Raw with it

I can usually sense

a sexually submissive soul

in this cyber world

from a comment

a ‘like’

a ‘heart’

a reblog

or a retweet.

I can usually sense

a sexually submissive soul

in this cyber world

from an expression

a smile

a stare

in a photograph.

I can usually sense

a sexually submissive soul

in this cyber world

from a certain

distinctive

specific

scent.

You are raw with it.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not the first time I have posted this – but sometimes so true.

Art by William Oxer

 

She is a woman

She is a woman

who does not realize

her own beauty

who does not know

the pure power

of her body

who has never been

truly adored

who has not released

her sexually submissive soul.

She is a woman

and I want her.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

I want you

I want you.

It is as basic as that.

It is as primal as that.

It is as simple as that.

It is as wild as that.

It is as raw as that.

It is as dark as that.

It is as holy as that.

It is as dirty as that.

It is as true as that.

It is as pure as that.

I want you.

I want you.

I want you.

.

.

Copyright the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Pale words

When I see you

all my words

suddenly

seem dull

and pale

and empty.

Yet I wanted

to give you them

so much.

.

.

copyright  the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Art by William Oxer

 

But will you?

I have been as guilty of it as anyone.

But much less so these days.  Now the shadows are lengthening.

Because there is but one life.  There is no heaven in which to smugly contemplate relentless eternity. There is no hell to somehow face greater suffering. There are no seventy two virgins with legs spread wide. There is no reincarnation as a deer, or a fox, or someone somehow better.

There is only now.

The years which seemed to stretch out endlessly when we are soft and still to be moulded, constantly gather momentum. Like water rushing out of the basin. Like sand escaping the narrowing hourglass.  Life is so short. Time is so precious.

And yet we waste it.  We procrastinate.  We dither. We make excuses. We pretend to be something we are not rather than act upon who we are. We pretend we are looking for perfection as if it really exists. We fear to make mistakes and instead we do nothing.  We hold ourselves back, saving our hearts, bodies and souls for someday, some person, some event that may never be. Our days pass by with nothing to mark them but the calendar. We always think that there is still tomorrow …

I know I will eventually end my days regretting the women, the times, the joys (and even the sorrows) I did not have far more than I will regret those I had*.

I once told Beauty that Life is not a Rehearsal.

She did not listen.

But will you?

.

.

* I am certain this thought is stolen from elsewhere, so please do forgive the plagiarism

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Another unearthing from my archive. Always relevant.

Art by William Oxer

 

Slow surrender

 

She is innocent.

Her bold beauty is barely blemished. Her gorgeous body is almost untouched by another’s breath. The gentle pages of her heart are yet to be written.  Her hunger is new and urgent. She longs for something she has yet to discover.
She has purity in her soul.

He is darkness.

He has loved and won and lost his way through enough joy and sorrow to fill the night. He has coaxed forth endless sweet fantasies, elegantly bestowed a thousand decadent pleasures, administered such breathtaking, delicious torture.
His eyes have seen far beyond the shadows.

Yet there is an ache that binds them. A primaeval yearning that sets them apart from all others.

He will sanctify her slow surrender and make them both holy.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

More delving in my archives. I like this one.

Art by William Oxer

 

Stare

I devour you secretly with my eyes.

I am hungry for your presence, ravenous for your beauty.

I want to take you in whole.  One magnificent glorious vista, one gorgeous portrait, one high-definition-full-resolution-never-fading screen capture for my memory. Such divine visual food to somehow satisfy this desperate, aching desire.  To help sustain me when you are gone.

Then I want to take you piece by piece,  An inch at a time.  An eye, a nail, a lock of hair, the lobe of an ear….

Yet I hardly have such control.  I take your lips, your mouth, your nose, the hollow of your throat, the elegant swell of your delicious breasts, a wrist, an ankle, an arm, the heavenly architecture of your thighs….

I have swallowed you whole again.

My eyes devour you like a starving man, made weak by famine, who has no sight of his next meal.

I try not to stare.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

I dig around among old posts. I am surprised how apt and fresh some of them are.

Art by William Oxer

 

The show has begun

She is shy.  She has never done anything like this before.

She has rehearsed it so often that the music has become a soundtrack to these last few nervous days.  It plays in her mind from the moment sleep releases her until she slides back into its arms. Perhaps it echoes through her dreams. She knows every persistent drumbeat, every smooth chord, every deep bass note, every sweet moan of hungry, dirty brass.  She has her timings to the second.

She has tried to imagine this moment, tried to prepare herself for how she would feel.

Now, standing before the video camera, she realises that she could never have readied herself.  Not for this intimate moment, her hushed room, this distant audience of one.  Her mouth is dry, her heartbeat is wild and loud, her legs are weak.  She is finding it hard to breathe.

She smooths her hands down her dress.  They slide over her waist and onto her hips.  She is desperately nervous. She is blushingly embarrassed.  She is impossibly excited.

She is achingly aroused.

She presses a button on the slim, black remote and the music begins.  The first notes are soothingly familiar and disturbingly erotic.

Despite herself, she begins to sway into her routine. She feels her hips move.   As if by magic her body becomes lithe and sinuous.  She is seductive, sexy, sensuous.

She knows he will watch her.  Again and again.

Her hands glide over her breasts, caressing herself. Her fingers reach behind for the metal tongue of the zipper.

The show has begun.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

For various reasons, I was sifting through my past writings last year. I discovered this one, and it made me smile. I thought new readers might like it.

Art by William Oxer

 

You think I am romantic

You think I am romantic.

You read my words and you read ‘love’ into them.

But I hardly ever use the word.

It is too big and too small. Too specific and too universal.

It has been idolised, eulogised, exalted, celebrated, hymned and acclaimed.

It has been hijacked, railroaded, politicised, kidnapped, blackmailed, broken, ruined and whored.

It has been given and taken, lost and found, borrowed and stolen.

It has been used as a reason for everything, an answer for everything, an excuse for everything.

It has been devalued by so many wanting it, by so many selling it.

So I hardly ever use the word ‘love’.

I write of lust, desire, longing, and yearning. Of sensuality, sex and eroticism. Of arousal and excitement. Of seduction and initiation. Of pleasure and pain. Of Domination and submission. Of attraction and infatuation. Of caring. Of nurture. Of adoration. And yes, of romance too.

Because I know exactly what those words mean.

And if I ever write of love – and I sometimes do

I make sure I know exactly

what

and who

I mean.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant

Not the first time I have said this

Art by William Oxer

 

In wait

Sun on my skin

eyes closed

birds singing

insects humming

breeze whispering

and my restless

hungry

Dominant soul

waiting

for you.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant.

Written a couple of years ago. But in wait …

Art by William Oxer