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Desk

 

I write at my desk.

It is built from ancient reclaimed oak. The wood is scarred and worn and darkened with age. It was crafted and constructed to especially to fill a space in my study. It is beautifully built, sturdy and strong. It is completely in keeping with this 400-year-old cottage with its thick ironstone walls and huge beams, its large inglenook fireplace, and its mullioned windows with leaded glass.

I write at my desk.

Novels, short stories, poetry, random prose, blog posts, tweets, e-mails. And much else besides. I usually tap the words out on a wireless keyboard. Sometimes I use my beloved Mont Blanc fountain pen filled with midnight blue ink. Less often than I would like. Technology is far more accommodating of revision and mistakes.

I write at my desk.

Here I allow my memory to recover the fragments of the past that touch me still. Here I let yesterday and today kiss my words with immediacy, desire, wonder and delight. Here I write of lovers and strangers, dancers and shadows, family and friends. Always safe in anonymity.

I write at my desk.

And often, I admit, I think of you.

I imagine you here, your scent fragile in the air, the cool of your fingertips, the heat of your body. I undress you. Slowly. Reverently. Tenderly. Time standing still.

I bend you over the smooth wood. I make it an altar on which to worship you. A table on which to spread you. A sacred raised dais on which to adore you.

I close my eyes, lost in the thought of your sighs, your movement, and your pure skin against seasoned grain.

I write at my desk.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not newly written but the desk is always here.

Art by Fabian Perez

 
6 Comments

Posted by on January 28, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Desk

 

I write at my desk.

It is built from ancient reclaimed oak. The wood is scarred and worn and darkened with age. It was crafted and constructed to especially to fill a space in my study. It is beautifully built, sturdy and strong. It is completely in keeping with this 400 year old cottage with its thick ironstone walls and huge beams, its large inglenook fireplace, and its mullioned windows with leaded glass.

I write at my desk.

Novels, short stories, poetry, random prose, blog posts, tweets, e-mails. And much else besides. I usually tap the words out on a wireless keyboard. Sometimes I use my beloved Mont Blanc fountain pen filled with midnight blue ink. Less often than I would like. Technology is far more accommodating of revision and mistakes.

I write at my desk.

Here I allow my memory to recover the fragments of the past that touch me still. Here I let yesterday and today kiss my words with immediacy, desire, wonder and delight. Here I write of lovers and strangers, dancers and shadows, family and friends. Always safe in anonymity.

I write at my desk.

And often, I admit, I think of you.

I imagine you here, your scent fragile in the air, the cool of your fingertips, the heat of your body. I undress you. Slowly. Reverently. Tenderly. Time standing still.

I bend you over the smooth wood. I make it an altar on which to worship you. A table on which to spread you. A sacred raised dias on which to adore you.

I close my eyes, lost in the thought of your sighs, your movement, and your pure skin against seasoned grain.

I write at my desk.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not newly written but the desk is always here.

Art by Fabian Perez

 
14 Comments

Posted by on January 25, 2019 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

Desk

 

I write at my desk.

It is built from ancient reclaimed oak. The wood is scarred and worn and darkened with age. It was crafted and constructed to especially to fill a space in my study. It is beautifully built, sturdy and strong. It is completely in keeping with this 400 year old cottage with its thick ironstone walls and huge beams, its large inglenook fireplace, and its mullioned windows with leaded glass.

I write at my desk.

Novels, short stories, poetry, random prose, blog posts, tweets, e-mails. And much else besides. I usually tap the words out on a wireless keyboard. Sometimes I use my beloved Mont Blanc fountain pen filled with midnight blue ink. Less often than I would like. Technology is far more accommodating of revision and mistakes.

I write at my desk.

Here I allow my memory to recover the fragments of the past that touch me still. Here I let yesterday and today kiss my words with immediacy, desire, wonder and delight. Here I write of lovers and strangers, dancers and shadows, family and friends. Always safe in anonymity.

I write at my desk.

And often, I admit, I think of you.

I imagine you here, your scent fragile in the air, the cool of your fingertips, the heat of your body. I undress you. Slowly. Reverently. Tenderly. Time standing still.

I bend you over the smooth wood. I make it an altar on which to worship you. A table on which to spread you. A sacred raised dias on which to adore you.

I close my eyes, lost in the thought of your sighs, your movement, and your pure skin against seasoned grain.

I write at my desk.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 

 
8 Comments

Posted by on January 23, 2018 in Erotica, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,