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Prophecy

Art by Casey Baugh

 

She gives me her palm to read.

I trace a line

from the tip

of her index finger

to the flickering

nervous pulse

in her wrist.

Then along the pale skin

of her arm.

 

I climb the rise

of her breasts

and traverse

her elegant shoulder.

I tenderly

stroke her throat

and chin

and cheeks.

 

I touch the curve of her lips

then softly kiss

her mouth

with a prophecy.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written four years ago, but I hope the reader does not mind the repeat

Art by Casey Baugh

 
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Posted by on July 2, 2020 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Shiver

Art by Yanjun Cheng

A shiver.

A delicious, electric, thrilling shiver.

An ice hot sensation rushing from the nape of her neck to the base of her spine.

It hurries to her throat and steals her breath.

It colours her skin with a sudden, rosy, tell-tale blush.

It hardens her nipples as if touched by a kiss

It dances wild across her belly and hips.

It makes her gasp as it tugs at her thighs

It penetrates her sex.

A shiver

Running down her spine

Coming from him.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Yanjun Cheng

A post from six years ago. Yet hopefully it resonates.

 
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Posted by on July 1, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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But will you?

 

I have been as guilty of it as anyone.

But much less so these days.  Now the shadows are lengthening.

Because there is but one life.  There is no heaven in which to smugly contemplate relentless eternity. There is no hell to somehow face greater suffering. There are no seventy two virgins with legs spread wide. There is no reincarnation as a deer, or a fox, or someone somehow better.

There is only now.

The years which seemed to stretch out endlessly when we are soft and still to be moulded, constantly gather momentum. Like water rushing out of the basin. Like sand escaping the narrowing hourglass.  Life is so short. Time is so precious.

And yet we waste it.  We procrastinate.  We dither. We make excuses. We pretend to be something we are not rather than act upon who we are. We pretend we are looking for perfection as if it really exists. We fear to make mistakes and instead we do nothing.  We hold ourselves back, saving our hearts, bodies and souls for someday, some person, some event that may never be. Our days pass by with nothing to mark them but the calendar. We always think that there is still tomorrow …

I know I will eventually end my days regretting the women, the times, the joys (and even the sorrows) I did not have far more than I will regret those I had*.

I once told Beauty that Life is not a Rehearsal.

She did not listen.

But will you?

.

.

* I am certain this thought is stolen from elsewhere, so please do forgive the plagiarism

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Another unearthing from my archive. Always relevant.

Art by William Oxer

 
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Posted by on June 30, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Slow surrender

 

She is innocent.

Her bold beauty is barely blemished. Her gorgeous body is almost untouched by another’s breath. The gentle pages of her heart are yet to be written.  Her hunger is new and urgent. She longs for something she has yet to discover.
She has purity in her soul.

He is darkness.

He has loved and won and lost his way through enough joy and sorrow to fill the night. He has coaxed forth endless sweet fantasies, elegantly bestowed a thousand decadent pleasures, administered such breathtaking, delicious torture.
His eyes have seen far beyond the shadows.

Yet there is an ache that binds them. A primaeval yearning that sets them apart from all others.

He will sanctify her slow surrender and make them both holy.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

More delving in my archives. I like this one.

Art by William Oxer

 

 
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Posted by on June 29, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Aroma

.

There are fragrances I adore

Red wine and the earthy aroma of a mature Rioja. Pepper, smoke, leather, pencil lead, tobacco and oak.

The pungent, salty, briny, fishy, seaweed, damp sand, ozone smell of a small working harbour when the boats have returned with their silver, flapping catch.

Patchouli, and musk and sandalwood, and the magical promise of marijuana, reminding me of stoned nights lost in music and poetry.

A garden awash with flowers, wisteria, alyssum, gardenia, magnolia, sweet pea, jasmine and glorious rose.

The smells redolent of summer and my childhood – new-mown hay, cotton candy, melting tar, honey, horses, chlorine, cinnamon, chocolate, the drifting smoke of a barbecue.

And others too – coffee beans roasting, peaty Irish whiskey, wild garlic, the evening after the rain and storm, and the familiar breath of home when I open the door.

The rich leather of cuffs, collar and blindfold, whips and flogger

And most of all, woman.

A thousand fragrances, every body different. Her fresh washed hair, her make up creams and oils. Her sweet perspiration. Her soft breath. Her purchased perfume made unique when it meets the personal aroma of her warm skin

And that heady, wondrous, eloquent, wild, delicate scent

of pure arousal

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

For compilation reasons, I am still delving amongst some of my past and almost forgotten writings. This one is still so very true.
 
Art by Fabian Perez

 

 
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Posted by on June 28, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Mirror

 

She stands before the mirror.

Her reflection is the same and yet she knows something inside herself has changed.  She had expected to see the evidence in the face of the slightly pensive woman staring back at her, but there is none.  Except perhaps a slight blush in her usually pale cheeks.

She raises her chin and flicks her long black hair over her shoulders.  She is aware of a pulse dancing beneath the skin of her throat.  The room is as silent as a church.  She feels holy and profane at the same time. She feels like she did her first day at school.  Excited and afraid, and slightly awed, all at once.

She unties her gown, opens it and lets it fall from her shoulders.  As it glides to the floor it brushes her skin like a soft caress .  She is wearing nothing beneath.

She is not ashamed of her body and yet, even though she is completely alone, she has never felt so exposed.  She interlocks her fingers behind her back and places her feet a shoulders width apart as he has instructed.

It as if she has undressed for him.  In front of him. And yet he is not there.  He cannot see her.  There is no camera running. There are no stills to be taken.  He has simply told her to do this.  He wants no proof that she has complied.

As the allotted minutes tick away she becomes aware that her breathing has quickened.  She can hear the blood pumping steadily through her veins.  Her nipples have hardened and there is a slight but definite ache in her lower belly.  Her mouth is dry.  She knows she is wet.

She has no idea why she has become so aroused.

 

 

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Another rather old post of mine that perhaps deserves to be reposted

Photo discovered on a website without reference to the owner. If it is yours please let me know so I can credit or remove

 
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Posted by on June 27, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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There are days when I want you

 

There are days when I want you.

 

From the storm of hair on your gorgeous head to your beautiful face.

From the eloquence of your eyes to the sensuality of your mouth.

From the elegance of your throat, to your neck, to your collarbones, to your shoulders, to your arms.

From the heaven of your breasts, to the wondrous curves of your waist and back and hips and arse.

From the paradise of your thighs, and the shapely splendour of your legs.

To your pretty toes.

 

There are days when I want you.

 

In truth, there are never days when I do not.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

 

 
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Posted by on June 26, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Stare

 

I devour you secretly with my eyes.

I am hungry for your presence, ravenous for your beauty.

I want to take you in whole.  One magnificent glorious vista, one gorgeous portrait, one high-definition-full-resolution-never-fading screen capture for my memory. Such divine visual food to somehow satisfy this desperate, aching desire.  To help sustain me when you are gone.

Then I want to take you piece by piece,  An inch at a time.  An eye, a nail, a lock of hair, the lobe of an ear….

Yet I hardly have such control.  I take your lips, your mouth, your nose, the hollow of your throat, the elegant swell of your delicious breasts, a wrist, an ankle, an arm, the heavenly architecture of your thighs….

I have swallowed you whole again.

My eyes devour you like a starving man, made weak by famine, who has no sight of his next meal.

I try not to stare.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I am still digging around among old posts. I am surprised how apt and fresh some of them are.

Art by William Oxer

 

 
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Posted by on June 25, 2020 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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The show has begun

 

She is shy.  She has never done anything like this before.

She has rehearsed it so often that the music has become a soundtrack to these last few nervous days.  It plays in her mind from the moment sleep releases her until she slides back into its arms. Perhaps it echoes through her dreams. She knows every persistent drumbeat, every smooth chord, every deep bass note, every sweet moan of hungry, dirty brass.  She has her timings to the second.

She has tried to imagine this moment, tried to prepare herself for how she would feel.

Now, standing before the video camera, she realises that she could never have readied herself.  Not for this intimate moment, her hushed room, this distant audience of one.  Her mouth is dry, her heartbeat is wild and loud, her legs are weak.  She is finding it hard to breathe.

She smooths her hands down her dress.  They slide over her waist and onto her hips.  She is desperately nervous. She is blushingly embarrassed.  She is impossibly excited.

She is achingly aroused.

She presses a button on the slim, black remote and the music begins.  The first notes are soothingly familiar and disturbingly erotic.

Despite herself, she begins to sway into her routine. She feels her hips move.   As if by magic her body becomes lithe and sinuous.  She is seductive, sexy, sensuous.

She knows he will watch her.  Again and again.

Her hands glide over her breasts, caressing herself. Her fingers reach behind for the metal tongue of the zipper.

The show has begun.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

For various reasons, I have been sifting through my past writings. I discovered this one, and it made me smile. I thought new readers might like it.

Art by William Oxer

 

 
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Posted by on June 24, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Lost causes

Art by Gianni Bellini

I am not a man for lost causes.

Indeed I will barely even give chase.

I am not a hunter, a predator, a stalker.

I will not pursue relentlessly. I will not track hungrily. I will not chase regardless.

I will not follow that which has no desire to be caught.

I will not pen midnight poems to attract you, I will not write erotic fantasies to tempt you, I will not create dark, dangerous, delicious scenarios to seduce you.

No matter your sharp intelligence, your eloquent creativity, your breathtaking beauty, your sensual body, your sweet personality, your divine, submissive soul.

I am too proud, too arrogant, too aloof.

And most of all, too afraid of rejection.

I am not a man for lost causes.

But for you, rare, exotic, gorgeous creature

I might just make an exception.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Gianni Bellini

It is hard to believe I originally wrote this five years ago. Still true.

 
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Posted by on June 23, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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