… even the wolf

 

In this season of fairytale and legend, he paints himself as almost a hero.

He imagines himself snatching the poisoned apple from the rose-red lips of the raven-haired princess with the snow-white skin and replacing it with an urgent kiss from his own hungry mouth.

He dreams of braving the vicious thorns of imprisoning briar to lift the unmoving but gorgeous living body of the sleeping beauty from out of her silent coffin.  To carry her to some safe and secret place and wake her with the heat of his breath upon her barely-pulsing, newly-naked throat.

He sees himself placing the glass shoe on the delicate foot of the young. innocent, badly treated servant girl and claiming her wide-eyed perfection, pulchritude, purity and submission for always.

Yet the girl he really wants – the angel in the red hooded cloak –  knows him as the dangerous creature of which her mother has warned.  He is the restless stranger with poetry in his notebook, desire in his heart, and a world of darkness in his soul.

It is true that his teeth and claws can be sharp and he has such a decadent yet eloquent hunger.

But now, in these fading days and threadbare nights, even the wolf yearns only to be loved.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Ryan Pancoast

It has now become a tradition for me to re-post this on Halloween. It does not fit with either the pagan origins or the current commercial frenzy for this ancient festival, but it is probably about as fairytale as I get. Although I do have a fondness for Sleeping Beauty, which I posted yesterday.

 

Sleeping Beauty

She is sleeping

Her breathing is shallow. Her chest rises and falls. He counts the seconds and studies her for signs of waking.

There are none.

He says her name. Softly.

Again. A little louder. But still quietly. He does not really want her to stir.

He gently takes her hand in his. It is small, and soft, and cool. Her fingers lie over his. They are quiet and still. His thumb and forefinger circle her wrist. He can feel her pulse. He imagines it quickening, but he cannot be sure. He lowers her hand to the bed.

She is beautiful. Her hair is raven black against her pale skin. Her lips are perfectly formed and ruby-red. She is wearing a pure white dress that is fitted at the breast, tight at the waist, and clinging to her hips. Sleeping Beauty

He knows he should kiss her, rouse her from her slumber, bring her back to consciousness.

But her still and perfect form has mesmerised him, captivated him, bewitched him. He feels himself harden as he moves towards her. He murmurs her name again. His throat stifles the sound.

He reaches out and with almost trembling fingers he strokes her cheek. Her skin is warm to his touch.

She does not stir.

He carefully undoes the first of the buttons. And then another. And a third. The gorgeous swell of her breasts makes him dizzy with desire.

At the sixth button, as the material begins to peel open, he realises she is naked underneath.

……………………

She is not sleeping.

She senses him standing by the narrow bed, gazing at her. She knows his eyes are upon her, taking in every curve, and every line. She waits. And tries to control her breathing.

She focuses on keeping perfectly still.

She hears him say her name. Twice. She ignores it, forbidding her eyelids to flicker.

He picks up her hand. His sudden touch in the darkness almost makes her flinch with surprise. His fingers are long and thin. She fears he will feel her pulse race crazily as his thumb presses against her flesh. He releases her gently, and she knows.

She is certain about what is going to happen when she hears her name a third time, and it is said like a faint prayer in a hoarse and caressing whisper.

His touch upon her cheek is like fire. She almost gasps at her own arousal.

He begins to undo the buttons of her dress.

Achingly.

Tantalizingly.

Deliciously slowly.

This is heaven.

She will not wake now..

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by Tiffany Zettlemoyer

This is not new, I wrote it some time ago. And it had an outing last year. But I like a good fairy story as we approach All Hallows’ Eve.

 

Paths

 

I know

you will have

many paths

countless roads

endless streets

tree-lined avenues

dream lined boulevards

awaiting you.

 

I know

you will travel

over streams

and fields

over valleys

and rivers

over mountains

and seas

over states

and borders

over countries

and continents.

 

I know

you will have

close friends

handsome lovers

beautiful strangers.

 

I know

the world

will embrace you

for how could it not?

 

I know

you will have

many paths

whereas I

my darling

want no other path

but you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Paul Kelley

I wrote this a year ago. Yet there is always romance, there are always paths.

 

 

 

 

 

 

Sleeping Beauty

She is sleeping

Her breathing is shallow. Her chest rises and falls. He counts the seconds and studies her for signs of waking.

There are none.

He says her name. Softly.

Again. A little louder. But still quietly. He does not really want her to stir.

He gently takes her hand in his. It is small, and soft, and cool. Her fingers lie over his. They are quiet and still. His thumb and forefinger circle her wrist. He can feel her pulse. He imagines it quickening, but he cannot be sure. He lowers her hand to the bed.

She is beautiful. Her hair is raven black against her pale skin. Her lips are perfectly formed and ruby-red. She is wearing a pure white dress that is fitted at the breast, tight at the waist, and clinging to her hips. Sleeping Beauty

He knows he should kiss her, rouse her from her slumber, bring her back to consciousness.

But her still and perfect form has mesmerised him, captivated him, bewitched him. He feels himself harden as he moves towards her. He murmurs her name again. His throat stifles the sound.

He reaches out and with almost trembling fingers he strokes her cheek. Her skin is warm to his touch.

She does not stir.

He carefully undoes the first of the buttons. And then another. And a third. The gorgeous swell of her breasts makes him dizzy with desire.

At the sixth button, as the material begins to peel open, he realises she is naked underneath.

……………………

She is not sleeping.

She senses him standing by the narrow bed, gazing at her. She knows his eyes are upon her, taking in every curve, and every line. She waits. And tries to control her breathing.

She focuses on keeping perfectly still.

She hears him say her name. Twice. She ignores it, forbidding her eyelids to flicker.

He picks up her hand. His sudden touch in the darkness almost makes her flinch with surprise. His fingers are long and thin. She fears he will feel her pulse race crazily as his thumb presses against her flesh. He releases her gently, and she knows.

She is certain about what is going to happen when she hears her name a third time, and it is said like a faint prayer in a hoarse and caressing whisper.

His touch upon her cheek is like fire. She almost gasps at her own arousal.

He begins to undo the buttons of her dress.

Achingly.

Tantalizingly.

Deliciously slowly.

This is heaven.

She will not wake now..

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo by Tiffany Zettlemoyer

This is not new, I wrote it some time ago. But I like it, it has proved popular (sometimes controversial)  – and so I hope you can forgive it’s regular July outing.

 

Disappointment

 

Disappointment

in others

barely

breaks my skin.

 

But disappointment

in myself

cuts me

to the bone.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Fabian Perez

 

If this was not this

 

If this

was not this

but was a bar

beneath the stars

where couples sway

to soft and sensual

guitars

I would most certainly

ask you

to dance.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Scent

 

Somehow

across the miles

I catch

your distant scent

and imagine you

close

your movements

your breathing

your laughter

your eyes

shining

the silk of your hair

the taste

of your warm skin

in my mouth.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not new – but I like it

Art by Daniel del Orfano