Where lovers meet

Romantic Dominant:

Almost exactly a year ago.

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:

The Meeting Place at St. Pancras station

He doesn’t like to think that far ahead.

The dark nights of November falling like a cloak about his shoulders. The chill air hardening the skin of his face. Orphan snowflakes ghosting the afternoon.

He pictures her, wide-eyed in a foreign land. A mixture of innocence and swagger, confidence and vulnerability. Black, shoulder-length hair, sculptured cheekbones, exquisite lips, perfect chin. A slender waif.

Decadently, dangerously, deliciously young. Yet wiser and braver than many twice her age.

He doesn’t allow himself to conjure up the moment of breathless recognition. The coming together. The folding of her into his arms.

At St. Pancras station.

Where lovers meet.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph : The Meeting Place, a 30 ft. bronze sculpture at St. Pancras railway station, London. I couldn’t find the source – apologies

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Posted by on September 18, 2014 in Uncategorized


Something about her

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:

Painting by Thomas Saliot

I have (although I have no religion) been blessed.

I have enjoyed so much of beauty.

I have flattered, seduced, stolen, attracted, enchanted and compelled her. I have adored, admired, worshipped and respected her. I have yearned for, longed for, ached for, wished for, hungered for her.

I have dominated, owned, controlled, instructed, disciplined her. I have used and abused her. I have kissed, caressed, tied and whipped, licked, stroked, teased and thrilled her. I have made her body electric with pleasure.

I have felt beauty moan and sigh beneath my hands.

I have held her in my arms and soothed her fears. I have fallen for her.

Very rarely, I have loved her….

Yet of late I thought I had grown weary of beauty

I thought I had grown tired, cynical, jaded,

I thought my lifetime infatuation with her was over.

But there is something about this beauty that…

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Posted by on September 14, 2014 in Uncategorized


Always someone

Little Black Dress

When I am alone

In the sultry, electric heat of a stormy summer night. In the still, misty air of a hushed and muted Autumn afternoon. In the warm bed contrast of a shivery bitter-cold winter morning. In the sap-rising new warmth of a gentle Spring evening.

When I am utterly alone

And when my wordy mind is full of dancers. Of yearning. almost-innocent girls in party dresses. Of elegant, long-legged women, heels sending staccato gun fire across marble floors. Of leather-clad vixens, full swagger, poise and scarcely admitted vulnerability.  Of submissive, naked angels. spread and tied like sacrifice on pure white sheets on wide brass beds…..

And when my memories and fantasies, and the touch of my own fingers across my flesh, have made me ache and burn for physical release

There is always a beauty and a body I conjure up when I close my eyes.

A delicious smile. A paradise of curves and lines and soft tender skin. A wonder of gorgeous breasts with hard-as-berry nipples. A roll of hips that take my breath away. A perfection of soft thighs, seductively parted. Eloquent eyes that know my dark soul.

There is always someone my hunger turns to.

Someone to bring me to a wild, private, exultant, shuddering climax

It is always you.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot





Posted by on September 11, 2014 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past


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Test of True Love

We all do it.

We cling on to something for far too long.

We remember everything. Every touch, every smile, every kiss.

Every wild moment when nothing, absolutely nothing, truly nothing else in the world, mattered

We re-read everything. Every word, every sentence, every nuance, every space, every between-the-lines.

We recall conversations. Where we were. How they started. What was said. What was meant. What changed. What mattered.

We follow them after they have gone. Reading their posts, their tweets, their status. Studying their friends, their followers, their new contacts.

Almost, but not quite, yet still almost, stalking them.

We think of them, imagine them, want them, believe in them.

We expect them to return.

They never do.

I have carried this torch for what seems like forever.

No more.

I am done

The fire is out.



 the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano



Posted by on September 10, 2014 in Lovers Past, Still Life


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Tale of a Dominant : Part Two : The End

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


The candle has burnt down low.

The bar is close to empty. It is late. The waitress is hovering near the table with the bill, He motions to her with a raised eyebrow and a smile. She places l’addition on a white saucer with two small squares of gold-wrapped chocolate.

The girl opposite him runs her hands through her long black hair and stretches back in her chair. It is almost provocative.

His eyes flick over her body appreciatively and return to her face. He stares into her eyes. She doesn’t look away. They are both more than a little drunk.

She feels she knows everything about him. He has answered her questions all evening. About his lovers, About D/s, his rules, the cities and the hotel suites, the romance, the shadows and the dancers. His briefcase full of ropes and bindings, toys and instruments. The reasons behind it all…

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Posted by on September 9, 2014 in Uncategorized


Tale of a Dominant : Part 1

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:

Fabian and Monica

She is perched at the bar next to him.

She crosses her legs on the high stool. He appreciates the muscle in her thigh, and the pronounced shape of her calf.

‘You don’t mind if I ask you some questions?’

They both know he will enjoy answering. It is a part of teaching. And he would like to tutor her in many ways. So he nods.

‘When did you know that you were … the way you are?

He raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘The way I am?’

‘You know…  … a Dominant’  She doesn’t know why the word sounds utterly ridiculous and yet still sends a small shiver down her spine.

‘Ah. That.’  He is dismissive.

‘Are you not one?’

‘It has become such a cliché. I hate to be a cliché. That awful book … ‘

‘Fifty Shades?’

He raises his eyes and shakes his head. There is…

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Posted by on September 8, 2014 in Uncategorized


A geography of her


I will adore her

Even from a distance.

For she is beautiful, wild, elegant and independent.

I will discover her, I will explore her. I will chart her.

From the fragrant hair on her lovely head to the tips of her painted toes. I will know every inch of her.

I will study her. I will learn her. I will examine her.

In photograph, on video, through audio.

From opportunistic selfies and meticulously planned photos shoots. From impromptu captured moments and wonderfully contrived scenes. I will review the contents of her wardrobe. Her clothes, her footwear, her lingerie. I will dress her up and dress her down. I will strip her naked in a hundred ways and position her in a thousand poses. She will wear make up or be natural. She will be a fantasy angel or an everyday girl. She will be the dragon queen or the stranger in a bar.

I will know her hair, her eyes, her lips, her nose, her mouth, her skin, her piercings, her ink. I will know her arms, her hands, her legs, her belly, her breasts, her throat. Her thighs, her back, her arse. Her sex.

She will walk for me, move for me, stretch for me, sigh for me, purr for me. She will dance as innocent as a school girl, as bold as a stage act, and as seductively as only a woman who knows she is utterly adored can dance.

And she will be adored. Every smile, every frown, every tear. Every bubble of laughter. Every bone, every muscle, every sinew, every nerve, every fibre, every pore. Every breath.
Every word she speaks or writes.

I will utterly adore her beauty, her body, and her thoughts.

And then, if and when we meet, I will have a map, a plan, a billion pixels of familiar, sensual, heavenly destinations.

An intimate study of a perfect creature.  A geography of her.

And I will finally know the pure wonder of finally laying my fingers, my lips, my tongue, my body upon her glorious, gorgeous terrain.

Teasing, testing,and thrilling her with my toys.

Filling her with myself.

Paradise delivered.

The virtual becoming real.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Psyche Anamnesis







Posted by on September 6, 2014 in D/s, Erotica


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