Never call me ‘Daddy’

I do not expect

to be called

‘Master’

or ‘Sir’

unless

I have earned

your respect.

.

But never

ever

ever

call me ‘Daddy’.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Marina Marina

This post is a few years old, but forever true.

 

All afternoon

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 pinwheel, 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 seven years ago. But perhaps new readers will enjoy …

 

The thought

Although she resists

the thought of it

fills her head.

It steals her breath

makes her dizzy

and leaves her weak

at the knees.

.

It shivers down her spine

tugs at her belly

and caresses

oh so dangerously

her thighs.

‘

And now

she has thought it

she cannot

un-think it

however hard

she tries.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

First posted some years ago. Sometimes perhaps true?

Photography by Benjamin Askinas. Model: Amanda@FordModelsLA

 

Control

It is not just about your body.

Though that delights me. The curves and lines. The gorgeous skin. The glorious, elegant, breathtaking shape of you.

It is not just about your beauty.

The rare and striking eloquence of your face. Haunting and mesmerizing. Yet warm and generous.

And it isn’t about your mind, though that plays perhaps the most important part.

It is about control.

To direct you, to instruct you, to conduct you.

To admire you, to adore you, to paint you with words.

It is about knowing you belong to me.

Mine to do with as I will.

Because it thrills you.

It is a difficult concept to grasp.

Unless your natural sexual instinct and desire is to control.

Or to be controlled.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Aydemir Saidov

 

Realization

Kneeling

before him

she realises

he is the temptation

the prayer

the pleasure

the pain

the sin

the confession

the blessing

and the absolution

all rolled into one.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

My use of religious imagery in my poetry in this post will no doubt lose me followers here and on Twitter, as it often does. So be it.

Art by Ivan Pili

 

Teaching

 

My teaching of you

began

when you realized

you were curious

and aroused

enough

to study

my dark

sexual syllabus.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

Dilemma

 

I can never decide

whether I prefer rescuing

the scantily clad

tightly bound

damsel in distress

from the railway tracks

or being the wicked villain

who tied her there.

 

The truth is probably

a little of both.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I wrote this some years ago.  Always my dilemma.

Photography found on Flickr © Jessica Heller

 

Odyssey

 

I have travelled

through myth and legend

fantasy and mystery

storm and rain

sun and shadow

beauty and tears

sex and darkness

to find you

to explore you

to own you

eyes and mouth

hair and throat

breasts and hips

arse and legs

belly and thighs

submissive soul

and clever mind.

You are my odyssey.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not brand new, yet true.

Art by Hamish Blakely

 

Germination

 

Once that dark

decadent

dangerous

but oh so delicious

seed

has been planted

in her fertile

creative

intelligent

imagination

it cannot help

but grow.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not the first time I have posted this. But seeds are sometimes planted and grow.

Art by Miles Williams Mathis

 

Virtual captivity

 

The power

of his words

a collar

at her throat.

 

The sound

of his voice

a rope

that binds her.

 

The thumb

and forefinger

of his will

a manacle

on her wrist.

 

Her virtual captivity

thrills her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

This post is from some years ago, but always appropriate.

Art by Taras Loboda