Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:

Jack Vettriano - Tutt'Art@ (30)

Beyond the blindfold.

Beyond the ropes, the cuffs, the collar and the whip.

Beyond the dress, the leather, the heels, the silk.

Beyond the clamps, the toys, the oil, the pin wheel.

Beyond her kneeling, head bowed, at my feet

Beyond her stretched naked, tied to the four posts of this bed

Beyond her whispered ‘yes’

Beyond her wondrous, glorious, sacred submission.

Beyond everything

It still isn’t enough.

It is never enough

To cure this endless ache.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

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Posted by on August 22, 2014 in Uncategorized


No way to say …


Time has become liquid

There is seven of them. They have escaped work, the conference, the day. Comfortable in each other’s company. safe in the velvet night that hovers beyond the candle light, romantic at an outside table beneath the awning sky of a restaurant just off La Rambla. The evening is drenched in intimacy and alcohol. They are gently, sometimes noisily, submerged in a warm sea of easy acquaintance which sees them laugh, and chatter, and tell stories, and become friends.

It is getting late. It will be an early start for all of them to travel home to their various countries. Yet clocks mean nothing. They want the time to stretch and yawn, but not show its hands.

But they must go.

He starts to sing. An ancient Leonard Cohen song of leaving that he has known forever from someone else’s life. His voice is hesitant at first, but deep, rich and dark. The others are quiet. Perhaps they do not know the words, or are happy for him to touch the night with the poetry they feel. There is sorrow in the song, but gratitude for what has been shared.

Her voice joins his on the ‘many’ in the fifth line. It is pure and innocent and holy. It lilts and drifts above his own.  It harmonises and caresses and then soars and swoops. It glides and caresses, softens and lifts. It thrills the air, and him. She is an angel from a heavenly choir.

As she sings with him he watches her. Her green eyes stay on him, her brave, almost slavic features are heroic and lovely, bathed in the flickering light. A mane of thick blonde hair cascades over her shoulders as she tilts her head towards him.

They reach the end and improvise an ending which dances, then tumbles, falls, and finally soothes like a lullaby, achingly into silence.

It is a rare moment. There is a hushed, almost electric pause before the others applaud and nod appreciative heads. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.

They have become connected, combined, kindred, allied, confederate.



I will always remember the beauty of your voice, the magic of that moment, and the joy of our union.

And the memory

of ‘your hair upon the pillow, like a sleepy golden storm’



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Peter Ochabski


Posted by on August 21, 2014 in Lovers Past


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This is the man

Romantic Dominant:

A year exactly

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


At first glance he seems older.

It is a surprise, but she realises her imagination has made him younger every day.

He is wearing a two piece suit. Navy blue, with stripes. There are stripes on his shirt too. The tie is silk. He wears cufflinks. His shoes are polished. There is a practiced, familiar formality about his clothing derived from a lifetime in business

He is tall, but not towering. Toned rather than muscular.

He is not particularly good-looking and yet she decides that she likes his face, despite the creases. The eyes are penetrating, the mouth sensual. He has laughter lines above his cheekbones which are accentuated by a faint, fading tan. He smiles a lot. His hair is indeed silver. He has extraordinary hands.

And that voice – released from the formality of reciting poetry –  touches her.

He appraises her quietly, the corners of his mouth…

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Posted by on August 19, 2014 in Uncategorized


The girl in the photograph


The girl in the photograph

The girl in the photograph
is swagger and poise
shyness and hope
uncertainty and strength

The girl in the photograph
is desire and fear
softness and style
fantasy and real

The girl in the photograph
is hunger and joy
knowledge and warmth
rebellion and love

The girl in the photograph
is danger and sex
promise and dreams
intelligence and wild

The girl in the photograph
is not mine
but I wish
she was



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph is Lana Del Rey, taken from her website.
The poem is not about her, but she illustrates it well


Posted by on August 18, 2014 in Poetry


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Her imagination

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


Her imagination keeps calling her.

She tries to put herself in the room.

The hush. A silence that crackles with electricity. A stillness that is full of movement. A quiet that is disturbed by the wild beating of her hungry heart.

His voice. Soft, deep, gentle, compelling. Hypnotic. His words. His instructions. His control. Seductive and certain.

His touch. Long fingers cool on her skin. Running through her hair. Languid yet definite. Gorgeous but dangerous. Pleasure yet pain.  Undressing her. Peeling her clothes from her. Discovering every inch of her.

Revealing her soul. More naked than her body.

She tries to put herself beneath his hands.

Her imagination keeps betraying her.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by simonovokis

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Posted by on August 17, 2014 in Uncategorized


Her own touch

Originally posted on A Faded Romantic's Notebook:


She is on her knees.

The room is hushed. Completely still. From somewhere distant there is the sound of a dog barking. Just twice. And further still, the faint peal of church bells.

He sits in an armchair. He is wearing dark blue suit trousers, a striped blue and white cotton shirt, and a deep-red silk tie. His handmade black shoes are polished and shiny.

She is naked.

Except for a leather collar buckled around her elegant throat.

His eyes roam slowly over her body, She can almost feel them as they survey and caress her skin. Contemplating every inch of her. They finally make their way to her face, studying her mouth, her chin, her cheekbones.

Their eyes meet. The electricity crackles across the room.

She waits for instruction.

He says one word.

Her eyelids close for a second. She breathes deeply. Then they open and she returns his…

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Posted by on August 13, 2014 in Uncategorized


In hand


Rain has just started to fall

It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.

I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.


A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.

It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.

I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations

I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.

As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.

I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.

I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.

I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.

And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.

I take myself purposefully in hand.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from brandinisays



Posted by on August 3, 2014 in Erotica, Still Life


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