RSS

Tag Archives: sex

Desire is brutal

 

Desire without release is brutal.

It is a hunger, a longing, a yearning.

It is a constant ache.

It crucifies nights and tortures days. It distracts, confuses, and leaves the senses shredded. It makes concentration challenging and application impossible.

It steals rational thought.

It refuses to allow peace.

It makes every moment urgent, every second restless.

It fidgets with time. It is pure torment.

Desire without release is brutal.

But relief, when it comes, is heaven.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago, but desire is always brutal.

Art by Kamille Corry

 
7 Comments

Posted by on December 6, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

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

Art by Thomas Saliot

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on October 22, 2018 in Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

All afternoon

bondage_by_neil__whiteley-d5b3wjd

A cool, darkened room.

Outside the sun is blistering the wooden shutters. Narrow shafts of light sear between the wood, striping the walls and ceiling.

And streaming all over you.

They band your body, striping you cream and coffee coloured

You are naked, face up, on the white-sheeted bed.

You are stretched out in a star shape. Your wrists and ankles are secured to the four corners by ropes through steel D rings on strong black leather cuffs. The bindings permit little movement. No matter how hard you tug and strain against them

You have been here for almost an hour. I have caressed you, kissed you, licked you, stroked you. I have nibbled you, kneaded you, and lightly scratched you. I have teased you with my pin wheel, with a soft brush, with a scarf of silk, and with my twelve stranded flogger, trailed over your skin.

And with two of the dozen toys that I have carefully arranged on the oak bedside table.

I have a vintage Hitachi wand in my right hand. It whirrs rather noisily yet it is a faithful servant. I am applying it expertly to your already swollen and glistening sex. With my left hand I am tugging and pinching your hard-as-berry nipples. Your body is bucking and arching, wanting to push away from the wand’s relentless, dimpled, vibrating touch yet at the same time to thrust yourself against it.

Your breathing is urgent and hard. You are panting and crying, sighing and moaning. I know you are desperate to speak, to shout something at me. But you do not. I have forbidden you words.

Your body is dancing now. Strands of your hair are damp and clinging with perspiration. Your face is suffused and flushed with deep arousal. Your eyes roll back. Your mouth is open.

Your muscles tighten. You shudder. The orgasm reverberates through you.

It is your third climax.

The toy continues to send spasms through you. You make small noises of protestation. I smile. After a while I switch it off and idly but dangerously trail my fingers over your inner thighs.

I consider which device to use next.

Later I will reposition you face down.

Later still I will fuck you. Hard.

I have all afternoon ahead of me.

I am torturing you with pleasure.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photograph by Neil Whiteley

I wrote this around this time four years ago. But perhaps new readers will enjoy …

 
5 Comments

Posted by on July 28, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

The yearning

 

Sometimes

you feel it

in your bones

in your skin

in your heart

in your soul

in every fibre

of your being

and you know

it is what you want

it is what you need

and nothing

will stop

the yearning.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

 
1 Comment

Posted by on July 21, 2018 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

In hand

 

Rain has just started to fall

It is a hot, close, velvet summer’s night at the end of a sweltering, oppressive August day. Three hours ago the sun sank overripe behind the suffering trees. Midnight arrived steamily, with thunder rumbling like rumour in its wake. The stars are invisible behind a thick blanket of inky cloud. There is no moon. The air is heavy with the fragrance of honeysuckle and roses, and alive with the coming storm.

I stand alone on the terrace in the dark garden letting the new, warm breeze ruffle my hair and tug at my thin shirt. I have been unable to escape the heat all day. I can smell the coming deluge. I feel the electricity. It raises the hairs on the back of my neck.

Suddenly the black night is illuminated as if by a photo flash. A beat of a strobe light. For an instant the world is stark black and white. A brief, shocked silence and then the crack of thunder. Loud. Primal. A battlefield in the heavens.

Rain.

A monsoon. A deluge. A flood. Hissing, sizzling, pissing, lashing down.

It is like being in an almost cold shower fully clothed. I stand my ground and am soaked within a minute. And yet despite the falling temperature I am still burning like a furnace inside.

I walk out barefoot onto the middle of the lawn. Past the sleeping sundial and the overflowing bird bath. Finding my way through familiarity and the brief, ghostly-white illuminations

I undo the buttons of my sodden shirt and strip it from my shoulders, dropping it to the grass. I tug at the buckle of my brown leather belt and slide down the zip of my blue jeans, black with moisture. I have to peel them off me, the material clinging to my thighs. I slip down my stretchy black boxers. They lie at my feet like a dead bird.

As if delighted by my nakedness the intensity of the rain increases. It wants to punish me. It falls so heavily that it stings me. My skin tingles and the water runs down my body in cool rivers. Over my shoulders, chest and back. Over my belly. Into my dark curls. Down my slender, muscular thighs.

I close my eyes as the lightning splits the night. Thunder booms and crashes overhead. My pulse has quickened, my mouth is dry. There is a growing ache within me.

I stretch my arms upwards. Drawing the tempest to me.

I realise that I am hard. Swollen. Proud. Erect.

And as the storm breaks around me in fury I give myself up to its elemental power.

I take myself purposefully in hand.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Photo taken from the internet. It as no details of source. If it is yours I will happily delete or credit.

I wrote this in the summer of 2014. A hot August day after a spell without rain. It rained in my village today, the first time for about six weeks. Rare for England. It seemed apt to repeat the post.

 
10 Comments

Posted by on July 20, 2018 in Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , ,

Who can explain?

 

Who can explain

attraction

admiration

connection

appeal

fascination

infatuation

enchantment

desire

captivation

temptation

seduction

lust.

 

Who can explain

the magnetism

that draws me close?

 

Who can explain

any of it?

I just know

you turn me on.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Written a year ago. Who can explain?

Art by Marcos Beccari

 
Leave a comment

Posted by on July 12, 2018 in Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,

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 two years ago – but already one of my favourites – and this seed is dangerous whenever it is planted

 
10 Comments

Posted by on July 1, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

Tags: , , , , , , , ,