Horny Hump Day 6/25/14: I’m thinking Kenzi and Duncan are meant to be

This excerpt is from “Legacy of Desire and Blood”, the final book of the Baobhan Sith Trilogy.

Stripping Kenzi naked in a public place, Duncan reminds her to whom she belongs.


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

Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper
Corey Harper Books

This was where she was meant to be—with him, by his side, forever.

“I’m naked,” she whispered.

“That’s the way I want you,” he said, his voice going deep and rumbly.


“Legacy of Desire and Blood” is out now on Amazon and other ebook retailers.

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

Be sure to Subscribe to my blog to be notified of new posts and books news.


Excerpt One from “Legacy of Desire and Blood”. Here we go…


We’re in the home stretch with the “Baobhan Sith Trilogy”, folks–first of four final excerpts from Book Three to finish out the series. (Then I haven’t a clue what I’m going to post–maybe something about cows with mud boogers hanging from their noses since they seem to be popular, eh, Sheri?)


Our intrepid hero and heroine have just done some (spoiler) things, and are now making a quick stop before doing some more (spoiler) things.

And since you know they are crazy-mad for each other, it won’t be long before… well, you know.

And BTW, if you haven’t seen the cover for Book Three yet:

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

Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper
Corey Harper Books


Duncan pulled the car into a spot in front of one of the taller buildings on the west side of the street, where the SUV could be in the shade. Wisps of afternoon fog were just starting to paint pearl–gray streaks in the blue sky, but had not yet blocked the sun.

Kenzi looked out his window at the store they had parked near. “Women’s athletic clothing?” she said.

“It’s the most practical apparel for our current vigorous lifestyle.”

“That’s logical Duncan talking.”

He took her hand. “I like the way you look in spandex.”

“Oh,” she said, smiling. “Do you really?”

He traced his big thumb across the back of her hand, circling each knuckle. “It makes my blood boil when I see you in it.”

“Wow. Spandex it is, then.” Kenzi tilted her head towards the back seat. “What about them?”

Duncan was careful not to turn and look. “I think they’ll be fine. We’ll keep an ear out in case they change their minds and try to kill each other.”

Duncan lifted the lid on the center console compartment, reached his hand inside. Kenzi saw his fingers tapping a complex rhythm underneath the lip of the compartment, and the entire console compartment clicked and lifted an inch. Duncan pulled it up. Inside was a steel–lined box, filled with cash. Kenzi’s eyes goggled.

“You drive a bank vault around?” she said.

He gave a short chuckle, then looked grim. “Malcolm has no doubt seized as many of my assets as he can find. We don’t have time for me to sort through them. But it’s fine—I’ve stashed currency and gold here and there over the years as a precaution for emergencies.”

“Like buying me clothes.” She leaned over the cash–filled compartment and kissed his cheek.

“That’s emergency number one.” He let his hand trail down her spine, and across the soft curve of her bottom, gave her a soft pat that nevertheless made her jump.

Duncan gathered up what Kenzi thought was an absurd amount of cash just for clothing, and stuffed it into the pocket of his jeans. The two of them got out of the car and kept to the shade as they crossed the sidewalk towards the clothing shop.

It was strange, being among regular humans again. Until that moment, Kenzi hadn’t realized how long it had been—was it in Maine, with Otis and his son, that she had last shared space with mortals?

And certainly it had been prior to her newly–awakened craving to feed on warm, living beings. Crossing the sidewalk, dodging pedestrians going about their day, was more difficult than a child passing a chocolate shop without demanding to go in.

Her nostrils flared without her thinking about it, taking in all that delicious warm blood aroma.

“Steady, little one,” Duncan said. He took her hand and squeezed it. She encircled his first two fingers with her small hand and clung to him, drawing her strength from his seemingly endless willpower.

“You asked me earlier if I’d mind giving up being… what we are,” she whispered to him. “More than ever, I want this craving to stop. I can’t stand it!”

“We’ll do whatever we need to do to get there,” he promised her, leading her into the clothing boutique.

Once inside the quiet shop, Kenzi relaxed a little. Only one other female patron was browsing the racks of clothing, and the twenty–something sales clerk sat on a chair behind the counter, reading on her phone. Though both humans smelled yummy, it was less overwhelming than the dozens of people she’d scented outside the shop.

Then Kenzi noticed something as Duncan closed the door behind them: both women came to attention like someone had clapped their hands. The clerk looked up from her reading, and the other shopper froze with a sports bra in her hand. Both women locked their eyes on Duncan.

Kenzi realized she had never seen him among human females, and had never pondered the effect he might have on them. The looks the women were giving him were far more intense than a female might normally give a handsome, muscular man.

Kenzi turned partly away from the women and murmured, “They’re staring at you.”

Duncan looked at her, then around the shop. “Oh. Right. That happens.” He lowered his voice. “It’s a male sith pheromone thing. Makes being a predator that much easier.”

Kenzi could hear the women’s pulses speeding up, see their pupils dilating. Her nostrils flared, and this time not from the scent of blood.

“Umm, we should probably do this quickly, and go,” Kenzi said, sliding her arm through his and pulling herself close to him.

He put his hand atop hers. “You don’t need to rush, sweetness. It will take James awhile to arrive with his delivery. Take your time.”

Oh yeah, right. With another look at the two women, who were all but drooling as they eyed Duncan, Kenzi went to the first rack she came to and started pulling hangers off, tossing the clothing items over her arm. She went to a second rack and did the same.

The clerk stood from behind the counter and came towards them. Her eyes stayed on Duncan the entire time, even when she stood in front of them and asked, “How may I help you today?”

“You may—” Even when Kenzi spoke, the woman didn’t pull her eyes from Duncan, who was looking absently at the array of athletic wear, seemingly unaware of the attention he was receiving. Kenzi stood directly in front of Duncan, between his towering bulk and the salivating clerk.

“Yes, you may help,” Kenzi said, shoving the armload of clothing at the girl. “I’d like to try these on.”

“What?” the clerk said, pulling her eyes from Duncan with obvious reluctance, to more or less focus on Kenzi. “Oh, yes, of course, ma’am. I’ll take these to the fitting room.” Her gaze drifted back to Duncan, and she moved a step closer to him, her chest rising as she breathed him in. “Will there be anything else, sir? I mean, ma’am?”

Ma’am? Kenzi looked younger than even this little slip of a thing. And certainly a lot meaner, if the trollop kept eyeing Duncan the way she was.

Now the other patron came over. “I could use some help, too,” she said, talking to the clerk but looking at Duncan.

This was getting ridiculous. Neither the clerk nor the other customer had even noticed that Kenzi was barefoot, and clad only in a man’s shirt with a belt around the waist. It was Sebastopol, after all, but still. In another minute the two harpies would be crawling all over him, and Kenzi didn’t trust herself not to flick one or both of them across the little shop. And Duncan was apparently oblivious to the whole thing as he looked at a rack of yoga pants. He pulled out two pair, one in royal purple, the other emerald green.

“Like your eyes,” he smiled as he handed the green ones to her.

She checked the tag—the sweet man had handed her size six—switched them for the same colors in her size, faced back towards Duncan. She’d turned her back for ten seconds, and the two overheated women had moved even closer to him. And he was looking at tops now, still unaware that he was the center of attention. She had to get him away from them before someone ended up bloody.

“Duncan, will you help me?” Kenzi said, taking the armload of clothing back from the clerk, who had made no move towards the fitting room.

“Of course, sweetness,” he said, plucking the bundle from her.

In his massive arms, her selection of garb looked tiny, an observation not lost on the other two women either.

“That’s okay,” Kenzi said to the clerk. “He’ll help me.”

“Are you sure?” the clerk said, turning a little sidelong to Duncan and— Good heavens, was she thrusting her rear towards him?

Kenzi grabbed Duncan’s hand. “Yes, it’s fine. Why don’t you help this nice woman here?”

“I’d rather help you,” the clerk said, not even pretending to look at Kenzi this time.

Okay, that was enough! Kenzi knew Duncan’s feelings on the matter, but desperate times. “You help this woman,” Kenzi said, the music of the Binding creeping into her voice. “Now. Be off with you.”

The girl shifted her gaze to Kenzi, who had tried to keep the darkness from tinting her eyes. She didn’t think she’d been entirely successful, because the clerk shrank back a little as her eyes widened. But still she didn’t move from Duncan’s right side, and the other woman flanked his left side.

Criminy! What kind of spell was Duncan casting here, that even her Binding couldn’t punch through?

He had frowned down at her when he heard the melody in her voice.

Don’t you dare look at me like that! Don’t you see what you’re doing to these women?

I… Oh. No, hadn’t noticed. Sorry, my darling. Hang on…

Duncan smiled at the two women on either side of him. “Ladies,” he said. “I am going to assist the love of my life with her fitting. You,” to the clerk, “help her,” the customer, “now.”

Both women came to attention like he’d slapped them, and with looks that reeked of disappointment, but still held hope, the clerk led the other woman to racks at the far end of the store.

“I apologize again, my sweet,” Duncan said to her, taking her hand in his free one. “I haven’t been around human females in some time.”

“I thought they were going to rape you!”

He laughed, a full male sound from deep in his belly that made Kenzi and the two women turn towards him. “Not a chance, darling. I only have nose for you,” he said, flaring his nostrils and breathing her in. “If anyone is to be taken advantage of here, it will be you.”

She held his gaze with her own, her emerald eyes sparkling. A moment longer, then she dropped her eyes. “I dare you,” she whispered.

His eyes went from that startling azure to midnight in an instant. He pulled her hand, towing her towards the rear of the shop.

His hand was so hot in hers that she thought she would light ablaze. Every cell in her body began tingling. What was he going to do?



Yes, actually, I do like teasing you all (just in case you were wondering).

But don’t worry, there’s more to come (and yes, that will be spelled both ways).

And don’t forget Book Two is out now on Amazon. Book Three will be released June 19th, and is in pre-release on Smashwords.

Be sure to Subscribe to my blog to be notified of new posts and books news.


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sub Drop: The Sucky Aftermath of Big Fun

Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper




Her voice on the phone sounded flat to him, like the joy she usually felt towards him had been surgically removed.

“I don’t believe you,” he said, taking an inward breath she could not hear, as his chest went cold. “Tell me what’s wrong.”


“Talk to me, baby girl,” he said.

Again, silence.

“I’m waiting,” he said. He heard a murmur. “What was that?”

“I said, I have to go,” she said.

“Stop,” he said.


“You need to talk to me. Something is very wrong. I can feel you detaching from me.” He heard a small huff. Then:

“You’re sixty miles away at your house, and I’m here in my apartment,” she said, her voice getting smaller with each word. “Nothing you can do anyway.” Another nearly inaudible breath. “You have that meeting tomorrow.”

“Don’t be so sure I can do nothing,” he said, his voice lowering to a growl. “Explain.”

“I…” She paused. “I don’t know.”

He felt the thread of her slipping away from him. Their bond was usually monumental, unshakeable. Each knew what the other was thinking, almost every moment. She usually spoke it first, because her brain worked faster than his. But they were always in sync, about everything.

Until now.

“I really have to go,” she said, and before he could reply, she was gone.

He stared at the phone screen, her avatar—the cute little girl sticking out her tongue at him—not making him chuckle like it usually did. It felt like the real little girl, sixty-three miles away in her small apartment, was fading beyond his reach.

She had never refused to tell him her feelings before when he had asked, and when she knew them. Certainly, she was a private person, and in the five weeks and six days they had been seeing each other, and playing with each other, getting her to open up about her core self had been challenging at times. But when she did speak, she was honest, and loving, and always considerate of his emotions.

And until this moment, she had never flatly refused to explore with him what she was feeling.

Usually she welcomed his probing, because he had opened within her a part of herself she had not known existed. A part that, they had both discovered, was who she truly was. She had layered so much atop it that it had taken him awhile to pry all the shielding loose, but from the first day they had met, he knew it was there. And, after awhile, so did she.

But this. This was new.


Two seconds after she hung up on him, she turned her phone off and put it in the drawer of the pink enameled nightstand he had bought her over their weekend together. Rolling onto her side, she clutched to her tummy the stuffed white bunny with the funny pink nose he had gotten her the weekend before.

She didn’t know what was wrong with her. She felt horrid, like having the flu and her kitty cat had died, all at the same time. Even putting on her favorite pink jammies with the frolicking bunnies on them hadn’t helped.

She reached out next to her on the bed and ran her fingers through the fur of her calico cat, Patchy. The resulting purr reassured her that her kitty was well, and her negative thoughts hadn’t hurt her baby.

Shifting, she brought her hands up to her face. The rope marks around her wrists were red, textured, and very pretty. When he had taken her to the dungeon club, he had warned her she would see things, intense things, and that she was to tell him if it got to be too much for her.

She remembered feeling, at that time, that he was crazy. Too much? What she saw when they had arrived felt to her like all the Christmases she had ever had as a child, rolled into one. If anything, it wasn’t enough!

Now, she felt… shattered. Sapped. And the way it felt, she was sure she would always feel like this. It was permanent. Never going away. Sucked.

The way she had felt last night at the dungeon… She could barely describe it then, much less now.

He had done things to her in the weeks before, wonderfully terrible things, and she always felt that euphoria with him. He had told her about private dungeon clubs, which she had never been to. He always made her feel so much younger and more inexperienced than he, even though they were the same age—their birthdays were only a month apart. But he was never anything less than patient and understanding with her naiveté.

At last she had felt ready to go with him to the club. It was a private dungeon, and apparently for exclusive clientele. She was so glad he had gotten her an outfit to wear—if the leather leash and collar, and matching bustier, could be called an outfit. The bustier had garters for which he had gotten her black stockings. And black heels so high she had to hang onto him the entire time she was standing. But no panties. She had felt so naughty walking from the car to the club entrance, nothing over her near-nakedness but an overcoat he’d wrapped around her.

In the two weeks leading up to their excursion, he had told her more and more about what she would see. And she had gotten more and more excited and aroused as the date drew near.

She’d asked him repeatedly what it felt like to be in the ropes, suspended. The numerous times he’d tied her, she had felt a calm flow over her she never knew could exist. For those moments—she never knew how long it was—in the ropes, she began to feel emerge that part of her she’d hidden for so long. That small part.

That little part.

He’d shown her pictures and videos of girls hanging upside down in the ropes. He’d taken her to talk to other female submissives about it. And she never failed to notice the huge, content smiles that came over their faces as they remembered—smiles almost as big as the ones on the faces of the subs in the pictures and the videos.

“Rope drunk”, he called it.

She wanted to be rope drunk. She wanted even higher sensations of that elusive calm to wash over her. It was very hard for her to admit—to him, to herself—but she wanted her little to come out.

That’s what he called it: her little. As in, little girl, baby girl. Sometimes he just called her “bg”, which made her giggle and sigh, all at the same time. After spending most of her life with that ever so tender part of herself closed up, she was finally letting it out with him, every little part of her.

Usually that bad joke they’d come up with—every little part of her—made her giggle as well, but this late Sunday night it just made her sad.

The bunny wasn’t enough, so she rolled over and pulled Patchy to her chest. The cat squirmed for a moment, but settled and started purring again. It wasn’t the first time she’d relied on her kitty for comfort, but in the past it had always been before she’d found her Dom. Now, it was…


She didn’t want to see him, didn’t even want to talk to him. It felt like it was over, like he’d set sail and was far out to sea, so far she couldn’t see him or touch him or call him.

He was just gone from her.

At the moment, she wasn’t so sure that was a bad thing. The very thought of him touching her—or even talking to her—made her want to run and curl into a ball in a deep cold hole. Kind of how it felt now—a deep, cold hole. Like some little trapped animal waiting for the hunter to come and collect her. She felt this relentless pressure from him… What’s going on. Talk to me. Tell me what you are feeling. Blah blah blah.

That just made her never want to tell him anything, ever.

And since this was obviously permanent, this shitty crappy horrible feeling, she knew she never would have to tell him anything ever again anyway.

But that small part of her—that little part of her—way deep inside, was crying. Naked, cold, arms wrapped around herself. Crying her little heart out.

She just didn’t get it. The dungeon had been the most amazing time, even more amazing than she could have imagined. Because he had surprised her after they got to the demo room, when he handed her leash to the rope Dom with the beard stubble and the smirk who was going to do the suspension demonstration.

“Surprise,” he had told her. “Happy six week anniversary.”

She had stared at him agog, and then the impact of what he had done warmed over her like a spring day.

For the next two hours, she had been under the care of the rope Dom—who told her his name was DarkHorse—and he had gently but deftly gotten the ropes around her in what he said would be a “single Futo”. She had no idea what that was, but the moment she was upside down, it no longer mattered.

She could feel her neck veins pulsing against her leather collar, which suddenly felt much snugger. Blood filled her head, throbbing. But none of that mattered; she began to float away.

No, not float. Breathe.

Freedom. For those minutes she was upside down, hanging suspended, she was free. That little part of her came out to play, splashing in the sparkly puddles and catching lazy butterflies. No cares, no worries. No shields. And both Darkhorse and her own Dom told her afterwards that she’d had the most beatific, pure smile on her lips the entire time.

It was the most euphoric she had ever felt.

And the icing on that kinky cake had been when DarkHorse released her from the ropes and returned her to her Dom, who had immediately taken her to one of the private rooms and had his way with her till three in the morning. His very wicked, rough way with her. She still had marks all over her body, which she loved. Those marks reminded her…

He’d told her he was “reclaiming” her. And she’d had absolutely no problem with that. Matter of fact, the instant she’d seen that dark possessive look come into his eyes after he took her back from DarkHorse, she’d shivered and felt her naked pussy flood. He both frightened and exhilarated her.

That was then. This was very sucky now.

And she was done. Done with him. Done with all of it. Sucky suck go to fuck, Mister Dom and your dungeon.

She wasn’t sure how long she laid there like that, her brain flatlined to her feelings. Patchy purred against her chest, and the sound soothed her a little, but the itchy hurty crappy feeling would not let her go.

Hands touched her. His hands.

She started, her eyes flying open and her heart pounding. “What the fuck!” she shrieked. For a moment, she flailed at him, freaked out by his sudden appearance.

“Hush,” he said, wrapping a big fuzzy warm cozy blanket around her. He lifted her up and got himself onto the bed under her, before pulling her into his lap. He settled her against him, drawing her resistant head closer to his chest. She smelled his primal man smell, heard his steady heartbeat thumping.

She heard cellophane crackling, then his voice rumbling through his sternum into her ear as he said, “Open.”

He was trying to push something into her mouth. Her nostrils twitched, she getting pissed he was poking at her, but she opened her mouth for him to put the hard candy inside. Umm. Butterscotch. Her favorite. She started sucking in it.

The remote for the DVR was in his hand, and he aimed it at the flatscreen across the room, pushed the button. The opening scenes of her favorite movie, “Crazy, Stupid, Love.” began playing.

She looked up at him, wonder in her eyes. “What are you doing?”

He kissed her forehead, then her lips, his touch so tender she sighed and melted against him. She still felt shitty, but now a warm little seed was starting to grow in her chest.

“It’s called ‘aftercare’,” he told her. “And it is something I should have anticipated after what we did last night.”

“I don’t understand.”

“You dropped,” he said. “Sub drop, it’s called. I didn’t realize it would be so bad for you, because up till now you’ve sailed through each scene we’ve done together without any problems.” He kissed her again, even more softly this time. “This is my fault, that you are like this. It happens, and it sucks, and I should have been here.”

“You couldn’t know.” She reached a hand from under the cozy fuzzy blanket and touched his cheek, feeling the rough stubble under her fingertips. The moment his pokey whiskers scratched her soft skin, tears flooded her eyes and coursed rivulets down her flushed cheeks. The warm seed in her chest warred with the pain she saw in his eyes as she reconnected with him.

“Yes, I should have known,” he said, pulling her even closer and wiping a tender fingertip across her soaking cheeks. “And I will never leave you again in this state.”

Her bottom lip quivered as her tears renewed their onslaught of her makeup. “I feel like I’m broken. I’m so fucking weak and needy,” she said, the last word a wail as her resolve broke.

He put his index finger under her chin and tilted her face up to look into his. She saw nothing but love and understanding there. For her.

“Never think that. You are not ever weak,” he told her, his words leaving no iota of room for debate. “You are not ever needy. Repeat that.”


“Repeat. That.”

She gazed at him a moment to see if he was really serious. He most definitely was; those slate blue eyes drilled into hers as she felt his will overpowering hers.

Her mouth opened, and words came out. “I am not ever weak. I am not ever needy.” Saying the words he’d told her to say made her both feel a little like giggling, and most definitely sighing.

He kissed her, his lips lingering moments longer than she thought they would. “You are a little girl. A little girl needs her Daddy in her heart and head, as he needs her. All the time. I should not have left you before I was certain you were all right. You dropped, that’s it. It’s not weak, and it is not needy. What you feel is very normal. It is a reaction of your body, your mind, your emotions, to what we did.”

“It is?”

He nodded. “You are by far the strongest, most beautiful, incredibly amazing girl I have ever known. You accomplish more in a morning that most people do in a week. Your strength and caring make me a better man.” He pressed his lips to the top of her head, his breath hot in her hair. “Now let’s watch your movie, and afterwards I’ll give you a nice warm bath and wash your beautiful hair.”

“A bath? I like—”

“Lavender-lemon bath salts,” he finished for her. “With bubbles. I know. I brought some. I brought everything you need.” He hugged her tighter, and she felt his strength surrounding her. As she relaxed, she felt a big breath leave his large body, and his muscles relinquish their tenseness. She sucked harder on the candy, feeling that seed of warmth inside her grow and open into a big, beautiful flower.

She was home. In his arms, she was home. Every little part of her.


“Sub drop” is a very real syndrome that can occur after a BDSM scene involving, well, BDSM things. No playbook exists to let you know ahead of time; it’s something you learn by doing.

For Doms, when playing with a new submissive for whom you will be caring after the scene, it’s a good idea to prepare ahead of time, just in case. In our vignette above, the items the Dom brought with him—the blanket, candy, bubble bath salts, her favorite movie—are just a few of the things he can use to ease her through the drop and bring her comfort. There are other items that can help as well: favorite music, stuffed animals, maybe crayons and a coloring book for our little in the vignette. Whatever it takes. Comfort comfort comfort.

So what the fuck is sub drop, anyway?

The play scene builds a girl up to the extremes of euphoria—she’s got endorphins and hormones pumping through her like they are shooting from a fire hose. The more intense the scene feels to her—without going too far past her edges—the more likely she will be to drop from that “high”.

It’s kind of like a withdrawal. A successful scene will engage a girl’s brain, body, emotions, and spirit. The more fully the scene whacks on all those aspects of her, the more likely it will be that she will have a drop.

And it gets trickier: drop can begin within hours after the scene, or can take twenty-four hours or longer to hit.

It can feel like anything from mild soreness and achiness, to full-on depression. Usually it hits a spot in between, where sadness and fatigue and “Get the fuck away from me!” are the result. Depending on the nature of the sub, she may get cranky, or she may withdraw completely as did our girl in the short story above.

Even though it feels like it is permanent at the time—and I mean, it really does feel to her like it is everlasting and she will always feel like disconnected crap on toast—it will pass. To help it pass more quickly, use the aftercare suggestions I made above.

I also have an experimental approach—I’ll call it my “hair of the dog” technique—which I have not fully tested. So use at your own risk, and don’t get pissed at me if it goes off the rails and she stabs you in your eyes: a mild scene. Nothing extreme, but the idea here is to ease her down, like tapering off painkillers. Basically, it’s the difference between going cold-turkey, and reducing the dosage a little at a time to minimize the discomfort.

But good luck getting her cooperation after the drop is well underway. For our babygirl in the story, she was most likely too far into it to agree to any more physical activity, but you never know. That’s where the Dom’s skill, confidence, and above all, his intuition about his sub come into play. He should never force her to do something she clearly would not be open to, but if he can gently coax her, pausing each step of the way to assess, he may have some success.

What sort of thing am I talking about? Those who know me know I love anal play, and require the same of any partner I might have (fortunately for me, most subs adore it). If she loves it as much as I do, then that becomes a simple and effective way in, without taxing her system further.

So I might start with lots of caresses to her body, very gently especially if she feels achy and sore. But warm blankets and a warm mouth can go a long way towards getting her to arousal. Maybe a warm bath beforehand to relax her willfulness. I’d take the progression very slowly and carefully to heighten her probably reluctant response, but if it is successful, I would next try some attention to her pussy with my tongue.

And if I manage to get past that watershed, I would use an Njoy anal plug to take her higher. I like the Njoy because of its special shape, its smoothness, and its weight. It’s a perverted work of art. Even though it is stainless steel—and for gawd’s sake warm it first; this is not the time to test her edges—it feels more organic than other materials. The weight itself registers in her consciousness in a very different way from other plugs. And the Njoy is far smoother than the other types, other than a glass plug, which has a different feel altogether.

If I get her to this point, the amount of time I would leave the Njoy in kind of depends on what my gut is telling me she needs. Five minutes? All night? Somewhere in between? I’ll watch her, and decide.

This is just one method that occurred to me, and I’m sure there are others I’ll come up with over time. This one has the advantage of low body impact (again, assuming she loves anal), but high return on the arousal and positive emotions that would result. So I’d achieve that “taper” effect I was going for, without pushing her limits any further.

The timing would be critical: too soon, and she’ll still be on the “high” from the scene and your efforts will be ineffective. But wait too long, and she may sic the dogs on you if you try to touch her. Again: rely on Domly skill, confidence, and intuition. Know your girl.

Living through a drop sucks for both of you. Doms can drop as well. It’s worse for the female sub, though, in my opinion, so her care comes first. However, as she improves, so will he; a D/s dynamic is nothing if not symbiotic. Maintaining that emotional connection is critical in this circumstance; if she pulls away, and he lets her, she may suffer for days before coming through it. That isn’t fair to her; she’s the Dom’s full responsibility. And it will happen again the next time, and the next, potentially damaging their relationship. So it is best for the Dom to learn her landscape well, and anticipate what might happen. This takes experience, and trial and error. Find what works for you, and tweak it as you go. Sub drop isn’t the end of the world. It just feels like it, and it will pass.

I swear on my Njoy.



Finding her Buttons: The Dom As Emotional Facilitator

Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper



“Why are you making me do this?”

They sat together in His BMW, the room number on the motel door at the head of their parking spot looming in the center of her vision. It held her stare as if she were a small bird, and it, a serpent.

He did not answer her question, and she could hear how her words hung in the air. She hated herself for how whiny she had sounded. So needy for His approval that she would come here with Him, for this. What was wrong with her?

She pulled her eyes away from the motel door and turned sideways in the black leather seat to look at Him. Her round bottom, naked and panty-less under her very short, plaid schoolgirl skirt, squeaked on the smooth hide as she moved. Her bare arms in the sleeveless, too-small white blouse goose-pimpled, even though He had set the car’s efficient heater on high.

Her small, pale hand found the cabled muscle in His forearm, and she gripped, her burgundy-painted nails digging into the fabric of His crisp dress shirt.

“Master,” she whispered.

He looked at her now, His dark green eyes scything through her as they always did. No matter how many times she met His gaze, it never failed to frighten her. Or arouse her; she felt herself grow damp, and wished again she had disobeyed Him and brought a towel to sit on. But He’d forbidden it. And He’d forbidden her to soil His car seat, or He would punish her. She didn’t know how she was supposed to obey such contradictory commands.

But He was like that. And for some reason, she always told Him, “Yes, Master.” Not because He wanted her to, or would punish her if she disobeyed, but because from deep inside her would come a little voice that would not let her demur. A voice that, despite her occasional attempts to thwart and ignore, would in the end win out. Sometimes she felt like two different people. On a good day.

He drilled her with that stare, and now she felt her small braless nipples tighten against the tight cotton fabric of the blouse. The way He looked in that suit… He wore a suit everyday when He went off to work, but for some reason, now, it had an entirely different meaning. And He’d put on His most expensive suit today for their outing, His Brioni. In black, of course, with white shirt and deep-red tie. With His neatly trimmed goatee, He looked like a well-groomed devil, if Satan had inhabited the pages of GQ.

She lifted her hand from His arm and reached for His face, but He caught her hand and placed it back in her lap.

“No touching,” He said, speaking for the first time since they’d left their condo.

The slight edge to His voice cut through her like jagged ice. She remembered now; He’d told her that back at their condo, when He’d laid out the clothing He wanted her to wear. No touching. She hadn’t retained it because she hadn’t thought—at the time—that He’d been serious. Apparently He was quite serious, because now He was looking at her the way He did when she spilled something on the granite counters in their kitchen.

“I’m sorry, my Master,” she whimpered, casting her eyes lower. This time she made herself sound small on purpose, because of the effect it tended to have on Him. She heard Him release a breath, His only reaction, and smiled to herself.

She must have given away her impudence with something—a tensed muscle, a facial twitch—because He knew. He knew. Damn it!

But He did not take her over His knee this time, as He was wont to do. And their leather BDSM horse was miles away in the dungeon room at their condo. Then what…?

He pulled out His phone, held her nervous gaze a moment, then texted something into it. He held the device casually, as if He did not care if she saw what He wrote. And of course she looked.

Add throat, the text message said.

Giving her His unreadable look, He watched her eyes as He pressed Send.

Uh-oh. What had she done? Her nervousness climbed to full-blown anxiety, and she began to tremble. She opened her mouth to speak, but nothing came out.

He held her eyes a moment longer, until she thought she might faint, then He opened His car door and got out. Despite her mounting alarm, she managed to notice how cute His hard, tight butt looked in the trousers of His suit. She waited, watching as He opened the back door of the car and slipped His suit jacket off its hanger and onto His body. She watched His long, powerful fingers as He buttoned the jacket, giving the fabric a gentle smoothing, and imagined He was stroking her.

But that was not to be, for now. He crossed to her side of the car, opened her door. Offering her one hand, which she took, He plucked the end of her leash from her lap with His other, and gave it a tug.

The graceful platinum chain pulled taut against the link built into her matching platinum collar, the one that fit so snugly around her neck. The one He had fastened around her throat, and locked in place with a tiny gold padlock, on their wedding day. Being simultaneously assisted by His hand, and pulled by her leash, she rose from the car and stood on wobbly legs atop the red-soled black fuck-me stilettos He’d gotten her for today. She caught a glimpse of herself in the car’s side mirror as He closed the car door; she looked like a slutty schoolgirl, which she supposed was the point. It almost made her giggle, but at the last moment she caught herself; whatever “add throat” had meant in His text message, she didn’t want Him to pull out His phone and add anything else.

He led her away from the car, and towards the motel door with the number that taunted her nerves. 201—the end room of the second building. A plain, budget room, where they’d spent their honeymoon back when they’d first married, and before He’d made His initial millions.

But what was behind it now?

It seemed she was soon to find out, as He strode with her towards the door, only slightly taking into account that she could not walk as fast as He. As they reached the door, He lowered her leash, and slipped a hand into His pocket. Pulling out a pair of silver handcuffs He’d had custom-made in her wrist size, He bade her turn.

She’d caught her breath when she’d heard the soft clink of the metal, even before He revealed that He’d brought them. Seeing them glint in the dull light of the overcast sky sent her heart racing even faster. She turned, and tried to contain her growing excitement as He snapped them closed around her slender wrists. But when He faced her back towards the door, His touch on her hip firm, her apprehension shot towards panic.

As if He knew she was about to run, He put His hand on the small of her back, just above the swell of her buttocks, and opened the door of the room. She was trapped.

He went in first, of course, and tugged her leash to pull her in behind Him. Once inside, she struggled to see the details in the curtain-drawn room. The light was so dim that at first she thought the room was empty.

But no. On the far side of the small, spare room, standing even more in the shadows, was a man.

Her trembling threatened to become spasms. She turned towards the door, but He still held her leash. As the leash pulled tight once again, the metal collar snugged around her neck and kept her in place, no matter how much her feet wanted to run.

The man at the other side of the room came forward now. He was built slenderly, but powerfully, just like her Master. Same thick blond hair. He wore the exact same Brioni, the same shirt, the same sanguine tie.

And on His head was a masquerade mask, black, trimmed in silver filigree. It covered the upper half of His face; all she could see were His glittering dark eyes, the tip of His aquiline nose, the twist to His cruel mouth.

She thought she would pass out. Her knees started to buckle.

And then her Master touched her cheek. The cool finger snapped her attention to Him, and to His piercing gaze, and her knees straightened. He wanted her here, and she would not disappoint Him. She would not.

Once He was certain she would not embarrass herself, or Him, He turned to the other man, the man in the black mask.

“You got the text,” her Master said, like it was a fact.

Black Mask nodded, holding up his phone, screen out, so both her Master and she could see the “add throat” text.

Her Master nodded, apparently satisfied, and reached out the black leather loop at the end of her leash to Black Mask.

“Two hours, forty-five minutes,” her Master said to the other man, who nodded again.

Two hours and forty-five minutes? For what?

Then she realized for what, as Black Mask took her leash and led her to the bed. For the next two hours and forty-five minutes, he used her in just about every way she thought she could be used. He’d brought a large black leather bag filled with toys, restraints, gags, floggers, vibes, and plugs. She was fucked in every hole until she felt like the whore she knew she was. She was stripped naked of her schoolgirl outfit and used some more. She was fucked on the bed, the floor, the small desk. And she found out what “add throat” meant, as she choked on the massive head of his thick cock that tried to shove all the way down her esophagus.

And throughout it all, the man in the black mask never removed his suit. He merely unzipped his trousers and released his heavy cock to use on her. He was anonymous. He was cruel. He was unforgiving.

She loved it. Heaven help her, she loved it. It was like nothing she’d ever experienced before, and given the dark proclivities of her Master, that was saying something. After the fourth or fifth one, she lost track of her orgasms. A sense of peace stole over her like she had never known. And somewhere in her overwhelmed brain, she remembered the significance of two hours, forty-five minutes.

And throughout the entire ordeal, her Master sat in a chair across the room, watching. He scarcely moved at all, His manner calm, yet coiled like a spring, and His narrowed stare was unreadable. Every time she was able to catch His steely gaze, she shivered, wondering what was going on behind those eyes.

At the end of the two hours and forty-five minutes, the man in the mask simply stopped. She had been so gone into subspace most of the time that she scarcely knew where she was, but she was pretty sure he hadn’t come; the tip of his condom remained unfilled.

The man removed the condom to the bin in the bathroom, zipped up, and gathered his toys back to the leather bag. With a nod at her Master, he departed the room in silence. At no time had he spoken, or even grunted.

The moment the motel door closed, her Master came out of His chair with the leonine grace of a big jungle cat. He strode towards the bed, His dark eyes locked on hers as she lay there, panting.

The huge erection straining at His expensive trousers left no doubt in her mind as to His intentions.

“You knew, didn’t you?” she breathed, as He reached the bed and removed His suit jacket, hanging it in the open closet.

He unbuckled His belt and slipped out of His trousers. Looked at her.

“I thought this was for you,” she said, still trying to catch her breath.

A faint smile crossed His full lips. He unknotted His tie, removed His shirt, T-shirt, and black boxers.

“You knew I wanted this,” she said. “You knew I needed this.”

His naked erection strained as He turned towards her, and she saw that His calmness was belied by the jumping throb in His long, heavy shaft.

“How did you know?” she asked, then felt silly. “You always know, don’t you? Ever since we met, you’ve known what I needed long before I did. Always.”

He climbed onto the bed, His urgent erection pressing into her belly as He took her in His arms. She felt Him leak His slippery fluid onto her soft skin. His eyes penetrated hers, to her core. She shivered, and her hands slid up the back of His neck into His thick blond hair.

“Happy Anniversary,” He said to her, brushing her lips with His. “I will always give you what you need. Always.” His gaze went dark, and she trembled. “But never forget. You are Mine.”

And for the next two hours and forty-five minutes—the length of time of their first lovemaking as husband and wife—He took back what was His.


One of the biggest parts of being a good Dominant to a female submissive is anticipating her needs. In this case, “needs” is defined as something she requires to be truly happy. Note that I said “truly”—half-happy is not happy.

Sadly, the way many women are raised—and the debris that society heaps on them—can conspire to block, even from themselves, their innermost desires and fantasies.

I’ve lost track of how many times a woman has said to me, “Oh, I would never do that.” And while I, and any decent Dom, always respect a true hard limit, I always probe to see if it is indeed a limit, or, instead, self-deception.

I want to be clear: in no instance that I’ve found, has this self-obfuscation ever been her fault. It has been done to her by some outside agent. Hollywood, magazines, religion, upbringing… The list seems endless, ranging from mild influences to outright trauma. Often, from birth.

And so she builds up blocks, shields, coping mechanisms. I spoke some about this in my previous article, “Attachment: One Dom’s Perspective”, but for the purposes of this article, those mental shields are the focus.

Sometimes, she simply doesn’t know what she needs, consciously, until her Dom figures it out and gives it to her. For the girl in our little vignette above, we could surmise that she was taught that only monogamous behavior showed her love for her partner. Yet, perhaps for her entire life, she craved an experience like the above, only to continually block it and hide it from herself, until she was no longer aware she needed it—if she ever had been aware.

There is no rulebook for any of this. Psychological studies may just be starting to scratch the surface, but D/s type behavior is so heavily frowned upon in a Puritanical society, that how is a girl supposed to learn about her true nature if she is considered to deviate from the “norm”? I mean, doesn’t all this sound like brainwashing?

That’s where a good Dom comes in. It’s His job—His joy, actually—to know His sub so well that she can’t hide anything from Him—no matter how much she may try. He discovers and brings to light every single one of her desires, even if her initial protests to the contrary are vociferous. Even if she screams at Him. Even if she tries to run. He gives her space; He gives her understanding; He gives her unconditional love. But: He doesn’t stop. He never gives up. Never. Giving up would tell her that she is right in her fears, that she is unworthy, that she is a deviant freak.

I submit that what has been done to women in general is the actual brainwashing. I’ve met so many who have no idea of their potential that I tend to be pleasantly startled to encounter one who does.

The untapped well of sensuality inside a repressed woman sometimes makes me growl uncontrollably. We guys are perverts, but a truly sensual woman blows us fellows out of the water. Here’s why: when she has been awakened to her true sensuality, there is very little she will not try, assuming she is in a high-trust relationship with her Dom or partner.

No, I’m not doing that “Women are so much better than men” bullshit that guys do to get laid—that’s phony. Women aren’t better than men, or worse—just different. And I’m quite thankful for that.

I repeat this over and over, because it is the most important thing to remember when searching for her buttons: for a girl to let herself go and acknowledge her true sensual and sexual nature, she must be with a partner she trusts completely. No half-measures will work here. And it takes time to build that trust, with occasional faltering and missteps.

But once she trusts, it’s like lighting a whole box of M-80s. Stand back. What a truly awakened submissive can take is wondrous to behold. Men are Yang; women are Yin. Men are hard; women are soft. But it is that very pliability that gives them their tremendous strength. Do I want to be flogged, roped, plugged, and throat-fucked? Absolutely not. But I know of—and know—women who can do all this, and far more. Willingly, happily, orgasmically. Boggles my mind, and makes me very happy to be a part of their experiences.

What the Dom is good for—or He should be—is finding all that inside her, showing her she is not a perverted freak—okay, she is, but in a good way—and bringing it out in her, one way or another. In our idealized vignette, our all-knowing Dom understood what His sub needed, even though it was something she could never have admitted to Him, much less to herself. His mild trickery was to get her to acknowledge a need He knew she had, but she did not. The sense of peace she experienced was that repressed part of herself finally letting go, at least for this activity.

Every woman is different, and her buttons will be different. I’ve known girls who will strip naked in the first thirty seconds and have sex, but won’t talk about their feelings. I’ve known girls who will only talk, as if the sound muffles the fears that keep trying to emerge. The responsibility for the Dom is to figure out what is beneath the noise, the shrouds, the fears. And make no mistake: it is a responsibility, because once He begins to awaken her needs, He CANNOT leave her hanging. Once a Dom connects with a submissive on that fundamental D/s level—once she attaches—it is cruel and unethical for Him to just drop her. (De-attachment is a topic for another article.)

I don’t mean to make it sound like women are these fucked-up creatures who don’t know what they want, and men are all-knowing gods. Neither is the case; both are simply human, with all the flaws and strengths that each brings to the relationship.

What I am saying is that women in particular have been so ground down under the societal fears about their sex and their truly bottomless desires (and I am so grateful for those desires!), that they are afraid to let go and be who they truly are.

This sucks dick, not to put too fine a point on it.

Oh, but opening one up, waking her up… The feeling is nearly indescribable to a mindfuck Dom like me, and I’m sure it is similar to other Doms as well. Seeing the realizations dawn on her face, through her body, is its own reward. (Of course, getting to do terribly naughty things to her is nice as well.)

Every woman has buttons. They are there, covered in a layer of obscuring shroud put there by one or more external agents—i.e., fearful assholes and conservative pricks. Each woman has different buttons, which makes finding them and clearing away the shroud a joyous adventure for both.

But when they are found, the bond that grows between the two people, between the Yin and her Yang, goes so far beyond any other type of relationship—in my not at all humble opinion—that the rewards are mind-numbingly spectacular, like standing in the path of a super nova and surviving.

Now if you will excuse me, I have some buttons to push.


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.