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Tag Archives: D/s

Berries

 

Outside

in today’s cold wind

I could not help but think

of you

bound with rope

your exquisite nipples

proud and erect

and as hard

as unripened berries

perfectly defined

against the material

of your dress.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new, but that time of the year

Art by Willi Kissmer

 
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Posted by on November 14, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Her own touch

 

Her own touch

is not his touch

but longing and lust

yearning and need

a dizzying desire

and a wild imagination

have made it so.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Steve Hanks

 
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Posted by on November 13, 2018 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Perhaps one day ….

art-by-harding-meyer

 

I have her beauty hard-wired into me

I have known it forever.

My first school boy fantasies were of her. She has never changed. The same hair, eyes, mouth, chin, nose. The same height, weight, posture and stance. The same shoulders, breasts, hips, arse and thighs.

The same mix of swagger and vulnerability, of shyness and chatter, of independence and submission, of contemplation and fun

Her beauty is burned into my soul.

And I have found her

and owned her.

Once, twice, even three times.

Almost.

Never.

I keep believing. Although my time here is running out.

Perhaps one day ….

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Harding Meyer

This is not new. I posted it around this time four years ago, and once each year since. But do indulge me. Oh, and the painting does not reflect the ‘beauty hard wired into me’. It is simply a piece of art I like.

 
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Posted by on November 12, 2018 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Something has changed

 

Her life is the same.

Yet something subtle, imperceptible, indefinable has changed.

She seeks it in the buildings, the landscape, the weather and the light.  In the steam from her coffee. She looks for it in the faces of others. She tries to find clues in music, in art, and in films that make her laugh and cry. In books and in magazines and in the words of romantic poets

She watches clouds making familiar shapes across an ordinary sky.

She stands surrounded by night and studies the moon and stars. She lets the breeze tug at her hair and listens for something she might not hear.

In her room, with the lights down low, she examines her body, stripping naked, running her hands over her skin. She is alive to her own touch. Her fingers make her sigh. She breathes deeply.

She stares back at herself and tries to read her own expression.

Her eyes give something away. They are bright, wide, curious, excited. Her lips are full, the faintest of smiles kissing the edges. There is the softest blush upon her cheek, and in her throat.

Her life is the same

Yet something has changed.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This post written a while ago. But sometimes old things strike new chords.

Art by Laszlo Gulyas

 

 

 
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Posted by on November 8, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Right moment

 

There is no sense

in waiting

for the right moment

because right moments

are only recognised

some time after

they have gone.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Victor Bauer

 
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Posted by on November 7, 2018 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Her desire

 

Her desire

for his Dominant

darkness

becomes more

dangerous

dissolute

delinquent

delicious

delectable

decadent

and delightfully

dirty

every day.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Ron di Scenza

 
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Posted by on November 5, 2018 in Uncategorized

 

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Long night

 

They are alone.

No outside sound can disturb this stillness. No alien light can penetrate this darkness.

He touches her skin. She catches her breath.

He moves his slender fingers lightly across her cheek. Over her lips. It tingles like electricity. She parts them the width of a sigh. He feels her breath like a whisper.

He gently strokes the underside of her jaw. Fingers and thumb go either side of her throat. Her pulse is as rapid as the beating of heart of a small bird. He squeezes almost imperceptibly. She raises her chin and leans slightly into his hand.

He releases her. With the palest of caresses he navigates the curve of her breast. He circles the areola, the miniature terrain like braille. He finds her nipple hard and urgent. He teases it. She swears she can feel the raised, complicated whorl of his finger print.

Index and thumb again, like a pincer, capture the perfect rosebud. He tugs gently. She moans close to his ear. She is hungry. He tightens his grip. She feels it like fire. It tracks in a line of pure white heat down her belly and deep into the heart of her sex. She is wet. Tighter still and the pain is impossible pleasure. She wants him to stop – but never.

He lowers his mouth onto hers. She gasps into it as another intense wave thrills through her body. She thrusts herself against him. Wishing her hands were free, yet glad they are not. Needing muscle, needing bone, needing his hand, needing his cock to satisfy her delicious, frantic, gorgeous yearning.

There is no light. No sound.

Only them.

And the long night.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Last year I was going through some of my old words and found this – written around this time five years ago. I like it. I hope you enjoy.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 
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Posted by on November 4, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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