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Category Archives: D/s

I will use you

Art by Marcos Beccari

I will use you

Every inch of you.

Your luscious skin, your gorgeous hair, your cheekbones, your eyes, your nose, your mouth. The elegant line of your jaw, your throat, your neck. Your sensual curves, The stunningly sexy shape of your breasts. Your nipples (so easily aroused).

Your back, your belly, your arse, your legs, your ankles, your calves, your thighs. Your arms, your hands, your fingers, your feet, your oh-so-prettily painted toes.

The delicate, exquisite, perfect folds of your sex.

I will use you.

Your glorious curve of your smile. The joyful, soft peal of your laughter. The way you move, the way you eat, the way you talk. The way you say my name. The way you dance. Oh god, the way you dance.

I will use you.

Your thoughts, your hopes, your dreams, your imagination. How you analyse, how you consider, how you (sometimes over) react. The way you care. Your honesty, your loyalty, your charity, your generosity, your charm. Your temper, your obstinacy, your tenacity, your strength. Your sometimes stubborn frown. Your warmth.

Your tears sliding hot and unchecked down your lovely face.

I will use you.

Your clothes, your shoes, your scent, your make up, your jewellery. The toys you keep at the back of a bedside drawer.

Your music, your books, your art, your films. The (often rubbish) things you watch on TV. Your work, your hobbies, your interests, your exercise. How you spend your days. Your food, your drink, your wine.

The things that excite you, arouse you, frighten you, sadden you, disturb you. The things that make you want to be hugged.

I will use you.

Every amazing, challenging, wonderful, infuriating, incredible, shy, breathtaking part of you.

Everything that makes you unique, rare and special.

I will use you.

And I will write you.

My heroine, my fantasy, my main protagonist, my key character.

The star of the show.

The woman at the very heart of it.

And you alone, all by yourself, will make it magnificent.

You will turn my untidy jumble of words

into a masterpiece.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written two years ago – yet there is always beauty to make into poetry

Art by Marcos Beccari

 
11 Comments

Posted by on August 19, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Wish it

 

If I could wish

hot summer

and you

bare-legged

short dress

high heels

cool room

brass bed

white sheets

hair wild

body mine

then I would

wish it

right now.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I have posted this before – but it fits on a hot, hungry summer’s day.

Art by Annick Bouvattier

 

 
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Posted by on August 5, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Ready

Art by Jimmy Law

She has discovered him.

She has watched him, studied him, scrutinised him, reviewed him, analysed him.

She has surveyed him, evaluated him, interpreted him, considered him.

She has pondered, reflected and deliberated.

She has read him carefully.

She has nervously sipped at the heady wine of his dark religion.

She has tasted it on her tongue, held it in her mouth, felt it slide down her throat.

She has felt dizzy at his power, his control, his command.

She has begun to understand the nature and strength of her own self, her own needs, her own desires..

She is ready for his seduction, his instruction, his domination.

She is ready to be his.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this almost exactly two years ago – reposted because I like it.

Art by Jimmy Law

 
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Posted by on August 2, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Glow

 

She knows

he wants her

in his dark

dominant

poetic way

and it makes her

shiver

and glow.

 

But mainly glow.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Carrie Graber

 

 

 
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Posted by on August 1, 2018 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Sleeping Beauty

Photography by Tiffany Zettlemoyer

She is sleeping

Her breathing is shallow. Her chest rises and falls. He counts the seconds and studies her for signs of waking.

There are none.

He says her name. Softly.

Again. A little louder. But still quietly. He does not really want her to stir.

He gently takes her hand in his. It is small, and soft, and cool. Her fingers lie over his. They are quiet and still. His thumb and forefinger circle her wrist. He can feel her pulse. He imagines it quickening, but he cannot be sure. He lowers her hand to the bed.

She is beautiful. Her hair is raven black against her pale skin. Her lips are perfectly formed and ruby-red. She is wearing a pure white dress that is fitted at the breast, tight at the waist, and clinging to her hips. Sleeping Beauty

He knows he should kiss her, rouse her from her slumber, bring her back to consciousness.

But her still and perfect form has mesmerised him, captivated him, bewitched him. He feels himself harden as he moves towards her. He murmurs her name again. His throat stifles the sound.

He reaches out and with almost trembling fingers he strokes her cheek. Her skin is warm to his touch.

She does not stir.

He carefully undoes the first of the buttons. And then another. And a third. The gorgeous swell of her breasts makes him dizzy with desire.

At the sixth button, as the material begins to peel open, he realises she is naked underneath.

……………………

She is not sleeping.

She senses him standing by the narrow bed, gazing at her. She knows his eyes are upon her, taking in every curve, and every line. She waits. And tries to control her breathing.

She focuses on keeping perfectly still.

She hears him say her name. Twice. She ignores it, forbidding her eyelids to flicker.

He picks up her hand. His sudden touch in the darkness almost makes her flinch with surprise. His fingers are long and thin. She fears he will feel her pulse race crazily as his thumb presses against her flesh. He releases her gently, and she knows.

She is certain about what is going to happen when she hears her name a third time, and it is said like a faint prayer in a hoarse and caressing whisper.

His touch upon her cheek is like fire. She almost gasps at her own arousal.

He begins to undo the buttons of her dress.

Achingly.

Tantalizingly.

Deliciously slowly.

This is heaven.

She will not wake now..

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by Tiffany Zettlemoyer

This is not new, I wrote it some time ago. But I like it, it has proved popular (sometimes controversial)  – and so I hope you can forgive it’s regular July outing.

 
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Posted by on July 30, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Gardener

eden-12

 

Sometimes she thinks he is a priest.

Or a professor, or a doctor, or a therapist.

Sometimes she thinks he is a teacher

or a shaman, or a philosopher, or a guide.

But sometimes she thinks he is a gardener

carefully sowing a decadent seed

a dark idea

a dangerous desire.

that takes root wickedly

and grows wildly

and constantly

inside her

 

until she can think

of nothing else.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written two years ago – but a gardener’s work is never done

Photograph by Liliroze Photography

 
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Posted by on July 29, 2018 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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All afternoon

bondage_by_neil__whiteley-d5b3wjd

A cool, darkened room.

Outside the sun is blistering the wooden shutters. Narrow shafts of light sear between the wood, striping the walls and ceiling.

And streaming all over you.

They band your body, striping you cream and coffee coloured

You are naked, face up, on the white-sheeted bed.

You are stretched out in a star shape. Your wrists and ankles are secured to the four corners by ropes through steel D rings on strong black leather cuffs. The bindings permit little movement. No matter how hard you tug and strain against them

You have been here for almost an hour. I have caressed you, kissed you, licked you, stroked you. I have nibbled you, kneaded you, and lightly scratched you. I have teased you with my pin wheel, with a soft brush, with a scarf of silk, and with my twelve stranded flogger, trailed over your skin.

And with two of the dozen toys that I have carefully arranged on the oak bedside table.

I have a vintage Hitachi wand in my right hand. It whirrs rather noisily yet it is a faithful servant. I am applying it expertly to your already swollen and glistening sex. With my left hand I am tugging and pinching your hard-as-berry nipples. Your body is bucking and arching, wanting to push away from the wand’s relentless, dimpled, vibrating touch yet at the same time to thrust yourself against it.

Your breathing is urgent and hard. You are panting and crying, sighing and moaning. I know you are desperate to speak, to shout something at me. But you do not. I have forbidden you words.

Your body is dancing now. Strands of your hair are damp and clinging with perspiration. Your face is suffused and flushed with deep arousal. Your eyes roll back. Your mouth is open.

Your muscles tighten. You shudder. The orgasm reverberates through you.

It is your third climax.

The toy continues to send spasms through you. You make small noises of protestation. I smile. After a while I switch it off and idly but dangerously trail my fingers over your inner thighs.

I consider which device to use next.

Later I will reposition you face down.

Later still I will fuck you. Hard.

I have all afternoon ahead of me.

I am torturing you with pleasure.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph by Neil Whiteley

I wrote this around this time four years ago. But perhaps new readers will enjoy …

 
5 Comments

Posted by on July 28, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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