Monthly Archives: September 2012


In the middle of our conversation

my eyes are drawn

to the pale,

translucent skin of your throat,

to the shadowed hollow

and your perfect bones.


I am struck blind

by the holiest of visions.


Later staring out of the darkness

my fears are stilled

by the soft

remembered curve of your smile,

and the touch of your hand

when once alone.


I am sublime

with glorious religion.


Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph stolen from TheAppleScientist


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


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Imagine you have never been tied.

Imagine that you are here with me for the first time.

I am but a stranger whose words have eased out the secret, endless ache from deep inside you.  It has become a desperate hunger that has filled your days and ruined your nights.  It has brought you here.

To me.

To give yourself completely. To sacrifice yourself on this brave, profane-yet-holy altar of pleasure and pain. Your wrists bound together in prayer.

You witness yourself kneeling as if outside your body, as if watching someone else.

And yet you feel more real than you have ever felt, more alive than you can ever have imagined. You feel special, proud, cherished and adored. You feel humble and utterly controlled. Powerless. With no will of your own.

A slave.

Your fear makes you tremble.  Your excitement makes you dizzy. Your desire makes you breathless.

Every sound, every touch, every scent is new, fresh, and amplified.  Even the silence is rich and eloquent and teeming with promise.

There is a rose-shaded flush climbing your throat like a fever. There is a delicious craving between your thighs that makes you moan silently as it tugs hard at your lower belly,

You see my eyes looking deep into yours before the blindfold steals the light.

You feel my long. slender fingers, certain and sure upon your skin….

Imagine you have never been owned, my sweet angel.

Imagine yourself completely mine. 


Photograph stolen from xLxLxDxCx


Posted by on September 27, 2012 in D/s


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I have almost always been able to divine a sexually submissive woman.

I have no idea how.  Perhaps there are subtle signs. The spaces in between the words, more than the nature of the words themselves.  The smile a little too ready.  The slight lowering of the eyelids beneath my gaze.  The signs of defiance that seem only there to provoke response.

Yet these can mean nothing or everything.

The certainty comes only from instinct.  A first time sighting across a crowded room.  The brief, accidental brush of skin upon skin.  Something undefinable in the set of the shoulders, the tilt of the head, the walk across a room, the lifting of a glass, a conversation about nothing.  Even in ordinary correspondence with an anonymous and distant stranger there is a pure flash of eerie recognition.

I know without knowing how.

And yet I often arrogantly believe that my own sexually dominant nature is not overtly evident in my every day life. So I am naively surprised when I am myself identified – especially by someone who has not alerted my senses.

She was perhaps ten years younger, a pretty, vivacious American with a lithe, athlete’s body and a bright intelligence. We had recently been thrown together in a group of strangers on a serious hike in the foothills of mountains hidden by the darkness. We were drinking rustic red wine late on a warm night beneath a sky studded with stars.  I swear that I said nothing that could have revealed my interests or desires.

Yet out of the blue she said ‘I think that you are probably a dominant man’.  Others in the group looked at us inquiringly. First at her, and then at me. I smiled and replied ‘in business, you mean?’  She shook her head.

We locked eyes. The voices around us moved on, as late night conversations do.

I raised my glass to her across the table.  She lifted hers.

‘Salud,’ I murmured softly.


Photograph stolen from Mental-Mishap


Posted by on September 26, 2012 in D/s, Still Life


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No cure



He rises early.

The equinox has passed and the windows are still blind behind their curtained eyelids.  She sleeps on, with the covers hiding the curves of her body and the last of the night still tangled in her hair.

They love, but they are not lovers.

At the wooden table he sips a solitary, strong, hot tea from a large mug.  It’s partner is at the back of a cupboard in the kitchen of his past. He sometimes wonders if her fingers ever caress it, but the thought seldom disturbs him these days.  They have escaped each other at last.

As much as they can ever escape, anyway.

The morning emerges fresh and new behind his back and surprises him with its unashamed light.  He strokes the keyboard and a woman emerges from beneath his fingers.  Her curves are geometry.

She kneels naked before him. He can feel the ache rising within him as he catches the delicate scent of the warm dew that is shining like diamonds on her pale thighs.

There is no cure for his addiction.



Photograph stolen from reine-de-neige


Posted by on September 25, 2012 in D/s, Still Life


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As the weather worsened

she set her face rigid and hard

against the wind


Another skin.


She was surprised to find

the tears stinging her eyes

were warm

and tasted of salt.


The sea is in her soul.



Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This poem was written for a woman who introduced me to the delicious taste of soft shell crabs in a quiet restaurant by the ocean somewhere in Connecticut.  It was a long time ago and all I remember is the waves in her hair and the soft swell of her breasts beneath her clothes.

I think I broke her welcoming american heart with my dark english reserve.

I swear she was a mermaid.


Photograph stolen from YunaArt


Posted by on September 13, 2012 in Poetry


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Act of Worship

The memory of Rebecca* naked still makes me sigh.

She was (and presumably still is) a diminutive Scottish girl with a voice like honey and long hair as black as a raven’s wing. She had brown eyes as dark as night, skin as pale as the silver moon, and lips that had been kissed by a scarlet rose.

We ‘met’ on the most innocent of general message board forums and I was enchanted by the way she wrote – her dry sense of humour, her gentle warmth – long before I saw her image. She gave away no hint of her submissive soul to the rest of the world.  Indeed, she had almost kept it from herself. I have never wooed such a distant presence more intently or more determinedly, and probably never will again. She revealed herself to me, mind, body and soul – each thin, delicate layer more gorgeous, more enchanting than the last.

We finally came together in an elegant northern hotel room where she was breathless with anticipation, excitement, hunger and fear and I, usually controlled and cool, could feel my heart pounding so loudly I thought it would burst from the bones that caged it.

The handmade cuffs and collar that I keep in my famous black briefcase were tailored especially for her.  Their rich scent of leather filled the room as I fastened them around her tiny wrists and ankles, and encircled the perfect majesty of her beautiful, bare throat.

Undressing her was an act of worship.


*  Rebecca is not her real name.  Long term readers may recognise her as N.

She is the girl who originally inspired the 1, 2, 3, 4, 5 part Control story which I wrote as the scenario for our first meeting.  It was ultimately not dissimilar to the events of that night, and it has acted as a template and a manifesto for other D/s lovers, including Jenny.  I also wrote my favourite ‘performance’ poem ‘No More The Red Rose‘ as a gift for her.  

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Blodroppe


Posted by on September 11, 2012 in Lovers Past


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Something to be said

Life without her is easier.

He no longer needs to examine his shirts for crimson lipstick smudges or lingering traces of perfume. Or for her body’s delicious scent.  He does not have to set his phone to soundlessly vibrate in case she texts.  He knows that every date in his calendar is honest and justified. He has no need to disappear into his study to answer her needy mail. Or lower his voice when he bravely and hungrily calls her from the house.

There are no longer any secrets that might become unravelled. No chance sightings to somehow explain. No confusions over time and places and moments shared. No tell-tale receipts in his wallet. Or marks on his skin.

The heavy burden of guilt that he has carried without realising it has lifted from his shoulders and left him feeling light and free.  He thinks he has become a better man.  The stone in his heart has been rolled away.

There is something to be said for not committing adultery.



Painting : The Temptress by Jack Vettriano



Posted by on September 6, 2012 in Lovers Past, Still Life, Wears my ring


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