Monthly Archives: December 2012



She is not convinced by his words.

She has seen him use them before, showering them like handfuls of confetti over the wide-eyed and the wanton, the gentle and the cruel, the pretty and the good.  She knows his vocabulary like she knows the menu in her favourite restaurant.  They are an over-played song on her mp3. They are familiar road signs on a map of desire and seduction.

Yet she shares some of the blame.  If they had discovered each other earlier he would have realised the true measure and worth of words like beauty and angel . As it is, they now have no currency, no value, no power, when he is describing her.

Yet if ever there was one for whom such words were fashioned, it is she.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot


Posted by on December 31, 2012 in D/s


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She says that she is done.

I believe her.  She has a good heart.

I have taken down yesterday’s post.  It was a knee jerk reaction to a perceived threat which I am no longer sure she was making.  To everyone who commented privately and publicly, I thank you for your kind words.  I don’t deserve them,  But they are appreciated, every one.

It has made me reflect on myself and my actions.  I truly have no wish to hurt anyone or deceive anyone.  On-line relationships are real relationships – they are between real people.  The lack of physical proximity does not mean that there is a lack of passion. Or that the suffering is any less when something is lost. Sometimes the distance makes the yearning, and the isolation even greater.

I try to be as honest as I can possibly be in all things – the fact that I am continually lying to the woman with whom I share my life and who is my best friend is enough stain on the soul of any man. Yet I resolve to try harder. I will be even more candid in my dealings with those with whom I come in contact. I will try to make it more clear, if there is a subject of a post, precisely to whom it is directed. (I know what it is like to read oneself into the posts of others when actually you were the last thing on their mind when they wrote it.)

And to anyone I have treated with less kindness, less candour, less respect and less feeling than I should have done, then I apologise.

I am truly sorry.



Art by Anne Magill


Posted by on December 31, 2012 in Still Life


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shu84 by Thomas Saliot

He swims to the windswept, miserable, English winter holiday season with urgent, desperate strokes.

He hauls himself up on its grey, rocky, precarious shore with tired limbs, a bruised body, a jaded mind and the salty taste of multiple loss in his mouth.  He is weary to the bone with work, with untidy confusion, and with human frailty.

He is only hungry for the warmth of his fire, a case of red wine, and the easy comfort of family and friends.

He watches the rain fall in endless silver lines and laments the passing of another year and the fading of its legendary adventures.

The last thing he expects is her.

An impossible creature of bright colours and sunshine, extraordinary beauty, and a perfection of form that takes his breath away. A paradox of pure innocence and of deep, vibrant, sensuality.  A gorgeous submissive emerging from a vanilla chrysalis.

An unexpected rare, exotic, almost holy gift waiting to be unwrapped.

To be adored and treasured.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot


Posted by on December 29, 2012 in D/s, Still Life


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For her


She sat cross-legged and naked on the bed amongst a tangle of sheets.

Her hair was tousled, her face flushed, her body still marked with pleasure and pain.

‘I’m listening,’ she said, her voice serious.

Her eyes were closed, her back straight, her lovely lips slightly pursed.  Her head  tilted slightly to one side the way she always did when she concentrated.  She looked like a serious school girl.

I think I adored her then, above all our other moments.

She opened her eyes and raised impatient eyebrows.

‘I’m ready,’ I said.  I positioned the laptop on my bare thighs.

‘Good’ she smiled.

I read her a handful of poems.

Maybe ten.  I tried to read them with the same passion, joy, sorrow, desire and love that I felt at the time of writing. At the end of each I studied her features, trying to gauge her reaction.

She was silent and utterly still, save for the slightest, barely perceptible nod requesting me to continue.  Her face became sadder with every verse.

When the last line of the last piece had faded in the quiet room she began to sob soundlessly.

I took her in my arms and nestled her safe into the hollow of my shoulder. Her tears trickled over my skin.

‘Why?’ I asked her, touching her wet face and rocking her gently. ‘Were they really so bad?

She punched my chest gently.

‘No, stupid, stupid man. I love them.’

She sniffed.  Her voice wavered.

‘I just wish you had written them for me.’



© the author writing as the Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot


Posted by on December 26, 2012 in Lovers Past


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Yours to give


In this season of giving, it is not mine to take.

It is not mine to demand, to request, to ask for, to seek.

It is not mine to solicit, to court, to appeal for, to beg

It is not mine to insist, to cajole, to call for, to press.

It is not mine to petition for,

Nor steal nor propose.

It is yours.

Your gift of submission

Given out of respect, admiration and the hunger to serve.

Your beauty, your intelligence, your body, your will.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Painting by Thomas Saliot


Posted by on December 24, 2012 in D/s, Erotica


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Her scent


He thinks about her.

He is sipping red wine. It fills his mouth with grape and his heart with hope.  Outside it is still raining.

Earlier he had walked the hounds in a brief respite from the deluge.  There had been a delayed monsoon waiting in the dying-leaved trees.

A hidden sun had set invisibly over his grey, sodden, dripping village before four o’clock. The afternoon had been swallowed up by night without a whimper

It is the day after the shortest day.

He lives by the seasons and can already feel the change. The days will lengthen from now. It is a clean, beckoning, hungry new page.

He will write her name on it.

He does not know who she is. And yet he already senses her presence in his life.

He cannot be sure if they have yet made contact, chased shadows, crossed borders, traded smiles, touched hands, exchanged truths, offered up words, or painted pictures on a blank canvas.

He is unable to tell if they are already gently familiar or are completely unconnected strangers.

Yet he is certain, at this change of the solstice, that she is there.  For him.

So he takes another sip and leans back into the soft, comfortable leather of his chair.

He can almost smell her scent on his fingers.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Painting by Thomas Saliot


Posted by on December 22, 2012 in D/s, Still Life


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She left a scar on my soul.

It was once angry, raw and raised. A livid mark leaking with salty tears.

On bad days it seeped blood.

I tested it in the places we used to go. I probed it with the music we shared, I distressed it with my diary. I tortured it with memories.

Now it has healed to a pale, indifferent, fading stain.

It is in the shape of her smile.

I wear it with the other scars.

Like a proud tattoo.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from En-Gel



Posted by on December 19, 2012 in Lovers Past


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