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Category Archives: Erotica

Every day

Her desire

for his darkness

becomes more

dangerous

delicious

decadent

deep

and dirty

every day.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Hamish Blakely

 
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Posted by on November 9, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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Some women wear heels

art-by-paul-kelley

Some women wear heels

like a foal

taking its first brave steps

wobbly and uncertain

yet somehow

sweetly elegant.

Some women wear heels

with sensual

feline grace

and a perfect

beautiful certainty

that takes my breath away.

I adore both.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I wrote this some years ago. I still adore both.

Art by Paul Kelley

 
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Posted by on November 8, 2021 in Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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Long Night

They are alone.

No outside sound can disturb this stillness. No alien light can penetrate this darkness.

He touches her skin. She catches her breath.

He moves his slender fingers lightly across her cheek. Over her lips. It tingles like electricity. She parts them the width of a sigh. He feels her breath like a whisper.

He gently strokes the underside of her jaw. Fingers and thumb go either side of her throat. Her pulse is as rapid as the beating heart of a small bird. He squeezes almost imperceptibly. She raises her chin and leans slightly into his hand.

He releases her. With the palest of caresses, he navigates the curve of her breast. He circles the areola, the miniature terrain like braille. He finds her nipple hard and urgent. He teases it. She swears she can feel the raised, complicated whorl of his fingerprint.

Index and thumb again, like a pincer, capture the perfect rosebud. He tugs gently. She moans close to his ear. She is hungry. He tightens his grip. She feels it like fire. It tracks in a line of pure white heat down her belly and deep into the heart of her sex. She is wet. Tighter still and the pain is impossible pleasure. She wants him to stop – but never.

He lowers his mouth onto hers. She gasps into it as another intense wave thrills through her body. She thrusts herself against him. Wishing her hands were free, yet glad they are not. Needing muscle, needing bone, needing his hand, needing his cock to satisfy her delicious, frantic, gorgeous yearning.

There is no light. No sound.

Only them.

And the long night.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Some time ago I was going through my old words and found this – written around this time eight years ago. I like it. I hope you enjoy it.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 
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Posted by on November 4, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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Whatever I do

Music and writing

acting and directing

Pilates and exercising

rambling and hiking

exploring and skiing

reading and watching

eating and drinking

driving and meeting

dressing and showering

sleeping and waking

whatever I do

I cannot stop thinking

about you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not brand new. But whatever I do …

Art by William Oxer

 
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Posted by on November 3, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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What he has done to her

Art by William Oxer

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/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 
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Posted by on November 1, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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… even the Wolf

art-by-ryan-pancoast

In this season of fairytale and legend, he paints himself as almost a hero.

He imagines himself snatching the poisoned apple from the rose-red lips of the raven-haired princess with the snow-white skin and replacing it with an urgent kiss from his own hungry mouth.

He dreams of braving the vicious thorns of imprisoning briar to lift the unmoving but gorgeous living body of the sleeping beauty from out of her silent coffin.  To carry her to some safe and secret place and wake her with the heat of his breath upon her barely-pulsing, newly-naked throat.

He sees himself placing the glass shoe on the delicate foot of the young. innocent, badly treated servant girl and claiming her wide-eyed perfection, pulchritude, purity and submission for always.

Yet the girl he really wants – the angel in the red hooded cloak –  knows him as the dangerous creature of which her mother has warned.  He is the restless stranger with poetry in his notebook, desire in his heart, and a world of darkness in his soul.

It is true that his teeth and claws can be sharp and he has such a decadent yet eloquent hunger.

But now, in these fading days and threadbare nights, even the wolf yearns only to be loved.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Ryan Pancoast

It has now become a tradition for me to re-post this on or near Halloween. It does not fit with either the pagan origins or the current commercial frenzy for this ancient festival, but it is probably about as fairytale as I get. Although I do have a fondness for Sleeping Beauty.

 
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Posted by on October 31, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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You can call it

You can call it

a deep crush

or a lasting lust

or an endless

infatuation

or a breathless

adoration

but none describe

its wonder

and power.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 
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Posted by on October 30, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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The heart of my desire

I was born this way.

Beauty enthrals me

intelligence excites me

sexual submission

thrills me.

Control

is at the heart

of my desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Steve Hanks

 
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Posted by on October 28, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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So bad

Art by William Oxer

I think of you.

Your hair, face, eyes, mouth and nose.

Your shoulders, collar bones, throat and neck.

Your arms, wrists, hands and fingers.

Your breasts, belly, hips, and arse.

The holy mound of your sacred sex.

.

I think of you.

Your thighs, knees, shins and calves

Your ankles, your feet, your toes.

.

I think of you.

Your scent, your skin, your heat.

.

I think of you.

I think of the way your body

would feel

pressed naked

against mine.

.

I think of you

and I want you

so bad.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 
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Posted by on October 27, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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Stable (yet again)

naked girl on horse

 

Stable

.

We shall meet

in the close, cramped,

tack-room dark where,

for almost an hour

I have shared the tight space

with saddles and hats,

bridles & bits.

.

The pungent odour

of horse and leather

and something sweeter

has made me heady,

has made me dizzy,

has made me hard

and tight in my jeans.

Waiting for you.

.

I can hear the horse

in the next stall

noisily shifting

his fifteen hands

on thin, muscular legs.

Hooves striking concrete

through soft smelling straw.

.

Your favourite mount

is soft mouthed

and compliant,

alert and responsive

to your hand on his flanks,

and your weight on his back,

your legs astride,

your legs open wide,

open so wide,

forgive me,

so wide.

.

I am leaning against

a smooth wooden table.

In the musty dark

my fingers have found

a dozen deep carvings

of passion and lust,

scratched in the wood,

ingrained with dust.

Names and arrows

and irregular hearts.

I cannot find ours.

Why can’t I find ours?

.

The surface is full

of today’s coats and tack,

still damp from the hack

still fresh from your back.

My throat tightens

as I breath in your smell

and the muscles of my stomach

dance beneath my skin.

I want to begin.

I can’t wait to begin.

.

I have your crop

clutched firmly

in my hand.

It swishes and cuts

through the silence.

Tested on my thighs

its unexpected bite

makes me cry out aloud

With my eyes tight shut

I brush my face

with the whip,

with the loop at the tip.

I imagine its hiss,

its hot stinging kiss

its fierce burning kiss.

Just a flick of my wrist.

.

A rhythmic swishing

through the razor edged grass

signals your arrival.

Whinnying horses

confirm your presence.

And now, at this moment

my shirt feels clammy,

my breathing is unsteady.

My heart beat deafens.

I clutch at my chest

Be quiet.

Be quiet.

You must not hear me,

until I am ready.

Until I am ready.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I’m not sure where I found the photograph years ago, but to whomever, my apologies. I will remove it or credit it if you contact me.

Stable was inspired by my antique riding crop that I must admit in recent years has seen more action on delicious, submissive female behinds than on the flanks of equine mounts. My then lover was a keen rider and I remember waiting for her one early evening in that leather-rich tack room dark ….

Stable is one of my favourite ‘performance’ poems – by which I mean it was written to be spoken aloud rather than just read. Old blog friends will know this poem far too well but hopefully will allow me the indulgence of re-posting it once again. If it is the first time you have read/listened, then I hope you enjoy.

 
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Posted by on October 26, 2021 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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