Category Archives: Lovers Past

Hey, that’s no way to say goodbye

Art by Fabian Perez

Time has become liquid

There is seven of them. They have escaped work, the conference, the day. Comfortable in each other’s company. safe in the velvet night that hovers beyond the candle light, romantic at an outside table beneath the awning sky of a restaurant just off La Rambla. The evening is drenched in intimacy and alcohol. They are gently, sometimes noisily, submerged in a warm sea of easy acquaintance which sees them laugh, and chatter, and tell stories, and become friends.

It is getting late. It will be an early start for all of them to travel home to their various countries. Yet clocks mean nothing. They want the time to stretch and yawn, but not show its hands.

But they must go.

He starts to sing. An ancient Leonard Cohen song of leaving that he has known forever from someone else’s life. His voice is hesitant at first, but deep, rich and dark. The others are quiet. Perhaps they do not know the words, or are happy for him to touch the night with the poetry they feel. There is sorrow in the song, but gratitude for what has been shared.

Her voice joins his on the ‘many’ in the fifth line. It is pure and innocent and holy. It lilts and drifts above his own.  It harmonises and caresses and then soars and swoops. It glides and caresses, softens and lifts. It thrills the air, and him. She is an angel from a heavenly choir.

As she sings with him he watches her. Her green eyes stay on him, her brave, almost slavic features are heroic and lovely, bathed in the flickering light. A mane of thick blonde hair cascades over her shoulders as she tilts her head towards him.

They reach the close and improvise an ending which dances, then tumbles, falls, and finally soothes like a lullaby, achingly into silence.

It is a rare moment. There is a hushed, almost electric pause before the others applaud and nod appreciative heads. He smiles at her, and she smiles back.

They have become connected, combined, kindred, allied, confederate.



I will always remember the beauty of your voice, the magic of that moment, and the joy of our union that night.

And the memory

of ‘your hair upon the pillow, like a sleepy golden storm’.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

I first wrote and posted this two years ago. It recalls a true event that happened in my past. This song always reminds me of that night. I hope you enjoy it again. And this early recording of the song itself.


Posted by on August 23, 2016 in Lovers Past, Music, Still Life


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Mermaid Parade


Art by Matt Story

I had never heard of the Mermaid Parade

For those who do not know it, it takes place every year at the beginning of summer in Coney Island, New York. As well as the mainly marine costumes, it is also known for nudity. It features in this song (which is how I found out about it).

(This is another in my occasional series of music I like that you may not have heard).

This song is by Phosphorescent  (Matthew Houck) and was released in 2010. It touched me deeply for a number of reasons at the time, relating to my personal life. It is so sad. The last verse:

I know all about your new man
Your new, older, old man
And I heard that he’s married,
Oh, you be careful Amanda.
Yeah, I found a new friend too,
And yeah she’s pretty and she’s small,
But God damn it, Amanda,
Oh, God damn it all.

always still me out – although the context and meaning is unique to my situation.

I hope you enjoy.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Words and music by Phosphorescent

Art by Matt Story


Posted by on July 31, 2016 in Lovers Past, Music


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All afternoon


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 two years ago. But perhaps new readers will enjoy …


Posted by on July 29, 2016 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past


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Art by Mark Spain


One more glass and I will submit

to the memory of her dress.

Silk less smooth as the skin within,

and I’ve seen her wearing less.


But you never knew me quite this way

with my eyes so full of clouds.

Some black poison has ruined me

and the gown is now a shroud.


One more glass and I will resort

to softly whispering her name.

Writing words on my exposed pale wrists

in an attempt to hide the stain.


But you never knew me quite this way

With my body so stale and old.

I’ve tortured the flame of this candle

And its grey smoke kiss has left me cold.


One more glass and I will forget

the sweet memory of her dress.

She wore it for me one afternoon

when she still wanted to impress.



Copyright 2008 The author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Mark Spain

 I wrote this one night in an almost deserted restaurant in some miserable Frankfurt suburb almost eight years ago.  I was feeling sorry for myself with a cold and had not gone out with my business colleagues.  Instead I ate by myself, drank red wine in excess, wallowed in manly self-pity, and scrawled this poem on the back page of a dull report.

It is about a submissive lover called Nikki who had hair as black as a raven’s and dark brown eyes that I can still see if I close mine.  We had parted some months before.
The biggest challenge was trying to work out what I’d written the next day. 

The recording is a little old, but I hope you enjoy anyway


Posted by on June 5, 2016 in Lovers Past, Poetry


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naked girl on horse



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

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.


Posted by on April 1, 2016 in D/s, Erotica, Lovers Past, Poetry


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Not miss you

Vettriano - Alter of Memory

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

Art by Jack Vettriano

This is a year old, so new readers may have missed it first time around.


Posted by on December 7, 2015 in Lovers Past, Still Life


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Today I broke a favourite mug.

I found myself desperately, stupidly, achingly sad.

Not for the crockery

although I will miss its familiar shape and weight.

But for every single thing

in my life

I have ever broken

and could not fix.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by AnnMei


Posted by on December 4, 2015 in Lovers Past, Still Life


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To come

Art by Mark Demsteader

I raise a glass

to those I have adored.

The beautiful and the unique.

The wild and the true.

The submissive and the holy.

The creative and the clever.


To the memories.


I raise the glass again

to the pure heaven

still to come.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Mark Demsteader



Posted by on November 25, 2015 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life


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Perhaps one day

Art by Edward B Gordon

I have her beauty hard-wired into me

I have known it forever.

My first school boy fantasies were of her. She has never changed. The same hair, eyes, mouth, chin, nose. The same height, weight, posture and stance. The same shoulders, breasts, hips, arse and thighs.

The same mix of swagger and vulnerability, of shyness and chatter, of independence and submission, of contemplation and fun

Her beauty is burned into my soul.

And I have found her

and owned her.

Once, twice, even three times.



I keep looking. Although my time here is running out.

Perhaps one day ….



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Edward B Gordon

This is not new. I posted it a year ago. But indulge me.


Posted by on October 28, 2015 in Lovers Past, Still Life


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Vanilla girl

Art by Paul Hedley

She had it all

An outrageous, luminous, eloquent beauty.

A quiet, unassuming yet all-embracing intelligence.

A sweet, warm, empathetic personality.

A brave, enquiring, sensitive creativity.

A bright, infectious, clever sense of humour.

A collection of curves, quite simply, to die for.

Yet not a single

submissive bone

in her perfect body.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Paul Hedley



Posted by on October 26, 2015 in Lovers Past, Still Life


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