Horny Hump Day 6/18/14: Duncan is a big meany. And Kenzi loves it.

This little excerpt continues the scene from last week that is happening in the clothing shop dressing room, from “Legacy of Desire and Blood: Book Three of the Baobhan Sith Trilogy” (releasing 6/19/14). Duncan hasn’t seen Kenzi for a while, because of [spoiler] things. The conclusion to the scene expresses just how much he missed her.

For readers new to Horny Hump Day, the rule is to include only three sentences from a scene.


Desire Book Three cover v2 (2) (427x640)

Duncan wrenched back on her wrists as he came, trying to pull her as close to him as he could while he emptied his seed inside her. She shrieked again, the gag now dripping with her saliva onto the carpet, and she came for what seemed the hundredth time. Or the thousandth.


If you’d like to read the full excerpt this snippet was taken from, have a look here.

And if you’d like to catch up with the first two books in the trilogy before Book Three releases on June 19th:

Born of Desire and Blood
Betrayed by Desire and Blood

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Excerpt Seven from “Born of Desire and Blood”. Not done yet.


Are y’all tired of the sex excerpts? Yes? Okay, instead I’ll post a commentary on proper house-painting technique.

Ha! Kidding. Here’s more naughtiness.

The following scene takes place after Kenzi’s bath in Excerpt Three. No, the girl hasn’t quite calmed down yet. After all, it’s been four hundred years since she last got herself some.

So what’s a randy girl to do? Well, have a look. Oh, and about Kenzi’s grooming technique in the excerpt? Remember that sith are nearly invulnerable to human weapons. That includes razors.


Desire Book One cover v3

Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper
Corey Harper Books


She pulled the lever on the tub, and sat there a moment as the drain made sucking sounds while the water flowed out. Duncan had given her a strange look, she remembered, when she’d tried to get him to explain what had happened before. He’d put her off then, promising an answer later.

She went back over the earlier events. He had needed information from her, information she could not unearth in her mind to provide him, so she had agreed to his crazy suggestion of the Ordination knowledge transfer. She remembered—oh, how she remembered!—his warm mouth on her neck, that first painful, but then oh so sensual bite, and him drinking—

She began to heat again, her clit throbbing anew, as she recalled his large body next to her on the soft bed, leaning over her, capturing her…

Stop it, Kenzi! she told herself. She would never get any answers if she kept stopping to masturbate every time he popped into her head.

So what had happened? He bit her, he drank—she pushed away the memory of the sensation, was partially successful—he leaped back from her, she remembered now. Why? What had he seen?

Some of it was coming back. He said he’d seen… something, and had started telling her about it. She remembered being lulled by the sound of his voice, but the words themselves eluded her, like grasping at tendrils of fog… Oh, right. He had said something about a wall—

A shudder passed through her. And then another, and her head whirled like her thoughts had tumbled into a spinning blender and gotten chopped up. She stood up in the tub. What had she just been thinking about? No matter now—her bath was finished, and she wanted to try on some of her pretty new clothes.

Stepping from the tub onto the plush sea green cotton bath rug, she caught sight of herself in the beveled mirror over the glass vessel sink, and frowned. She could have sworn she had removed her armpit hair just a few days ago, yet there it was, in all its crimson glory. She glanced down, and sure enough, her pubes had grown bushy as well. Far more than she ever let them get; she couldn’t recall why she had allowed her body hair to grow.

Something nibbled at her, a kind of déjà vu feeling, but she tossed it off as just a silly thought. After all, her entire body was still warm and throbbing and distracted after that bath, even with the interruption from Duncan. She giggled; at least he’d let her finish. She wondered if she was going to keep feeling so wanton, and had had no idea she possessed such a lustful mind.

The pretty clothes would have to wait a few minutes, while she returned her body to the hairless state she preferred it to be in. She considered whether Duncan would prefer her furry or bald, decided if he really found her attractive, he would like it the way she liked it. Take that, Mr. Bossy Pants. Then “pants” made her think of how his muscular behind—his ass—looked in his tight black jeans, and she felt her face heat again.

She seriously was never going to get out of the bathroom if she didn’t focus, and Duncan would be right to come pounding on the door again if she took too much longer. She did her armpits first, her fingers a flashing blur, and she made quick work of the red strands. When she was satisfied she was once again smooth, she turned her attention to her pubic area.

Once again, she frowned at the forest there. That should have taken months to get to that length. She felt a twinge shoot down her spine, and that whirly–brain feeling again—maybe intense, mind–blowing orgasms had a weird effect on her?—and decided it didn’t matter.

It took her a little longer to groom her pubic area, but soon she had finished, and turned this way and that to look at herself in the mirror. The sensation of her nimble fingers plucking the hair and pulling on her outer lips had caused her inner ones to engorge, and become wet and slick, because of course she was thinking of Duncan the entire time. Now that she was cleanly shorn, she felt ready.

Ready for what, girl?

She thought about that while she cleaned up the sink area. Yes, Duncan had been very kind, considerate, and even affectionate, but it wasn’t like he had put any moves on her. Though she did remember how he had looked at her, back in the bedroom after she had quenched her thirst with the blood, when her ass cheek was hanging out.

The thought made her smile. Yesterday, if anyone had told her that she would be casually thinking words like ass, she would have covered her mouth in embarrassment and horror.

Now she stood there in Duncan’s fancy bathroom, looking at herself in the mirror, sliding her index and second fingers through her pussy lips, growing wetter by the second. If Duncan could make her this wet without even being in the room, how would she react when he was standing right in front of her?

Her legs got shaky, and she turned and leaned against the lovely green marble counter with the red and gold veins running through it. Her full round ass creased against the cold stone edge, and she lifted herself up onto the counter, putting one foot at each end of the countertop, the raised glass sink pressing into her side. She didn’t care.

She angled her pelvis upward, making little thrusting motions with her pussy, aching for—

Wow. She was aching for Duncan’s penis. Dumb, Kenzi. Guys didn’t call it that. They called it—

She let the thought hold as she stroked her ever–wetter folds. In her mind, Duncan was standing in front of her, giving her that mocking grin she didn’t think he even knew he made. He looked her up and down, at her nakedness, and his eyes devoured her. He made her feel that she was his, and that he could—and would—do whatever he fucking well pleased with her. To her.

He was clothed, she was naked. It made her feel so vulnerable to him, like he could see everything about her, while he remained a mystery clad in black jeans and skin–tight shirt. It was only because she trusted him that she could stand in front of him, but she did feel like running.

So she did, just to see what he would do.

He caught her in a flash, grabbing her in a bear grip, surrounding her with both his massive arms, his muscles rippling. She gasped as he lifted her from the floor, and threw her onto the bed that had conveniently appeared in her mind.

Now he just stood and looked down at her, smiling that knowing smile. She laid there on the bed, naked, arms and legs askew just as they had landed when he tossed her, not moving. She knew her legs were parted, and that he could see her pussy lips growing more crimson by the second. Moisture trickled from her and onto Duncan’s sheets.

Still grinning at her, knowing she couldn’t escape him—and knowing she knew that—he began to undress. She watched him pull the green polo shirt over his head, the V–shape of his latissimus dorsi muscles swelling as he tugged it free of his head. His forelock tumbled over his forehead.

She let her eyes track down his chest, with its fine dark hairs covering it like a soft armor, his bulging pectorals and hard abs making her catch her breath. The dark hairs gathered together just below his diaphragm, forming into a trail that disappeared beneath his waistband.

And below that, she saw the very male proof of his desire for her. Oh my! How did his jeans contain that? Wasn’t it painful for him?

“Ohhh!” she moaned, her fingers moving faster, now slipping in and out of her pussy. Her thumb found her clit, and began to circle it. The nerves fired through every inch of her body. Her nipples tightened even more, hardening to points, her large round areola pebbling. Her breasts became swollen and heavy against her ribs.

In her mind, Duncan smiled his cocky smile at her, and waited. She could take it no more, and raised up off the bed, reaching for his belt. As she touched the rich black leather, her nostrils flared at the primal scent of the hide. Of him.

She paused, her hand on the buckle. With her other hand, she traced the outline of him. It was so hard! Was she doing this to him?

Sitting on the bathroom counter, knowing in her mind that he wanted her more than his own life, she was so close!

And when, in her fantasy, she saw him begin to leak right through his jeans, the wet spot spreading, all because of her, she could take it no more, and ground the heel of her hand against her clit.

“Ahhggh!” Her cry was guttural, primitive, as she spilled over the edge. At the last moment, she remembered to be quieter than before, but as the waves erupted, she lifted her ass up off the counter, pressing up with her feet as every muscle in her body rippled and clenched, her head banging into the mirror behind. She gushed intensely, violently, her fluids drenching the stone countertop and the rug below.

She quivered with the aftershocks, which went on for what seemed like hours. Her entire body was electric, vibrating like a fallen harp. She tried to shift position, caught her hand in the wetness, and slipped off the counter onto her behind on the rug.

“Whoops!” As humiliating as that should have been, all she could do was giggle. She felt great! Why had it taken her so long to do this? How soon could she do it again?

And what went on during that “nap” that seemed to have kicked her sex drive into overdrive?



I hope you enjoyed my latest excerpt.

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Attachment: One Dom’s Perspective

Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper


“I… I can’t.”

She stood across the room from him, leaning against the cool plaster wall. Her hands were clasped behind her back, and her right palm pressed into the taupe finish on the textured plaster.

Pulling in a breath, she tried to meet his gaze, where he sat in the leather wingback at the other end of the long room, but could not. Her eyes dropped to the floor, and she wanted to be somewhere else. Anywhere else.

And staring at the polished bamboo flooring, she already missed his cool cerulean eyes looking into hers. Even though he scared the hell out of her.

“Tell me what you can’t do,” he said, speaking for the first time since her meltdown sent her fifteen feet away from him.

His voice vibrated through her like the deep moan of cello strings. She fought to hide a shiver, thought she succeeded, then glanced up and saw that smirk on his face. Even her hair trembled. It was like he had a gravity field that pulled at her without relenting.

She drew in a breath, visualized that strength part inside her he kept trying to teach her to see, had promised her was there, and raised her head enough to peer at him through her lashes.

“I can’t…” Long breath in, and out. Like he taught her. “I can’t do it.”

“Because,” he said.

“Because…” and her voice trailed off again.

She held his icy gaze for an instant, and her tummy tightened. A little moan tried to escape her lips, but she held onto it. For the moment. Her eyes fell like ripe fruit, and under her white tank top that he’d made her wear to show off her small breasts, she felt her braless nipples alert.

Risking a small glance, she saw his eyes flick to her chest, and his mouth quirked. She couldn’t tell if he was pleased by what he saw, or irked that she couldn’t control herself around him. He kept telling her to let herself be herself, but how was she supposed to do that when she was so fucked up? How could someone like him, so handsome with that thick black hair that touched his shoulders—those broad, muscled shoulders that led down corded arms to hands she knew were powerful, because she’d felt them around her throat—ever like an insecure little mouse like her? Not just like, but do what he was proposing she do?

Her life was so complicated. How could she ever let herself feel what he had suggested she should feel? How could he even think this could be anything more than sex? Wonderful, fantastic, rough-as-hell sex, but mere sex just the same?

Yet he kept talking to her about it, like he knew her. He didn’t know her, not really.

“I know you,” he said, his words low and even, but filled with some strange intensity she couldn’t quite get a grasp on.

Now he was a mind reader? Indignation rose from her belly, but along the way got grabbed by her thudding heart. Her own body was turning on her.

“I want you to always feel what you need to feel,” he continued, his voice taking on a rasp. “But I want you to feel it to me.”

That last reached in through her brain and grabbed her all the way through her body to her sex. How could he want that? She was crazy! Her emotions were always all over the place, and why on earth would any man want that walking disaster area in his life? He must be the crazy one!

“You’re worried that I can’t handle your feelings,” he said, leaning towards her a little. She pulled back, succeeding only in mashing her hands painfully against the wall. He stood, and she shrank, but he stayed by his chair.

“You’re worried I can’t handle you.” His chest rose and fell with his calm breath. “I assure you, I can.” He lifted one eyebrow, in that way that tended to make her knees buckle. “I want you to wake up. Wake. Up.”

His words rattled through her like a hailstorm. She felt like that poor damaged horse in that movie with Robert Redford, being slowly followed by him, always in her sight, but never getting close enough to cause her to spook. Like he knew exactly how far away to be at all times, enough to give her a little bit of fear—which she had been chagrined and aroused to discover that she liked—but not so much that she vanished into the forest.

How did he do this?

“How do you do this?” she whispered.

For just a moment, she saw his eyes soften from their blue ice, and her heart sank, because now she knew. She was lost. He had her.

In that same moment, the lifelong scattered feeling inside her—like her leaves were blown constantly about by heated autumn wind—settled. The wind stopped, and all that was left behind was its heat. His heat.

“Come here,” He said.

It wasn’t even a question anymore. Her body swayed. Her feet moved. Her pussy grew damp. She thought it was going to be that way most of the time from now on.

Somehow she made her barefoot way across the smooth bamboo to Him. When she stood in front of Him, He opened His arms and put them around her. She felt very little against His large, hard chest. As she melted, she discovered she liked feeling little with Him. He’d told her she would, but until this moment, she had not believed Him.

Everything she had thought would be stupid, or silly, or just damned improbable, suddenly became possible. Not just: it all would happen, just as He had told her it would.

Why she had been frightened that she would lose herself, she now had no idea. She was half of a whole now, not a disposable orifice that any girl could fill. She was His.

And she knew, to her core, that He was hers.


The preceding vignette was, of course, idealized and simplified, and portrays just one type of sub in one style of relationship. A submissive attaching to her Dom can take days, weeks, or months. Every girl is as unique as a fingerprint in this, and it’s up to her Dom to know what she needs, and to give it to her. To expect her to do the work for him is absurd.

The only way she can attach, and feel like it is the only way in the world she can be, is for her to feel. Every single emotion that comes through her core, he must accept, and manage. It is not up to her to hold back; it is his responsibility to shepherd her through feelings she may not even know she has.

Otherwise, how could she ever give herself over to him, and fully trust that he will always care for her, always guide her, always love her?

Of course this doesn’t mean she purposely acts bratty or unkind, but that may indeed occur without being fully in her control. Again, he has to know the difference, and act accordingly within the guidelines of their Dominant/submissive power exchange, whether that be a spanking or some other form of punishment negotiated beforehand. And sometimes she may simply need a spanking to feel his firmness in a form different than verbal. It all depends on her needs.

But once she has walked that fire alongside him, and come out the other side, the rewards to each of them are immense. The trust levels, to me, far exceed those of any conventional relationship, and with it the bond. She has committed her very core to him; he has given his promise to always shelter and protect her.

I’ve heard subs ask: What’s in it for the Dom? Basically, what I hear them saying is, “I’m such a mess. Why would he want to take on that kind of project?”

She can’t yet know what she doesn’t know. The feelings of warmth that steal over her after she attaches are of peace and calmness. Right now, prior to attaching, she is scattered, emotionally speaking. She is unguided. She is directionless. Emotionally speaking.

Of course, she has created coping mechanisms for this—acting as her own Dom, I’ve heard it said—and may have been doing it so long that she isn’t even aware she is still doing it.

Things like very regular daily routines—many subs crave structure—are a big one. Making sure the day is so busy, so she can’t allow time for those pesky emotions to break loose, is another.

A third is denying she even has the Craving (yes, capital “C”) in the first place. After all, before she feels the attachment, the very concept sounds ludicrous, even a little insane. What girl in her right mind would give herself over so completely to another person?

And yet…

And yet she feels the pull of something. Something that just won’t leave her mind. She can bury the feeling with work, family, life, but it never goes away. It’s always there, in the back, scratching at her. What she needs depends on what kind of submissive she is (a topic for another article), and her itch will be a little different from those of other unawakened subs. But it’s there, and will be triggered from time to time.

If she encounters a real Dom—not an asshole pretending to be one—those feelings shoot to the fore as if catapulted there. Even simply reading or looking at the type of erotica that secretly appeals to her can activate it. Then the itch grows to full-blown Craving, and she will quite possibly begin to explore. But it takes finding the Dom appropriate for her to bring her fully open.

Don’t misunderstand: many good Doms along the way will play their part, and she will learn more about herself with each one. But it takes that One, built just for her, that pulls her the last bit of the way to true attachment.

I posed the question: What’s in it for the Dom?

For the Dom, there is the very tangible fact that he has found his other half. Yes, it sounds like the cliché from countless novels, but it also happens to be true. A Dom is just as in need of an attached sub, as she is of him. It is always a two-way thing.

He wants—and needs—a sub to mold, to guide, to train to whatever level the two of them desire to explore. And dare I say, to love.

I want to stress that all this is one Dom’s opinion. My experience with the BDSM community is that the only thing any two kinksters can agree on, is that the third one is wrong. That’s fine; that’s debate and discussion, and that’s one way we learn. Go ahead: disagree. But the immutables are: attachment exists. It happens. They both need it to be fully happy.

Otherwise, it’s just brain-camouflage masquerading as sex.