Monthly Archives: May 2012


She is the receding tide.

She rushes my shore, laughing silver as she chatters over the pebbles. She brings in the promise of bright shells.  Her waves break beautifully upon my beach.

She gives the illusion of growing closer with every dancing movement.

And yet she is really slipping further away with every tumbling conversation, every gorgeous toss of her hair, every liquid smile. She is receding steadily, leaving furrows on my brow in her wake.

I am becoming lost in the sight of her always distant ocean.

I should kick over these impossible castles of sand and air.

I should head for home.

This will never be my seaside.



Posted by on May 31, 2012 in Lovers Past


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They first meet two thousand years ago

A raw sun burns a hole through an Egyptian blue sky.  She dances for him in a palace of fire . Her magnificent body is slick with oil and clad in a costume of silk and veils.  There are twenty other women chosen for their perfection and their beauty but he sees only her. She wordlessly becomes his beneath a velvet sky studded with stars.

In Byzantium they are lovers. Rich, proud and aloof aristocrats, they undress each other in the candlelight and lie upon jewelled pillows beneath a ceiling of pure gold.  He ties her wrists and ankles.

In Venice they pass each other at a masked ball.  They brush hands but are unaware of each other’s presence.

He wears her brightly coloured favour, perfumed with her love, at a joust. His opponent’s lance spills his crimson blood over it, staining it forever.

She poses for him at the dawn of the Renaissance, her delicious nipples hardening beneath the scrutiny of his painter’s gaze.  Centuries later, with the storm clouds of war gathering over Europe, she will pose again. exquisite elegance and style for the cover of Vogue.

He aches for her in Versailles where she is the renowned princess of another and never spares him a second glance.

She lives with him in eighteenth century England, the gorgeous muse for his wild, romantic poetry. enrapturing and bewitching London with her brown-eyed, pale skinned beauty.

They gallop across the baking red earth of central Spain on white stallions.  He composes a flamenco dance to her in his head. The horses hooves and his heartbeat mark out the rhythm.

And here, in the early years of the twenty-first century, almost aware of the silver thread that has bound them through history, they are separated by circumstance. They wonder at the coincidence of name and the undercurrent of desire. Yet they are locked on different paths..

They will be one again.  In some other, future time.

This is their destiny


Posted by on May 29, 2012 in Lovers Past


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Not a Rehearsal

You can have every fantasy

Every dark, delicious, decadent desire that you barely allow into your thoughts.  Every aching, arching, secret longing that has ever made you breathless at just the scent of possibility.  Every sensual, sinful secret that so far has never ventured to cross your lovely lips

I will give you every wild, wanton wish, every whispering need. You can share anything and everything.

I will teach you so much, show you so much. I will give you the glorious, deeply erotic almost-holy dynamic of dominance and submission. I will make your body sing, make it soar. I will use you, and I will worship you.  I will fill you with sensation and pleasure beyond your imagination. I will make you suffer such arousing, ecstasy-edged pain. I will teach you about yourself, and about your own desires, and about men.  I will turn you into an extraordinary lover.

I will adore you mind, body and soul.  Adore you in a way that you will never be adored by another. Never.  I will adore every perfect, exceptional inch of you, every smile, every movement, every sentence you utter, every breath. Every curve, every fold, every hollow, every muscle, every pore of your gorgeous skin.  I will undress you, touch you, caress you, whip you, stroke you, tie you, lick you, blindfold you, kiss you, admire you.  I will sigh at your exquisite nakedness. I will make you feel wonderful. You are wonderful.

I will paint my adoration in words that make your heart skip a beat, that thrill you, that coax delighted blushes into your cheeks and make your wonderful brown eyes shine. Words that will still warm your heart when years have passed and we are but a golden memory. Words that are true and capture your heavenly perfection.

I will give you a romance of rare beauty, a romance that is pure and uncomplicated, that exists in its own private place, that does not touch those we love and those who are our future.  A romance that has no tears, no expectations and no regrets.

I will give you a passion, a joy and a fulfilment that is far, far beyond the everyday. 

I will give you this sacred moment that will never come again.  Because Life is not a Rehearsal.


She read the message carefully and, just for the briefest of beats she imagined herself as his lover, his submissive, his Muse and his friend.

For a second she held her breath and let the tingle run through her.

For an instant she saw a wild, intense, and completely insane affair with him filling her days with something unique, sexual, special, raw and electric. Something that she knew was once-in-a-lifetime.

But not this lifetime. Or her lifetime.

She smiled and shook her head. With a finger full of complete certainty she tapped the delete key.

It was his final message to her.


Posted by on May 27, 2012 in D/s, Erotica


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She was the golden girl of her generation.

Her intelligence was deep, her beauty flawless, her skin perfect, her body stunning, her movement full of grace. She played guitar like a gypsy and piano like an angel.  She was peaches and cream and yet she was rock and roll.  Everyone wanted her or wanted to be her.

The first time I saw her she was gliding through a party and turning every head.  When her gaze rested upon me my whole world was turned utterly inside out and upside down.

What she saw in me I still wonder to this day.  I was a writer, a revolutionary, a dreamer, a child in the body of a man.  I was penniless, lost, a rebel who had failed his cause.  I had nothing to give except hunger, and the wide and restless pursuit of something undefined.

Yet she danced for me alone in the small hours of a magical night when the air was soft and the moonlight silvered her hair.  She gave herself completely, her body wrapping itself about me, her heart beating to the rhythm of my own.  We became lost in each other and we found each other.  I gave her all my dreams and she showed me a paradise on earth.

In the morning she left with a smile that made me dizzy with love.

She still wears my ring.



Posted by on May 26, 2012 in Wears my ring


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If I had known

That it was the only time

Your lovely head

Would lie on the pillow

Next to me

I would have stolen

The cover away

Still gorgeous

With your body’s scent

To bury my face in it

On nights like these



Copyright: The author writing as Romantic Dominant


Posted by on May 24, 2012 in Poetry


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Another thousand years

I am not responsible for her heart.

After my past history, which is strewn with guilt, suffering and broken hearts (including my own), it is an unexpected benefit from this strange infatuation.  I do not have to worry about causing her emotional pain.

She will not be bothered if I do not contact her. She does not miss my mails or texts. She will not be concerned if I am not around.  It will not bother her if my obsession for her wanes. She will not be upset if I warm to another. I do not have to tread carefully in conversation.. I do not need to worry about how she will cope if things turn out badly. She wants and expects nothing from me.

I do not have the heavenly joy of her love.  But nor do I have the extraordinary burden of it.  A weight that a romantic Dominant does not carry lightly.

It is an irony that I wrote that I would never hurt her, yet when it comes to her heart, I have no dominion.

It cannot be broken.  Not by me.

Not in another thousand years.


Posted by on May 24, 2012 in Lovers Past


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A thousand years

She has hurt him.

Not by her rejection that cut him deep, but was expected. Not through her words that have bruised his pride. Not by the way she has taken his wide-eyed and honest adoration so completely for granted.

As only a young and very beautiful woman can.

What has wounded him so grievously and stolen his sleep is the knowledge that she fears him. That she believes him capable of some ignoble retribution, some cruel and petty revenge, some angry act to make her suffer. To break her.

She does not understand his Dominant caring, nurturing, cherishing, protecting soul. She does not comprehend the nature of his selfless affection. She thinks him an ordinary man.

Care for him or not, want him or not, ignore him or not, he would never, could never, harm a single hair of her lovely, precious head.

Not in a thousand years


Posted by on May 23, 2012 in Lovers Past


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