Monthly Archives: January 2015


Loui Jover _artodyssey (19)

It has taken me at least a hundred lifetimes to get you out of my system.

I have known you forever. Adored you forever. Wanted you forever.

Different names. Different places. Different times.

A dozen centuries or more. Always you.

Your beauty, your body, your soul,

Winning you, Owning you,

Then losing you.

And now

you are




© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Loui Jover


Posted by on January 31, 2015 in Lovers Past, Still Life


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Holding On


The days slide away.

They hold on

They hang on to each other as best they can. They clutch at hope like shipwrecked sailors cling to familiar fragments of their broken ship. They imagine land as paradise as every wave rises and falls.

They whisper promises. They paint possibilities. Yet they try to be gentle in their expectations.

They hold back their desire in dams of denial. They numb their needs. They leash their longing. They suppress their sexual sighs in sad silence.

They want it so badly.

But the uncertain days, the empty nights, the fading light, and the hole in the middle of everything, is weakening their grip.

They know that, at any moment, one of them might give up,

And let go.

They know it will hurt. but they don’t know how much.

The days slide past

They hold on.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph stolen from ShanaArielle


Posted by on January 30, 2015 in Still Life


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Than this



Than This


There is nothing

I want more

than this.


Your hair

a dark storm

on a white sheet.


Your body


beneath my hands.


Your heart

beating fast

for this moment.


There is nothing

I want more

than you.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

art by Loui Jover


Posted by on January 28, 2015 in D/s, Poetry


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What he has done to her

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 from a private source, used by kind permission.

This piece was written about a year ago. I have used the excuse of adding audio to justify a repost.
A woman’s climax has always fascinated and aroused me.There is nothing more satisfying, rewarding and thrilling for a man than to be the cause of his lover’s orgasm – in whatever way he can bring it about.


Posted by on January 26, 2015 in D/s, Erotica


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Picture on her profile


Her picture on her profile.

It began with that.

His long finger was arrested in its lazy, languid, bored downwards scroll by her image.

A slight intake of breath. An appreciative lift of the eyebrows. A smile. An impossible sense of recognition.

He did not know her, but she seemed familiar.

He studied her face. The eyes, the mouth, the nose, the cheekbones.

He stroked the stubble on his chin, and leaned forward slightly in his chair.

With his eyes closed he imagined her.  And he could picture her completely in his head.

He guided the cursor and clicked the ‘follow’ button.

Her picture on her profile.

It began with that.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

The photograph is obviously of the incredibly talented and very lovely Lana Del Rey. For many reasons she, and this picture, were perfect as an illustration for the post. It is used without permission, but I am sure she will not mind.





Posted by on January 23, 2015 in Still Life


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And never was


I knew her name

And I knew what it meant in her mother tongue.

I knew her beauty. The eloquent eyes, the exquisite lips, the purity of her skin, the rich, lustrous black hair. The rise of her cheekbones and proud set of her nose

I knew her shape. The body of a dancer, a model, a girl. A walking fantasy to turn heads.

I knew a little of her mind. Her sharp awareness, her bold intelligence, her sense of humanity. I knew some of her hopes and fears.

And I knew the dark fantasies she never shared with anyone.

I knew too there was a gulf between us that would never be bridged.

I knew when I had lost her. Before she had even found the words.

Yet it is not what was lost that leaves my heart so bruised and bare.

It is what might have been

and never was.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

 Art by Loui Jover


Posted by on January 20, 2015 in D/s, Lovers Past


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On Pornography

An Imperfect Past II

I have never quite understood visual pornography.

Images, moving or otherwise, of the coupling and diverse sexual activity of complete strangers has no power to excite me. Explicit photographic captures of unknown naked women do not arouse me.

Perhaps it is because I have no interest in the bodies of people who I do not know.  Without context, without character, without motivation, without history, without true desire, without an understanding of the intelligence and sensitivity and emotions of another, what value is there in an artlessly over-exposed exterior? What pleasure is there in another’s random fuck?

It could be argued that at times I have created my own very private pornography, capturing the image of submissive lovers on film and video.  Or having them create such images for me.  But the erotic power is in the whole, in the person, in the circumstances, in the relationship, in the passion, in the intimacy, and in the romance.  It is because of who they are and what they mean to me that inspires and thrills me. It is what we both felt before, during and after. Their body, their soul, and the moment are one.

It is a far cry from that which, for me, stimulates no more than a yawn and a mild sense of perplexity.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

I actually first posted this two years ago. I know many will disagree with me. But some may see my point of view…


Posted by on January 19, 2015 in Erotica, Still Life


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