Monthly Archives: January 2014

Summer in my soul



The day has been sulking.

It scowls through a veil of miserable, monochrome clouds. They hang, bleak and brooding, outside my office windows, stealing light. They cloak me in melancholy as these long, arduous, empty, unrewarding business hours pass.

Yet there is a moment, early in the afternoon, when a shaft of unexpected sunlight escapes the gloom

It smears honey over the surface of my desk and touches my face through the glass with a warm and friendly hand. I close my eyes .

And then, inexplicably, a vivid memory.

I am there again, twenty odd years and two thousand miles away.

The hot sun is beating down from an impossibly blue sky. It is late in the afternoon but the temperature is still in the upper eighties fahrenheit.   We have emerged from the relative cool of our room into an Aegean furnace that takes our breath away. There is barely a breeze.

Looking out across the harbour the sea is still. Gaily coloured boats barely bob on flat waves, motionless. From the trees behind us the whirring of cicadas is intense. In the small bar everyone is seeking shade beneath umbrellas. Ice melts in glasses full of long drinks. The narrow road shimmers.

As we walk down the blindingly white concrete steps and onto the beach, the hot sand stings my toes. We make our way to the quiet, deserted water’s edge holding hands. Small waves lap at our feet. The water is deliciously cool. It calls to us with a siren voice.

She smiles at me and it seems in one movement she unfastens the bow at the back of her halter neck dress and sheds it like a brightly coloured skin. She is naked. And although I had been exploring her extraordinary body all afternoon. I gasp.

She is a goddess. Every perfect inch of her. And I feel myself harden as she turns, elegant and beautiful, and enters the sea,

The phone rings on my desk.

In my mind I reach for her, trying to cling onto her, but she is gone.

It was a long time ago in some other time and place.

But for just a few precious, golden minutes, in the midst of this tedious English winter, there is a glorious Caribbean summer in my soul.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo courtesy of a friend.


Posted by on January 28, 2014 in Lovers Past


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Not even for you


I cannot change the way that I am.

It s not a whim, a fashion, a style.  It is not act, a pose, an affectation. It is not a sham, a fake, a masquerade. It is not some elaborate pretence.

I have not adopted a persona to attract or to seduce.

The word Dominant does not define me. It is simply a way of translating what I have always been into something that can almost be understood.

I cannot alter, modify, change, reshape, or reorient myself.

Not without betraying every thought, desire, belief, sinew and fibre of my being.

This is me.

I can never compromise.

Not even for you.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from grafzahl


Posted by on January 27, 2014 in D/s, Still Life


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Just Once


Some pretend.

They deny it. They convince themselves that they are content. That they have all they need. That they do not want for more. That there are no dark desires, no moments of wildness, no wish to be someone different, or to do something different.

Some don’t pretend.

They know it. But they keep it from themselves. They bury it. Ignore it. Hold it back. They find fantasies in other people’s lives rather than enjoy them in their own. They think there is always time. Some day. Some other life. They never let themselves go. They will miss it as it sails past.

I have never met anyone who does not, openly or secretly, desire a different path. Even if it is only fleeting. One breathtakingly differently page in a whole book of life.

One soaring, beautiful, glorious flight.

We all wish for release.

Just once.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Natassia


Posted by on January 16, 2014 in Still Life


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What he has done

What he has done to her


She does not know what he has done to her.

She studies her face in the mirror. She wonders if others can see the hunger in it.  She wonders if she is betrayed by the wild, yearning look in her eyes. She is certain that she is wearing her lust like a badge.

She brushes her finger tips lightly across her lips. It sends an electric jolt through her body. A lay-line of desire that tingles from breast to belly to thighs.

It fully reawakens the ache inside her. She almost gasps at the intensity of it. A certain, steady, endless throb. Impossible to ignore. A ball of longing that radiates from her burning sex to every part of her being. Her skin reacts to any touch. Even the brush of her clothes makes her dizzy with need.

Its urgency overwhelms her. As it does every distracted day. Every tortured night. There is no respite even when she sleeps. Her dreams are a decadent tangle of limbs, whips and ropes, desperate mouths, probing tongues and deep penetration.

She can bear it no more. She is on her knees. She lets her fingers trail across her cheek, down her neck. She imagines she is in his hands. She takes her nipples between thumb and forefinger and squeezes until she gasps. Pain and pleasure. His religion.

She finds herself slick, wet and swollen. She rubs herself roughly. Brutally. Savagely. The pure heat of her arousal shocks and thrills her.

Her climax is violent. It rips and tears through her. Her body shudders and dances erratically. She is engulfed by it and yet still somehow manages to keep her fingers working. Both hands. Forcing herself onwards. The way he would do.

The next tidal wave is unstoppable. It drowns her. She is breathless, exhausted, trembling. Weak, Helpless. She has no strength left. She collapses. She sobs and laughs and shakes her head in amazement.

She does not know what he has done to her.

But she hates it.

And she loves it.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo courtesy of a friend.


Posted by on January 15, 2014 in Erotica


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I am in love with skin.

I love the feel of it beneath my finger tips. The heat of it. The smooth texture beneath the ridged whorls of my prints. The beauty, the softness, the glow. The gorgeous glide over muscle and bone. The imperceptible down at the base of the spine. The pucker and berry of nipple. The impossible silk of inner thigh.

I love the scent of it as I breathe in. The individual intimate fragrance. A heady heaven of perfume, pheromone and perspiration. As private and personal as a signature.

I love the taste of it beneath the caress of my tongue. The delicate hints, the slight tang, the subtle shades of flavour that fill my mouth. The unique, eloquent, dark, secret essence of sex.

I am in love with skin.

Your skin.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from puskuljian


Posted by on January 9, 2014 in Erotica, Still Life


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For Everyone

Remember a Time

I have been busy.

Throwing away my past. The parts that no longer matter. And will not matter again.

In amongst all the files, the papers, the folders, the mementos of a life that hardly seems mine, I found a page torn from an old notebook. A stream of consciousness. I do not remember writing it, although it is scrawled in my hand in midnight-blue fountain pen ink. And yet I knew immediately for whom it was written, Even though it was a long time ago,
It reads :

There is a dancer in my soul. She is small and dark and brown-eyed. She moves amongst the shadows and dappled sunlight. Her skin is pale and her eyes are as brown as chestnuts. She is a Northern child from a place of East shore winds and yesterday’s hopes. Her name is sung by angels and whispered by lovers. I can taste her in this thick Spanish wine.

There is a dancer in my soul. She makes me smile when I think of her. She sings in my heart like an anthem of joy, a psalm of happiness, a hymn of wonder. I miss her in this blinding heat. I miss her fog, and damp, and her sharp breezes. I miss her, and I feel lost without her voice.

There is a dancer in my soul. She twists and turns and shimmies and pirouettes. So perfectly she spins.

And yet  I only want her when I think of her, only need her when I dream of her, only love her when she lets me. I long to become lost in her wild black hair, smell the sea on her white skin, kiss her gorgeous breasts beneath some wondrous full moon. It will silver her body and illuminate such tiny beads of perspiration and desire.

There is a dancer in my soul. I ache for her.

I can tell from the reference to wine, and the scrawl of the penmanship that I was not a little drunk.

I blinked back a tear when I found and read this today.

A tear for everyone who has ever loved.

And lost.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from the web



Posted by on January 5, 2014 in D/s, Lovers Past


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