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Something has changed

 

Her life is the same.

Yet something subtle, imperceptible, indefinable has changed.

She seeks it in the buildings, the landscape, the weather and the light.  In the steam from her coffee. She looks for it in the faces of others. She tries to find clues in music, in art, and in films that make her laugh and cry. In books and in magazines and in the words of romantic poets

She watches clouds making familiar shapes across an ordinary sky.

She stands surrounded by night and studies the moon and stars. She lets the breeze tug at her hair and listens for something she might not hear.

In her room, with the lights down low, she examines her body, stripping naked, running her hands over her skin. She is alive to her own touch. Her fingers make her sigh. She breathes deeply.

She stares back at herself and tries to read her own expression.

Her eyes give something away. They are bright, wide, curious, excited. Her lips are full, the faintest of smiles kissing the edges. There is the softest blush upon her cheek, and in her throat.

Her life is the same

Yet something has changed.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This post was written a while ago. But sometimes old things strike new chords.

Art by Laszlo Gulyas

 

 
4 Comments

Posted by on November 9, 2019 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Right moment

 

There is no sense

in waiting

for the right moment

because right moments

are only recognised

some time after

they have gone.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not the first time I have posted this. But invariably true.

Art by Victor Bauer

 
10 Comments

Posted by on November 8, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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When she falls

art-by-wangjie-li

 

When She Falls

 

She has that look.

Something in the eyes.

In the line of her nose.

The tilt of her chin.

The set of her jaw.

She is bright, brave and assured.

But when she falls,

she will fall.

.

She has that smile.

Something in the curve.

In the line of her mouth,

The shape of her lips.

The show of her teeth.

She is cool, collected and poised.

But when she falls,

she will fall.

.

She has that way.

Something in the words.

In the sweep of her thoughts.

The pride in her voice,

The ice in her veins,

She is proud, aloof and secure.

But when she falls,

she will fall.

.

Oh, she will fall.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Wangjie Li

This is not new. But I like it. So I have re-posted once again.

 
12 Comments

Posted by on October 24, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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Tale of a Dominant – Part Two

 

The candle has burnt down low.

The bar is close to empty. It is late. The waitress is hovering near the table with the bill, He motions to her with a raised eyebrow and a smile. She places l’addition on a white saucer with two small squares of gold-wrapped chocolate.

The girl opposite him runs her hands through her long black hair and stretches back in her chair. It is almost provocative.

His eyes flick over her body appreciatively and return to her face. He stares into her eyes. She doesn’t look away. They are both more than a little drunk.

She feels she knows everything about him. He has answered her questions all evening. About his lovers, About D/s, his rules, the cities and the hotel suites, the romance, the shadows and the dancers. His briefcase full of ropes and bindings, toys and instruments. The reasons behind it all. His adoration, his admiration, and his love of women. Of some women in particular.

She has captured his velvet voice on her recorder.

And yet, although he has been the one telling his story, she feels as if it is her soul that has been stripped bare.

He punches the PIN into the card machine with long slender fingers, and it is time to go. He hands her both of the chocolates. She slips them into her bag. She knows they are destined to sit uneaten on her dressing table forever.

Much later that night, with the dawn creeping softly over the silent sea, she slips naked from his bed. She is careful not to wake him. In the pale light she re-reads the note he gave her, written in his distinctive hand, in dark midnight-blue ink.

I remember them all.

The beauties, the heroines, the angels. The wide-eyed girls in their best party frocks. The bold but trembling women in their gorgeous. silk gowns.

The waifs and the strays. The wild and the hungry. The creative and the eloquent. The sacred and the profane.

Tiger Cub, Rebecca, Jenny, Beauty, Angel, Hermosa, Lindsay, and the rest. The sweet submissives who have perfumed my nights and made wonderful my days.

I remember them all.

You are the last.

It is the end.

.

.

Part One

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

But is it/was it the end?

Art by Fabian Perez

 
24 Comments

Posted by on October 6, 2019 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, 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 ….

 
17 Comments

Posted by on October 5, 2019 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Seed

 

Seed

You can try

every cure, every potion, every remedy,

you can erase it with drugs, with sex, with religion

you can cauterise it, crush it, cut it, crucify it,

you can freeze it, forgive it, forget it, fuck it,

you can deny it, defy it, deride it, destroy it,

you can burn it, break it, belittle it, betray it, bury it,

you can hate it, harm it, hurt it, harangue it,

you can trick it, tear it, trap it, trash it,

you can eject it, evade it, evict it, eat it,

you can poison it, persecute it, prick it, prune it,

you can shame it, shatter it, smash it, suck it

you can ruin it, regret it, reduce it, rape it,

you can inject it, intimidate it, isolate it,

you can leave it, lash it, lose it.

You can try

every spell, every enchantment, every charm

you can call in an exorcist,

you can send up prayers

you can summon the devil

you can invoke an ancient curse

you can wear it away, wish it away, wash it away, want it away

you can pretend it never was, never is, never will be

you can try anything and everything

but you will never

ever

be free

of the seed

I planted

in your soul.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Kelly Reemtsen

Written three years ago – but already one of my favourite performance poems, so much fun to write and recite – truly worth a listen, though I say it myself.
And this seed is dangerous whenever and wherever it is planted.

 
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Posted by on July 5, 2019 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Maybe somewhere

 

Maybe

you are out there

somewhere.

 

Maybe

somewhere close

beyond fields

and trees

roads and cities

valleys and streams.

 

Maybe

somewhere far

beyond borders

and flags

mountains and lakes

continents and seas.

 

Maybe

somewhere

beneath

different skies

in a different land

with a different tongue

and a different skin.

.

Maybe

you are out there

somewhere.

 

Maybe

you are out there

somewhere

waiting

for me.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago, but I like it.

Painting by Marc Figueras

 
9 Comments

Posted by on June 7, 2019 in Poetry, Still Life

 

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