You have ruined
my box of words.
None of them
are good enough.
None of them
are adequate.
None of them
can do you justice.
My nouns
are neutered,
my adjectives
are absent,
my verbs
are without value.
I have run out
of metaphors
similes
and superlatives.
You have ruined
my box of words.
How can I
describe you now?
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not new, but probably relevant.
Art by Steve Hanks
Her own touch
is not his touch
but longing and lust
yearning and need
a dizzying desire
and a wild imagination
have made it so.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not brand new, but true.
Art by Steve Hanks
I have never met her.
Yet I can smell her scent on my fingers.
I can hear her laughter. The way it lifts and dances and makes me smile.
I can feel the press of her body, her skin soft against mine, my face buried in her hair, I can imagine how she responds to my touch, the blush in her throat, the quickening of her breath and the rising of her breasts.
The hardening of her nipples. Her wetness against my thigh.
I can taste her kiss. So vividly that I am running the tip of my tongue over my lips to capture the sweetness.
I can see her eyes, bright, eloquent, shining, luminous.
Making me sigh.
I have never met her
But if I did
I would surely fall.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Steve Hanks
I have posted this a number of times. But perhaps new readers will enjoy and old readers will forgive the repeat.
I will not be held
responsible
or accountable
or answerable
or culpable.
Nor will I
apologize
or feel guilty
or accept liability
or be judged
or even damned
for all the
dark
delicious
decadent
dirty things
I do to you
in my dreams.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Written a couple of years ago. But one dreams.
Art by Steve Hanks
She is naked.
She runs her fingertips along her cheeks and lightly over lips.
So gently that her skin tingles.
She closes her eyes and trails them over her chin, onto her neck and into the hollow of her throat.
They trace a line across her collar bones. She shivers. But she is not cold.
She is surprised to find her skin so sensitive to her own touch.
She parts her thighs. Wide. As wide as she can.
Breathing hard she allows her hands to slide down and cup her breasts.
She slowly circles her areolae with her thumbs, feeling the already erect nipples harden into tight buds.
She strokes herself, exquisite arcs of excitement. She almost becomes lost in the sensation.
She imagines her hands becoming his. She is under his instruction, under his control
She takes each nipple between thumb and forefinger.
She begins to squeeze. Hard.
In her mind she can hear his voice. Soft, deep, dark, commanding, certain.
‘Harder’
She tightens her grip and gasps at the pain. And yet also the pleasure.
She knows she is wet. Very.
His voice again.
‘Harder’
This time she is brutal with herself.
She cries out, yet maintains her vice-like grip.
It is like two electric shocks. Red hot wires running from breasts to belly to sex.
Urgent, sharp, shocking. intense.
Heavenly.
The deep pitch of her arousal takes her breath away.
She realizes her fantasies have suddenly taken a darker twist.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Not a new post – but oh, that darker twist
Art by Steve Hanks
Sometimes
missing someone
you have lost
is like being
at a railway station
watching strangers
pour out of carriages
until they are empty
realising the face
you long to see
isn’t there
will never be there
at any time
on any platform
on any train.
.
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
I first posted this a year ago. It does not really change.
Art by Steve Hanks
I am not a holy man.
But I will touch your brow
as you kneel before me.
I will whisper a prayer
to your beauty
and your body.
I am not a holy man.
But I will hear your confession
in the sacred darkness.
I will sing a hymn
to your sweet heart
and submissive soul.
I am not a holy man.
But I will place my hands upon you
and anoint you with oil.
I will bless the moment
of your conversion
that carried you
here to me.
.
.
This is perhaps four years old – I am still not a holy man
.
© the author writing as Romantic Dominant
Art by Steve Hanks
