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Tag Archives: Fabian Perez

Aroma

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There are fragrances I adore

Red wine and the earthy aroma of a mature Rioja. Pepper, smoke, leather, pencil lead, tobacco and oak.

The pungent, salty, briny, fishy, seaweed, damp sand, ozone smell of a small working harbour when the boats have returned with their silver, flapping catch.

Patchouli, and musk and sandalwood, and the magical promise of marijuana, reminding me of stoned nights lost in music and poetry.

A garden awash with flowers, wisteria, alyssum, gardenia, magnolia, sweet pea, jasmine and glorious rose.

The smells redolent of summer and my childhood – new-mown hay, cotton candy, melting tar, honey, horses, chlorine, cinnamon, chocolate, the drifting smoke of a barbecue.

And others too – coffee beans roasting, peaty Irish whiskey, wild garlic, the evening after the rain and storm, and the familiar breath of home when I open the door.

The rich leather of cuffs, collar and blindfold, whips and flogger

And most of all, woman.

A thousand fragrances, every body different. Her fresh washed hair, her make up creams and oils. Her sweet perspiration. Her soft breath. Her purchased perfume made unique when it meets the personal aroma of her warm skin

And that heady, wondrous, eloquent, wild, delicate scent

of pure arousal

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

For compilation reasons, I am still delving amongst some of my past and almost forgotten writings. This one is still so very true.
 
Art by Fabian Perez

 

 
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Posted by on June 28, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Something for her

LETIZIA A LA SIESTA

She wishes he would write something for her.

A fantasy of endless, velvet, star-filled skies.

Of a wild, round, luminous moon hanging like a silver lantern. Of a warm, perfumed breeze stroking her hair and tugging gently at her dress.

Of the distant strains of a yearning, lone violin fading and rising through the whispering trees.

Of his hands releasing the pale silk gown from her eloquent shoulders, and it running off her naked body like a caress and falling with a sigh at her feet.

Of her perfect, dangerous, wondrous curves laid out by him on a cool, crisp white linen sheet. Of her arms and legs stretched wide. Of his tongue, his lips, his fingers over every inch of her tingling skin, upon her sensual mouth, her exquisite breasts, and her urgent, swollen, fragrant sex.

Of him filling her with pleasure, with joy, and with himself.

In every way.

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She wishes he would write something for her.

He just has.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

I wrote and posted this six years ago, and a few times since. Definitely the Romantic side of RD. I am rather fond of it. I hope regular readers do not mind the repeat

 
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Posted by on June 2, 2020 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Anywhere

 

If it had been a bar

A softly lit quiet city haven where a sad piano player shapes and ripples the minor chords of half-remembered songs for lovers and strangers.

Or a party.

A loud, crowded, noisy gathering where laughter and conversation and alcohol and coke tempt bodies to sway and dance and forget tomorrow.

Or on a busy street.

A rush and dawdle of business people and tourists, shoppers and beggars, hawkers and sellers where the traffic ebbs and flows, pauses and surges like a sea.

Or in a thousand and one other places.

An office, a restaurant, a ball game, a concert, a carnival, a temple, Or a wide-open space where the wind blows and the birds are thrown from sky to sky.

If it had been anywhere instead of this strangely connected, disconnected, familiar, unfamiliar world of swirling, teeming, edgy cyberspace.

I would still have found you

and wanted you

so badly.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

Written about five years ago. I like it, so I hope you don’t mind another posting. Though the freedom of movement depicted in it seems a lifetime ago, and yet it was only March that things changed here.

 
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Posted by on May 14, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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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.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

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

Art by Fabian Perez

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

 

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My doctor has examined me

Type = ArtScans RGB : Gamma = 2.000

 

My doctor has examined me

He is man of great learning and deep understanding.

He is old and wise, and certificates on his wall attest to his vast and eclectic knowledge. Anatomy, psychiatry, psychology, neurology. Surgery, geometry, chemistry, philately, campanology.

He took deep soundings from my pulse. He listened carefully to my heart. He examined my body with clever hands, the strength of my muscles, the structure of my bones, the conductivity of my nerves, the light in my eyes. He considered tendons, ligaments, cartilage.

He had me listen to indistinct sounds. He made me recall half-forgotten scents.  He insisted I recite my darkest poetry.

He made my reflexes dance

He asked me questions, recovered my dreams, investigated my hopes, pondered over my expectations. Asked pointedly about my exercise. And my patterns of sleep.

He explored my diet, my sexual inclinations, my sensual desires.  My abuse of tea. And alcohol.

When he was done he sat me down and faced me. His brow was furrowed, his mouth severe. His chin was set firm. He was serious in his approach. He was careful in his diagnosis.

He shook his head sorrowfully, and with his fat fountain pen wrote slowly upon his pad. He solemnly handed me the page.

My doctor has examined me

He is a man of considerable reputation. I trust him completely.

My doctor has examined me.

My doctor knows what ails me. He knows what has laid me low.

He is certain of the only thing that can make me well. His recommendation is precise and unequivocal.

My doctor has prescribed me you.

It is a repeat prescription.

Of unlimited dose

To be taken as often

as I require.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this four years ago. But It made me chuckle so much as I penned it back then,  that I have decided to post again now.

Art by Fabian Perez

 
7 Comments

Posted by on March 4, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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I am not a hunter

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I am not a hunter

I am not, in this digital world of ghosts and shadows, friends and fakes, dreamers and poets, seeking to find a lover. To have my words read is a compelling enough motive. It is my primary goal.

And yet it is hard not to cross paths with the beautiful and bright, the innocent and intelligent, the creative and clever, the sexy and submissive, the shy and serious. It is hard not to attract and be attracted. It is the joy of this vast global crowd that we can meet so many kindred spirits.

And I would be lying if I said I had not touched and been touched by such special women.

Across the miles and by skin.

Yet I am not a hunter.

Except when it comes

to you.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

I found this piece while looking for something else this morning. I wrote it five years ago. It is still true, although I have become a little more jaded, lazy and cynical over the years – so the last sentence may be redundant.

 
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Posted by on February 29, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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A bar somewhere

 

I imagine us

in a bar

somewhere

your hair

coming loose

dress

like a sheath

calves

like geometry

thighs

like fantasy

eyes shining

lips parted

raising your glass

sighing

‘yes’.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a brand new post – but I do imagine you in a bar somewhere ….

Art by Fabian Perez

 
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Posted by on February 27, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Me – the small print

 

I wrote this two years ago. Since then I have gained new followers, and some may have missed it. I would hate readers to be under any illusions about the man and writer behind Romantic Dominant.

 

Some followers on WordPress and Twitter are surprised and disappointed when I express political or general opinions, outside of what they ‘expect’ from me. A number unfollowed me today after my recent tweet mocking the ludicrous idea that more guns make for a safer society.

Rather than you all unfollow me in an untidy fashion as you realise that I am not quite what you expected, I have decided to post this ‘small print’ about me, so all those who wish to take offence at my beliefs can disappear at once. I am certain there is something in here to upset most people but I do feel obliged to come clean about the man behind the writer.

I am white, male, English and middle-aged.
I am a socialist.
I am an atheist.
I am not poor (or particularly rich) by UK standards, and certainly not poor by world standards.
I would rather live in a poor, caring, fair society than a rich, uncaring, unfair one.
I believe all lives, whoever, wherever, are equal.
I believe all human beings have a right to food, water, and shelter
I believe we are all responsible for the safety and well-being of the children of the world.
I abhor discrimination by race, country of origin, sex (in the widest possible sense), age, religion (even though I am an atheist) and I abhor discrimination due to (lack of) wealth or education.
I abhor misogyny and the oppression and abuse of women in all societies
I abhor discrimination against those who face mental or physical challenges, or who are simply not like the ‘norm’.
I believe it is totally unacceptable that 1% of the world’s population own 50% of the world’s wealth, and that the gap between rich and poor globally is widening.
I think capitalism without morality has failed the majority
I hate the cult of money, and also the cult of celebrity.
I despise fervent nationalism or tribalism because it seldom leads to good outcomes. Flags should be reserved for sporting events.

There is probably more, but I am as bored with writing this as you probably are with reading it. Those who have decided to leave have probably left. There is more about me here and here if you can be bothered.

Please exit quietly. Hopefully some will remain.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 

 
13 Comments

Posted by on February 17, 2020 in politics, Still Life

 

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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.

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© 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

 

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Nature or nurture

She asks herself the question over and over again.

How could he tell from a photograph, a handful of posts, a dozen seemingly innocuous online messages?

What was it about her that had made him so certain, so confident, so sure?

How can he write himself into her head, into her heart? How can he read what she is thinking? How can he see so deep inside her? Every secret. Every wish, Every desire.

And how does he make her body react in the way that it does? Sometimes despite herself.

And where did this overpowering urge to please him come from?

Is it her nature?

Or his nurture?

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I first wrote this six years ago – the question is sometimes asked

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 
8 Comments

Posted by on December 28, 2019 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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