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April First

april_snow_by_sokova-d4xe42b

 

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.

 
7 Comments

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

 

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The show has begun

 

Possessed_by_yoh_vincent

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.

 
16 Comments

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

 

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This instinct

Fabian-Perez-painting

I cannot explain it.

This instinct.

It triggers itself on the flimsiest of evidence.

A handshake. Eyes meeting, Movements observed. The timbre of a voice. A fragment of conversation. The way she wears her clothes.

And sometimes on even thinner, more distant grounds.

A name. A photograph.  A word on a blog. A comment. Something made favourite.

I can be certain based seemingly on nothing.

I cannot explain it.

This instinct.

I simply know.

I sense a submissive soul.

Sometimes even before she is aware of it herself.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 
17 Comments

Posted by on April 14, 2014 in D/s, Still Life

 

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I will adore you

 

jack-vettriano-11

I will adore you.

I will admire you and respect you.

I will support you when the whole world is against you, or even just a small part of it. I will take your side irrespective of whose side you are on. I will comfort you when you are hurt, lift you when you are down, make your spirits soar when you least expect it.

I will instruct you, mentor you, guide you. I will, as far as in my power, keep you safe. I will encourage you, enthuse you, motivate you. I will paint your body with words in ways that make you glow. I will be proud of you. I will study every inch of you and pour my attention over you like honey.

I will thrill you, tease you, and arouse you. I will help you fulfill your wildest fantasies, your darkest desires, your deepest needs. I will touch you in ways beyond your imagination. I will take you to climaxes that leave you utterly sated and complete.

I will amplify your joy, soften your sorrow, fill your days with light, and touch your nights with romance.

I will make you laugh. I will kiss away your tears.

I will give you confidence, give you strength, give you self-belief. I will worship your beauty, your sensuality, your body. I will hymn your breasts, your buttocks your belly, your shoulders, your throat, your back, your thighs. I will make your body sing with pleasure and pain.

You will be my submissive, my lover, my muse, my friend. You will belong. I will make you feel valued, worthy, special, unique, perfect.

I will adore you.

But I will not love you.

Regardless of how close, how entwined, how enraptured we become.

For I love another. I have loved her forever.

I will always love her.

She is the love of my life.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

 
40 Comments

Posted by on April 12, 2014 in D/s, Still Life, Wears my ring

 

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Angel

a_faint_angels_wing_by_swirlllgirlll-d3djcaq

 

Angel

.

I will be

at your shoulder

by your side.

Just a touch away.

.

I will be

your constant angel,

keeping safe

your precious heart.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from SwirlllGirlll

 

 

 
31 Comments

Posted by on April 10, 2014 in D/s, Poetry

 

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Lisa the thief

plagiarism_header

It depresses me that I have to do this on my birthday.

I despise plagiarists – those who steal the words of others and use them to add value to themselves. A true writer will always credit his or her sources – and certainly not pretend that the words are their own. It is shallow and dishonest and the mark of someone without morals or scruples. Or talent.

Lisa* is such a plagiarist. She steals my words and, because what I write is nothing so special, she may well be stealing your words, or the words of those you admire.

I would appreciate whatever help you can give in exposing her and having her blog removed.

Thank you.

Romantic Dominant

PS and Lisa, you probably won’t want to steal this one.

POSTSCRIPT : Lisa appears to have closed her blog – or taken it private if that is possible on Tumblr. In some ways I am pleased, in some ways saddened. We all have something to say and I am sure that she had a message to impart. It is a pity that she chose to do it with the uncredited words of others. Thank you to all those who gave their support.

* There was a link here, but now she has gone it connects to a porn site, so I have deleted it. There might be an irony there, but I can’t see it

 
60 Comments

Posted by on April 6, 2014 in Still Life, Uncategorized

 

Tags: , , ,

His last day

Salvador-Dali-The-Persistence-of-Memory-1931

It is his last day.

It feels ordinary.

He wakes early and showers. The water is hot needles stinging his skin. He drives into town for a haircut and buys crusty fresh bread, marinated olives, goats’ cheese, and red wine. The girl at the checkout is pretty and young, and has flawless brown skin. She returns his smile. Of course, she doesn’t know.

Back home in the garden a fresh wind is making the white cherry blossom dance and is scaring the new leaves on the horse-chestnut tree. Some float to the ground, light green fingers outstretched. The sky is grey and featureless, yet with a rumour of blue. He walks in the garden, amongst the shrubs, bushes, trees and bubbling bird song. The world around him is bursting with new life. He is suddenly aware of his own mortality.

After lunch, with the air mild enough for him to sit on the terrace, he reads. He holds his breath as a bold, bright butterfly alights on a page and opens and closes her exotic, delicate wings. He sighs at her beauty. His phone buzzes like an insect, and beauty is doubled.

He contemplates the evening ahead. An early dinner in an Italian restaurant and then the theatre. It will be perfect, yet the hours will pass far too quickly.

And then the night will end it.

It his last day

He will be a another year older tomorrow.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Salvador Dali

 

 

 
24 Comments

Posted by on April 5, 2014 in Uncategorized

 
 
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