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Good things

 

Good things

seldom happen

randomly

by chance.

They usually need

more assistance

than just hoping

for divine intervention.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not a brand new post, but always true.

Art by Thomas Saliot

 
8 Comments

Posted by on October 29, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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She has it

francine-de-van-hove-11

 

He adores women.

Their curves, their elegance, the softness of their silky skin. The way their bodies sway when they walk, Their sense of humour, their warmth, their generosity, their clear, incisive intelligence.

He adores their hair, their eloquent eyes, the hallowed velvet of their throat, the aching sensuality of their thighs.

He adores their femininity, their courage, their balance, their insanity. The way they talk so intimately amongst themselves.

He adores their resilience, their vulnerability. their anger, their passion, their truth and their lies.

He adores their motherhood, their sisterhood, their sainthood, He adores their independence, their sociability, their ability to survive.

He adores the fact that he finds them all so desperately, outrageously fucking sexy.

And yet there is something. Something that turns adoration into hungry desire.

Something intangible, wild, expressive, beautiful, endearing, submissive, strong and utterly mesmerizing that compels him. Something that captivates him completely.

She has it.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Francine van Hove

I originally posted this seven years ago.  It is my hymn to women in general. Although when it was written it may well have been for one in particular. And who knows, it might even be for one now.

 
4 Comments

Posted by on October 12, 2020 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, romance, Still Life

 

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Tale of a Dominant – Part One

She is perched at the bar next to him.

She crosses her legs on the high stool. He appreciates the muscle in her thigh, and the pronounced shape of her calf.

‘You don’t mind if I ask you some questions?’

They both know he will enjoy answering. It is a part of teaching. And he would like to tutor her in many ways. So he nods.

‘When did you know that you were … the way you are?’

He raises an eyebrow and smiles. ‘The way I am?’

‘You know…  … a Dominant’.  She doesn’t know why the word sounds utterly ridiculous and yet still sends a small shiver down her spine.

‘Ah. That.’  He is dismissive.

‘Are you not one?’

‘It has become such a cliché. I hate to be a cliché. That awful book … ‘

‘Fifty Shades?’

He raises his eyes and shakes his head, indicating disapproval. There is a silence. He begins to write spidery words on a single piece of paper with a fat Mont Blanc fountain pen. The ink is midnight blue. She cannot read them, although she tries.

‘Shall we just use Dominant as a label?’  She asks. Then after a few seconds. ‘After all, you do.’

There is an imperceptible shrug of his shoulders and a slight upwards curl of his lips. She takes it as assent.

‘So when did you know?’

He considers her question, his pen no longer at work.

‘I would say I always knew,’ he answers at last. ‘Certainly it has been with me for as long as I can remember. But I couldn’t define exactly what that ache was for a long time.’
He pauses.   ‘I have always adored women. Worshipped them. The female form has always thrilled me. And the feminine mind.’

‘Is adoration important?’

‘Of course.’   He says it with absolute conviction. ‘It is adoration that makes me want to unwrap a woman slowly, body and soul. To explore every inch of her. To give her pleasure and pain. To have her in my power. To enjoy her completely. To possess her.

He moves his long slender hands as speaks. He is aware of her staring. He picks up his wine glass with his left hand. There is a simple wedding ring on his third finger.  It surprises her somehow. She makes a mental note to ask about it later.

‘There must have been a first? Your first D/s experience?’

He laughs. She likes the sound.  She inexplicably feels that she wants to make him laugh.

‘The very first? He asks her, raising an eyebrow,

She nods.

Then that’s easy. It was Julie. She was fourteen and lived in the house next door.

The woman is shocked and her face pales.

He gives a wicked grin.

‘She was in the same year as me, but at the girl’s school. I stripped her naked and tied her up one afternoon in her father’s garden shed. Among the power tools and the nails and screws, the lawnmower and the old paint cans. I laid her on the big wooden workbench. I seem to remember I tortured her very gently with a soft wire brush.’

The woman appears shocked but he knows she is fascinated.

‘Julie enjoyed it. It became a regular event. Until her mother caught us.’
He smiles at the memory.  ‘But she is a different story.’

There is a long silence. The words spill from the nib of his pen in dark blue, almost black ink. She watches them materialise, unreadable, on the page.

‘Have you ever been tied?’ He asks suddenly.

The woman shakes her head and gulps a mouthful of wine. She tries to avoid his eyes, until she feels compelled to look up. They meet his and something strange happens between them.

He tightens the cap on his pen and hands her the paper.

She blushes when she reads what he has written, a hand fluttering to her throat.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I originally wrote this in September 2013. It was an idea for a book based upon a similar true event, which I eventually never wrote. I penned and posted a short Part Two, and finished it at that point. Perhaps it would have been worth continuing ….It has proved vaguely popular when I have posted here in the past, so I have posted again.

Art by Fabian Perez

 
 

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Never changed

 

I might be

seduced

beguiled

entranced

enthralled

enamoured

fascinated

bewitched

captivated

enraptured

spellbound

but I can never

be changed.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new, but always true.

Art by Michael and Inessa Garmash

 
2 Comments

Posted by on October 2, 2020 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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A thing of beauty

 

Their needs for sexual and emotional pleasure, are opposite yet complementary.

One with a desire to own, to direct, to control, to nurture, to admire, to respect, to adore.

One with a desire to belong, to surrender, to please, to serve, to trust, to respect, to be adored.

It is the way they are. The way they are wired. The way they have always been.

And if they should engage, captivate, resonate

it is a thing of rare, exquisite, and erotic beauty.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

 

 
8 Comments

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

 

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I never look back

 

I never look back

over my shoulder

at what is lost

or is history.

 

I never look ahead

at what may

or may not

ever be.

 

I live

for the moment

with the beauty

that touches me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fulvio De Marinis

 
12 Comments

Posted by on August 2, 2020 in 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

 
8 Comments

Posted by on June 30, 2020 in D/s, 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

 

 
4 Comments

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

 

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You think I am romantic

 

You think I am romantic.

You read my words and you read ‘love’ into them.

But I hardly ever use the word.

It is too big and too small. Too specific and too universal.

It has been idolised, eulogised, exalted, celebrated, hymned and acclaimed.

It has been hijacked, railroaded, politicised, kidnapped, blackmailed, broken, ruined and whored.

It has been given and taken, lost and found, borrowed and stolen.

It has been used as a reason for everything, an answer for everything, an excuse for everything.

It has been devalued by so many wanting it, by so many selling it.

So I hardly ever use the word ‘love’.

I write of lust, desire, longing, and yearning. Of sensuality, sex and eroticism. Of arousal and excitement. Of seduction and initiation. Of pleasure and pain. Of Domination and submission. Of attraction and infatuation. Of caring. Of nurture. Of adoration. And yes, of romance too.

Because I know exactly what those words mean.

And if I ever write of love – and I sometimes do

I make sure I know exactly

what

and who

I mean.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

 

 
6 Comments

Posted by on June 22, 2020 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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I will not miss you

Altar of Worship

I will not miss you

I will not miss you when winter darkens the sky and snowflakes kiss my skin. When the fire burns bright in the hearth and the candles flicker their yearning ghosts upon the wall.

I will not miss you when spring breaks the soil with green, and silently buds the shivering trees. When pale hearts are made bold by the rising sap and cupid’s sweet festival.

I will not miss you when summer spreads itself before me in wild and glorious heat. When my skin feels the sun caressing it like a lover, like an angel, like a pretty girl.

I will not miss you when autumn reminds me of solemn promise stolen by sad circumstance. When the rain trickles down my cheeks and beneath my collar and hides my stupid tears.

I will not miss you

I will not miss you

I will not miss you

.

,

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this ages ago and had forgotten it, but it turned up this morning when I was looking for something else. On a grey and miserable day I thought it deserved a fresh airing.

Art by Jack Vettriano

 
10 Comments

Posted by on June 18, 2020 in Lovers Past, Poetry, Still Life

 

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