Sometimes
this flame
attracts
the curious
the flirtatious
and the bored.
Seldom
this flame
attracts
a rarity
to be captured
directed
and adored.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by William Oxer
Author Archives: Romantic Dominant
Beautiful Thief
You are a beautiful thief
You steal my time
You steal my balance
You steal my attention
You steal my concentration
You steal my sleep.
You are a beautiful thief.
You take my breath away.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by William Oxer
Written around this time a couple of years ago. But there is sometimes such a thief about…..
‘Like’
There is no
‘Like’
I long to see
bestowed
upon this untidy
inelegant
tangle
of random words
more fervently
more ardently
more deeply
than yours.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not new but true
Art by Dan Witz
Permission
She knows
for him
she will do
all the good
bad
dark
sensual
erotic
forbidden things
she has always
wanted to do
but needed
both permission
and instruction.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not a brand new post, but a true one.
Art by Talentbek Chekirov
Words
Today I have
words to write
words to read
words to learn
words to sharpen
words to hone
words to borrow
words to follow
words to choose
words to lose
but the best
of words
I save
for you.
,
,
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by William Oxer
Dizzy
Dizzy with desire
she trails her fingers
from the hollow of her throat
over the yearning ache of her breasts
down the sweet mound of her belly
and between her parted thighs
to her slick and swollen sex.
She imagines they are his fingers
finding her hungry
and wet.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Serge Marshennikov
I have posted this a few times. But felt it could cope with a repost.
She has it
He adores women.
Their curves, their elegance, the softness of their silky skin. The way their bodies sway when they walk, Their sense of humour, their warmth, their generosity, their clear, incisive intelligence.
He adores their hair, their eloquent eyes, the hallowed velvet of their throat, the aching sensuality of their thighs.
He adores their femininity, their courage, their balance, their insanity. The way they talk so intimately amongst themselves.
He adores their resilience, their vulnerability. their anger, their passion, their truth and their lies.
He adores their motherhood, their sisterhood, their sainthood, He adores their independence, their sociability, their ability to survive.
He adores the fact that he finds them all so desperately, outrageously fucking sexy.
And yet there is something. Something that turns adoration into hungry desire.
Something intangible, wild, expressive, beautiful, endearing, submissive, strong and utterly mesmerizing that compels him. Something that captivates him completely.
She has it.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Francine van Hove
I originally posted this seven years ago. It is my hymn to women in general. Although when it was written it may well have been for one in particular. And who knows, it might even be for one now.
Someone
There is always
someone
who is our weakness
Always someone
who breaks through
all our defences.
Always someone
who leaves us
breathless.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by William Oxer
Tale of a Dominant – Part Two
The candle has burnt down low.
The bar is close to empty. It is late. The waitress is hovering near the table with the bill, He motions to her with a raised eyebrow and a smile. She places l’addition on a white saucer with two small squares of gold-wrapped chocolate.
The girl opposite him runs her hands through her long black hair and stretches back in her chair. It is almost provocative.
His eyes flick over her body appreciatively and return to her face. He stares into her eyes. She doesn’t look away. They are both more than a little drunk.
She feels she knows everything about him. He has answered her questions all evening. About his lovers, About D/s, his rules, the cities and the hotel suites, the romance, the shadows and the dancers. His briefcase full of ropes and bindings, toys and instruments. The reasons behind it all. His adoration, his admiration, and his love of women. Of some women in particular.
She has captured his velvet voice on her recorder.
And yet, although he has been the one telling his story, she feels as if it is her soul that has been stripped bare.
He punches the PIN into the card machine with long slender fingers, and it is time to go. He hands her both of the chocolates. She slips them into her bag. She knows they are destined to sit uneaten on her dressing table forever.
Much later that night, with the dawn creeping softly over the silent sea, she slips naked from his bed. She is careful not to wake him. In the pale light she re-reads the note he gave her, written in his distinctive hand, in dark midnight-blue ink.
I remember them all.
The beauties, the heroines, the angels. The wide-eyed girls in their best party frocks. The bold but trembling women in their gorgeous. silk gowns.
The waifs and the strays. The wild and the hungry. The creative and the eloquent. The sacred and the profane.
Tiger Cub, Rebecca, Jenny, Beauty, Angel, Hermosa, Lindsay, and the rest. The sweet submissives who have perfumed my nights and made wonderful my days.
I remember them all.
You are the last.
It is the end.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
But is it/was it the end?
Art by Fabian Perez
Tale of a Dominant – Part One
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, indicating disapproval. 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 a woman slowly, body and soul. To explore every inch of her. To give her pleasure and pain. To have her in my power. To enjoy her completely. To possess her.
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. Among 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 soft 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 she 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?’ 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
I originally wrote this in September 2013. It was an idea for a book based upon a similar true event, which I eventually never wrote. I penned and posted a short Part Two, and finished it at that point. Perhaps it would have been worth continuing ….It has proved vaguely popular when I have posted here in the past, so I have posted again.
Art by Fabian Perez
