As he will

She barely understands it.

It is a desire to serve.

A hunger to yield, to bend, to give, to allow herself to be controlled.

A need to submit, To comply, to assent, to acquiesce.  It is an itch, an ache, a yearning.

She is compelled by some deep inner want, some unfathomable need. some almost primal desire to yield up her submission.

To render up all her power.

She has craved such wondrous, glorious authority over her for as long as she can remember. Before the budding of her breasts, before the flow of blood, before passion, before the longing between her thighs.

Yet it could never be anyone.  It had to be him.  It always had to be him.

She has waited forever for his presence. For his strength, his certainty, his discipline, his protection.

For him to do with her as he will.

Mind, body and soul.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Far from new. But an old favourite.

Art by Fabian Perez

 

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, I have posted it a number of times 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