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Her secret

art-by-marcos-beccari

It is her secret.

It always has been

Ever since she can remember. The longing. The desire. The ache.

A deep sexual yearning to lose control. To abandon her free will to the pleasure of another.
And in doing so find her own glorious, magical, delicious release.

Sometimes, in her private moments and when she allows herself, she has the scenarios in her head. Scripted and endlessly rehearsed, she plays them in a bold, burning, breathtaking loop. Fantasies and fetishes that leave her wasted and wet as she allows them to wash and lap over her.

Other times it is a jumble of words and images, of instruction and discipline, obedience and compliance.
Of being watched.

Of her body being used and pleasured. Stroked and caressed, kissed and pinched, slapped and whipped, licked and scratched, nibbled and teased.
And of being restrained.

And of fingers, and lips, and toy after toy. And his tongue and his cock. All used expertly, creatively, unrelentingly,

She has told no one

Until now.

Until him.

It is their secret

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Marcos Beccari

I wrote this four years ago. And I thought ‘why not post (yet) again for those who were not reading me then?’ I hope regulars can excuse the indulgence.

 

 
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Posted by on December 7, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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

Art by Laszlo Gulyas

 

 

 
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Posted by on November 8, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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Sleeping Beauty

Photography by Tiffany Zettlemoyer

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 recently. But I like a good fairy story on All Hallows’ Eve.

 
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Posted by on October 31, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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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

 

 
2 Comments

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

 

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Sleeping Beauty

Photography by Tiffany Zettlemoyer

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.

 
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Posted by on July 30, 2018 in D/s, Erotica, Poetry, Still Life

 

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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

 

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My thing

 

To a few

it might be

a good thing.

 

To some

it is probably

an unknown thing.

 

To many

it is certainly

a bad thing.

 

But regardless

this romantic

D/s religion

is completely

my thing.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Pat Erickson

 
2 Comments

Posted by on July 27, 2018 in D/s, Poetry, Still Life

 

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