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Tips for Writing Erotica for Women

Writing Erotica for Women

by Barbie Scott

Ten Top Tips

• It may seem obvious but erotica needs to be erotic. It must be sensual, exciting, arousing. Be brave – write about what arouses you. After all, if something turns you on, it will turn others on as well. 

• Never forget that an erotic story is still a story. There must be characterisation and plot. There should be tension, build-up and denouement. Of course there’ll be sex – but there must be more than this. The depiction of cardboard cut-outs banging away is not erotica. 

• Erotica must entertain. It must be sexy and fun– but take note that’s ‘fun’ not ‘funny’. Amuse on the journey towards the act by all means but when your characters get down and dirty, focus on the serious business of sex. Make your reader smile, but not burst out laughing.

• Let your reader enjoy the sexual exploits of a daring female protagonist. Your heroine should be sure of herself and know what she wants. She’ll be in full control of her desires and the satisfaction of them – even if she voluntarily relinquishes that control to her lover. 

• Write from a woman’s point of view. Though a male point of view is sometimes acceptable in women’s erotica, the focus should always be on the female – her desires and the satisfaction of them are foremost.

• Read your target publications to find out what’s been done before and do something different. Some erotic scenarios have been overworked to the point of exhaustion – sex with the stranger who turns out not to be a stranger, sex with a ghost, art and theatre settings, the milkman, the postman, the meter-reader … the list goes on. Be fresh and lively and avoid the obvious.

• Check your target publication to see what level of erotic language is acceptable. Most are happy with the use of four-letter words but some prefer a less direct approach. Avoid the overuse of Latin terminology. Erotica should sizzle but it doesn’t require repeated descriptions of bodily parts. 

• Bear in mind that the greatest female erogenous zone is the mind. Most women prefer to read about what is going on in the characters’ heads, or their emotional states, or their heightened physical arousal, rather than about the hydraulics of the act itself. So set the scene, let your words conjure up an image, an idea, a possibility. The depiction of the brute act of sex is far less erotic than the anticipation of it.

• Be outrageous. Be transgressive. At one time erotica gave off a whiff of the taboo. Now – after Sex and the City and such like – it’s out and proud. Threesomes, group sex, gay experimentation, transvestism, transsexualism, S&M, bondage – these are now the stuff of soap opera and Sunday supplements. So let your imagination fly!

• There are still some absolute no-nos, however. Scenarios involving children, animals, blood-letting, and serious harm or death, should be avoided. So make sure all your characters are consenting adult humans and are there because they want to be there. Consider featuring condoms and lubrication to promote safe sex. 

So keep it upbeat, entertain and above allhave fun writing it!

~ ~ ~

The above article appeared on ABC Writers' Checklist Blog The Writers' ABC Checklist Blog

Condensed from Writing Short Erotica : Words with Jam Feb 2010

Definitely Worth a Read!

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Train Ride - Sample

‘Follow me. Hold tight.’ Tomas swung his lithe frame out of the door and round the end of the carriage. He hauled himself onto the rusty ladder that ran up the back of the train and his desert boots disappeared upwards. I took a deep breath. Oh shit. Taking off my leather sandals, I stuffed them down the front of my dress. Then I tucked the skirt up into my knickers like rompers. The Indian youths watched me, their dark eyes full of amusement and doubt.

‘Well, here goes.’

I swung myself out and grasped the metal rungs. Moving faster than a rat on a wheel, I scampered upwards, terrified of falling to the track below. When I got to the top my knees were trembling, my heart pounding. Oh the thrill of terror! Tomas and I knelt face to face on the rusty roof, laughing, our sweating hands clasped.

‘You see?’ he said, eyes sparkling. ‘Easy.’

Slowly, I released his hands and looked around. The plains stretched for miles, khaki coloured, dry. The sky was a flat expanse of blue, cloudless, vibrant. And the air, though hot, was fresh and sweet with the spicy, perfumed, exotic smell of India. The train chugged past a stream where women in saris the colour of red and yellow peppers were washing clothes. They straightened their backs to stare at us and we waved to them, happy as children.

I hooked my sandals around an air vent and pulled my dress out of my panties. I felt Tomas watching me and glanced up.

‘Up here, we are alone,’ he said, looking away into the distance. He shaded his eyes with his hand as the glare of the sun bounced off the bare earth.

‘So we are.’ I settled myself more comfortably on the curved tin roof. Cinders and smoke from the old steam engine drifted past. The train swayed from side to side with a lazy, soothing motion. ‘Fresh air, space, peace,’ I said, and I too gazed into the distance.

Suddenly Tomas leapt on me and pushed me down flat, his muscled torso hot and heavy on top of me.

‘Hey,’ I said. ‘How about a little sweet-talk first?’

He rolled off me as fast as he’d rolled on. ‘Hoist,’ he said, pointing to a wooden structure the train had just passed under. ‘For dropping mailbags, I think. We could be knocked from the train by such a thing.’ He took my hand. ‘You think I jump on you?’

I turned my face towards him. ‘I wouldn’t have minded.’ Our eyes met. Beneath us the train swayed and rattled. The metal roof was pleasantly warm. ‘Since we’re already lying down,’ I said, ‘why don’t we make the most of it.’

The train throbbed and juddered. The sun was hot but a breeze cooled us. Tomas kissed my moist forehead, my blazing cheeks. His lips were dry and warm, his cheeks soft with boyish beard. Lazily I turned my head so he could nuzzle my neck, my ears. A man in a field paused to watch as the train chugged past. He had a small elephant on a lead. In its curling trunk it held a thick leafy branch.

We kissed for an age, tongue on tongue. We ran our hands up and down each other’s bodies eagerly. I don’t know if it was the heat, the danger or the exhibitionist streak in me, but I was melting with desire. I was so horny I wanted to rip Tomas’s tee-shirt off him in frustration. When at last he slid his hand up under my dress I yelped with pleasure. Gently he hooked his fingers over the elastic of my white cotton panties. He inched them down over my hips, my hot thighs, my shaking knees, right down and over one foot. They dangled from my ankle, moist with sweat and juices.

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The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories UK

The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories USA

My New StilettoPhone

Poolside Service - An Excerpt

 ‘I’ve watched you for weeks,’ he says.
 ‘I know,’ I say.
 ‘I know you know,’ he counters, and we both smile, our eyes locked, his blue gaze searing mine.
 Then he steps back slightly to look me up and down, the expression on his face appreciative, arrogant, relaxed. He knows he has me; he can take his time. I’m at a disadvantage, naked to the waist while he’s still fully clothed. He strokes my abdomen, sliding his hand beneath the clinging black swimming costume, the tips of his fingers halting at the top of my pubic bone. I shiver in anticipation. A fraction further and he could touch the silk filaments of hair that nestle there. I don’t shave there, I don’t wax. I like the softness of my bush, the tendrils that curl sometimes beyond the high-cut legs of my one-piece.
 His eyes snap back to mine as though he’s testing me, watching my reaction. My eyelids are half-closed and I sway slightly, my body in an ecstasy of expectation. He slides his hand over my hip and right around me, gripping the globe of my behind, smoothing his palm over it. With his other hand he yanks my swimming costume down to my knees.
 I yelp softly at the suddenness, the shock. The wet costume drops to the floor and I step out of it and kick it aside. Now I am vulnerable, completely bare. I should be cold but the warmth of his closeness makes my damp skin steam. I am passive, unresisting. Or so he thinks. I can see in his eyes he believes I am his plaything, that he can do with me what he will. For a while I pretend it’s true.
 He pushes me back, down onto the wooden bench. ‘Spread your legs,’ he says, and I do. He folds my towel beneath him and kneels between my thighs. ‘Don’t make a sound,’ he says. ‘Whatever happens, whatever I do, don’t cry out.’
 He lowers his head and nuzzles his face into my sex. His cheeks are soft with just the hint of stubble to provide a seasoning, like a pinch of chilli in a bland cream dip. I reach to his head to fondle his hair.
 ‘Grip the bench,’ he says, his voice muffled. ‘You’re going to need to.’

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The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories UK £2.0dd
The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories USA $2.99

Tantric Celebacy - from The Celebate

The orgasm was total. It wasn’t confined to my cunt but spread through all my tingling limbs, my torso, my head, my mind. My face was scalding.
   My chakras danced in orgasmic delight as a freight train charged up my spine. I rolled in ecstasy as if I wanted to escape from so much pleasure. I jerked and juddered. It felt like all the openings in my body, even the pores, were being fucked at once. I was making love to the universe and the universe was making love to me. I loved everybody in the world and was loved by them in return.
   Bliss flooded me, warm, soothing, surging waves of it. Ida and Pingala curled around Sushumna, just as they were supposed to. Kundalini shot up my spine with such force it sent bells ringing in my head. The spiritual semen jetted through me and ejaculated from the top of my cranium in a starburst of golden drops.
   And at the moment of orgasm, I left my body. My spirit shot out through the top of my head in a rush of energy, burst through the  roof, and soared into the fresh crisp air.
   Hovering above the frosty garden, I looked down on myself. I could see the steamy greenhouse, the tendrils of the grapevine, the old armchair. And I could see myself, prone, an orange-gold aura glowing around me. I hadn’t intended to go off like that. I had meant to open up the ajna chakra, the third eye, which grants clarity, but I had gone for the big one, sahasrara, the lotus flower, the crown.

Read on:
The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - UK
The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - USA
The Stiletto Heel and Other Stories - Germany