Slow surrender

She is innocent.

Her bold beauty is barely blemished. Her gorgeous body is almost untouched by another’s breath. The gentle pages of her heart are yet to be written.  Her hunger is new and urgent. She longs for something she has yet to discover.
She has purity in her soul.

He is darkness.

He has loved and won and lost his way through enough joy and sorrow to fill the night. He has coaxed forth endless sweet fantasies, elegantly bestowed a thousand decadent pleasures, administered such breathtaking, delicious torture.
His eyes have seen far beyond the shadows.

Yet there is an ache that binds them. A primeval yearning that sets them apart from all others.

He will sanctify her slow surrender and make them both holy.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Dreaming Out Loud

 

Angel – Sixth Part : All he will do

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. She can feel his eyes reviewing her legs slowly, from the toe to thigh. She senses his gaze lingering on her sex, contemplating the sweet mound, then caressing her hips, gliding over her belly, pausing at her breasts, studying her hard nipples, the areolae puckered by the desperate hunger of her desire.

She imagines him calmly taking in her shoulders, her collar bones, her throat, and traveling up her arms -  secured above her head – leather cuffs circling her wrists.

She feels like a sacrifice.

She can sense his dark eyes on her face, burning through the blindfold, searching her soul.

She is dizzy and breathless at the thought of all he will do to her.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Henry Asencio

Part One

Part Two

Part Three

Part Four

Part Five

 

Public Knowledge Revisited

Public Knowledge

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She tortures the stem of her glass,

Her anxiety spills over the rim.

The stain spreads like rumour

Darkening the space in between.

She has bitten hard on her lip,

Driven nails through her palms.

She has run up flags of distress

She has surrendered her charms.

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The conversation rushes her ears,

A sea of voices without words.

She is pinned against the iron-grey sky

To suffer the mocking of birds.

She watches him carefully take

An aerial survey of her wounds.

He completes a nervous wide circle

And leaves her finally marooned.

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Her hand crawls past the decanter

And clamps a manacle on his wrist.

A circle of thumb and forefinger

Against the hard rock of his fist.

There is an embarrassment of silence

As the conversation turns tide.

A panic of wings beating upwards

Escape the inevitable divide.

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© The author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from the web, but its provenance lost

A dinner party among friends.  The moment she realises what everyone else already knew …

 

She is sure

There is an intensity.

A wild, glorious, delicious dynamic that sings and hums through every communication. It sparks and crackles across the ether – vibrant, luminous, electric, vital. It radiates heat, it scatters stars, it shivers in the air like a lightning storm.

She can feel it dancing beneath her skin.  It makes her nervous, elated, hungry.  It fills her body with sensations that are new, exotic, dark, compelling, urgent. She is drawn to him as if metal to a magnet.

He has released something inside her that constricts her throat and curls in her lower belly – a constant yearning for something she has not yet discovered.

She is sure he wants her.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Julie de Waroquier

 

Does not look back

He knows she is slipping away.

The pauses are longer, the messages shorter.

He can feel the cooling of her heart in the May breeze that brushes his face.  He can see the waning of her desire in the shrinking moon. He can sense the lack of her attention in his empty dreams.

He will never be a victim.

Undercover of darkness he builds a boat from his words.

At dawn launches it upon the still and waiting, inky waters.

He does not look back.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from zZToraZz

 

Angel – Fifth Part : Beneath his gaze

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. The scent of the leather reaches her nostrils and she finds herself inhaling it hungrily.

Going down on one knee he fixes matching cuffs on both her ankles. For the first time she feels she is his prisoner, his slave.  She is more aroused than afraid.

He slowly leads her over to the closed door, and turns her so her back is against it. She gasps at the feel of the unyielding, cold, painted wood on her skin. He raises her arms up above her head and joins the cuffs with a stable tie clip which he then fastens to a small restraining device he is fixed over the door.  He returns to the briefcase.

He returns to her with a knife. He tests the blade on his thumb and it is razor-sharp.  He presses the side of it to her skin.  She knows instantly what it is. And yet she is not frightened.

She realizes, in that moment, she trusts him completely.

Hooking the finger and thumb of his left hand into her bra he tugs it forwards and deftly cuts through the material in one movement.

Gently he releases her lovely breasts from their cups.

Her nipples are urgent and hard beneath his gaze.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Miss Vulpine (link lost)

Part One
Part Two
Part Three
Part Four

 

Angel – Fourth Part – From her skin

He is behind her.

He very slowly unzips the back of her dress.

One small, shiny brass tooth releasing at a time.

It reveals a widening V of gorgeous pale skin.  And then the strap of her black bra. The shallow, slightly ridged valley of her spine. The top of her black lacy panties – bought especially for tonight and worn for the first time. For him.

He reaches the bottom of the zip.

He pauses. The room is heavy with tension.  Dark in the blindfold she feels light-headed.  She sways slightly.

He gently lays the long, sensitive fingers of both hands on her shoulders, close to her neck. He glides them upwards into her hair, caressing her ears, lifting and combing through the locks. It feels like electricity, impossibly sensual, and she can’t help but at first tilt her head forwards and then backwards onto his hands. She wants to push her body back onto his, but she knows she must not.

His hands return to stroking her neck and then inevitably out towards the thin straps of her dress. His touch runs over the sweet geometry of her collar bones. She feels the straps being eased over her shoulders. They slip down her arms.

He expertly peels the dress from her. It whispers as it falls down past her thighs, brushing her calves.

There is silence.

She knows he is moving around her, surveying her body.  She can feel his eyes upon her.  Appraising her. Examining every detail.

Knowing her history from her skin.

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© The author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from BlackDennie