Her Secret

‘Your eyes are blue tonight.’ she says.

He smiles, and touches her cheek with his long fingers. She nuzzles her face into his palm.

‘Sometimes they are green. When you are distant. Or angry. Or sad.’  She peers into them. ‘They are such strange eyes – that amber halo around the pupil.  Like a solar eclipse.’

He leans forward and kisses her forehead. His lips linger on her skin.

‘They were the first thing I noticed about you,’ she continued. ‘They stopped me in my tracks.’

‘Like a train?’ he questions.

She punches him gently on the arm.

They were piercing. It was as if you knew who I was instantly. As if you were reading my thoughts before I could think them. As if you knew half my secrets there and then.’

‘Do you have any secrets?’  He grins, and stares hard at her.

She withdraws her chin from his hand.

‘You are my only secret.’ She murmured sadly, her own eyes filling with tears. 

‘And I wish you didn’t have to be…’

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art : After Midnight by Jack Vettriano

 

No More The Red Rose

I have been in reflective mood.

It is that time of year.  Fast approaching another birthday. Another mark of fading.

It is that time of year.  The snow still falling in an England that is weary of winter. And yet the first brave buds are green on bare branches, and the daffodils wait like shivering sentries for a command to bloom.

It is that time of year. Anniversaries of two glorious D/s relationships that both closed just when new suns had started to stretch the pale skin of my shoulders and promise summer. My time with Jenny has been well documented, but I have been less than forthcoming about Rebecca.

It was for her that I wrote No More the Red Rose – my favourite ‘performance poem’ – despite the fact that it might show me as raw, wounded and vulnerable

It was only ever intended to be read aloud, so I have just posted the audio here.

It is that time of year.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Little Cat Eye

 

These Pages

What must you think of me?

These pages steeped in desire, and yearning, and the raw angst of a fading romantic. The tales (almost entirely true) of dominance and sex – the rich, physical reality of D/s with unforgettable submissive lovers – the strangely fulfilling and deeply rewarding ‘distance’ affairs.  My joy and pain spilled like confetti and blood as if my life depended on it.

And yet it is not me.  I mean it is unquestionably part of me.  But not all.  I cannot, day and night, tilt and slide from ecstasy to despair, dancing like a marionette to my emotions.  I must not be broken by rejection, or made arrogant by triumphant control.  My life does not suspend itself so I can lick my wounds or allow me to lie back, swollen by love and lust, lost in the aching hunger of it.  I have to hide my delight and swallow my pain.  I have to control my longing.

My hours are filled with work and travel. Suited and booted I am immersed in business for more time than it deserves, guiding and running companies (can’t stop being a Dominant).  When I am home there is the safe, easy comfort of friends and family. Concerts and restaurants, theatre and cinema, sport and hiking.  And drinking. Plenty of drinking.  My days are burstingly full.

From all this I carve out time alone. To escape and to love, and to write.  Breathtaking relationships with those far off where I have shared my heart.  Glorious affairs close at hand where I have shared my soul.  And times when I know I could have behaved better than I did.

This last paragraph is what mainly, but not entirely, fills these pages.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

 

Gathering Dust

He wonders at what cost another betrayal?

After all, there is so much guilt already stored and racked, preserved like wine in that chilly cellar.  Familiar labels attest to provenance and vintage.  The bitter grapes of pointless affairs, doubtless sour to the palate after all these years. Yet they were so delightful on the tongue when lust and passion first pressed the juice from their fleshy skins. 

Far too many bottles of treachery are stretched in countless rows, categorised by time and place, half-remembered lovers, and half-forgotten summers.  And proof of sin.

All gathering dust in his dark soul.