes are the idol, the prince, and the untouchable.
Their tropes are bright smiles, spotless beauty, and the worship
of golden flesh. To objectify him, you might write, he
looked like a saint, but when his cock split me open,
I knew heaven was a lie. Now let's finish with
one more exercise. Close your eyes and imagine the man
you desire most. Reduce him to nothing but his sex appeal.
Don't write about his kindness, his personality, or his backstory.
Write him the way you would describe a dessert you're
about to devour. Write about his body, his smell, his cock,
and his sweat. Write him as if he exists only
for your pleasure and your orgasm. Make him such an
object of lust that you can barely write the words
without squirming. And remember, in real life people are more
than bodies. But in erotica, you get to play, you
get to objectify, you get to exaggerate, to worship, to consume,
and when you do, your writing gains a satisfying reversal,
turning him into the sex object and you into the power.
That's all for tonight's episode, my wicked voyeurs. Join me
next time for another intoxicating lesson in the art of
writing erotica. Until then, I want you to exaggerate, shamelessly
worship every cock and curve you create, and remember that
on the page he exists for your desire alone. This
is Vivia signing off with a wink and a kiss.
Stay naughty, my lovelies,