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 pinwheel, 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 six years ago. But perhaps new readers will enjoy …

 

Journey begins

 

 

To be her first.

To be regarded enough for her to bend.  To be respected enough for her to yield. To be admired enough for her to kneel.

To be the one made holy by her gift, never before given.

It is an honour for him.

It is a wild, heady, nervous, exciting and achingly erotic moment for her.

Their journey begins.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this almost exactly six years ago. And have repeated it a few times. I hope I can be forgiven for believing you won’t mind reading again. And we all love new journeys….

Photo I believe is ©  Nahuaconetl – though I note the account has now been deactivated

 

Neophyte

 

Neophyte

.

In the middle of our conversation

my eyes are drawn

to the pale,

translucent skin of your throat,

to the shadowed hollow

and your perfect bones.

.

I am struck blind

by the holiest of visions.

.

Later staring out of the darkness

my fears are stilled

by the soft

remembered curve of your smile,

and the touch of your hand

when once alone.

.

I am sublime 

with glorious religion.

.

.

This is by no means a new poem of mine, written some years ago and posted here three or four times. But one always adores a neophyte. 

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Butterfly Net

Butterfly Net

.

She reads him avidly

hungrily

looking for patterns

for answers

for hints

for clues

for oxygen to fuel

the breathless possibility

that she might be ‘she’

.

Meanwhile

he chases her soul

with a butterfly net

spun from the best

of his words

to capture her

completely.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Pieter Wagemans

This is not new – posted three years ago at least. But I still have the butterfly net somewhere.

 

Her body

 

Her Body

.

Her body is my playground

A wonderland of curves and lines.

Of sweet breasts and urgent nipples.

Of rolling hips and elegant thighs.

.

Her body is my canvas

A perfect page on which to paint my words,

to daub my prose,

to  scratch my spidery, inky, dangerous poetry.

.

Her body is my church

A hallowed and sacred place

A holy ground on which to worship

And adore.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written four years ago, and repeated a few times.  But you might have missed it.

Art by Omar Ortiz

 

Journey begins

 

 

To be her first.

To be regarded enough for her to bend.  To be respected enough for her to yield. To be admired enough for her to kneel.

To be the one made holy by her gift, never before given.

It is an honour for him.

It is a wild, heady, nervous, exciting and achingly erotic moment for her.

Their journey begins.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this almost exactly five years ago. So perhaps I can be forgiven for hoping you won’t mind reading again. And we all love new journeys….

Photo ©  Nahuaconetl

 

Raw

 

Some days I am raw

I prowl and pace these rooms like a caged animal. My skin itches, my sinews are tight, my muscles cramp.  There is an ache deep in my bones.

My eyes burn with images of you dancing.

My long fingers yearn for your flesh.

I cannot focus on work, on words, on writing. I cannot apply myself to whatever it is I am supposed to be doing.

I am hard at the slightest thought of you

My mind is a tangle of ropes and restraints, cuffs and chains. My imagination is busy peeling off your clothes, kissing your throat, your breasts, your belly, your thighs.

My mouth on your sex. Your taste on my tongue.

I yearn for your body, your beauty, your pure and perfect form.

I long for you spread like sacrifice across a brass bed on white sheets.

I want your climax over and over

for my pleasure.

Some days I am so fucking raw.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this two years ago. Some days – and nights – it has much resonance.

Photograph © Skatefreak14

 

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 …

 

A glimpse of thigh

It seems impossible

Hours spent with her. Undressing her. Binding her.

Stretching her naked body to the four corners of the white-sheeted bed and securing her there.

Admiring, caressing, teasing, whipping, stroking, scratching, nibbling, slapping, oiling, kneading, licking, squeezing, pinching, kissing her.

Making her body dance beneath my fingers, my lips, my tongue, my hands, my thighs, melting wax, and my collection of carefully chosen toys. And my tumescent cock.

Enjoying each climax as she writhes and twists, arches and bucks, shudders and gasps.

Exploring every inch of her body. Every curve and line, every muscle, every sinew, every bone. Every pore of her gorgeous skin.

Until I am sated.

It seems impossible

That a little later, when she is dressed, and preparing to leave

Her skirt rides up high on her thigh

And my pulse quickens

And I am hard again.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Carrie Graber

I wrote this about two years ago. I have no excuse for re-posting – except that new readers might not have read it before.

 

Tie me

She says

‘Tie me with silk

tie me with leather

tie me with chains

tie me with rope.

Yet nothing

will bind me

more securely

than when you tie me

with words’

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Loui Jover