Tag Archives: erotica

Dark Priest

Dark Priest


I have know it forever

This desire for sexual control.

It seems as if I was never innocent. My childhood seemed full of yearnings beyond my years. My teens were confusing. I adored women utterly. Everything about them. Mind to body to soul. I saw women as superior human beings – intellectually, emotionally and, of course, sheer heaven physically. I still do. More than my equal. Goddesses to be worshipped.

Yet somehow at the same time I needed to direct, to restrain, to control, to impose pleasure, and perhaps a little pain. Though not without consent. The consent, the giving up of sexual free will, was what made it, and makes it, so deeply erotic.

All around me, in those pre-internet days, were sexual images and physical relationships that were so depressingly vanilla – though I would have never have known that description then. D/s was not the glossy, fashionable, female-fantasy, multi million pound, mainstream media (FSOG) phenomena it is now.

Over the years, with a number of lovers, I began to learn the nature of my desire. I discovered, then ignored, the world of BDSM with its often ugly misogyny and extremes. It did not sit with my poetry or my romantic dominance. I developed my own path, my own direction, almost my own sexual handbook.

And as I grew to understand the extraordinary nature of submissive woman, so I mastered the many diverse pathways to giving her overwhelming pleasure through control. Physically or at a distance.

So I am here. Romantic Dominant. Older and wiser. A man completely at home with his sexual self.

The sole priest of his own dark D/s religion.



I am amazed  to find I wrote this only a year ago. These days I sometimes barely recognise myself.


© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Image found uncredited on the internet.
If this belongs to you please advise and I will remove or give credit.


Posted by on February 17, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Still Life


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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



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


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I am in love with skin.

I love the feel of it beneath my finger tips. The heat of it. The smooth texture beneath the ridged whorls of my prints. The beauty, the softness, the glow. The gorgeous glide over muscle and bone. The imperceptible down at the base of the spine. The pucker and berry of nipple. The impossible silk of inner thigh.

I love the scent of it as I breathe in. The individual intimate fragrance. A heady heaven of perfume, pheromone and perspiration. As private and personal as a signature.

I love the taste of it beneath the caress of my tongue. The delicate hints, the slight tang, the subtle shades of flavour that fill my mouth. The unique, eloquent, dark, secret essence of sex.

I am in love with skin.

Your skin.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This not new. I have posted it two or three of times. But I hope you enjoy regardless

Art by Omar Ortiz

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Posted by on January 18, 2018 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life


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Dark Priest

Dark Priest


I will be your dark priest.

You will confess your most intimate, most sensual,  most erotic, most sexual desires.

You will confide your deepest hidden sacred secret wishes,

your yearning, your lust, your longing.

You will tell me your wildest darkest decadent fantasies.

I will make them pure.

I will make them holy.

I will make them real.

I will give them flesh.



Originally written this time two years ago. But I do like it.


© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph taken from Pinterest. Provenance unknown. Please let me know if yours and I will credit or remove.

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Posted by on January 2, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life


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Sleeping Beauty

Photography by Tiffany Zettlemoyer

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.



Deliciously slowly.

This is heaven.

She will not wake now..



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by Tiffany Zettlemoyer

This is not new, I wrote it some time ago. And it had an outing recently. But I like a good fairy story on All Hallows’ Eve.


Posted by on October 31, 2017 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life


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Every Inch


I sense you.

I feel your warmth, hear your breathing. I catch a hint of your scent. I can almost taste your skin.

Your presence seems close. Sensual, delicate, compelling, submissive, heavenly.

I imagine touching your face, Your throat, your naked shoulders, your exquisite breasts.

Owning you. The thought thrills me beyond measure.

I will know you completely.

Every word, every breath, every smile, every sigh, every  fantasy, every curve.

Every inch of your perfect body.



© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Omar Ortiz

This is not new. I wrote and first posted it four years ago. And since. But sometimes it is worth posting again.

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Posted by on October 10, 2017 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




© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

A year old – but a thousand kisses at the ready.

Art by William Oxer


Posted by on September 2, 2017 in Poetry, Still Life


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