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Sleeping Beauty

Sleeping Beauty

She is sleeping

Her breathing is shallow. Her chest rises and falls. He counts the seconds and studies her for signs of waking.

There are none.

He says her name. Softly.

Again. A little louder. But still quietly. He does not really want her to stir.

He gently takes her hand in his. It is small, and soft, and cool. Her fingers lie over his. They are quiet and still. His thumb and forefinger circle her wrist. He can feel her pulse. He imagines it quickening, but he cannot be sure. He lowers her hand to the bed.

She is beautiful. Her hair is raven black against her pale skin. Her lips are perfectly formed and ruby-red. She is wearing a pure white dress that is fitted at the breast, tight at the waist, and clinging to her hips. Sleeping Beauty

He knows he should kiss her, rouse her from her slumber, bring her back to consciousness.

But her still and perfect form has mesmerised him, captivated him, bewitched him. He feels himself harden as he moves towards her. He murmurs her name again. His throat stifles the sound.

He reaches out and with almost trembling fingers he strokes her cheek. Her skin is warm to his touch.

She does not stir.

He carefully undoes the first of the buttons. And then another. And a third. The gorgeous swell of her breasts makes him dizzy with desire.

At the sixth button, as the material begins to peel open, he realises she is naked underneath.

.

She is not sleeping.

She senses him standing by the narrow bed, gazing at her. She knows his eyes are upon her, taking in every curve, and every line. She waits. And tries to control her breathing.

She focuses on keeping perfectly still.

She hears him say her name. Twice. She ignores it, forbidding her eyelids to flicker.

He picks up her hand. His sudden touch in the darkness almost makes her flinch with surprise. His fingers are long and thin. She fears he will feel her pulse race crazily as his thumb presses against her flesh. He releases her gently, and she knows.

She is certain about what is going to happen when she hears her name a third time, and it is said like a faint prayer in a hoarse and caressing whisper.

His touch upon her cheek is like fire. She almost gasps at her own arousal.

He begins to undo the buttons of her dress.

Achingly.

Tantalizingly.

Deliciously slowly.

This is heaven.

She will not wake now.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Quelarie83 (Serena Biagini)

This is not new. But I like it and hope you can forgive another outing

 
16 Comments

Posted by on July 26, 2015 in Erotica

 

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Another glimpse of thigh

Only the Deepest Red - Jack Vettriano

It seems impossible

Hours spent with her. Undressing her. Binding her.

Stretching her naked body to the four corners of the white-sheeted bed and securing her there.

Admiring, caressing, teasing, whipping, stroking, scratching, nibbling, slapping, oiling, kneading, licking, squeezing, pinching, kissing her.

Making her body dance beneath my fingers, my lips, my tongue, my hands, my thighs, melting wax, and my collection of carefully chosen toys. And my tumescent cock.

Enjoying each climax as she writhes and twists, arches and bucks, shudders and gasps.

Exploring every inch of her body. Every curve and line, every muscle, every sinew, every bone. Every pore of her gorgeous skin.

Until I am sated.

It seems impossible

That a little later, when she is dressed, and preparing to leave

Her skirt rides up high on her thigh

And my pulse quickens

And I am hard again.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

I wrote this about a year ago. I have no excuse for re-posting – except that you might not have read it first time around.

 
13 Comments

Posted by on July 21, 2015 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past

 

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Man in a suit

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I have never quite understood it.

The fascination some women have for a man in a suit.

Perhaps my incomprehension stems from the fact that I have worn them all my working life. They have been my uniform, my wardrobe, my second skin. They have been my attire from general office to boardroom. my inevitable clothing for business travel all round the world. The archetypal Englishman dressed in a Jermyn Street suit, formal. double cuffed Egyptian cotton shirt, silk tie, cufflinks, leather handmade shoes and belt.

But the first thing I have always done on arriving home is discard the tie, remove the jacket and replace the trousers with a faded pair of comfortable Levis. Even before I pour myself a glass of wine.

I am now close to giving up work in order to write full-time (almost certainly just for pleasure rather than artistic gain – given my lack of talent and industry). This current business contract will, if all goes well, be my last. A week ago I gave a dozen of my suits to a charity store. I cannot wait to give away the rest.

Except that I will keep a few back.

Who knows when I might need to impress?

(arches a mischievous eyebrow)

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

The photograph (taken from Pinterest and I believe credited to Keystone and owned by Getty Images) is of the English-born actor Cary Grant. It was taken in 1946.

 

 
47 Comments

Posted by on July 11, 2015 in Still Life

 

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Her body

pict0375

 

Her Body

 

Her body is my playground

A wonderland of curves and lines.

Of sweet breasts and urgent nipples.

Of rolling hips and elegant thighs.

 

Her body is my canvas

A perfect page on which to paint my words,

to daub my prose,

to  scratch my spidery, inky, dangerous poetry.

 

Her body is my church

A hallowed and sacred place

A holy ground on which to worship

And adore.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Henry Asencio

I wrote this a year ago. But you might have missed it.

 
20 Comments

Posted by on July 8, 2015 in D/s, Poetry

 

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Getting ready

 

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Getting ready

 

I adore the thought

of you

getting ready

hot water running

in rapid rivers

your skin slick

with scented soap

blushing with heat

and anticipation.

 

I adore the thought

of you

getting ready

lazily lingering

in lacy lingerie

sexily slipping

into silky stockings

sleek and sensual

in a sheath of a dress.

 

I adore the thought

of you

getting ready

pristine, painted

poised and peerless

and perfectly prepared

for me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Image via Pinterest. Uncertain of original source.
Please let me know if it is yours and I can credit you or remove

 

 

 

 

 

 
10 Comments

Posted by on July 7, 2015 in Erotica, Poetry

 

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Chant your name

fabian-perez-balcones-de-buenos-aires-vii-17722

 

Chant

I will chant your name

The chords beneath my fingers
no longer break the silence
with words I cannot find.
Only hunger resonates.

I will chant your name,

I will chant your name
in this night of endless yearning,
drowning in the echoes
yet thirsty beyond belief.

I will chant your name

Your eyes have held me captive
Starved me without thinking,
crucified my days.
Yet our suffering is the same.

I will chant your name

I will chant your name
A hymn to aching distance
Until all latitude means nothing
Only lines to score desire.

I will chant your name.

Your body will dance before me
a vision of solemn beauty
numbing me with need.
A longing beyond your golden skin.

I will chant your name

I will chant your name

I will chant your name …

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

If you have read my untidy word juggling, you will know this. But I like it. So here it is again in case you don’t know it.

 

 
16 Comments

Posted by on July 3, 2015 in Uncategorized

 

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If by poetry

Painting-by-Steve-Hanks

 

If by poetry

 

If

by poetry

I can make her

flesh and blood

my body on which to press

I will forge

such compelling words

her hungry soul

to steal

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by the late Steve Hanks

I originally tweeted these words over a year ago, but like them so much I’ve decided to elevate them to a blog post. If elevate is the right word.

 
18 Comments

Posted by on July 2, 2015 in Poetry

 

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