The Illustrated Teacher - Chapters 1 & 2 Podcasted

I'm very pleased to announce that Amanda has kindly read Chapters One & Two of The Illustrated Teacher

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Chapter 1

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Chapter 2

Or you can visit my Podbean Page and download them. If you'd like to read along, the series is housed here

Writing Erotica for Men

I've been thinking, in the last few days, about the conundrum of writing erotica for a male audience. I did a poll once, some years ago, and found out that 78% of my readers were women, 22% men. My guess is that this is pretty average.

Although my writing is not to every woman's taste, in being one, I think I have something of an advantage on knowing what will make a woman surreptitiously allow her hand to wander down to her crotch while she reads something.

I have to admit to being not so sure about what that is for men. Obviously we are speaking here about erotica - yes, of course, men are visual, blah, blah, blah. But clearly 22% of my readers are men who turn up for something other than pussy shots. So, what is it?

I don't mean simply in my writing, but in all erotica. And how do erotica writers appeal to a male readership without resorting to cliched stroke stories? The essence of male arousal is pretty well documented, but what is the essence of male desire?

Your thoughts and opinions are most welcome.

Pattern Passion

He was a three, I realized with a little shiver. A metal-legged spider scampered up the ladder of my spine and curled itself into a cold, tingling ball just beneath the back of my skull. A perfect, perfect three. As humans, we like threes, but rarely had I met such a dedicated one.

He got on at North Acton, travelling East at 6:33 every weekday morning and, as far as I could tell, he started doing this on the third of March. He chose the third compartment from the end of the train, picked the third seat from the door on the left hand side. He always wore a suit jacket with three buttons, and had triple-eyelet black oxfords on his feet. Nicely shined, I might add.

What clinched it for me was that, after watching him for several weeks, I noticed that when the third seat on the left hand side was occupied, his body language altered. He wouldn't sit elsewhere. He just hovered, waiting until it came free and then he'd snag it.

The days piled up, and I grew to anticipate the arrival of his threeness. As the train pulled into North Acton, adrenalin flooded my bloodstream, my nipples seized and my cunt started ticking like a clock. I'll admit that I attempted to lure him by exhibiting a bit of threeness myself, just to see if he'd notice. But he had an annoying habit of plunging into a paperback novel the minute he sat down.

After 24 days of consecutive, gorgeous, elegant workday threenesses, I was in love. In a bold move, I decided to take his seat.

When he boarded the train, the subtle but perceptible physical tension caused by my disruption of his pattern was thrilling. By the time we reached Notting Hill Gate, I nearly relented and relinquished the seat, but I clenched my teeth and held my ground, learning to enjoy the sharp spikes of anxiety that forked off his body like a Tesla coil. Just before we pulled into Bank - the station he got off at - his eyes met mine with a look of such pure hatred, it sucked all the air out of the train compartment. I almost came right there on the tastefully patterned grey upholstery.

Although it was normally my habit to ride the underground for a further two hours, I couldn't hold out that long. Alighting at my usual stop, I ran home, and spent the rest of the morning producing imaginary porn in which he stroked his cock in increasingly frenzied sets of triplets. I frigged myself raw, matching his waltzing bouts of masturbation. Of course, I could have stopped at three, or six, but nine orgasms seemed the most appropriate number, a celebration of the triptych in the most sincere sense.

The next morning, my heart raced all the way from Ealing Broadway to North Acton. I usurped his seat and waited, trying to tamp down steamy visions of him pulling out his cock and ejaculating on me in a fit of pique. The minute he boarded the train, he noted the occupied seat with an audible huff. He caught my eye again, this time with a more measured expression of grave disappointment, and tried to pull my gaze, with exaggerated urgency, to the empty seats on either side. I pretended not to notice.

After some minutes of intense glaring, he bent a little forward and, in a low, gruff voice, said, "Would you mind moving one seat over?"

What I really wanted to say was: "I love your threeness, please fuck me!" But I didn't. "Not at all," I replied, trying to sound breezy, and shifted to the right, melting between the legs as he settled next to me.

Did he know he was a three? I wondered. Pulling the ubiquitous paperback out of his briefcase, he began to read. I closed my eyes, letting the train rock me, allowing my mind to plunge, over and over and over, into lewd pools of explicit threenesses. My reverie was only interrupted when his arm brushed mine, as he bent forward to put his book back into his briefcase. His stop was next.

Gathering up my courage, in the middle of the tunnel, as I heard the train begin to brake for Bank, I touched his arm, purposefully, three times. He looked confused, slightly embarrassed. I didn't say anything, or look at him. Diligently, I stared ahead at the mirror that pretended it was a window in tunnels. As it turned back into a window, sliding into the station, I watched him get up and leave the train.

That day, I didn't allow myself escape. I rode the train as usual and tried to look for other patterns. I spotted lots of other threes, but fours and fives and sixes eluded me. Only then did I realize I'd become so obsessed with his threeness, I had stopped being able to recognize any others. This, I admit, was disconcerting.

It took three more morning encounters before he touched me back. In the tunnel approaching his destination, with his nose still buried in his book, he moved his thigh until it touched mine and pressed it three times. The incident was so powerful, I got off at Liverpool Station, quivering, and availed myself of the privacy of a stall in the ladies public toilet.

The following day, before we'd even reached Marble Arch, he crossed his arms over his chest and, holding his book in front of his face with one hand, touched my arm three times with the fingertips of the other. My pussy flooded. Just before Bank, I responded, nudging his leg with my knee.

Unable to hold my tongue anymore, I turned and whispered, "You're such a three."

His eyebrows rose as he carefully closed his book. For a moment, he had difficulty speaking. Then he swallowed and said, "I take the 4:20 train home."