Monthly Archives: June 2013

Tale of a Dominant : Part 1

Fabian and Monica

She is perched at the bar next to him.

She crosses her legs on the high stool. He appreciates the muscle in her thigh, and the pronounced shape of her calf.

‘You don’t mind if I ask you some questions?’

They both know he will enjoy answering. It is a part of teaching. And he would like to tutor her in many ways. So he nods.

‘When did you know that you were … the way you are?

He raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘The way I am?’

‘You know…  … a Dominant’  She doesn’t know why the word sounds utterly ridiculous and yet still sends a small shiver down her spine.

‘Ah. That.’  He is dismissive.

‘Are you not one?’

‘It has become such a cliché. I hate to be a cliché. That awful book … ‘

‘Fifty Shades?’

He raises his eyes and shakes his head. There is a silence. He begins to write spidery words on a single piece of paper with a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen. The ink is midnight blue. She cannot read them, although she tries.

‘Shall we just use Dominant as a label?’  She asks. Then after a few seconds. ‘After all, you do.’

There is an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders and a slight upwards curl of his lips. She takes it as assent.

‘So when did you know?’

He considers her question, his pen no longer at work.

‘I would say I always knew,’ he answers at last. ‘Certainly it has been with me for as long as I can remember. But I couldn’t define exactly what that ache was for a long time.’
He pauses.   ‘I have always adored women. Worshipped them. The female form has always thrilled me. And the feminine mind’

‘Is adoration important?’

‘Of course.’   He says it with absolute conviction. ‘It is adoration that makes me want to unwrap them slowly, body and soul. To explore every inch of them. To give them pleasure and pain. To have them in my power. To enjoy them completely. To possess them.

He moves his long slender hands as speaks. He is aware of her staring. He picks up his wine glass with his left hand. There is a simple wedding ring on his third finger.  It surprises her somehow. She makes a mental note to ask about it later.

‘There must have been a first? Your first D/s experience?’

He laughs. She likes the sound.  She inexplicably feels that she wants to make him laugh.

‘The very first? He asks her, raising an eyebrow,

She nods.

Then that’s easy. It was Julie. She was fourteen and lived in the house next door.

The woman is shocked and her face pales.

He gives a wicked grin.

‘She was in the same year as me, but at the girl’s school. I stripped her naked and tied her up one afternoon in her father’s garden shed. Amongst the power tools and the nails and screws, the lawnmower and the old paint cans. I laid her on the big wooden workbench. I seem to remember I tortured her very gently with a wire brush.’

The woman appears shocked but he knows she is fascinated.

‘Julie enjoyed it. It became a regular event. Until her mother caught us.’
He smiles at the memory.  ‘But that is a different story.’

There is a long silence. The words spill from the nib of his pen in dark blue, almost black ink.. She watches them materialise, unreadable, on the page.

‘Have you ever been tied up?’ He asks suddenly.

The woman shakes her head and gulps a mouthful of wine. She tries to avoid his eyes, until she feels compelled to look up. They meet his and something strange happens between them.

He tightens the cap on his pen and hands her the paper.

She blushes when she reads what he has written, a hand fluttering to her throat.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez.


Posted by on June 27, 2013 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past


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Angel – Eighth Part : Pin wheel



He tugs gently at the tie on the side of her lacy black panties.

The bow unravels easily, She feels the slight tension of it release away from her skin. The material peels away , revealing the trimmed narrow line of her pubic hair. He lets gravity take its course, and then releases the other side. The last piece of clothing falls from her silently.

She is naked. Her arms are secured above her head, Her back is against the cool wood of the door. Her legs are kept apart by the spreader bar attached to the leather cuffs at her ankles. The blindfold has stolen her vision.

She is breathless. She fears she may faint. She aches. A hunger that fills her swollen sex and radiates through her body in intense waves of desire. She has never felt anything like this before and yet he has barely touched her. She can sense his gaze upon her and it makes her weak. She is afraid of what he will do to her, and she wants him to spare her nothing. She has lost her senses. She is consumed by lust. She is trembling with fear.

She feels a tingling sensation on her cheek. She flinches away from it, and she swears she can actually hear him smile.

Something moves over her flesh. It is like a small electric current. It is not painful but a whimper escapes her throat.

‘It is a pin wheel.’ he says, answering the question she had not asked. His voice is deep. Steady. Commanding. Almost reassuring.

She imagines the small steel wheel, a circle of tiny spikes. Something lurches in her lower belly.

He rolls it impossibly lightly across her face. It is a sensation she cannot explain. She is afraid of it, of those vicious points, but it is such a perfect caress. Her runs it over her lips. It is gentle but dangerous. It excites her nerve endings so delicately, so exquisitely. She does not want him to stop.

It disappears over her chin and tracks down her throat, moving downwards. As it reaches the gorgeous swell of her breasts she feels the downward pressure on the rolling wheel start to increase. It is suddenly intense, sharp, painful, delicious. It leaves a thin, raised pink line on her pale flesh, but does not break the skin. To her, it is a trail of red-hot fire.

She moans as the spikes begin to traverse her hard-as-berry nipples, her areolas puffy and sensitive with arousal.

She cannot separate pain from pleasure.

Just when she thinks she can take no more, the pin wheel leaves her breasts and begins to journey across her belly in slow circles.

All the time moving inexorably lower.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo taken by me, courtesy of Jenny






Posted by on June 25, 2013 in D/s, Lovers Past


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Sometimes the day


Sometimes the day drains him.

The early morning alarm, urgent and insistent, to steal his dreams before the day has made up its mind. The long drive, or the busy train, headphones full of music failing to mask the rising clamour of mail, phone and text.

The relentless passage of meetings, presentations, discussions and decisions, The motivating, the cajoling, the guiding, the occasional steely imposing of his authority. The responsibility of many eyes seeking direction.

The lunchtime escape to the gym, the cross-trainer and treadmill forcing a sweat, his muscles straining at the self-imposed, determined discipline.

The pace of the afternoon, the challenges, the opportunities, the brave victories, the sapping defeats. Success resting on a knife-edge. Before the journey home, the last of his energy slowly retreating from him.

He sips his wine and stretches out, long-limbed, weary, heavy-eyed, tired to the bone

Sometimes the day drains him.

He thinks of her and he smiles.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Anne Magill






Posted by on June 24, 2013 in Still Life


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I am almost always in control.

Of another, of course, but particularly of myself.

But tonight with the summer solstice girdling the evening with magic, and with a wild, apocalyptic moon building herself in the heavens, I am partially undone.

I pace the humid, velvet, fantasy-rich night with light, hungry, tireless footsteps.

Prowling. Circling. Rattling this invisible chain that tethers me.

I am taut, stretched, urgent. I am savage, romantic, decadent. I am poetic, dangerous, sensual.

I close my eyes and allow the rush of her body to sweep over me, exciting my imagination. Her hips, her thighs, her belly, her breasts. The sweet hollow of her throat. The sacred mound of her sex.

The delicate silk of her hair trailing against my skin. The feel of her gorgeous curves beneath my fingers, against my lips, beneath my tongue.

Her scent filling my mouth.

The certainty of leather restraints upon her elegant ankles and wrists. The circle of a collar about her neck.

I am almost always in control.

But tonight I could roar with this aching, yearning, delicious desire.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from xXxShuGalxXx



Posted by on June 21, 2013 in D/s, Erotica


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Her Secret

After Midnight by Jack Vettriano

‘Your eyes are blue tonight.’ she says.

He smiles, and touches her cheek with his long fingers. She nuzzles her face into his palm.

‘Sometimes they are green. When you are distant. Or angry. Or sad.’  She peers into them. ‘They are such strange eyes – that amber halo around the pupil.  Like a solar eclipse.’

He leans forward and kisses her forehead. His lips linger on her skin.

‘They were the first thing I noticed about you,’ she continued. ‘They stopped me in my tracks.’

‘Like a train?’ he questions.

She punches him gently on the arm.

They were piercing. It was as if you knew who I was instantly. As if you were reading my thoughts before I could think them. As if you knew half my secrets there and then.’

‘Do you have any secrets?’  He grins, and stares hard at her.

She withdraws her chin from his hand.

‘You are my only secret.’ She murmured sadly, her own eyes filling with tears. 

‘And I wish you didn’t have to be…’



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art : After Midnight by Jack Vettriano


Posted by on June 20, 2013 in Lovers Past


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He does not want her body


He does not want her body.

It does not matter how extraordinary she looks.  The gorgeous construction of flesh and bone, the heavenly geography of curves and lines, the exquisite shape of her face, the eloquence of her eyes, the sensuality of her mouth.

It does not matter that she excites him physically. That her shape and sexuality thrill him. That he can feel his desire for her turning his mouth dry, leaving him aching and breathless, causing him to harden urgently at the thought of her.

He does not want her body

Unless she yields to him her sweet, submissive soul.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from the very lovely Muse-Morte


Posted by on June 18, 2013 in D/s, Erotica


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It was some years ago.

A hot, sultry, starless night in Barcelona.

I had employed her, without meeting her. as a tour guide. She shepherded around a disparate, sweating group of international conference delegates, filling their admiring heads with Gaudi and Picasso.

I was infatuated with her from the moment she held out a tiny hand in greeting. She was barely five foot tall, had unexpectedly green eyes and thick raven-black hair. It hung and shimmered down to the small of her back.

Her name was Mercedes.

That evening I persuaded her to join me for a meal at what is supposed to be the oldest restaurant in Barcelona. You may know it, on one of the small alleys off that run off La Ramblas. We were hidden away in  a small corner amongst the ancient brickwork and the age-and-smoke-blackened beams.

We ate fat, charcoal-grilled gambas, spicy patatas bravas, salted bacalao, and champinines al ajillo. We drank a heavily-oaked, sun-soaked Rioja.

We fell in love for the evening.

I bought her a rose from a gypsy woman who was moving from table to table. She winked at us as she took my currency.

Laughing, Mercedes placed the scarlet rose between her teeth. Her eyes flashed as she tossed back her head and ran her hands through her lovely hair. A thorn on the stem pressed itself into her beautiful lower lip and beaded it with crimson drops.

I kissed her then, in the flickering light of the candle, cupping her sweet face with my hand.

Sometimes, even now, when I drink a particularly heavy Rioja, I can still taste her blood in my mouth,

Tangy, metallic and special.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Alazay





Posted by on June 16, 2013 in Uncategorized


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