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Aroma

fabian_perez_paola on the couch
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There are fragrances I adore
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Red wine and the earthy aroma of a mature Rioja. Pepper, smoke, leather, pencil lead, tobacco and oak.
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The pungent, salty, briny, fishy, seaweed, damp sand, ozone smell of a small working harbour when the boats have returned with their silver, flapping catch.
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Patchouli, and musk and sandalwood, and the magical promise of marijuana, reminding me of stoned nights lost in music and poetry.
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A garden awash with flowers, wisteria, alyssum, gardenia, magnolia, sweet pea, jasmine and glorious rose.
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The smells redolent of summer and my childhood – new-mown hay, cotton candy, melting tar, honey, horses, chlorine, cinnamon, chocolate, the drifting smoke of a barbecue.
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And others too – coffee beans roasting, peaty Irish whiskey, wild garlic, the evening after the rain and storm, and the familiar breath of home when I open the door.
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The rich leather of cuffs, collar and blindfold, whips and flogger
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And most of all, woman.
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A thousand fragrances, every body different. Her fresh washed hair, her make up creams and oils. Her sweet perspiration. Her soft breath. Her purchased perfume made unique when it meets the personal aroma of her warm skin
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And that heady, wondrous, eloquent, wild, delicate scent
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of pure arousal
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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
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Art by Fabian Perez
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I wrote this a year ago exactly. An anniversary excuse to post it again
 
32 Comments

Posted by on June 29, 2015 in Erotica, Still Life

 

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Lost Causes

Painting by Steve Hanks

I am not a man for lost causes.

Indeed I will barely even give chase.

I am not a hunter, a predator, a stalker.

I will not pursue relentlessly. I will not track hungrily. I will not chase regardless.

I will not follow that which has no desire to be caught.

I will not pen midnight poems to attract you, I will not write erotic fantasies to tempt you, I will not create dark, dangerous, delicious scenarios to seduce you.

No matter your sharp intelligence, your eloquent creativity, your breathtaking beauty, your sensual body, your sweet personality, your divine, submissive soul.

I am too proud, too arrogant, too aloof.

And most of all, too afraid of rejection.

I am not a man for lost causes.

But for you, rare, exotic, gorgeous creature

I might just make an exception.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by the late Steve Hanks

 

 
37 Comments

Posted by on June 24, 2015 in Still Life

 

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Solstice

lust_by_xxxshugalxxx-d3hrlnw

I am almost always in control.

Of another, of course, but particularly of myself.

But tonight with the summer solstice girdling the evening with magic, and with a wild, apocalyptic moon building herself in the heavens, I am partially undone.

I pace the humid, velvet, fantasy-rich night with light, hungry, tireless footsteps.

Prowling. Circling. Rattling this invisible chain that tethers me.

I am taut, stretched, urgent. I am savage, romantic, decadent. I am poetic, dangerous, sensual.

I close my eyes and allow the rush of her body to sweep over me, exciting my imagination. Her hips, her thighs, her belly, her breasts. The sweet hollow of her throat. The sacred mound of her sex.

The delicate silk of her hair trailing against my skin. The feel of her gorgeous curves beneath my fingers, against my lips, beneath my tongue.

Her scent filling my mouth.

The certainty of leather restraints upon her elegant ankles and wrists. The circle of a collar about her neck.

I am almost always in control.

But tonight I could roar with this aching, yearning, delicious desire.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from xXxShuGalxXx

It would seem a good time to resurrect this old post. But with new added audio to freshen it up

 
20 Comments

Posted by on June 21, 2015 in Erotica, Still Life

 

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Filling my Summer

Time Standing Still - Steve Hanks

 

Filling my summer

 

The days have lengthened out,

strung from the first stirrings

of tireless birds woken by dawn

to the dark shapes of bats,

soundlessly haunting the dusk.

 

My body has stretched out,

relaxed by the light filled hours,

touched warm by the sun’s rays

and moving easy to the music

of you

filling my summer.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by the late Steve Hanks

 

 

 
10 Comments

Posted by on June 18, 2015 in Poetry

 

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Anachronism

 

untittled-ii-fabian-perez

 

They make me laugh

These boys

With their 50 Shades clichés,

their limited vocabulary,

their barely disguised misogyny,

their ‘do it because I say’ mentality

their unlikely claim

to a suit.

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They surely only thrill

the most naive

and undemanding

of girls…

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Yet perhaps it is me

that is old-fashioned.

Anachronistic.

A remnant

from some classical and heroic past

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One day soon

I shall write it all

as it was

And then hang up

forever

this blindfold

and cuffs.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

Written a year ago. Still true

 
25 Comments

Posted by on June 16, 2015 in D/s

 

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Shiver

throws_by_ithasteeth-d4vbc2o

A shiver.

A delicious, electric, thrilling shiver.

An ice hot sensation rushing from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine.

It hurries to her throat and steals her breath.

It colours her skin with a sudden, rosy, tell-tale blush.

It hardens her nipples as if touched by a kiss

It dances wild across her belly and hips.

It makes her gasp as it tugs at her thighs

It penetrates her sex.

A shiver

Running down her spine

Coming from him.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Hands and Teeth

I posted this almost a year ago. Without the audio. A good excuse to repost. I hope you enjoy

 
12 Comments

Posted by on June 15, 2015 in D/s, Erotica

 

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Jude

loui-jover-woman-eyes-closed

 

You would be forgiven for thinking most of what I write is short, semi-erotic and D/s flavoured. It is far from the truth. This is the beginning of an unpublished story I wrote a while ago about Jude….

 

They sat indoors in the dark on the window seat, held hands, and watched the storm. The lightning flashed blue grey, illuminating the gardens in monochrome and turning the heavy rain into shining silver rods. The thunder rolled and rumbled, heavy with threat, building into sudden, angry cracks and crashes that made Jude jump nervously. Tom squeezed her fingers reassuringly and told her in a low whisper the storm was a couple of miles away at least. He had silently counted the seconds between sudden flare and resultant boom with childish disappointment. Jude nodded her head slightly, and continued to stare out of the leaded casement, her view distorted by imperfections in the glass, and the water, streaming down. She sat with her back straight, her head erect and her chin raised; brave, earnest and attentive, as if she expected to learn something, or gain some new understanding.

After half an hour the rain ceased and the final reverberations of thunder faded beyond their hearing. From the garden there was the fat sound of huge drops falling from the gutters, and rustling thickly through the tall, leafy trees surrounding the house. Still they sat, neither wanting to disturb the haven the theatre of the elements had created. They were in a safe, timeless place which neither of them could bear to leave. They dreaded switching on a light, knowing everything would become flat, and ordinary, and bleak.

Jude shivered and rubbed her arms, bare in her favourite blue summer frock. She broke the silence. “It’s cold.” And then sadly, “I know it’s only July, but it feels like the end of summer”

I’m going to miss you.” Tom blurted out. His voice had a whining quality he hadn’t intended, and the words had tumbled out in a meaningless cliché. Jude put her fingers to his lips. Her smooth skin felt cool and smelt scented. “Don’t say anything, please,” she whispered.

He shrugged and turned away from her, and massaged his temples with his palms. He too shivered.

When does Stuart’s flight get in,” he asked, trying to make his voice, which seemed to be rebelling against him, sound more conversational.

Tomorrow morning. He’ll be here by mid-day.” She reached for Tom’s hands in the darkness, and raised them up towards her face. She turned her head, laying her cheek on them. It was moist with tears. “I am sorry,” she said.

For what?” he asked gently.

For crying. For us. For Stuart.” She sniffed. “God knows what I shall say to him.”

You don’t have to tell him anything.”

No, no, I wouldn’t.” He felt her shudder. “I couldn’t. But then what do I say? How can I talk about anything? How will I be normal?”

Tom couldn’t see her face, but could imagine it. Pale, slightly elfin, wide green eyes, small pointed nose, delicate chin, full lips, fringe of straight brown hair, worn shoulder length. He could imagine the misery in it, and with a groan he reached for her, pressing her to his chest, feeling the warmth of her face through his shirt. He kissed her head and breathed in the soapy fragrance of her hair. She clung to him, rocking gently and rubbing herself against him.

Oh, Jude.” he murmured. “Dear, sweet Jude.”

The phone rang. They both jumped.

Leave it,” he pleaded quietly.

She stood. “I can’t. It might be…” Her voice tailed off. The phone was in the hall. She opened the door and the ringing became louder. Somewhere she flicked a switch and a rectangle of yellow streamed into the sitting room, destroying the haven as if it had never existed.

Tom heard her say “Hello”, and from her first few words he knew it was Stuart. He also knew he didn’t want to hear the conversation. No, it was stronger than that. He couldn’t bear to hear it. With a sudden decisive movement he stood up and reached for his jacket, which was draped over the sofa. He slipped it on as he stepped out into the hall. Trying not to look at Jude, but failing, he opened the door and quickly left the house. He hurried up the dark drive and out of the open gate. The air was clear and clean. He could smell honeysuckle and roses.

It’s over. Just like that, he thought. It’s over.

The last image Tom had of Jude was her face, contorted with misery, desperately and silently begging him not to go, while at the same time trying to tell Stuart how much she was looking forward to seeing him, her voice uneven with emotion. It was a picture he couldn’t get out of his mind.

He didn’t know if he would ever see her again.

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© the author writing here under the name Romantic Dominant

Art by Loui Jover

 
30 Comments

Posted by on June 14, 2015 in Lovers Past

 

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