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Tag Archives: erotica

A dream of you

 

A dream of you.

Your legs long on impossible heels. The roll and glide and shimmy as you walk.  And turn.  And dance,

A panther poised.

A gorgeous glide.  A sleek and sensual slide.

Your hair like a storm. Your body clutched tight in a sheath of a dress.

Peeled off slow.

Your arms raised.

Waiting for your wrists to be tied.

Your mouth, your lips, your teeth, your tongue, your breath like a warm breeze.

Calling me to rise.

Your perfect peach of a posterior pressed into my belly, into my thighs, into my hungry. bold tumescence.

A dream of you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written four years ago. These days I dream of you.

Art by Fabian Perez

 
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Posted by on March 17, 2019 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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I write your name

 

I write your name

secretly

purposefully

in almost black

midnight-blue ink,

elegant and bold

spidery and certain.

 

My pen spills out

dominant desires

staining the page

with my dark longing

marking creamy vellum

as if it was your skin.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 
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Posted by on March 11, 2019 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Her secret

art-by-marcos-beccari

It is her secret.

It always has been

Ever since she can remember. The longing. The desire. The ache.

A deep sexual yearning to lose control. To abandon her free will to the pleasure of another.
And in doing so find her own glorious, magical, delicious release.

Sometimes, in her private moments and when she allows herself, she has the scenarios in her head. Scripted and endlessly rehearsed, she plays them in a bold, burning, breathtaking loop. Fantasies and fetishes that leave her wasted and wet as she allows them to wash and lap over her.

Other times it is a jumble of words and images, of instruction and discipline, obedience and compliance.
Of being watched.

Of her body being used and pleasured. Stroked and caressed, kissed and pinched, slapped and whipped, licked and scratched, nibbled and teased.
And of being restrained.

And of fingers, and lips, and toy after toy. And his tongue and his cock. All used expertly, creatively, unrelentingly,

She has told no one

Until now.

Until him.

It is their secret

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Marcos Beccari

I wrote this four years ago. And I thought ‘why not post (yet) again for those who were not reading me then?’ I hope regulars can excuse the indulgence.

 

 
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Posted by on December 7, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Hardening

 

I am watching

the wax

trickling slowly

down the shaft

of this candle

and imagining it

hardening

on your skin.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

You might be interested in a much earlier post I wrote here

Photography taken from internet. Source unknown. If yours please advise and I will remove or credit.

 
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Posted by on December 1, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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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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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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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.

Achingly.

Tantalizingly.

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.

 
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Posted by on October 31, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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