Monthly Archives: August 2012


His past lovers never quite fade away.

He thought of her last night when a bold, silver moon sailed across an inky sky that had already been carefully subdivided by his leaded window.  She had always been affected by the moon. She would become a little wild and insane when it was full, confessing her forbidden love for him, and desperately trying to retract it when the circle waned. She feared it would frighten him away.

He knows she adores him still.

As if possessing some celestial radar that had captured his nocturnal musing, her mail sat shyly in his in-box this morning.

She had been on a wind-blown, sometimes sun-blessed, patient and uncertain holiday in the West Country, decorating the August beaches with her tall, statuesque, bikini-clad, goddess-like figure.  She told him that she had taken long, dog-accompanied walks on rugged, brave cliff tops and laughed and skipped like a child through the cold waves of the Cornish sea.

It was not hard for him to imagine her there, being admired and almost recognised because of her occasional television face.

She wrote that she still misses him, still longs for him, still has memories of the collar, the cuffs and her only-to-him-ever-in-her-life submission that steals her breath away and makes her weak.

He knows it is shallow of him, but a little flattery is just what he needs to lift his spirits on this rain-soaked, end-of-summer day.



Photo stolen from egoyao


Posted by on August 29, 2012 in Lovers Past, Still Life


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Point of View


You said that being ‘in love’

was more than ‘loving’

though I disagreed.


There seemed little point

in arguing the case.

There was no need.


I’d always loved you

but you were never

in love with me.



Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from shesbikestuff


Posted by on August 27, 2012 in Lovers Past, Poetry


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Soft August afternoon.

The garden overripe

And wild.

Tanned and indolent,

He stretched in the sun


Sleepy from wine

Full with bread

It only needed fish

For a miracle.


And so it happened.

An hour passed,

Trailed by another.

He had forgotten her




Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from younghappy


Posted by on August 26, 2012 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life


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Is there a moment when it happens?

Or is it that a million moments accumulate into an eventual realisation?

Relationships change, they evolve, they shift. Circumstances fashion them, events alter them, decisions divert them. Love has countless patterns and textures that can shine or fade. It is never constant. It has a restless dynamic that, even when seemingly at peace, stirs in the darkness.

Once in a lifetime we are perfectly loved. Love is given to us with a purity of soul that almost blinds us. Absolute adoration. Glorious submission. It is a love that would give up everything. It is rare, unique, special.

But even such wondrous love cannot flourish without hope. I gave her everything I could, but I took away hope. I carry that burden among many other burdens. All of my own foolish construction.

She has survived. She is braver, stronger, more resilient, more at ease. For her, and perhaps for myself, I am no longer what I was. I never will be again.

For the man I am, with all my vanity, my ego, my pretensions and my self-deception, I would rather have no love at all than find myself in the slowly lengthening shadows of what once raged and burned so brightly.

We must be to each other what we never wanted to be..




Originally posted, with small variations, in both my Love Affair Diary and Shadows & Dancers blogs.  I have a very personal and special reason for re-posting it today, and do so with a heart that could hardly be heavier.

Painting: Journey’s End by Anne Magill


Posted by on August 26, 2012 in Lovers Past, Still Life


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Many a submissive girl’s fantasy

A past lover adored this painting

‘The Assessors’, by Jack Vettriano.

To be naked and bound.  Perhaps blindfolded.  To be examined, admired and studied intently by strangers.  Smartly dressed men.

Perhaps touched and fondled.  If the Master allows it.

It is many a submissive girl’s fantasy.



Originally posted in my blog Love Affair Diary


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


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Self Harm


The only way

I can hurt her

is to never

see her again.



it will hurt me

even more

than her.



Photo stolen from oOfAilEdOo


Posted by on August 22, 2012 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life


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He is trying so hard to be good.

It is not that he does not love her.  Without her his life would be without meaning.  Her light is all around him.

It is not that he is unhappy.  Especially during these recent weeks, together in their secluded, leafy home by the river, the days have been almost blissful after the detached, deceitful, untidy, complicated and eventually painfully sad years of being half away.

It is not that he still harbours angry resentment over their long-term sexual incompatibility.  His desperate unrequited desire for her has somehow become dissipated over his wicked affairs, the wanton trysts and the wild, wonderful relationships. She is his best friend. They will never be lovers again. It doesn’t matter.

But every now and then, when the night is velvet and pierced with stars.  When his gaze is caught by a stranger’s perfectly turned ankle or delicious thigh or the sensual curve of a gorgeous breast…

When the faintly lingering scent of perfume hangs in the air.  When an unbidden smile seems somehow coded with submissive design. When he imagines leather against soft skin. When he sees candle flames dancing in the darkness.

When he remembers all he has done, and seen, and owned and mastered…

Then the ache in his body and the longing in his soul are torture…

He is trying so hard to be good.

He is turning his back on temptation.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from AviculaZebaoth




Posted by on August 22, 2012 in D/s, Still Life, Wears my ring


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