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She has it

francine-de-van-hove-11

 

He adores women.

Their curves, their elegance, the softness of their silky skin. The way their bodies sway when they walk, Their sense of humour, their warmth, their generosity, their clear, incisive intelligence.

He adores their hair, their eloquent eyes, the hallowed velvet of their throat, the aching sensuality of their thighs.

He adores their femininity, their courage, their balance, their insanity. The way they talk so intimately amongst themselves.

He adores their resilience, their vulnerability. their anger, their passion, their truth and their lies.

He adores their motherhood, their sisterhood, their sainthood, He adores their independence, their sociability, their ability to survive.

He adores the fact that he finds them all so desperately, outrageously fucking sexy.

And yet there is something. Something that turns adoration into hungry desire.

Something intangible, wild, expressive, beautiful, endearing, submissive, strong and utterly mesmerizing that compels him. Something that captivates him completely.

She has it.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Francine van Hove

I originally posted this six years ago.  It is my hymn to women in general. Although when it was written it may well have been for one in particular. And who knows, it might even be for one now.

 
10 Comments

Posted by on October 7, 2019 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Tale of a Dominant – Part Two

 

The candle has burnt down low.

The bar is close to empty. It is late. The waitress is hovering near the table with the bill, He motions to her with a raised eyebrow and a smile. She places l’addition on a white saucer with two small squares of gold-wrapped chocolate.

The girl opposite him runs her hands through her long black hair and stretches back in her chair. It is almost provocative.

His eyes flick over her body appreciatively and return to her face. He stares into her eyes. She doesn’t look away. They are both more than a little drunk.

She feels she knows everything about him. He has answered her questions all evening. About his lovers, About D/s, his rules, the cities and the hotel suites, the romance, the shadows and the dancers. His briefcase full of ropes and bindings, toys and instruments. The reasons behind it all. His adoration, his admiration, and his love of women. Of some women in particular.

She has captured his velvet voice on her recorder.

And yet, although he has been the one telling his story, she feels as if it is her soul that has been stripped bare.

He punches the PIN into the card machine with long slender fingers, and it is time to go. He hands her both of the chocolates. She slips them into her bag. She knows they are destined to sit uneaten on her dressing table forever.

Much later that night, with the dawn creeping softly over the silent sea, she slips naked from his bed. She is careful not to wake him. In the pale light she re-reads the note he gave her, written in his distinctive hand, in dark midnight-blue ink.

I remember them all.

The beauties, the heroines, the angels. The wide-eyed girls in their best party frocks. The bold but trembling women in their gorgeous. silk gowns.

The waifs and the strays. The wild and the hungry. The creative and the eloquent. The sacred and the profane.

Tiger Cub, Rebecca, Jenny, Beauty, Angel, Hermosa, Lindsay, and the rest. The sweet submissives who have perfumed my nights and made wonderful my days.

I remember them all.

You are the last.

It is the end.

.

.

Part One

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

But is it/was it the end?

Art by Fabian Perez

 
24 Comments

Posted by on October 6, 2019 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Beautiful thief

 

You are a beautiful thief

You steal my time

You steal my balance

You steal my attention

You steal my concentration

You steal my sleep.

 

You are a beautiful thief.

You take my breath away.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

Written around this time a year ago. But there is sometimes such a thief about…..

 
15 Comments

Posted by on October 4, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Special indeed

 

She is special

indeed

the beautiful

intelligent

curious

submissive girl

who longs to be

lit bright

in the distant

adoring spotlight

of my delicious

dark, decadent

desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

 
10 Comments

Posted by on October 3, 2019 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Weakness

 

Art by francine-van-hove

She has a weakness

for strangers and poets

artists and dreamers

masters and dancers

adventurers and saints

and men

who make her feel

dangerous and safe

at the same time.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a few years ago, but sometimes apt.

Art by Francine van Hove

 
9 Comments

Posted by on September 30, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Atom

 

Somehow I know

for certain

that I have just

been touched

by an atom

that has been

touched by another

that touched

another

and another

and another

that touched

an atom

that has been touched

by you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a brand new piece – but sometimes I feel I have just been touched

Art by Mia Bergeron

 
7 Comments

Posted by on September 29, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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As Woman

art-by-marcos-beccari

If I was a grand architect of design.

If I was the master of texture, colour, shape, style and beauty.

If I could mould and fashion and forge personality, intelligence, sensitivity, sensuality, generosity and strength.

If I possessed the perfect, potent power of pure magic

If I was a wild-eyed cosmic genius with a boundless, endless, limitless imagination.

If my creativity dwarfed and humbled every artist, scientist, writer, sculptor and mathematician who had ever graced the planet.

Even if I had dominion over all things

I still could never create a creature

as unique

and as extraordinary

as Woman.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Marcos Beccari

I first wrote and posted this a few years ago – and as every year passes, I know it more. And adore.

 
9 Comments

Posted by on September 28, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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