I call myself Dominant

 

I call myself ‘Dominant’ because it best describes my sexual orientation, my desire to teach, nurture, protect and direct – and also my tastes and desires – in way that is straightforward and unequivocal.

It is not because I expect you to fall gratefully to your knees and call me Sir.

It simply does not work like that.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art from a vintage postcard – origin unknown

I first posted this four years ago because the arrogant posturing, words, attitudes and expectations of many online wannabe ‘Doms’ made me laugh. They still do.

 

Tyro

 

She kneels

at the altar

of his dark

Dominant

decadent

romantic

sexual religion

her thin

white dress

transparent

in the hungry

candlelight.

.

.

@ the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

Ready

She has discovered him.

She has watched him, studied him, scrutinised him, reviewed him, analysed him.

She has surveyed him, evaluated him, interpreted him, considered him.

She has pondered, reflected and deliberated.

She has read him carefully.

She has nervously sipped at the heady wine of his dark religion.

She has tasted it on her tongue, held it in her mouth, felt it slide down her throat.

She has felt dizzy at his power, his control, his command.

She has begun to understand the nature and strength of her own self, her own needs, her own desires..

She is ready for his seduction, his instruction, his domination.

She is ready to be his.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this almost exactly three years ago – reposted because I like it.

Art by Jimmy Law

 

All afternoon

A cool, darkened room.

Outside the sun is blistering the wooden shutters. Narrow shafts of light sear between the wood, striping the walls and ceiling.

And streaming all over you.

They band your body, striping you cream and coffee coloured

You are naked, face up, on the white-sheeted bed.

You are stretched out in a star shape. Your wrists and ankles are secured to the four corners by ropes through steel D rings on strong black leather cuffs. The bindings permit little movement. No matter how hard you tug and strain against them

You have been here for almost an hour. I have caressed you, kissed you, licked you, stroked you. I have nibbled you, kneaded you, and lightly scratched you. I have teased you with my pin wheel, with a soft brush, with a scarf of silk, and with my twelve stranded flogger, trailed over your skin.

And with two of the dozen toys that I have carefully arranged on the oak bedside table.

I have a vintage Hitachi wand in my right hand. It whirrs rather noisily yet it is a faithful servant. I am applying it expertly to your already swollen and glistening sex. With my left hand I am tugging and pinching your hard-as-berry nipples. Your body is bucking and arching, wanting to push away from the wand’s relentless, dimpled, vibrating touch yet at the same time to thrust yourself against it.

Your breathing is urgent and hard. You are panting and crying, sighing and moaning. I know you are desperate to speak, to shout something at me. But you do not. I have forbidden you words.

Your body is dancing now. Strands of your hair are damp and clinging with perspiration. Your face is suffused and flushed with deep arousal. Your eyes roll back. Your mouth is open.

Your muscles tighten. You shudder. The orgasm reverberates through you.

It is your third climax.

The toy continues to send spasms through you. You make small noises of protestation. I smile. After a while I switch it off and idly but dangerously trail my fingers over your inner thighs.

I consider which device to use next.

Later I will reposition you face down.

Later still I will fuck you. Hard.

I have all afternoon ahead of me.

I am torturing you with pleasure.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph by Neil Whiteley

I wrote this around this time four years ago. But perhaps new readers will enjoy …

 

Instrument

 

Your body is a rare

beautifully constructed

almost holy instrument

upon which my fingers

and my creativity

and my imagination

and my dark desires

long to play.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Bruno di Maio

 

Novice

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 two years ago. I hope regular readers can bear another repeat.

 

Enchantment

 

I do not know the sorcery of attraction.

I only know its magic, its chemistry, its compelling, demanding, irresistible force

I only know it by the mane of hair, the eloquent eyes, the sensual lips

I only know it by the elegant shoulders, the exquisite breasts, the perfect legs

I only know it by the sweetest voice, the lightest wit, the purest heart.

I do not know the sorcery of attraction

I only know the shape

of its enchantment

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Casey Baugh

I posted this two years ago. And a year ago. I hope you will enjoy nevertheless

.

 

Her Body

Her Body

.

Her body is my playground

A wonderland of curves and lines.

Of sweet breasts and urgent nipples.

Of rolling hips and elegant thighs.

.

Her body is my canvas

A perfect page on which to paint my words,

to daub my prose,

to  scratch my spidery, inky, dangerous poetry.

.

Her body is my church

A hallowed and sacred place

A holy ground on which to worship

And adore.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Rob Hefferan

I wrote this two years ago. But you might have missed it.

 

Interest and Desire

 

My interest in you

might be a shared admiration

for art and artists

music and musicians

writers and literature.

and the rich inspiration

of theatre and film.

 

Or a mutual fascination

for exotic landscapes

vibrant teeming cities

mountains and lakes

the wild magic

of desert and sea

and the wonder of life.

 

My interest in you

might be heightened by your wit

your generous heart

your creativity

and your sharp, clever mind.

 

But owning your body

your eloquent beauty

your perfect skin

and your sweet submission

transforms that interest

into pure desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

 

Art by Loui Jover

 

 

 

 

 

Her body

 

Her Body

 

Her body is my playground

A wonderland of curves and lines.

Of sweet breasts and urgent nipples.

Of rolling hips and elegant thighs.

 

Her body is my canvas

A perfect page on which to paint my words,

to daub my prose,

to  scratch my spidery, inky, dangerous poetry.

 

Her body is my church

A hallowed and sacred place

A holy ground on which to worship

And adore.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Henry Asencio

I wrote this a year ago. But you might have missed it.