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