I know you once believed

that I

wore my proud heart on my sleeve,

transparent and unsubtle

a far too obvious read.


You wanted to think

that I

had the look of a victim,

casual and trivial

lacking restraint or wisdom.


It disturbs you to find

that I

am such a private person,

self-contained and unafraid

of solitude or isolation.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez


Posted by on April 21, 2014 in Still Life, Poetry


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A serious mind


      ‘Sex and death are the only things that can interest a serious mind’

W B Yeats – Quotation  (paraphrased)


Photo stolen from Alice in Underland


Posted by on April 20, 2014 in Quotes


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She knows it is wrong.

She wears her white dress with purple flowers. It hugs her modestly at breast and hips. The hem of the skirt ebbs and flows at the top of her calves. The collar is a chaste V. Her matching cardigan elegantly covers her shoulders.

She is upon her knees.

A prayer murmurs around her like a sea. The air is holy with incense and devotion.

It is Easter.

She tries to concentrate, to focus, to give herself up to ritual, supplication and adoration. To offer up thanks, orison and worship.

But all she can think of is the ribbon tied tightly around her bare upper thigh.

And her nakedness

Beneath her dress.




© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Lady Martist



Posted by on April 20, 2014 in D/s, Erotica, Still Life


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Romantic Dominant:

Exactly one year ago today. We all make mistakes. Sometimes the same one.
Over and over.

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


At what point does he realise?

Is it when he wakes to find she has left no word?  No gentle mailed reminder of her gorgeous presence.

Is it when he points the car towards the office and the first song on the radio has an image of her in every line?

Is it when he finds himself comparing every woman he sees with the absolute glory of her face and form and finding others utterly wanting?

Is it when the second glass of wine dulls his defences and he can’t stop her from climbing into his thoughts and curling up in his heart?

Is it when he goes to sleep and she is the last thing he thinks of as he closes his tired eyes?

At what point does he realise

He has made such a stupid mistake?



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas…

View original 1 more word


Posted by on April 20, 2014 in Uncategorized


On naked strangers

Fire by Henry Ascencio

Images of naked strangers leave him cold

Nudity has become far too common a currency to attract his attention or pique his interest.

A body is a body. Some are more elegant than others. Some have been treated better or worse by time. Some are cared for. Some are toned by exercise. Some are a paradise of lines and curves. Some are the shape he admires.

But they do not raise his pulse.

Not unless he is attracted by the personality within. By the intellect, the sense of humour, the creativity, the warmth. And of course, by the hungry, submissive soul.

The body, especially without exclusivity after having been viewed by many, is merely a shell.

It is she who inhabits the body that gives it attraction, magic, desirability, potency.

She gives it power.

The power to make him ache.

And want her.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Henry Asencio



Posted by on April 20, 2014 in D/s, Still Life


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April First



April First


Snow falling in April

A muscle twitching

In my right eye.

The scream of the kettle

choking on steam.

my hands shaking

as I fill the cup.


Bent-headed daffodils.

A panic filling

this belly of fear.

The taunting echoes

of past footsteps

beckon a shiver

to torment my spine.


Snow falling in springtime

pulling a cry

from out of my throat.

Your scent on my fingers

stirs memories

and nightmare prospects

emerge from the soil.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from sokova

This is not a new poem. I wrote it when I was a much younger man.
Someone told me just the other day that the snow was falling where they were, and I remembered writing this. I decided to stretch your patience by sharing it. I cannot remember whose scent was on my fingers, but I do recall that I was in a dark place at the time. 
I am told I was born on a bitterly cold dawn in an English spring that had refused to melt. That appears to have no relevance to this, yet to me it does. Somehow.


Posted by on April 18, 2014 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life


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The show has begun



She is shy.  She has never done anything like this before.

She has rehearsed it so often that the music has become a soundtrack to these last few nervous days.  It plays in her mind from the moment sleep releases her until she slides back into its arms. Perhaps it echoes through her dreams. She knows every persistent drumbeat, every smooth chord, every deep bass note, every sweet moan of hungry, dirty brass.  She has her timings to the second.

She has tried to imagine this moment, tried to prepare herself for how she would feel.

Now, standing before the video camera, she realises that she could never have readied herself.  Not for this intimate moment, her hushed room, this distant audience of one.  Her mouth is dry, her heartbeat is wild and loud, her legs are weak.  She is finding it hard to breathe..

She smooths her hands down her dress.  They slide over her waist and onto her hips.  She is desperately nervous. She is blushingly embarrassed.  She is impossibly excited.

She is achingly aroused.

She presses a button on the slim, black remote and the music begins.  The first notes are soothingly familiar and disturbingly erotic.

Despite herself she begins to sway into her routine. She feels her hips move.   As if by magic her body becomes lithe and sinuous.  She is seductive, sexy, sensuous..

She knows he will watch her.  Again and again.

Her hands glide over her breasts, caressing herself. Her fingers reach behind for the metal tongue of the zipper.

The show has begun.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from vincent-icon

I originally posted a version of this in 2012. Then it assumed she was dancing for her Master, who was in the room. This is a dance for her Master who is geographically distant.


Posted by on April 16, 2014 in D/s, Erotica


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