What he has done to her

She does not know what he has done to her.

She studies her face in the mirror. She wonders if others can see the hunger in it.  She wonders if she is betrayed by the wild, yearning look in her eyes. She is certain that she is wearing her lust like a badge.

She brushes her finger tips lightly across her lips. It sends an electric jolt through her body. A lay-line of desire that tingles from breast to belly to thighs.

It fully reawakens the ache inside her. She almost gasps at the intensity of it. A certain, steady, endless throb. Impossible to ignore. A ball of longing that radiates from her burning sex to every part of her being. Her skin reacts to any touch. Even the brush of her clothes makes her dizzy with need.

Its urgency overwhelms her. As it does every distracted day. Every tortured night. There is no respite even when she sleeps. Her dreams are a decadent tangle of limbs, whips and ropes, desperate mouths, probing tongues and deep penetration.

She can bear it no more. She is on her knees. She lets her fingers trail across her cheek, down her neck. She imagines she is in his hands. She takes her nipples between thumb and forefinger and squeezes until she gasps. Pain and pleasure. His religion.

She finds herself slick, wet and swollen. She rubs herself roughly. Brutally. Savagely. The pure heat of her arousal shocks and thrills her.

Her climax is violent. It rips and tears through her. Her body shudders and dances erratically. She is engulfed by it and yet still somehow manages to keep her fingers working. Both hands. Forcing herself onwards. The way he would do.

The next tidal wave is unstoppable. It drowns her. She is breathless, exhausted, trembling. Weak, Helpless. She has no strength left. She collapses. She sobs and laughs and shakes her head in amazement.

She does not know what he has done to her.

But she hates it.

And she loves it.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo from a private source, used by kind permission.

This piece was written about a year ago. I have used the excuse of adding audio to justify a repost.
A woman’s climax has always fascinated and aroused me.There is nothing more satisfying, rewarding and thrilling for a man than to be the cause of his lover’s orgasm – in whatever way he can bring it about.

 

Always someone

When I am alone

In the sultry, electric heat of a stormy summer night. In the still, misty air of a hushed and muted Autumn afternoon. In the warm bed contrast of a shivery bitter-cold winter morning. In the sap-rising new warmth of a gentle Spring evening.

When I am utterly alone

And when my wordy mind is full of dancers. Of yearning. almost-innocent girls in party dresses. Of elegant, long-legged women, heels sending staccato gun fire across marble floors. Of leather-clad vixens, full swagger, poise and scarcely admitted vulnerability.  Of submissive, naked angels. spread and tied like sacrifice on pure white sheets on wide brass beds…..

And when my memories and fantasies, and the touch of my own fingers across my flesh, have made me ache and burn for physical release

There is always a beauty and a body I conjure up when I close my eyes.

A delicious smile. A paradise of curves and lines and soft tender skin. A wonder of gorgeous breasts with hard-as-berry nipples. A roll of hips that take my breath away. A perfection of soft thighs, seductively parted. Eloquent eyes that know my dark soul.

There is always someone my hunger turns to.

Someone to bring me to a wild, private, exultant, shuddering climax

It is always you.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

 

 

 

Her own touch

She is on her knees.

The room is hushed. Completely still. From somewhere distant there is the sound of a dog barking. Just twice. And further still, the faint peal of church bells.

He sits in an armchair. He is wearing dark blue suit trousers, a striped blue and white cotton shirt, and a deep-red silk tie. His handmade black shoes are polished and shiny.

She is naked.

Except for a leather collar buckled around her elegant throat.

His eyes roam slowly over her body, She can almost feel them as they survey and caress her skin. Contemplating every inch of her. They finally make their way to her face, studying her mouth, her chin, her cheekbones.

Their eyes meet. The electricity crackles across the room.

She waits for instruction.

He says one word.

Her eyelids close for a second. She breathes deeply. Then they open and she returns his gaze.

She moves a hand out from behind her back and up to her neck. Her fingers begin to follow the reverse path his eyes have taken. They lightly slip over her shoulders and down to her breasts. They circle her urgent nipples and her breathing quickens.

They trail over her belly.

She slides her hand between her parted thighs.

She gasps at her own touch.

.

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© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by DQ-lest