Monthly Archives: April 2012

No Stranger to Beauty

No Stranger to Beauty


I am no stranger to beauty

It has thrilled me,

haunted me,

betrayed me,

pursued me,

evaded me.


It has danced wild with me

Through soft, velvet night.

It has lain gentle with me

In the quiet, silver dawn.


I am no stranger to beauty.

It has inspired me,

Calmed me,

Enraged me,

Tortured me,

Chained me.


It has walked easy with me

On golden summer days.

It has danced only for me

With urgent promise in its eyes.


I am no stranger to beauty.

But yours …

Brown eyed

And naked.

Pale skinned

and perfect.

Has taken my breath away.



Copyright: The author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art vy Fletcher Sibthorpe

This poem was penned by me in about twenty minutes an hour or so ago.  It is by no means fully crafted – but for me it captures the moment.  It was inspired by an event that happened only very recently about which I am still shaking my head in awed disbelief.

By the way the painting, entitled Lacrimae Rerum, is by an artist called Fletcher Sibthorp about whom I know very little except that I love his work.


Posted by on April 29, 2012 in D/s, Poetry


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If I could paint, I would paint like this

I adore Jack.   

This painting contains all of the reasons why his work appeals to a romantic Dominant like me. 

Reach out and Touch by Jack Vettriano

The man is fully clothed whereas the woman is essentially naked.  His shirt is full, expensive, the double cuffs undone and hanging loose.  It is almost Byronesque.  His trousers and the braces suggest another, earlier era and, in doing so, hint of glorious sin in times when society was less forgiving, making the tableaux even more decadent.

The girls nakedness makes her vulnerable.

He reaches across to touch her with his left hand.  It is a movement that is both full of tenderness and yet there is a touch of menace.  This is accentuated by what at first glance appears to be a cane or a whip in his right hand.  It is in fact a paintbrush. 

There is a host of conflicting signals. Has he been painting her on an unseen canvas? Is this a manifestation of desire between painter and model? Or are they already lovers and will he use the handle of the brush to paint wonderful pink marks on her delicious bottom?

The woman is a little slimmer than most Vettriano women and there is something almost girlish about her shape – and yet she is undeniably woman.  She is not prey.  She is there because she wants to be there, dressed in stockings.  There is something a little sulky about her pose, as if they have argued. Yet there is also a sense of pleasure at the anticipation, or the realisation of his touch.  Her back has that slight sensual arch of sexual arousal.  And yet there might be a little shiver of fear there too.

These are only my observations.  You may have your own perspective of the story that is unfolding on the canvas.  The artist himself may have had something completely different in mind.

To me it is exquisite Vettriano.  Dominance and submission. Tenderness and control.  Discipline and adoration.

If I could paint, I would paint like this.


(originally posted by me in Love Affair Diary)


Posted by on April 25, 2012 in Art, D/s, Erotica


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Man of Steel

Man of Steel


I feel nothing

I am a man of steel.


I do not care

If I never hear from you


I am not your friend.


I feel nothing

I am a man of steel.


Don’t want to

Ever hear your voice

on the phone.

I’d rather be alone.


I feel nothing

I am a man of steel.


I do not care

If you never write me

A word.

Not a word.


I feel nothing

I am a man of steel.


Don’t want to

Even remember the nights

We shared.

I just don’t care.


I am a man of steel

I feel nothing.


Copyright : The author writing as Romantic Dominant

This poem was written at the painful end of a relationship.  Its short, clipped, simplistic style is intentional.  Only the reader can decide if I meant what I wrote.

(Incidentally the painting is by a talented artist called Anne Magill.  I hope she doesn’t mind me stealing it).


Posted by on April 24, 2012 in Lovers Past, Poetry


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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 him, she realises that she could never have readied herself.  Not for this intimate space, this hushed room, this 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.

His eyes lock onto hers and he smiles.  He 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..

He nods almost imperceptibly but somehow appreciatively.

Her hands glide over her breasts, caressing herself. Her fingers reach behind for the metal tongue of the zipper.

The show has begun.  



Posted by on April 23, 2012 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past


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The Line

The Line

She likes his hands,

long fingers that dance

when he speaks.

She imagines them

touching her shoulders

and the base of her throat


She wants to tell him,

but she knows that she won’t.


He likes her eyes,

rare jewels that sparkle

when she smiles.

He imagines them

widening and wild,

seeing into his soul.


He wants to tell her,

but he has to be cold.


She likes his voice,

warm words that soothe her

when he talks.

She imagines him

whispering softly,

his lips brushing her skin.


She wants to tell him,

but she hides it within.


He likes her body,

lithe movements enthrall him

when she moves.

He imagines her

throwing back her hair,

stepping out of her dress.


He wants to tell her,

but can never confess.


They like each other.

the electricity crackles

when they meet.

They imagine themselves

In some new story,

at some other time.


They want to,

but they can never

cross over the line.


Copyright; The author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this six or seven years ago.  It was about my relationship with a woman who worked for me, my finance director.  She was a striking blonde, barely five foot tall, and with a great shape.  We worked together closely.  It was an impossible situation, an ever-present ache….  The line was never crossed.



Posted by on April 22, 2012 in Lovers Past, Poetry


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On skin

She hears the strike of the match. 

It hisses as it flares.  Pungent, acrid, dangerous. 

She tests her bindings, flexing against them.  She is a stretched in a wide X, face up on the stripped-back brass bed. Her ankles and wrists have been secured to the frame.  A blindfold has removed her sight.

She is in fear.  She is in love.  She is naked. 

He is close to her.  She can feel his presence as if touching.  She senses the application of flame to wick.  Her muscles tense.  A low moan escapes her throat.  She does not know if it is in protest or arousal. 

She can barely breathe as she awaits the first molten drop to splash onto her proud breasts and urgent nipples.

Candle wax on skin.


Posted by on April 16, 2012 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past


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Knowing your own darkness is the best method for dealing with the darkness of others

Carl Jung


Posted by on April 15, 2012 in Art, D/s, Quotes


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