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Tag Archives: erotica

Use me

 

Think of me

as a poet

a priest

a professor

 

Think of me

as a stranger

a shaman

a sorcerer

 

Think of me

as a doctor

a dancer

a Dominant.

 

Use me

as the fantasy

who makes you blush

part your thighs

and arch your back

when you are alone.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new, but you might use me.

Art by John Silver

 
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Posted by on September 23, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Author

 

Oh, to be the author

of your arousal,

the quickening of your breath,

the arching of your back,

your thighs

parted wide,

my name

on your lips.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

First posted a year ago. Oh to be the author….

Art by Fulvio De Marinis

 
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Posted by on September 22, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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A thousand kisses

 

As I look

at your photograph

I imagine

gently lifting your chin

with the tips

of my long fingers

and placing

a tender kiss

in the perfect

scented hollow

of your elegant throat.

 

In my mind

it is the first

of a thousand

more kisses

to brush

and touch

and taste

and caress

over and over

every single inch

of your exquisite

skin.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This post a few years old – but a thousand kisses are at the ready.

Art by William Oxer

 
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Posted by on September 7, 2020 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Novice

Art by Antonella Fabiani

She has seen too many summers to be completely innocent.

And yet he has made her so.

She is new, pristine, spotless.

She is pure, virtuous, chaste and naive.

She is unsullied, unblemished, undefiled.

She has become a neophyte, a learner, a beginner.

A novice on her first day, her white dress pressed and spotless, the hem gently brushing her bare legs.

She is his pupil, his student, his apprentice, his initiate.

She is his disciple, his follower, his protegé.

She is his slave, his angel, his goddess, his Muse.

In this quiet, holy, secret place, she kneels before him.

Her mind and body are burning.

She is ablaze with desire.

She is thirsty for knowledge.

She aches to learn every rule, every code, every facet, every element, every shade.

Every verse of his dark and decadent religion.

She is hungry for him to instruct her, to teach her, to guide her, to discipline her.

To show her a wild, breathless universe of pleasure and pain.

She wants him to do everything.

She is his.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Antonella Fabiani

Originally written by me five years ago and posted a number of times. I hope regular readers can bear another repeat. There is nothing like a beautiful novice.

 
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Posted by on September 5, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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A geography of her

 

I will adore her

Even from a distance.

For she is beautiful, wild, elegant and independent.

I will discover her, I will explore her. I will chart her.

From the fragrant hair on her lovely head to the tips of her painted toes. I will know every inch of her.

I will study her. I will learn her. I will examine her.

In photographs, on video, through audio.

From opportunistic selfies and meticulously planned photos shoots. From impromptu captured moments and wonderfully contrived scenes. I will review the contents of her wardrobe. Her clothes, her footwear, her lingerie. I will dress her up and dress her down. I will strip her naked in a hundred ways and position her in a thousand poses. She will wear makeup or be natural. She will be a fantasy angel or an everyday girl. She will be the dragon queen or the stranger in a bar.

I will know her hair, her eyes, her lips, her nose, her mouth, her skin, her piercings, her ink. I will know her arms, her hands, her legs, her belly, her breasts, her throat. Her thighs, her back, her arse. Her sex.

She will walk for me, move for me, stretch for me, sigh for me, purr for me. She will dance as innocent as a schoolgirl, as bold as a stage act, and as seductively as only a woman who knows she is utterly adored can dance.

And she will be adored. Every smile, every frown, every tear. Every bubble of laughter. Every bone, every muscle, every sinew, every nerve, every fibre, every pore. Every breath.
Every word she speaks or writes.

I will utterly adore her beauty, her body, and her thoughts.

And then, if and when we meet, I will have a map, a plan, a billion pixels of familiar, sensual, heavenly destinations.

An intimate study of a perfect creature.  A geography of her.

And I will finally know the pure wonder of finally laying my fingers, my lips, my tongue, my body upon her glorious, gorgeous terrain.

Teasing, testing and thrilling her with my toys.

Filling her with myself.

Paradise delivered.

The virtual becoming real.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Valeri Tsvetkov

I wrote this six years ago and have posted yearly since. A favourite of mine and a favourite theme. When the terrain is divine.

 
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Posted by on August 31, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Without touching

 

He touches her

without touching her.

 

He holds her

without holding her.

 

He knows her

without knowing her.

 

He calls her

and her soul answers.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Caterina Pelle

First posted a couple of years ago. Ah, distance relationships …

 
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Posted by on August 17, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Drenching

 

Across the miles

she lets my words

rain down upon her

dark

dominant

liquid

and dangerous.

 

She lets them

soak her

making her body

wet

and drenching

her soul.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jovica Kostic

 

 

 
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Posted by on August 16, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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In dreams

 

I will not be held

responsible

or accountable

or answerable

or culpable.

Nor will I

apologize

or feel guilty

or accept liability

or be judged

or even damned

for all the

dark

delicious

decadent

dirty things

I do to you

in my dreams.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a few years ago. But one dreams.

Art by Steve Hanks

 
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Posted by on August 14, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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In Hand

 

Rain has just started to fall

It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.

I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.

Rain.

A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.

It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.

I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations

I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.

As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.

I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.

I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.

I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.

And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.

I take myself purposefully in hand.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo taken from the internet. It has no details of source. If it is yours I will happily delete or credit.

I wrote this in the summer of 2014. A hot August day after a spell without rain. Today the rain came after a long hot spell. I post again and hope new readers enjoy.

 
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Posted by on August 13, 2020 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Sleeping Beauty

She is sleeping

Her breathing is shallow. Her chest rises and falls. He counts the seconds and studies her for signs of waking.

There are none.

He says her name. Softly.

Again. A little louder. But still quietly. He does not really want her to stir.

He gently takes her hand in his. It is small, and soft, and cool. Her fingers lie over his. They are quiet and still. His thumb and forefinger circle her wrist. He can feel her pulse. He imagines it quickening, but he cannot be sure. He lowers her hand to the bed.

She is beautiful. Her hair is raven black against her pale skin. Her lips are perfectly formed and ruby-red. She is wearing a pure white dress that is fitted at the breast, tight at the waist, and clinging to her hips. Sleeping Beauty

He knows he should kiss her, rouse her from her slumber, bring her back to consciousness.

But her still and perfect form has mesmerised him, captivated him, bewitched him. He feels himself harden as he moves towards her. He murmurs her name again. His throat stifles the sound.

He reaches out and with almost trembling fingers he strokes her cheek. Her skin is warm to his touch.

She does not stir.

He carefully undoes the first of the buttons. And then another. And a third. The gorgeous swell of her breasts makes him dizzy with desire.

At the sixth button, as the material begins to peel open, he realises she is naked underneath.

……………………

She is not sleeping.

She senses him standing by the narrow bed, gazing at her. She knows his eyes are upon her, taking in every curve, and every line. She waits. And tries to control her breathing.

She focuses on keeping perfectly still.

She hears him say her name. Twice. She ignores it, forbidding her eyelids to flicker.

He picks up her hand. His sudden touch in the darkness almost makes her flinch with surprise. His fingers are long and thin. She fears he will feel her pulse race crazily as his thumb presses against her flesh. He releases her gently, and she knows.

She is certain about what is going to happen when she hears her name a third time, and it is said like a faint prayer in a hoarse and caressing whisper.

His touch upon her cheek is like fire. She almost gasps at her own arousal.

He begins to undo the buttons of her dress.

Achingly.

Tantalizingly.

Deliciously slowly.

This is heaven.

She will not wake now.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

This is not new, I wrote it some time ago. But I like it, it has proved popular (sometimes controversial)  – and so I hope you can forgive it’s regular July outing.

 
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Posted by on July 31, 2020 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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