Solstice

I am almost always in control.

Of another, of course, but particularly of myself.

But tonight with the summer solstice girdling the evening with magic, and with a wild, apocalyptic moon building herself in the heavens, I am partially undone.

I pace the humid, velvet, fantasy-rich night with light, hungry, tireless footsteps.

Prowling. Circling. Rattling this invisible chain that tethers me.

I am taut, stretched, urgent. I am savage, romantic, decadent. I am poetic, dangerous, sensual.

I close my eyes and allow the rush of her body to sweep over me, exciting my imagination. Her hips, her thighs, her belly, her breasts. The sweet hollow of her throat. The sacred mound of her sex.

The delicate silk of her hair trailing against my skin. The feel of her gorgeous curves beneath my fingers, against my lips, beneath my tongue.

Her scent filling my mouth.

The certainty of leather restraints upon her elegant ankles and wrists. The circle of a collar about her neck.

I am almost always in control.

But tonight I could roar with this aching, yearning, delicious desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by Trudy Good

I am fond of this old post of mine and like to resurrect it for the summer solstice. Apologies to regular readers who are no doubt bored with it. And yes, sometimes the solstice finds me this way.

 

Solstice

I am almost always in control.

Of another, of course, but particularly of myself.

But tonight with the summer solstice girdling the evening with magic, and with a wild, apocalyptic moon building herself in the heavens, I am partially undone.

I pace the humid, velvet, fantasy-rich night with light, hungry, tireless footsteps.

Prowling. Circling. Rattling this invisible chain that tethers me.

I am taut, stretched, urgent. I am savage, romantic, decadent. I am poetic, dangerous, sensual.

I close my eyes and allow the rush of her body to sweep over me, exciting my imagination. Her hips, her thighs, her belly, her breasts. The sweet hollow of her throat. The sacred mound of her sex.

The delicate silk of her hair trailing against my skin. The feel of her gorgeous curves beneath my fingers, against my lips, beneath my tongue.

Her scent filling my mouth.

The certainty of leather restraints upon her elegant ankles and wrists. The circle of a collar about her neck.

I am almost always in control.

But tonight I could roar with this aching, yearning, delicious desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Trudy Good

It would seem timely to resurrect this old post of mine.

 

Imagining

It is not

wondering

what he will do

to her

that keeps her awake

endlessly

at night

and distracts her

constantly

through the day.

.

It is imagining

breathlessly

all the things

she hopes

he will do

to her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not the first time posted, but I like it.

Art by Trudy Good

 

Solstice

I am almost always in control.

Of another, of course, but particularly of myself.

But tonight with the summer solstice girdling the evening with magic, and with a wild, apocalyptic moon building herself in the heavens, I am partially undone.

I pace the humid, velvet, fantasy-rich night with light, hungry, tireless footsteps.

Prowling. Circling. Rattling this invisible chain that tethers me.

I am taut, stretched, urgent. I am savage, romantic, decadent. I am poetic, dangerous, sensual.

I close my eyes and allow the rush of her body to sweep over me, exciting my imagination. Her hips, her thighs, her belly, her breasts. The sweet hollow of her throat. The sacred mound of her sex.

The delicate silk of her hair trailing against my skin. The feel of her gorgeous curves beneath my fingers, against my lips, beneath my tongue.

Her scent filling my mouth.

The certainty of leather restraints upon her elegant ankles and wrists. The circle of a collar about her neck.

I am almost always in control.

But tonight I could roar with this aching, yearning, delicious desire.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Trudy Good

It would seem a good time to resurrect this old post of mine.

 

Imagining

 

It is not

wondering

what he will do

to her

that keeps her awake

endlessly

at night

and distracts her

constantly

through the day.

.

It is imagining

breathlessly

all the things

she hopes

he will do

to her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not the first time posted, but I like it.

Art by Trudy Good

 

On naked strangers

 

Images of naked strangers leave me cold

Nudity has become far too common a currency to attract my attention or pique my interest.

A body is a body. Some are more elegant than others. Some have been treated better or worse by time. Some are cared for. Some are toned by exercise. Some are a paradise of lines and curves. Some are the shape I admire.

But they do not raise my pulse.

Not unless I am attracted by the personality within. By the intellect, the sense of humour, the creativity, the warmth. And of course, by the hungry, submissive soul.

The body, especially one without exclusivity after having been viewed by many, is merely a shell.

It is she who inhabits the body that gives it attraction, magic, desirability, potency.

She gives it power.

The power to make me ache.

And want her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Trudy Good

I wrote this six years ago. As true as it has ever been.

 

Imagining

 

It is not

wondering

what he will do

to her

that keeps her awake

endlessly

at night

and distracts her

constantly

through the day.

.

It is imagining

breathlessly

all the things

she hopes

he will do

to her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not the first time posted, but I like it.

Art by Trudy Good

 

On naked strangers

 

Images of naked strangers leave me cold

Nudity has become far too common a currency to attract my attention or pique my interest.

A body is a body. Some are more elegant than others. Some have been treated better or worse by time. Some are cared for. Some are toned by exercise. Some are a paradise of lines and curves. Some are the shape I admire.

But they do not raise my pulse.

Not unless I am attracted by the personality within. By the intellect, the sense of humour, the creativity, the warmth. And of course, by the hungry, submissive soul.

The body, especially one without exclusivity after having been viewed by many, is merely a shell.

It is she who inhabits the body that gives it attraction, magic, desirability, potency.

She gives it power.

The power to make me ache.

And want her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Trudy Good

I wrote this five years ago. As true as it has ever been.

 

Imagining

 

It is not

wondering

what he will do

to her

that keeps her awake

endlessly

at night

and distracts her

constantly

through the day.

.

It is imagining

breathlessly

all the things

she hopes

he will do

to her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not the first time posted, but I like it.

Art by Trudy Good

 

 

On naked strangers

 

Images of naked strangers leave me cold

Nudity has become far too common a currency to attract my attention or pique my interest.

A body is a body. Some are more elegant than others. Some have been treated better or worse by time. Some are cared for. Some are toned by exercise. Some are a paradise of lines and curves. Some are the shape I admire.

But they do not raise my pulse.

Not unless I am attracted by the personality within. By the intellect, the sense of humour, the creativity, the warmth. And of course, by the hungry, submissive soul.

The body, especially one without exclusivity after having been viewed by many, is merely a shell.

It is she who inhabits the body that gives it attraction, magic, desirability, potency.

She gives it power.

The power to make me ache.

And want her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by Trudy Good

I wrote this four years ago. As true as it has ever been.