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 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 fingerprint.

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/Faded Romantic

Some time ago I was going through my old words and found this – written around this time nine years ago. I like it. I hope you enjoy it.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

Approval

She studies herself

in the full-length mirror.

She knows that he cannot see her, does not see her, may never see her.

Yet she turns through three hundred and sixty degrees.

Aware of her breasts beneath the shirt, her arse and her thighs, tight in her jeans, the way the morning light touches her skin.

She runs her hands through her hair and lets it fall.

She hopes he likes the way she looks.

And though his eyes may never find her

She still seeks his approval.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Written some years ago. Reposted because I like it.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

Music starts

The music starts

slow guitar

growling bass

dirty brass

drums kick in

high hat

snare.

.

His eyes

are upon her

watching her face

watching her body

as she moves.

.

She has never

felt more

a woman

than she does

right now.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

This post is six years old, yet a dancer is always special to me.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

Winter Sunday

Sunday afternoon

fading

and dissolving

as Winter days do.

.

Yet I burn

bright

in the silence

in the solitude

in the gloom.

.

For you.

Only for you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

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 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 fingerprint.

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/Faded Romantic

Some time ago I was going through my old words and found this – written around this time eight years ago. I like it. I hope you enjoy it.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

Approval

She studies herself

in the full-length mirror.

She knows that he cannot see her, does not see her, may never see her.

Yet she turns through three hundred and sixty degrees.

Aware of her breasts beneath the shirt, her arse and her thighs, tight in her skirt, the way the morning light touches her skin.

She runs her hands through her hair and lets it fall.

She hopes he likes the way she looks.

And though his eyes may never find her

She still seeks his approval.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written five years ago. Reposted because I think you do.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

Music starts

The music starts

slow guitar

growling bass

dirty brass

drums kick in

high hat

snare.

.

His eyes

are upon her

watching her face

watching her body

as she moves.

.

She has never

felt more

a woman

than she does

right now.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This is five years old, yet a dancer is always special.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

To fill my dreams

 

When midnight comes

to my room

a single lamp lit

I could summon

in my imagination

dancers and angels

lovers and strangers

and so many pretty girls

all waiting for sleep

to take me.

 

But you

are the beauty

I truly want

to fill my dreams.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not brand new, but so.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

 

Winter Saturday

 

Saturday afternoon

fading

and dissolving

as Winter days do.

Yet I burn

bright

in the silence

in the solitude

in the gloom.

For you.

Only for you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago, reposted on an even more gloomy and faded Saturday.

Art by Jeremy Mann

 

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 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 fingerprint.

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

Some years ago I was going through my old words and found this – written around this time seven years ago. I like it. I hope you enjoy it.

Art by Jeremy Mann