More than I could bear

The church bells are ringing.

Tuesday is practice night for the faithful and unfaithful campanologists. The peal is uneven, discordant and untidy. A novice is hauling the rope. The sound disturbs the silence. The evenings are usually so quiet here.

I sip my wine. It is nothing special. A syrah grape without provenance, but it fills my mouth with blackberry, and pepper, and smoke. And summer. And memories of her.

She was far too young for me. A child when measured against my grey hair and dark experience. And yet she touched me in a way that few have ever done.

She was lithe and slender and had eyes that saw beyond the obvious. She was as sharp as a glass shard and far cleverer than she realised. Her demeanour was a mixture of swagger and vulnerability. She had the face of a model and the bewitching smile of a girl. She pretended that she was five foot six, but she wasn’t. Her legs were breathtaking, her breasts spectacular on such a petite frame.

She was as heavenly as sin.

She gave herself to me with poetic solemnity and a glorious sense of drama. In retrospect, I think she meant it. She lived for the moment and, just then, with her head bowed, I was the moment.

I am a master of discipline, manipulation and control. But I’m not sure I could ever have tamed her.

She was a wild and wayward spirit.

I don’t know what has made me think of her. Perhaps the confusion of bells, the wine in my mouth, spring rising, the overwhelming certainty that evening is descending on me fast these days.

We drifted apart.

I am glad we did.

She would have only disappointed me.

And that would have hurt her.

More than I could bear.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I wrote this some years back and rediscovered it a while ago. I like it, so I hope readers do not mind the repost.

Art by Thomas Saliot

 

Command Performance

.

He wants

to make her body sing

to train her

to direct her

to conduct her

to control her.

.

He wants

to make her body sing

to be his chanteuse

to be his nightingale

to be his diva

to be his leading lady soprano

pouring out her soul

.

He wants

to make her body sing

and sigh

and dance

and glide

and twist

and writhe

and shiver

and sway

and fill his stage

with her perfect submission

a command performance

only for him.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

One from my archives

Art by Laszlo Gulyas

 

As he will

She barely understands it.

It is a desire to serve.

A hunger to yield, to bend, to give, to allow herself to be controlled.

A need to submit, To comply, to assent, to acquiesce.  It is an itch, an ache, a yearning.

She is compelled by some deep inner want, some unfathomable need. some almost primal desire to yield up her submission.

To render up all her power.

She has craved such wondrous, glorious authority over her for as long as she can remember. Before the budding of her breasts, before the flow of blood, before passion, before the longing between her thighs.

Yet it could never be anyone.  It had to be him.  It always had to be him.

She has waited forever for his presence. For his strength, his certainty, his discipline, his protection.

For him to do with her as he will.

Mind, body and soul.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Far from new. But an old favourite.

Art by Fabian Perez

 

Unfiltered

Such a rare

and elegant beauty

as yours

is not found

on airbrushed

photo-shopped

billboards

or covers

of magazines.

.

Nor in the filtered

special-effect

blurred images

on social media.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Click

She knows his profile by heart.

She knows each carefully crafted word. She has considered every subtle nuance. She has speculated over any real or imagined hidden meaning. She has painted his image in her mind from the palette of his six-sentence self-description.

She places her hands over her eyes, feeling her palms cool on her burning face..

The fantasy has been with her for as long as she can remember. Sometimes it has lain quiet in the cage she has constructed, curled up like a black-as-night wild cat, sleek and inky, muscular and lean. Other times she has felt it stir, aroused by a word, or an image, or a conversation. Or the unmistakable timbre of command in a stranger’s voice.

Its power makes her catch her breath.

And then there are the times when it becomes hungry. It fills her mind with its presence, it gnaws at her throat, claws at her lower belly, and makes her ache between her thighs.

It is prowling now. She is almost deafened by her own heartbeat drumming in her ears, can hear the noisy rushing of her blood through her arteries and veins, knows her imagination is making her wet. Yet her mouth is dry.

She always believed that she could contain it, repress it, restrain it. That it was her own secret fantasy, her eternal longing, her deep, delicious, dangerous desire. She always believed that her deep, dark, unholy need was forever incarcerated inside herself.

And yet this man …

She stares again at the screen. It fills her room with a pale, bluish, ghostly light. She feels possessed.

A simple click will make contact

Her trembling finger hovers over the keyboard.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

An old post, but I like it.

Art by William Oxer

 

Echoes

Sometimes

I wonder

if there is still

fire

in these ashes

longing

in this darkness

desire

in this soul.

.

Sometimes

I wonder

if the yearning

is over

the hunger

has gone

and only echoes

live on

in these words.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Art by William Oxer

 

Might just be

I am captivated

enchanted

enthralled

inspired

made hungry

made breathless

made hard

by the hem

of your skirt

as it rides up

high

on your thigh.

.

Moments

like these

make me believe

there might just be

a god.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Not new by any means, but I like it.

Art by Annick Bouvattier

 

My doctor has examined me

My doctor has examined me

He is man of great learning and deep understanding.

He is old and wise, and certificates on his wall attest to his vast and eclectic knowledge. Anatomy, psychiatry, psychology, neurology. Surgery, geometry, chemistry, philately, campanology.

He took deep soundings from my pulse. He listened carefully to my heart. He examined my body with clever hands, the strength of my muscles, the structure of my bones, the conductivity of my nerves, the light in my eyes. He considered tendons, ligaments, cartilage.

He had me listen to indistinct sounds. He made me recall half-forgotten scents.  He insisted I recite my darkest poetry.

He made my reflexes dance

He asked me questions, recovered my dreams, investigated my hopes, pondered over my expectations. Asked pointedly about my exercise. And my patterns of sleep.

He explored my diet, my sexual inclinations, my sensual desires.  My abuse of tea. And alcohol.

When he was done he sat me down and faced me. His brow was furrowed, his mouth severe. His chin was set firm. He was serious in his approach. He was careful in his diagnosis.

He shook his head sorrowfully, and with his fat fountain pen wrote slowly upon his pad. He solemnly handed me the page.

My doctor has examined me

He is a man of considerable reputation. I trust him completely.

My doctor has examined me.

My doctor knows what ails me. He knows what has laid me low.

He is certain of the only thing that can make me well. His recommendation is precise and unequivocal.

My doctor has prescribed me you.

It is a repeat prescription.

Of unlimited dose

To be taken as often

as I require.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I wrote this seven years ago. But It made me chuckle so much as I penned it back then, I have decided to post again now.

Art by Fabian Perez

 

Perfect moments

Never believe

there is a perfect

moment

that will be

your moment

to use.

.

Something else

somewhere else

someone else

will come along.

.

And the moment

your moment

the moment

you waited for

will have gone

forever.

.

,

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

Not new but always true

Art by William Oxer

 

Real

I am not a shadow

nor an invention

nor a character created

for a virtual life

to inhabit scenarios

of make-believe

role play

and pretend.

.

I am not a projection

a fantasy

a construction

of someone

I would like to be.

.

I am not just

an avatar

I am corporeal

of flesh and blood

a heart that pumps

a mind that thinks.

A hunger

that burns.

.

And if I should play

a game

in any way

in any context

it is always

for real.

.

.

© the author writing as Romantic Dominant/Faded Romantic

I wrote this a while ago. We are all real, behind the avatars.

Art by Jack Vettriano