Solstice

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

Art by Trudy Good

It would seem timely to resurrect this old post of mine.

 

In wait

Sun on my skin

eyes closed

birds singing

insects humming

breeze whispering

and my restless

hungry

Dominant soul

waiting

for you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant.

Written a couple of years ago. But in wait …

Art by William Oxer

 

I will not miss you

I will not miss you

I will not miss you when winter darkens the sky and snowflakes kiss my skin. When the fire burns bright in the hearth and the candles flicker their yearning ghosts upon the wall.

I will not miss you when spring breaks the soil with green, and silently buds the shivering trees. When pale hearts are made bold by the rising sap and cupid’s sweet festival.

I will not miss you when summer spreads itself before me in wild and glorious heat. When my skin feels the sun caressing it like a lover, like an angel, like a pretty girl.

I will not miss you when autumn reminds me of solemn promise stolen by sad circumstance. When the rain trickles down my cheeks and beneath my collar and hides my stupid tears.

I will not miss you

I will not miss you

I will not miss you

.

,

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this ages ago and had forgotten it, but it turned up exactly one year ago when I was looking for something else. On a grey and miserable day I thought it deserved a fresh airing.

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

Words in the rain

Thunder rumbles again.

The day has darkened and rain is falling. Pale silver threads against a backdrop of green-black trees.

It is June. Only days away from the solstice. Here in leafy England, the nights will soon begin their slow, steady, inevitable drawing in.

The sun shone bravely this morning. In my secluded, fragrant garden, I sipped tea and listened to bees buzzing, to the gurgle of water in the pond, and to an insistent song in my head that would not stop playing.

And now, at my ancient oak desk in this far more ancient room, on this quiet, directionless, stranded afternoon, I cannot remember the words.

I want to write, but I have no words at all.

I notice I have just absent-mindedly typed your name onto the page. I stare at it in pleased surprise. It is as if you had just whispered my name. I delete it. You are beyond secrecy. Only you will ever know about you.

The thunder is closer.

It sounds like warfare, the moving of celestial furniture, the roaring of mythical gods. Unexpectedly a bird is singing in the midst of it all.

I think about you. Not in any structured way. Where you are. What you are doing. What you are wearing. What you are thinking.

I hope, hopelessly, it is about me.

I think about your beauty, your body, your eyes, your mouth, the elegance of your shoulders, the shape of your breasts. For a few moments, my mind wanders down paths divinely carnal. I sigh at my own predictability. And at the holding of my breath.

You are so far away. Always.

The thunder is passing. Weakening, Grumbling and groaning in a more distant part of the sky. The rain is easing. The single bird has become a small chorus.

I stare at my page. I have written nothing.

But, sweet angel, I wrote it for you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written in a different June

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Incendiary

How can one define attraction?

I look at you and I am entranced.

A beautiful face. A gorgeous body.

A clever, creative, independent mind.

A generous heart. A submissive sexual soul.

I do not know if the rest of the world sees you as I see you.

I do not care.

To me, you are so incendiary

you could burn your way

out of Hell.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by Mark Velasquez. Model is Ashley Amarillas

I posted this some years ago. I can still be set on fire.

 

Dark secret

They share a secret.

A delicious, dirty, decadent secret.

It dances dangerously between them.

It is desperately dreamy with adoration.

It is dark with discipline, direction and dominance.

It is delicate, delightful and deep.

It drips

with desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written some time ago – but aren’t there always secrets?

Art by Ibrahem Swaid

 

Cover

She captures

her image

for me

on her phone

and cannot

help looking

like the cover

of Vogue.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not brand new, but true

Art by Louis Treserras

 

Something for her

She wishes he would write something for her.

A fantasy of endless, velvet, star-filled skies.

Of a wild, round, luminous moon hanging like a silver lantern. Of a warm, perfumed breeze stroking her hair and tugging gently at her dress.

Of the distant strains of a yearning, lone violin fading and rising through the whispering trees.

Of his hands releasing the pale silk gown from her eloquent shoulders, and it running off her naked body like a caress and falling with a sigh at her feet.

Of her perfect, dangerous, wondrous curves laid out by him on a cool, crisp white linen sheet. Of her arms and legs stretched wide. Of his tongue, his lips, his fingers over every inch of her tingling skin, upon her sensual mouth, her exquisite breasts, and her urgent, swollen, fragrant sex.

Of him filling her with pleasure, with joy, and with himself.

In every way.

.

She wishes he would write something for her.

He just has.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

I wrote and posted this seven years ago, and a few times since. Definitely the Romantic side of RD. I am rather fond of it. I hope regular readers do not mind the repeat

 

Holy sin

Eyes to lips

throat to breasts

belly to hips.

Arse to thighs

hair to skin.

You are holy.

You are sin.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a brand new post but sometimes I find holy sin

Art by William Oxer

 

In my youth

A girl like you.

In my youth I would have fought other boys for the right to walk you home. Wearing the scars like a badge. Or I would have wandered backwards and forwards past your house, hoping to catch a glimpse of you at a window. Or long for you to see me, a shadowy figure beneath the street light, and think me romantic.

In my youth I would have carved presumptuous initials into innocent trees, into battered park benches, into tables, and desks, and the backs of chairs – not caring if I was caught. Or that you would disapprove if you knew.

In my youth I would have sought you out at dances, making a mess of my over-rehearsed lines. I would have asked a friend to give you messages – which you would probably receive with a frown.

In my youth I would have made up a hundred heroic stories in my head where I come to your rescue. Saving you from the clutches of the mob, the grip of an assailant, the jaws of death. Or perhaps just finding your lost dog.

In my youth I would have written you tortured poems, toiled over for hours, scrawled on stolen paper, that would never leave the pocket of my faded denim jeans.

In my youth I would have wished for the internet, if I could have seen into the future.

Yet here I am. Connection at my fingertips. Posting pointless poetry.

That you will probably never read

A girl like you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written some years ago, and I am still posting pointless poetry.

Art by Annick Bouvattier