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Category Archives: Lovers Past

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.

.

.

Part One

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

But is it/was it the end?

Art by Fabian Perez

 
6 Comments

Posted by on October 6, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past, Uncategorized

 

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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

 
 

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Special indeed

 

She is special

indeed

the beautiful

intelligent

curious

submissive girl

who longs to be

lit bright

in the distant

adoring spotlight

of my delicious

dark, decadent

desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago. Such a girl is always special.

Art by William Oxer

 
2 Comments

Posted by on October 4, 2020 in D/s, Lovers Past, Poetry

 

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I will not miss you

Altar of Worship

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 this morning when I was looking for something else. On a grey and miserable day I thought it deserved a fresh airing.

Art by Jack Vettriano

 
10 Comments

Posted by on June 18, 2020 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Thursday’s Child

 

Thursday’s Child

.

Well, I hear that you have been travelling

with a friend in an open-topped car,

and you revealed to him all your secrets

and you showed him your operation scar.

You painted his name on your mirror

with a lipstick glossy and red,

and you posed for imaginary photos

in the warm nest of your unmade bed..

.

He sent you a handful of spidery poems

that you captured with pins on your wall,

I read them when you were sleeping

and they seemed to make no sense at all.

Yet you recite them when you are bathing,

trailing your sharp nails over your thighs,

and you emerge mysterious and glowing

with a wild, vacant look in your eyes.

.

There is more to this than just attraction

or some strange late night trick of the light,

and you shouldn’t be reading his memoirs

in a dress that is so transparent and white.

And I fear that you’ve sensed a religion

in the casual, brave cut of his coat,

as you kneel so sublime at his alter

clasping tight all the letters he wrote.

.

Now I hear you’ve constructed a bonfire

from the things your sweet mother knew best,

and that you comfort his wide-eyed supporters

who sleep with their hands on your breasts.

But you never once give them the shelter

they crave when the light has grown dim,

and while you suffer the press of their bodies

you save all your mystery for him.

.

I miss you when the round moon is sailing,

I feel your caress in the turn of the tide.

it is as constant as the ache in my shoulders,

It is the sharp stabbing pain of your knife.

And oh, how I hunger for you to be near me,

your peeled clothes like a sea at your feet,

your pale skin tasting of salt and seaweed.

I’m a slave to your scent and your heat.

.

But if I plead with him to release you,

with just a snap of his finger and thumb

will you forget his smooth benediction,

or the velvet magic of his silver tongue?

.

.

I apologise to regular readers who have read this often – but it has been a year since the last posting. This is one of favourite my ‘performance’ poems. In fact it might even be one of the poems I am most proud of having written. And it was written many years ago. It started out as a song but I struggled to develop a chorus.  As I said, It has appeared in many places. I have posted it a number of times here before when this blog was even less popular than it is now.  It tells a story that was inspired by (my) real life events.  Because it is penned in the first person, the reader/listener tends to think that the narrator is writing about himself. Actually I was the writer of the ‘handful of spidery poems’.  

Do listen to the audio – it was a poem that is meant to be read aloud.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photography by Ines Rehberg.   Model is Megan Szczypka. I chose this photo because she is not unlike the female subject of the poem

 
4 Comments

Posted by on March 21, 2020 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Next Best Thing

 

It was perpetual summer, richly fragrant with potent mary jane and pungent patchouli.

I was sixteen.

She was two years older – so far out of my league that she should never have even noticed me.  And yet somehow I was there, amazed at my good fortune, hopelessly in love with her, and in complete awe of her friends. They were ultra-hip, achingly cool and comfortably rich.

Whereas I owned the Levi’s I stood up in, a couple of faded shirts, a borrowed guitar, and my notebook of spidery poems.

There was a gentle candle-lit dinner party in one of daddy’s spare houses.  The room was beamed and flagged and full of style and music. I was a pretty boy – an amusing novelty to wear like a trinket on her arm.  Although I never realised that at the time.

The conversation turned to views of what a perfect partner might be.  She waxed lyrical about what would excite her.  Intelligence, a sense of humour, a slim, slender physique, a writer, a revolutionary, a mass of golden curls, eyes that could both command and romance.  I swear she was looking at me. I thought she was talking about me.  I was young, proud and special.  I had smoked perhaps a little too much dope.

‘Thank you.’ I said, when she had finished.

There was a moment of stunned silence before the table erupted with mocking laughter.  She reached across and patted my hand.

‘Oh, darling boy.  Did you think I meant you?’

I lowered my eyes, blushing fiercely, almost tearful at my own stupidity.

‘Don’t worry,’ she consoled me. ‘you are the next best thing.’  There was more laughter.

It was an instructive and humbling moment that I promised myself I would never forget.

It still lives on, all these years later, in my e-mail address:

nextthing@_________

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I first posted this in 2012 writing about a memory of my teens that never faded. I suspect we have all had moments like these in our formative years

Photograph by Matt Eaton

 
11 Comments

Posted by on February 11, 2020 in Lovers Past, Still Life

 

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Flown past

 

I have been reading

our past

our dim distant past

captured like photographs

running like video clips

repeating like gifs

fading on pages

that were new

at the time.

 

I have been reading

backwards and forwards

endless conversations

desires and wishes

tears and kisses

endings and silence

promises

to remember

and to never forget.

 

I have been reading

when I should have

been writing.

 

I have been reading

and the time

has flown past.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I first posted this around this time two years ago.  It was a reflective time then, and it is now. So I have posted it again.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 
6 Comments

Posted by on February 10, 2020 in D/s, Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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I wrote poems for you

 

I wrote poems for you

.

I wrote poems for you.

Some were bold, burnished, bright.

They praised your beauty, your body.

Burning for your

brilliant mind.

.

I wrote poems for you.

Some were sweet, silky, soft.

They were sensual, sexual, seductive.

Seeking to steal

your sacred heart.

.

I wrote poems for you.

Some were yearning, wanting, craving.

They were aching, thirsting, needing,

Longing to draw you

into my arms.

.

I wrote poems for you.

But they were just wasted

unwanted words.

You were always

someone else’s girl.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This the fourth outing for this poem written four years ago – no reason for reposting, except that I like it.

Art by Fabian Perez

 
4 Comments

Posted by on March 20, 2019 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Thursday’s Child

 

Thursday’s Child

.

Well, I hear that you have been travelling

with a friend in an open-topped car,

and you revealed to him all your secrets

and you showed him your operation scar.

You painted his name on your mirror

with a lipstick glossy and red,

and you posed for imaginary photos

in the warm nest of your unmade bed..

.

He sent you a handful of spidery poems

that you captured with pins on your wall,

I read them when you were sleeping

and they seemed to make no sense at all.

Yet you recite them when you are bathing,

trailing your sharp nails over your thighs,

and you emerge mysterious and glowing

with a wild, vacant look in your eyes.

.

There is more to this than just attraction

or some strange late night trick of the light,

and you shouldn’t be reading his memoirs

in a dress that is so transparent and white.

And I fear that you’ve sensed a religion

in the casual, brave cut of his coat,

as you kneel so sublime at his alter

clasping tight all the letters he wrote.

.

Now I hear you’ve constructed a bonfire

from the things your sweet mother knew best,

and that you comfort his wide-eyed supporters

who sleep with their hands on your breasts.

But you never once give them the shelter

they crave when the light has grown dim,

and while you suffer the press of their bodies

you save all your mystery for him.

.

I miss you when the round moon is sailing,

I feel your caress in the turn of the tide.

it is as constant as the ache in my shoulders,

It is the sharp stabbing pain of your knife.

And oh, how I hunger for you to be near me,

your peeled clothes like a sea at your feet,

your pale skin tasting of salt and seaweed.

I’m a slave to your scent and your heat.

.

But if I plead with him to release you,

with just a snap of his finger and thumb

will you forget his smooth benediction,

or the velvet magic of his silver tongue?

.

.

I apologise to regular readers who have read this often – but it has been a year since the last posting. This is one of favourite my ‘performance’ poems. In fact it might even be one of the poems I am most proud of having written. And it was written many years ago. It started out as a song but I struggled to develop a chorus.  As I said, It has appeared in many places. I have posted it a number of times here before when this blog was even less popular than it is now.  It tells a story that was inspired by (my) real life events.  Because it is penned in the first person, the reader/listener tends to think that the narrator is writing about himself. Actually I was the writer of the ‘handful of spidery poems’.  

Do listen to the audio – it was a poem that is meant to be read aloud.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photography by Ines Rehberg.   Model is Megan Szczypka. I chose this photo because she is not unlike the female subject of the poem

 
6 Comments

Posted by on March 14, 2019 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Next Best Thing

 

It was perpetual summer, richly fragrant with potent mary jane and pungent patchouli.

I was sixteen.

She was two years older – so far out of my league that she should never have even noticed me.  And yet somehow I was there, amazed at my good fortune, hopelessly in love with her, and in complete awe of her friends. They were ultra hip, achingly cool and comfortably rich.

Whereas I owned the Levi’s I stood up in, a couple of faded shirts, a borrowed guitar, and my notebook of spidery poems.

There was a gentle candle-lit dinner party in one of daddy’s spare houses.  The room was beamed and flagged and full of style and music. I was a pretty boy – an amusing novelty to wear like a trinket on her arm.  Although I never realised that at the time.

The conversation turned to views of what a perfect partner might be.  She waxed lyrical about what would excite her.  Intelligence, a sense of humour, a slim, slender physique, a writer, a revolutionary, a mass of golden curls, eyes that could both command and romance.  I swear she was looking at me. I thought she was talking about me.  I was young, proud and special.  I had smoked perhaps a little too much dope.

‘Thank you.’ I said, when she had finished.

There was moment of stunned silence before the table erupted with mocking laughter.  She reached across and patted my hand.

‘Oh, darling boy.  Did you think I meant you?’

I lowered my eyes, blushing fiercely, almost tearful at my own stupidity.

‘Don’t worry,’ she consoled me. ‘you are the next best thing.’  There was more laughter.

It was an instructive and humbling moment that I promised myself I would never forget.

It still lives on, all these years later, in my e-mail address:

nextthing@_________

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I first posted this in 2012 writing about a memory of my teens that never faded. I suspect we have all had moments like these in our formative years

Photograph by Matt Eaton

 
2 Comments

Posted by on February 11, 2019 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,