Sleeping Beauty

Sleeping Beauty

She is sleeping

Her breathing is shallow. Her chest rises and falls. He counts the seconds and studies her for signs of waking.

There are none.

He says her name. Softly.

Again. A little louder. But still quietly. He does not really want her to stir.

He gently takes her hand in his. It is small, and soft, and cool. Her fingers lie over his. They are quiet and still. His thumb and forefinger circle her wrist. He can feel her pulse. He imagines it quickening, but he cannot be sure. He lowers her hand to the bed.

She is beautiful. Her hair is raven black against her pale skin. Her lips are perfectly formed and ruby-red. She is wearing a pure white dress that is fitted at the breast, tight at the waist, and clinging to her hips. There is a long line of small pearl buttons from the scooped collar to bottom of the hem. They beckon him like a drug.

He knows he should kiss her, rouse her from her slumber, bring her back to consciousness.

But her still and perfect form has mesmerised him, captivated him, bewitched him. He feels himself harden as he moves towards her. He murmurs her name again. His throat stifles the sound.

He reaches out and with almost trembling fingers he strokes her cheek. Her skin is warm to his touch.

She does not stir.

He carefully undoes the first of the buttons. And then another. And a third. The gorgeous swell of her breasts makes him dizzy with desire.

At the sixth button, as the material begins to peel open, he realises she is naked underneath.


She is not sleeping.

She senses him standing by the narrow bed, gazing at her. She knows his eyes are upon her, taking in every curve, and every line. She waits. And tries to control her breathing.

She focuses on keeping perfectly still.

She hears him say her name. Twice. She ignores it, forbidding her eyelids to flicker.

He picks up her hand. His sudden touch in the darkness almost makes her flinch with surprise. His fingers are long and thin. She fears he will feel her pulse race crazily as his thumb presses against her flesh. He releases her gently, and she knows.

She is certain about what is going to happen when she hears her name a third time, and it is said like a faint prayer in a hoarse and caressing whisper.

His touch upon her cheek is like fire. She almost gasps at her own arousal.

He begins to undo the buttons of her dress.



Deliciously slowly.

This is heaven.

She will not wake now.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Quelarie83 (Serena Biagini)





Posted by on July 22, 2014 in Erotica


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Should know better




Beauty is not what it was.


The world is full

of airbrushed images

of synthetic women,

endlessly manufactured

by TV, film and magazine.


Identikit starlets

with interchangeable faces

and regulation bodies,

designed to appeal

to the lowest-common-denominator

unimaginative man.



And to be envied by women

who should know better.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Madelaine B




Posted by on July 19, 2014 in Still Life


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Angel – Ninth Part : Everything

Romantic Dominant:

Final part

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


The pin wheel criss-crosses her belly.

The sensation, electric, tingling, sharp, dangerous,  makes the muscles dance beneath her skin. She moans as its stinging path begins to move towards her sex. She tests the bindings that secure her arms above her head. She can twist her upper body but the door at her back limits her movement.  The spreader bar at her ankles keeps her legs parted, immobile, and stops her escaping from the cruel, wonderful spikes.

She wonders momentarily what she is doing here in this anonymous hotel room at the admittedly slender and expert hands of an almost stranger. She only knows him as a poet, a seducer with words, a master of the heart. She has read his dark writings and knew what to expect.

Except that she could never have imagined how she would feel. Naked, vulnerable, aroused, and utterly adored. In a way she had…

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Posted by on July 17, 2014 in Uncategorized


Angel – Eighth Part : Pin wheel

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


He tugs gently at the tie on the side of her lacy black panties.

The bow unravels easily, She feels the slight tension of it release away from her skin. The material peels away , revealing the trimmed narrow line of her pubic hair. He lets gravity take its course, and then releases the other side. The last piece of clothing falls from her silently.

She is naked. Her arms are secured above her head, Her back is against the cool wood of the door. Her legs are kept apart by the spreader bar attached to the leather cuffs at her ankles. The blindfold has stolen her vision.

She is breathless. She fears she may faint. She aches. A hunger that fills her swollen sex and radiates through her body in intense waves of desire. She has never felt anything like this before and yet he has barely touched her…

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Posted by on July 15, 2014 in Uncategorized


Angel – Seventh Part : He will find her

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


She looks divine.

Her arms raised above her head.

The leather cuffs around her wrists are secured by a simple device to the top of the door. Her naked back is against the cold, painted wood. She is wearing nothing but lacy black panties, tied at the sides. And her unusually-bold-for-her fuck-me heels.

And a black leather blindfold, tied about her brave head.

He taps the inside of her ankles. One, then the other. She instinctively knows it is a signal to place her feet further apart. He takes the spreader bar and clips it to the D ring on each cuff. She senses, but does not test, that she cannot now close her legs.

She feels his hand upon her left calf. It is not where she expected him to begin. His fingers are cool. She remembers them. Long, slender, and sensitive. Such elegant, beautiful hands. She feels a…

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Posted by on July 14, 2014 in Uncategorized


Angel – Sixth Part : All he will do

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


He presses the side of the cold blade to her breast.

From behind the blindfold she can imagine its edge – razor-sharp. Her own fear arouses her.  She feels a yearning lurch in her lower belly as the point traces across her skin to cut through each of the straps of her already ruined bra, She can imagine the pink thin trail the knife leaves, lightly scoring her flesh, yet not breaking the skin. It almost burns. She is aching for his touch. She is longing for delicious pain.

The material of her brassiere slips off her shoulders and brushes her like breath as it falls to the floor.

She tries to see herself as her sees her, naked except for lacy panties, and wearing her sexy, vertiginous, bought-for-the-occasion heels. She knows that the shoes make her legs look long. her thighs toned, her calves elegant, and her ankles slim…

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Posted by on July 13, 2014 in Uncategorized


Angel – Fifth Part : Beneath his gaze

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


She is waiting.

He takes his time.

The room is silent save for her uneven breathing. A floorboard creaks as he moves around her.  She desperately searches for him in the darkness of the blindfold, a slight inquiring tilt of her head. He notes it, and smiles.

He admires her body. The black lingerie contrasts with her creamy pale skin. The smooth curve of breasts fills the cups of her bra perfectly, her cleavage is a sweet valley. He panties are low on her hips, leaving her naval like an island adrift on the perfect sea of her belly. Her legs, in the heels, are exquisite.

He takes a number of items from the black briefcase.

Facing her, he reaches behind and captures her hands, bringing them around to the front. They come without resistance. He fixes a leather cuff on each wrist. He strokes her forearms to reassure her…

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Posted by on July 11, 2014 in Uncategorized


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