Never call me ‘Daddy’

I do not expect

to be called

‘Master’

or ‘Sir’

unless

I have earned

your respect.

.

But never

ever

ever

call me ‘Daddy’.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Marina Marina

This post is a few years old, but forever true.

 

The nature of it

It is the nature

of his dark

D/s religion.

.

His to direct

hers to serve.

.

His to teach

hers to learn.

.

His to own

hers to belong.

.

Theirs to adore

and be adored.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Posted before, yet always true.

Art by Antonio Macedo

 

Never forget

I will never forget

the adrenaline rush

the catch of breath

the quickening pulse

the sense of destiny

when first you touched

this page.

.

And I will never forget

my overwhelming desire

to seduce

and steal

and secure

your secret

submissive soul.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Almost

If I close my eyes

I can almost

spirit you here

your beauty

your body

your smile

your scent

your heat.

.

But almost

isn’t anywhere

near here.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Casey Baugh

Written a few years ago. Yet almost is never near enough.

 

Sometimes Sundays

Sometimes Sundays are like this.

Quiet and easy. Music playing. An eclectic mix of new and old, blues and rock, opera and orchestral, R&B and jazz, folk and dance, rap and reggae. Music from every corner of the globe.

I have windows open to the world. Sounds from outside meet and mix with those within. The calling of birds, the baaing of sheep, neighing of horses, occasional barking of dogs. Sometimes a car. I live in the country among trees and hedges, fields and farms, hills and valleys, streams and secret places. Away from the grimy rush and flow of the city.

There is a stillness about today. It is in the light, in the air, in the breeze, in the quiet passing of time. It is in my thoughts. It is in my mind.

I burn patchouli and read poetry. I strum my old acoustic guitar, strings and frets familiar beneath my fingers.

I think of you. Your beauty and your smile. Sensual and warm. Your body. A heaven of curves.

I enjoy the ache. The longing. The yearning. Today it is not wild. Yet it is constant. An endless prayer of desire.

I write words. Some of which you will read.

The afternoon stretches and breathes.

I think of you.

Sometimes Sundays are like this.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Sea

Once upon a time

by the sea

where the water

kisses the sand

I held a perfect

salt-bleached shell

to my ear.

The voice I heard

from within

was yours.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Photography by Mira Nedyalkova

Not a brand new post. But when I listen again perhaps the voice I hear will be yours.

 

A thousand kisses

As I look

at your photograph

I imagine

gently lifting your chin

with the tips

of my long fingers

and placing

a tender kiss

in the perfect

scented hollow

of your elegant throat.

.

In my mind

it is the first

of a thousand

more kisses

to brush

and touch

and taste

and caress

over and over

every single inch

of your exquisite

skin.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This post a few years old – but a thousand kisses are at the ready.

Art by William Oxer

 

Heavenly as sin

 

She is pure

perfect

precious

pulchritude.

.

She is sensual

sublime

sexual

seduction.

.

She is heavenly

as sin.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Novice

She has seen too many summers to be completely innocent.

And yet he has made her so.

She is new, pristine, spotless.

She is pure, virtuous, chaste and naive.

She is unsullied, unblemished, undefiled.

She has become a neophyte, a learner, a beginner.

A novice on her first day, her white dress pressed and spotless, the hem gently brushing her bare legs.

She is his pupil, his student, his apprentice, his initiate.

She is his disciple, his follower, his protegé.

She is his slave, his angel, his goddess, his Muse.

In this quiet, holy, secret place, she kneels before him.

Her mind and body are burning.

She is ablaze with desire.

She is thirsty for knowledge.

She aches to learn every rule, every code, every facet, every element, every shade.

Every verse of his dark and decadent religion.

She is hungry for him to instruct her, to teach her, to guide her, to discipline her.

To show her a wild, breathless universe of pleasure and pain.

She wants him to do everything.

She is his.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Antonella Fabiani

Originally written by me six years ago and posted a number of times. I hope regular readers can bear another repeat. There is nothing like a beautiful novice.

 

Dangerous possibility

She knows

she should not let it

but it will

itch and ache

sigh and whisper

excite and arouse

until her mind is full

of dangerous possibility.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

A few years old – but always pertinent

Art by Emilia Wilk