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.

(A very mild) Introduction to verbal “abuse” in BDSM (WARNING: Content may be upsetting to some)

Copyright (c) 2014 Corey Harper

WARNING: This article deals with an aspect of BDSM that is not to everyone’s tastes. It contains sensitive material that, to the uninitiated, may appear to be violent and cruel. All depictions in this fictitious example would, in the real world, occur between consenting adult partners as part of BDSM play. If you are new to BDSM, or if you have been a victim of actual domestic abuse, this article may be upsetting. Please search your own heart and mind, and make your decision from a place beyond curiosity.

Still with me? Let’s get started.

“You fucking cunt.”

He stood over her, his naked chest rising and falling with his slow, measured breath. A sheen of perspiration glistened on his dark chest hair, deep to the hard slab of his pectorals beneath. The wooden paddle in his hand hung close to his thigh, its varnished surface wet with her sweat. The rich, tangy smell of heated wood filled the air.

The muscles in his forearm corded as he regarded her vividly reddened ass. Laying the paddle on the small accent table next to her prone body, he bent close to her.

“You fucking, worthless cunt,” he snarled in her ear. She flinched, her naked body quivering. “I told you to be still while I beat you.”

“I…” The whisper died on her lips, and she tried again, twisting her head against the collar and leash that kept her lashed to the wall. Face taking on a defiant look, she said, “I did.”

He reached down with a strong hand and grabbed the long raven hair that fell around her shoulders. Her swollen breasts bobbled at the suddenness of his movement, blood-engorged nipples tightening against the weighted clover clamps attached to them.

He yanked her head up, causing her to cry out. The black leather collar tightened around her throat, the leash snapping taut, the chrome D-ring clicking.

“What did you say, cum-slut?” He brought his face an inch from hers. “Repeat that to me.”

Her gaze travelled up his arm, past his massive bicep, to his sculpted shoulders and trapezius. Confronted in this way with his fierce, blue-eyed stare, his strong musk, his overwhelming maleness, her momentary defiance failed her. She tried to respond, but then felt his other hand between her legs.

“Unh,” she grunted, as his calloused hand found her clit. He stroked and circled her erect nub without gentleness or subtlety.

“Say something, whore?” he said, breathing his hot breath against her cheek. He pulled her hair harder.

As she opened her mouth to answer him, he pinched her clit between his thumb and forefinger. A deep, primitive moan rose from deep in her chest. Vaguely, she was aware of him pushing something into her. A pause as his hand left her cunt. Then, a buzzing inside her that began to build. He’d shoved her remote-controlled bullet vibrator into her sopping pussy.

Her head spun as her tummy clenched, and from a distance she heard him say, “Why should I fuck you, worthless cunt?” He grabbed her face in his hand, and squeezed her cheeks. “What makes you worthy?”

She fought against the building orgasm. The vibrations of the bullet made it impossible to think, and she’d spent a good part of the past hour in subspace.

“Uhh…” she tried.

“Uh?” he said, the single word a growl. “Uh?” He yanked her hair harder, pulling her head up to its limits.

She felt him moving around behind her, holding her long hair like reins. He had removed his shirt and shoes hours ago, but still wore the faded denims that hung off his narrow hips. She wanted to see how his abdominal muscles looked right now, all tight and carved, but he wouldn’t release her head so she could look.

“All you are good for is a place for me to dump my cum, whore,” he said, kneeling behind her. Even from that distance, she felt the steam of his breath on her naked spine. It made the fine hairs on the back of her neck erect. And it was like his spicy hot breath was laced with his male hormones that jetted straight to her cunt.

She shivered, his words slicing through her. The bullet vibed harder, faster. Through her endorphin-soaked haze, she heard the zip of his jeans. Her shivers became shakes.

Something warm and wet drizzled over her ass. It took her a moment to realize it was the bottle of lube that had been sitting in the mug in the warmer.

His fingers smeared the lube around her ass crack, and then against her tight rosette.

“Tell me why I should fill you, twat,” he said. “Give me a reason.”

His fingers pressed against her asshole. Against, then his index finger pushed inside her. She arched her back and groaned.

“Slut,” he said. His voice had gotten deeper, more husky. “Fucking cum-hole.”

She grunted a breath, then it caught when she felt the swollen head of his cock replace his finger against her asshole. Even over her own throbbing, she could feel his.

He pushed his plum-sized cockhead against her anus. “Your fucking slut-hole is resisting,” he said. “Maybe I should just stop, worthless whore.”

No! She started to panic, frightened he would stop what he was about to do. Struggling mightily against the brain-fog, the madly vibrating bullet that threatened to shake her cunt apart, she moaned, “No!”

“What did you say, cum-bucket?”

She hated it when he did this to her. She loved it when he did this to her.

“Said… No. Please. No, my Master.” There, she got it out–the words he longed to hear.

With a bellow, he thrust into her ass, taking her like the fuck-slut she knew she was. At the same time, she felt the bullet ramp up to full power, and her orgasm slammed through her. She screamed at the burn, the heat, from his cock in her ass, from the vibe, from the sheer joy of knowing she was worthless, his to serve, to be used as he saw fit.

As he came in her ass, filling her with his seed, she felt the ecstasy she always felt with him when they played like this. She knew that he called her “worthless”, “cunt”, “whore”, and whatever else, because she needed to hear that. Needed to hear the words that, for her, were more powerful than the most passionately spoken “I love you.”

Because their love was stronger than the “good” words–it also transcended the “bad” ones. Having that trust in each other, knowing she could take whatever he said, and him knowing it as well, made their bond stronger than any still hampered by artificial limits.

And she knew, once he finished his extraordinarily long come inside her, he would unleash her, wrap her in a blanket, and hold her on his lap for at least an hour before he cleaned her up and put her in bed.

Because she knew he loved her, and would always give her everything she needed. Everything she craved.


If the preceding vignette made you scratch your head and go “What the fuck was that?”–or worse–then verbal abuse in BDSM is probably not for you. But if you felt any tingle at all, it might be. I also purposely took it easy on the language; as an experienced friend pointed out, it can be a lot stronger, and I didn’t want anyone to get upset from this introductory treatise on “abuse”.

I thought long and hard about how to write such a potentially sensitive article. I wrote this simple vignette this way–with other kinks included–because I realized the “abuse” would seldom be disconnected from other aspects of play and the relationship. Can there be different relationship formats other than the one above, where this kind of talk occurs? Absolutely; infinite variety. This is just one comparatively mild example. Different subs who have this as a kink require different levels of “abuse”. I personally knew a sub who needed it much, much coarser than this.

As I said, I intentionally wrote this towards the mild side of this kind of BDSM verbal play. Trust me, it can get a lot stronger, but this is an introduction, not an advanced course.

Making Her Wait–The Exquisite Torture of… Nothing

Copyright (c) 2014 Corey Harper



-One Evil sadistic bastard Dom

-One intelligent, busy-brained sub who can’t stop moving



She sat, in the submissive posture He had taught her. She was naked, the hardwood floor cold under her knees and shins. He said she could not have a rug or pad under her this time.

Her hands rested on her thighs, palms up, the way He liked her to be. Her folded legs were spread wide, so that the inner lips of her dampening pussy dangled for His eyes. He liked that, and knowing He liked that made them protrude further as they engorged with blood. She thrust her ribcage even more, making her small breasts stand proudly, her little pink nipples harden to tight points.

What was He planning for her now? Earlier this morning, she had been cooking His eggs, and had been feeling neglected; He’d awakened late, and had not had time to penetrate her in her sleep the way He liked to do. The way she wanted Him to do, every day. So she had “accidentally” overcooked his eggs.

When she had put the plate down in front of Him, her heart had pounded at what she had done, and she tried to snatch the plate away. But He had grabbed her wrist, trapping her, while He looked at his food.

Then He had looked up at her, with that look, and she froze, her breath catching, her heart slamming to a halt, then racing even faster than before. Picking His phone up from the table, He tapped the key that called his work, and told them he would be late–probably not in till the afternoon, perhaps even later.

She had wanted to sink into the floor then. She was in trouble!

He showed her just how much trouble a few moments after He hung up the phone. Her ass still hurt from the intense spanking He had given her. But it felt warm, too. So warm.

Thinking that made her pussy heat even more, and she felt a chill as a sudden burst of her fluids first heated, then cooled, in the breezy air near the floor.

Once He had finished spanking her, He had told her to go to her bad-girl spot here in their living room. She stared into the corner, the plain eggshell color of the wall swimming before her eyes. It was so boring sitting here. And yet, somehow, not.

If their morning had gone according to plan, right now He would be at work, making money to keep them secure, keep her safe. And she would be humming happily as she cleaned His house and took care of the myriad tasks for which He depended on her. Not to mention that she would be feeling his cum slowly oozing from her naked pussy and creeping down her leg, until He called her from work and told her she could shower and clean herself up.

But she had been bad, and now she was being punished.

Usually around this time of morning she took a break from her duties to read one of the many books she always had going. Or perhaps to continue writing the erotic novel she had been working on, the novel He had encouraged her to write. Or perhaps, just perhaps, she would be lying on the soft cotton comforter atop their bed, masturbating with her Hitachi wand while she thought about how He had pounded her cunt with His cock, and feeling his cum spread around her pussy lips and inner thighs.

Just the thought of that, now, had her pussy weeping in frustration. When was He going to come release her? What was He doing in the other room?

She wanted to twist her head to look, but had a feeling He might know if she did that. He seemed to know everything about her, even before she did. The itch to move grew in her brain until she had to fight not to squirm. Fight, not to move her hands from her thighs. Fight, not to leap up, run to Him, and beg His forgiveness.

Where was He? She never sat still this long, unless He made her. Which wasn’t that often, because He knew what it did to her.

He knew what it did to her.


The preceding scene of torture was brought to you by your friendly neighborhood Dom bastard, and was inspired by a pic posted to me by a friend. This is one of my favorite things to do to a sub.

There are many different types of Doms: rope Doms, whip Doms, fire play Doms, all or none of the above. I am–besides being a DD–what is sometimes called a “mindfuck” Dom.

Without a refresher course, I couldn’t tie a pretty knot to save my life. And while I certainly enjoy using the occasional Velcro cuff (because they are fast), or leather cuffs and collar with leash, I enjoy the mindfuck most of all.

Sometimes that term has negative connotations, but for me overall, and certainly in this instance, it is the best way to “torture” a submissive, especially one with a high level of intelligence coupled with the inability to stop moving for even an instant.

A busy girl sometimes needs help to come to a halt, to quiet her brain, to focus on something besides the external. But often she can’t do it herself. That’s where a mindfuck Dom comes in.

Doms like me aren’t for every girl. Some are only happy being in the ropes, or under the flogger, and that’s very okay. I’ve noted a consistent type with the subbies who do like the mindfuck, though, and they are the ones I’ve described above.

So, little sub, next time that you find you can’t stop moving, can’t stop thinking, know that there are Doms out there who understand, and know just exactly what to do with you.