Monthly Archives: November 2012

This fading

He hates this fading.

She wore a short suede skirt from which her legs unwound, impossibly long, clad in black tights for the amazing journey between the high riding hem and chestnut leather boots.  The heels were flat but she still walked with an easy grace as she crossed the space that separated them. She held out her hand and he took it.  It was soft and tiny – as delicate as a small bird.  He felt he could have crushed it with his long fingers.

He was in a suit. Dark, respectable, expensive.  His cuff links, navy blue circles inset into polished steel, matched the highlights in his silk tie.

He took in the rest of her clothes in an instant.  Young, informal, relaxed.  He felt over-dressed and out-of-time.

They met for an hour. It was business, but he made her laugh often.  When she did she shook her head and her thick blonde hair danced about her face, and her eyes shone. The conversation constantly wandered off topic,  She leant forward, played with that shining curtain of hair and touched her elegant throat.

He should have offered her lunch. It was that time of day and she had somehow indicated freedom and hunger without actually saying it. In the polished wood reception area her hand returned to his and stayed for a moment longer than it should.  Her eyes bore into his with a frankness that made him look away.

He hesitated for a moment.

He was unusually uncertain.

He was old enough to be her father…

She must have sensed his confusion, or had come to the same sudden conclusion. She retreated inside herself.  It was like the sun lost behind a dark cloud.

Back on the street he caught sight of himself in a rain streaked window. Tall, slender and smart, but middle-aged, lined, and silver-haired. He sighed at how he foolish he had been to think her genuine warmth towards him had been something more

He hates this fading.



Photo stolen from InSUNNYty


Posted by on November 27, 2012 in Still Life


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She asks me if she is still beautiful.

She fixes me with that wide-eyed, innocent, dirty, submissive stare and brings the glass to her almost smiling lips.  Her nails are painted a dark, muddy crimson.  It reminds me of long spilt wine and vanished evenings. It does not suit her.

She crosses her legs. For a moment I am mesmerised by her thighs.I remember their soft, yearning embrace about my legs, my buttocks, my waist. I remember them tender and urgent against the rough abrasion of my jaw.  I can almost taste her.

‘You haven’t answered.’

Her eyelids close down slowly like the lights on a sleek, expensive sports car. She looks away.

I pause for too long. She is beautiful.  But not to me.  Not anymore.

“Yes,’ I say softly. I touch her wrist with fingers that once explored her body with a desperate hunger to discover every inch of her perfect geography.

Her skin feels cool. A distant land.

‘Yes.’ I repeat.

But even though it is the truth, she knows it is still a lie.


© the author writing as Romantic Dominant.

Painting by Fabian Perez


Posted by on November 26, 2012 in Lovers Past


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Private Dancer

Private Dancer by Jack Vettriano

This is one of my favourite Jack Vettriano paintings

Partly because, from my perspective, the relationship between the man and the woman is not as obvious as it may first appear.

The scene is clearly a ‘gentleman’s club’.  A woman is beginning a dance for a man who is seated upon a red leather bench in front of her.  We cannot see the man’s face, but there is something in the shape his left hand is making that suggests his arousal, his need, his wanting to touch her.  Behind his head there is a mirror that shows the reflection of a middle-aged man and a presumably young woman.  They appear to me to be entering a room together, something beyond striptease.

The pose of the woman in the foreground with her back to us is provocative.  She is a typical Vettriano woman – sensual and sexy without being perfect.  There is a lovely tilt to her hip, and one can imagine the silk of her stockinged leg brushing against the man’s trousers as she moves.

She appears to represent the man’s plaything and yet I’m not sure I see it like that.  Many will disagree, but I see her as possessing power.  He has paid his money but somehow this dance is on her terms.  Perhaps it is the fact that she is standing and he is seated, possibly there is something in her stance that is predatory.  It could be that the monetary transaction has betrayed his weakness.  His desire has given her control.

Yet it is not the ambivalence I see in the painting that I most enjoy.

What I really I adore is how it reminds me of the pleasure of a truly private striptease – one by a woman for her lover – a submissive for her Master.

What she wears, designed to thrill

The way she moves so seductively and sensually.

How she carefully choreographs herself to the music.

The thrust of her hips.

The slight sway of her sweet breasts.

The proudly erect nipples.

The amazingly sexy wiggle of her marvellous arse.

The achingly submissive look in her eyes.

The toss of her hair.

The way she strokes herself.

Her parted thighs.

The rising excitement as each garment is removed.

The certainty of her gorgeous nakedness in my arms when the music stops

The deep pleasure we both get…

I feel myself stiffen as I write…

I would recommend it to lovers everywhere.



A version of this post was originally made in my blog Love Affair Diary under the title of A Recommendation to Dance.

Here are some suggested songs for disrobing

The painting is of course by Jack Vettriano


Posted by on November 24, 2012 in Art, Erotica, Lovers Past


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On sexual submission

The true gift of a woman’s sexual submission is of value beyond measure.

It is not about the ill-informed clichés of inconsequential mummy-porn.  It is not about the feeble wet dreams of pimply schoolboys.  It is not about the vivid imaginings of hungry women in need of better sex. It is not about the testosterone-fuelled wishful fantasies of adult men who will never become mentally fully grown.

It is not another excuse for self-titled dominants to bully, humiliate, disrespect, brutalize or subjugate purely to satisfy their own misogynist needs.

The gift of submission is more than corporeal, greater than physical.

It is the conscious yielding up of sexual free will to serve another.  It is given because the ache, the longing, the overwhelming desire to submit is in her soul.  It is given because, bestowed upon the right man, she knows she will be excited, enlightened, satisfied and sexually aroused and deeply fulfilled.

In return the Dominant will respect and nurture her.  He will give her protection. He will be her guide, mentor, and master.  He will provide discipline and strength. He will create a framework in which she can grow, flourish and explore her own sexuality.

He will throw a secure and safe cloak about her shoulders.

He will make her proud and happy – and blessed – that she has given herself to him.


© the author writing as Romantic Dominant.

Photo belongs to the lovely Ami-S


Posted by on November 21, 2012 in D/s, Erotica


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I want you.

Not for your beauty.  Time has passed.  Your image has faded. And I’m not sure if you were ever really beautiful.  Or whether it was my love that made you so.

Not for your body.  It has become far too common a currency since it belonged to me.  I do not desire that which is not exclusive.

Not for your intelligence. Your knowledge and creativity were always too narrow for compelling conversation.

I want you.

But only because I cannot have you.



Painting by Fabian Perez



Posted by on November 18, 2012 in Lovers Past


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Even immortal

The mask rendered her exotic and wild.

Venice. Late evening. A sultry, velvet, expectant night.

Standing in the middle of a hushed and empty square dominated by a blind, sleeping church.  The last calls of the gondoliers echoing along silent, narrow canals.

The dress was like a sheath.  It clung to her body as hungrily as my desire.  Her curves were elegant and perfect beneath sheer silk. Her hair, raven-black, strangely lit by the weak street light, fell to her pale, bare, elegant, vulnerable shoulders in a lustrous cascade.  Her nipples, urgent beneath the cloth, betrayed her.

I could see her eyes glittering like living jewels behind the half face mask she had worn to the masquerade, now silenced by distance.  The tip of her tongue slid over her slightly parted lips. Otherwise she was completely still.

From somewhere nearby a clock uttered a deep, muffled, single chime.

“Take it off.” I said softly.

She slowly reached behind for the zip with one hand.  She guided it down to the small of her back with the other. She peeled the dress from her like a second skin.  It fell at her feet with a whisper.

The ancient city seemed to hold its breath, and then sigh.

I will never forget the divine beauty of her body in that holy, timeless, heart-stopping moment.

Even if I become immortal.



Photograph stolen from the lovely chloris8




Posted by on November 17, 2012 in Erotica, Lovers Past


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Strange thing

I don a blond wig of tumbling curls.

I toss the hair back from my face with a gesture that makes the woman standing opposite me smile.  She is a work colleague – a subordinate if one is talking strict hierarchy – which I do not.  Not in the work place anyway.

She says:  ‘oh give me just five minutes with a make-up box and with those cheekbones, those eyes and that mouth, I could turn you into such a woman’.

I raise a slow, steady, enquiring eyebrow.

And then I let the comment be overtaken by the general hubbub of activity taking place around me.

It seems such a strange thing to say to a fading, faded Romantic Dominant.



(Perhaps I should explain that the wig and I were taking part in a UK nationwide charity event – Children in Need.  It is not an unexpected revelation of a cross-dressing fetishism on my part)

(Photograph is of the actor Sean Bean who played a transvestite rather beautifully in a recent TV drama)


Posted by on November 16, 2012 in Still Life


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