Dress

 

Dress

 

One more glass and I will submit

to the memory of her dress.

Silk less smooth as the skin within,

and I’ve seen her wearing less.

 

But you never knew me quite this way

with my eyes so full of clouds.

Some black poison has ruined me

and the gown is now a shroud.

 

One more glass and I will resort

to softly whispering her name.

Writing words on my exposed pale wrists

in an attempt to hide the stain.

 

But you never knew me quite this way

With my body so stale and old.

I’ve tortured the flame of this candle

And its grey smoke kiss has left me cold.

 

One more glass and I will forget

the sweet memory of her dress.

She wore it for me one afternoon

when she still wanted to impress.

 

Copyright 2008 The author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 I wrote this one night in an almost deserted restaurant in some miserable Frankfurt suburb almost seven years ago.  I was feeling sorry for myself with a cold and had not gone out with my business colleagues.  Instead I ate by myself, drank red wine in excess, wallowed in manly self-pity, and scrawled this poem on the back page of a dull report.

It is about a submissive lover called Nikki who had hair as black as a raven’s and dark brown eyes that I can still see if I close mine.  We had parted some months before.
The biggest challenge was trying to work out what I’d written the next day. 

The recording is a little old, but I hope you enjoy anyway

 

As he will

She barely understands it.

It is a desire to serve.

A hunger to yield, to bend, to give, to allow herself to be controlled.

A need to submit, To comply, to assent, to acquiesce.  It is an itch, an ache, a yearning.

She is compelled by some deep inner want, some unfathomable need. some almost primal desire to yield up her submission.

To render up all her power.

She has craved such wondrous, glorious authority over her for as long as she can remember. Before the budding of her breasts, before the flow of blood, before passion, before the longing between her thighs.

Yet it could never be anyone.  It had to be him.  It always had to be him.

She has waited forever for his presence. For his strength, his certainty, his discipline, his protection.

For him to do with her as he will.

Mind, body and soul.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from emotional artists 

I wrote this two years ago.  I have allowed it another airing. This time with audio

 

Bringing peace

She is not sure why she is special.

She thinks that perhaps he flatters her.

She peers at herself in the mirror. She studies her own familiar face and seeks signs of beauty. She pulls in her belly, throws back her shoulders and pushes her breasts forward. She turns sideways and examines herself. She smooths her hands over her hips and round to the swell of her arse,

She runs her fingers through her hair, shakes it out then lets it fall about her face before stroking it back again.

And then, for one proud moment, she glimpses it.

The wide, eloquent eyes. The sensual mouth. The elegant throat. The cascade of hair. The desirable, sexy, made-for-sin body.

And she smiles. And glows.

But there is one thing that she cannot see. And yet it is the thing that excites him even beyond her beauty and curves.

It is the pure, sacred heart of a sexual submissive

And while her body promises a thousand dark and delicious delights

It is the submissive that brings peace to a Dominant soul,

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

 

No time for shadows

He is still not sure.

Whether she is real, or a figment of his imagination.

She came to him when August was rich and scented and heavy . A rare, almond-eyed beauty with raven black hair and perfect scarlet-painted lips. Her body was sensual, soft, deliciously curved. Her innocence was breathtaking.

She held out her hands and said ‘please teach me’.

Except that now he is uncertain if those were her words. Or just the sound of the late summer breeze rustling in the green leaves.

The rain fell instead.

It is now almost winter. She still ghosts his days with uncertainty. She haunts him. She utters promises, seeks forgiveness, offers everything.

But she yields him nothing.

She vanishes the moment he tests the air around her with purpose.

Yet perhaps she is not there at all.

He shrugs his shoulders. In this moment he decides that she is but a creature of myth and legend. A wild-eyed, seductive spirit sent to steal his sleep. Only a shadow.

He has no time for shadows.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from Pathogens (Melissa)

 

Hard to say

It is hard to say.

Who has lost the most.

He must forever mourn her beauty never to be his. Her eloquent, brave, timid eyes. Her sensual mouth. The miracle of bone structure. Her perfect body. Magical curves. Lovely breasts. Gorgeous legs. A walking fantasy.

And her sweet soul. Generous and warm. Just the hint of a submissive.

Oh to see her dance.

She will always know she would have been adored, admired, respected, perhaps even loved. His muse, his angel, the patron saint of his words. And that deeply erotic excitement that still tugs at her belly and strokes her thighs. The mystery, the arousal, the fulfillment. The joy of belonging.

Oh, to dance for him.

It is hard to say.

Who has lost the most

And harder to bear.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 

Something about her

I have (although I have no religion) been blessed.

I have enjoyed so much of beauty.

I have flattered, seduced, stolen, attracted, enchanted and compelled her. I have adored, admired, worshipped and respected her. I have yearned for, longed for, ached for, wished for, hungered for her.

I have dominated, owned, controlled, instructed, disciplined her. I have used and abused her. I have kissed, caressed, tied and whipped, licked, stroked, teased and thrilled her. I have made her body electric with pleasure.

I have felt beauty moan and sigh beneath my hands.

I have held her in my arms and soothed her fears. I have fallen for her.

Very rarely, I have loved her….

Yet of late I thought I had grown weary of beauty

I thought I had grown tired, cynical, jaded,

I thought my lifetime infatuation with her was over.

But there is something about this beauty that has captured my attention.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Ring-fence

It was within their grasp.

A day at first pencilled, then inked, and then circled with a fat red marker pen on an imaginary blank August calendar page.

She thought about it, and tried not to think about it, and couldn’t stop thinking about it. The excitement tugged deep, hungry and yearning in her lower belly. And her fear gave it a delicious edge.

He polished his hand-crafted leather cuffs and made sure all the tools of his art were perfect, pristine and ready He imagined her – a sweet, beautiful neophyte, a new, exotic canvas – and, despite his control, he felt himself harden.

And the day edged closer with every dawn. Until they could almost touch it.

Then life, or fate, or karma, or co-incidence, or ill-fortune or some miserable, jealous god with too much time on its hands, intervened.

It is now September’s calendar that is marked in scarlet lipstick and in thick, midnight-blue ink.

Urgent, compelling desire has placed a determined ring-fence around the date.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

 

 

This is the man

At first glance he seems older.

It is a surprise, but she realises her imagination has made him younger every day.

He is wearing a two piece suit. Navy blue, with stripes. There are stripes on his shirt too. The tie is silk. He wears cufflinks. His shoes are polished. There is a practiced, familiar formality about his clothing derived from a lifetime in business

He is tall, but not towering. Toned rather than muscular.

He is not particularly good-looking and yet she decides that she likes his face, despite the creases. The eyes are penetrating, the mouth sensual. He has laughter lines above his cheekbones which are accentuated by a faint, fading tan. He smiles a lot. His hair is indeed silver. He has extraordinary hands.

And that voice – released from the formality of reciting poetry –  touches her.

He appraises her quietly, the corners of his mouth turning gently upwards.

She takes a deep breath and tries to stop herself from trembling.

This is the man to whom she will give herself.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

 

 

Her imagination

Her imagination keeps calling her.

She tries to put herself in the room.

The hush. A silence that crackles with electricity. A stillness that is full of movement. A quiet that is disturbed by the wild beating of her hungry heart.

His voice. Soft, deep, gentle, compelling. Hypnotic. His words. His instructions. His control. Seductive and certain.

His touch. Long fingers cool on her skin. Running through her hair. Languid yet definite. Gorgeous but dangerous. Pleasure yet pain.  Undressing her. Peeling her clothes from her. Discovering every inch of her.

Revealing her soul. More naked than her body.

She tries to put herself beneath his hands.

Her imagination keeps betraying her.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by simonovokis

 

Never been

I have never been interested in the explicit.

I am not excited by the brazen, the obvious, the lewd or the overt. I am not aroused by the exposed, the conspicuous, the evident or the public.

There is no mystery in a woman whose image is common currency, whose wide experience is worn like a badge, whose sexuality is defined in words of one syllable.

I am drawn to modesty, to elegance, to simplicity, to the sensuality of understated style and the purity of a summer dress.

I am entranced by innocence, by wide-eyed curiosity, by a desire to learn, by the quiet beauty of a woman who does not need to try too hard.

I am enraptured by the submissive soul that has burned to be discovered, yet has always remained silent.

I am utterly seduced by the girl who softly whispers:

‘I have never been tied.’

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot