I will not be held
responsible
or accountable
or answerable
or culpable.
Nor will I
apologize
or feel guilty
or accept liability
or be judged
or even damned
for all the
dark
delicious
decadent
dirty things
I do to you
in my dreams.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Written a few years ago. But one dreams.
Art by Steve Hanks
Rain has just started to fall
It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.
I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.
Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.
Rain.
A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.
It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.
I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations
I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.
As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.
I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.
I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.
I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.
And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.
I take myself purposefully in hand.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Photo taken from the internet. It has no details of source. If it is yours I will happily delete or credit.
I wrote this in the summer of 2014. A hot August day after a spell without rain. Today the rain came after a long hot spell. I post again and hope new readers enjoy.
She cannot see herself
as I see her.
Her mirror image rebels.
It dismisses her beauty,
refuses her desirability,
overrules her sensuality,
is cruel to her curves.
She finds herself wanting.
Whereas I
can only stare
and sigh
in awe.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
I first posted this four years ago. Perhaps it is worth sharing again.
Art by Francine Van Hove
Who knows
what paths crossed
what stars aligned
what fates conspired
what destinies combined
but here we are
you and I.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by William Oxer
The girl in the photograph
The girl in the photograph
is swagger and poise
shyness and hope
uncertainty and strength
The girl in the photograph
is desire and fear
softness and style
fantasy and real
The girl in the photograph
is hunger and joy
knowledge and warmth
rebellion and love
The girl in the photograph
is danger and sex
promise and dreams
intelligence and wild
The girl in the photograph
is not mine
but I wish
she was
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
This is not one of my new ones – I think I first posted it five years ago, but I hope you enjoy. Sometimes I see a girl in a photograph…..
Art by William Oxer
I am jealous
of the world
that catches
your scent
that watches
you move
that hears
your voice
that speaks
your name.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Thomas Saliot
Written a couple of years ago. But jealous …
Her hand fluttered
to her throat
like a wild bird.
He captured it
in the safe cage
of his fingers.
He gazed
into her eyes
and stilled
her fears.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Pascal Chove
You are so rare
so unique
so unexpected
so special
I am certain
I have discovered
a new species.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not a brand new post, but sometimes one discovers new species.
Art by Elena Kraft
Across the miles
I sense you
talking
laughing
walking
dancing
eating
sleeping
breathing.
Across the miles
I sense you.
I think
I always will.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Jacquelyn Bischak
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 four years ago – reposted because I like it.
Art by Jimmy Law
