Not realised

I’m not quite sure how the subject arose

We were eating out.

In those wild, heady days when you and I were one.

An oak-rich tapas bar where the dark wood was warmly illuminated by flickering candle light. We had shared calamares a la romana, gambas al ajillo, and patatas bravas, among other dishes. We had demolished most of a bottle of rioja and were intimately side by side on a leather bench seat.

The waitress, a petite Spanish girl with lovely brown eyes, dusky skin, and thick, lustrous, black hair came to ask if we wanted coffee. I smiled at her and said something complimentary that made her blush. I watched her appreciatively as she walked away, her small hips delicious in her tight black skirt.

‘Do you want her?’ you asked. You were smiling and your eyes were shining. You knew my love for beauty. You also knew my fidelity to you.

I laughed. 
‘She is rather gorgeous,’ I replied.

Suddenly we were having a discussion about my having two submissives. You, and another, younger one. And how I would instruct you to undress her, tie her, tease her, torment her. How I would tell you to lower your perfect mouth to her breasts and to her swollen lips.

And for me then to reverse your roles, and have her working on your lovely body. I would of course assist in both cases with my fingers and tongue, whips, tools and toys.

The discussion was entertaining enough to see us through much coffee, and a brandy or two. I did map out a plan that night. I never got around to executing it.

I sometimes allow myself to consider the prospect.

It is one of the few fantasies I have never realised.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo stolen from joicarey

 

 

 

Benign

We are talking again.

No, not exactly talking.  After a long silence we are exchanging e-mails.

Her name seems familiar yet strange in my in-box. Predictable but somehow alien, disconnected, out of time and out-of-place. Yet my phone was once alive with her – buzzing with long, longing phone calls, humming with text upon text,

Now it makes a single, anonymous note, no different from the correspondence of others, or the blog notifications, or the twitter alerts.

The letters of her name beneath my fingers are like empty shells stripped of everything they once signified. They no longer represent the passion, the desire, the hunger, the love that once electrified each often-chanted, beloved, cherished syllable.

Their power has gone.  They are benign, safe, neutral.

It is past. Over.

Today she suggested meeting…

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

 

Reply

You mailed to say you still miss me.

It was unexpected.  Out of the blue.

I imagined you frowning slightly as you typed out the words with your quick fingers, the soft click and clatter of your nails on the keyboard.  I saw you tucking a stray lock of silky dark brown hair behind your ear, the jewellery I bought you glittering in the lobe.

I recalled the perfect skin of your elegant throat.

I tried to remember your eyes.

I loved you.  So much.

But time, distance, and the shadows of another, have blurred all those once certain edges.

It has taken me three days to reply,

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

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Hoping she is happy

He does not think of her often.

She would be disappointed if she knew how little.

Yet today, listening to a song on his iPhone while the white, cold, snowy English countryside is gliding past the train window, the past touches him.

The music reminds him of those now forever-lost days when they shared their lives.  When they pressed themselves close together in the candlelight of friendly restaurants, when they cooked ambitious meals in the intimate warmth of her beautiful apartment, when they curled up on the sofa and watched the late night news.

He remembers the concerts, the perfection of together, lost in the moment.  He remembers the wine tasting, the galleries, the short holiday by the rain-swept coast, the glorious, silent journey across her city in the wicker basket hanging from a soaring balloon.

He remembers the ropes, the whip, the leather cuffs, the blindfold, the toys.  The candle wax, the ice, the plugs, the pegs, her dancing naked for him, her eyes locked and lost in his.

He remembers waking next to her, her gorgeous, natural scent, the bending of her warm body into his, burying his face in her tousled hair and cupping her sweet breasts in his hands.

Her nipples still sleepy, yet stirring against his palms.

The song changes.  The memory is lost to the bleached English countryside.

He smiles.

He hopes she is happy.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Jack Vettriano

 

Another lifetime

I cannot believe a year has elapsed.

We were so impossibly close.  Now we are more distant than friends.

This is what I wrote around this time last October

It was in another lifetime.

 

Perfect Bubble

We are useless in company.

Jenny and I attended a wine tasting supper yesterday evening.  The wines – a rose, a white, two reds, and a sweet dessert, were exquisite and the food, as we had hoped from the lovely restaurant on the river, was delicious and perfectly matched.

On the long table at which we were seated it was expected that we would converse with others and perhaps share our opinions on the liquid and the feast.  But we wrapped ourselves up in a cocoon of intimacy that must have intimidated strangers in its exclusivity.  We chatted and laughed and held hands and scrutinised those assembled around us with humour and perhaps a little disdain.

We left as soon as we had sipped the last drop of wine from our glasses – long before the official close and the slow drifting away.  We barely said goodnight.

Back at her apartment Jenny stripped naked for me in her newly fitted study, the air redolent with freshly sawn wood and the sound of empty shelves and cupboards whispering happily of the future of her independent practice.  She is so slim these days.  She has such elegant curves.

As we curled up in bed, skin against skin, I realised that we had spent the entire evening together as if we had been alone.

In our own perfect bubble.

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Painting by Jack Vettriano