She looked up at him from the sofa, confused, unsure what he wanted from her. But she obeyed, climbing to her feet to stand before him. Continue reading
She looked up at him from the sofa, confused, unsure what he wanted from her. But she obeyed, climbing to her feet to stand before him. Continue reading
Warning: the following vignette may be too intense for some, or may prove a trigger, so stop reading now if depictions of rough sex and strong consensual verbal play between a sadist and masochist offend or upset you. (There’s a point, I promise.)
Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper
Corey Harper Books
“Please Sir may I cum! Please Sir may I cum!”
She smiled at his response, her eyes still closed, and her finger moved to the switch of the Hitachi wand, preparing to flick it to “high” and press it down on her clit. He liked denying her orgasms to her, even knowing that, when she begged, she was only moments from cumming uncontrollably. They’d made it as long as a twenty-second delay in the past before she soaked his sheets with her shuddering climax.
She held on as long as she could, relishing the anticipation of that brain-churning moment when she switched the Hitachi to its highest setting and her orgasm exploded from her. Even more mind-blowing was that he was sitting in a chair three feet away, watching. She was exposed to him, her legs bent, soles of her feet together, knees thrown wide. Pussy swollen and slick with her nectar. On view for his gaze.
She begged again, “Please Sir may I cum! Please Sir may I cum!” She was starting to thrash on his big soft Cal King bed as her orgasm built to flood stage.
“I said no,” he said.
Something in his voice made her finger pause on the wand’s power switch. And when she heard him stir, and the wand was pulled from her fingers, her eyes flew open. She almost said something, but the look on his face froze the words on her lips. Her orgasm fled like dandelion fluff in a cyclone.
He held the Hitachi in his right hand, his index finger flicking the switch to off. The humming sound silenced, and along with it, her ardor. The way he was looking at her… She began to feel afraid.
He just stared at her for several long seconds, his hunter green eyes unreadable. She felt exposed, and raised her knees till they touched, but realized he could still see the lips of her pussy between her thighs.
Seeming to become aware of the effect he was having on her, he let out a heavy breath, reached forward, and lifted the corner of the bed’s comforter over her legs. She shivered when the back of his calloused knuckles brushed the top of her left knee. But not the way she usually shivered at his touch.
Something was wrong.
He released another breath, this one even longer that the last. He moved, and she thought for a moment that he was going to sit back in the chair, but after a pause, he slid onto the bed alongside her, sitting rigidly upright.
Something was really wrong. He hesitated to sit next to her?
“Sir?” she said, her voice coming out a lot more quivery than she expected. She reached down and tried to draw the comforter further up her body, but she couldn’t do it without moving away from him, and he was already freaking her out the way he was acting. She didn’t want to give him any more reason to frighten her than he already was doing.
A third breath. He took a third breath. Was he angry at her? He wasn’t even looking at her; his empty stare was across his Spartan bedroom. And she realized he was looking at anything but her.
His silence was beginning to unnerve her. He was normally a very happy guy, always joking, laughing easily at her “pestiness”, as he called it. She liked to dance up to him while he was busy with something mundane, like doing the dinner dishes, and tug at his trousers while he was trying to finish so he could come fuck her properly. She never failed to elicit a deep growl from him when she did this, but eventually he would turn, that look in his eye, and she would start running. He would always catch her before she’d gone three steps, but it was the thought that counted. And he’d always thought she was wonderful.
She kept her eyes down, tracing the green and red silkscreeny looking pattern on the comforter. She wanted to look up at him, where he was sitting motionless next to her, but couldn’t. His body, even clothed, put off enormous quantities of heat; it was like cozying up to a hairy space heater. Since she was almost always cold, it worked out well for her, though occasionally he gently peeled her off him in bed during the night, telling her he was about to combust. But always with a kiss to her forehead or lips, a gentle tweak of her nipple, and a caress of her ass.
Now he didn’t even reach for her. His hands were clasped atop his right knee, which was in turn crossed over his left leg. She wasn’t as good at reading his body language as he was at appraising hers, but even she knew that did not bode well.
She was usually the one who closed down to him, not the other way around. He had been more open to her, in the five months they had been dating, than any three other men she’d known in her life combined. Somehow, he managed to be assertive and confident—“Domly”, she teased him—while always remaining sensitive to her needs. He could—and did—perform the most sadistic, kinky acts upon her person, and then afterwards would hold her, cuddle her, and maybe get her a treat like ice cream. A couple times, after particularly vigorous sessions involving a lot of hair pulling and throat fucking, he’d even given her a warm bath and washed her hair. She remembered sighing a lot during those times, and holding onto whatever part of him she could reach. Preferably his incredibly hard and strong forearms.
Now those forearms corded and tensed as she braved looking at him from the corner of her eye. It was like he was trying to pull away from her. Oh no! It was like he was pulling away.
“I like you,” he said, his voice soft. And his eyes still focused across the room; not on her.
Her heart scraped to a halt. She stopped breathing, dreading his next words.
“But this isn’t working for me,” he said.
Now he did look at her, and she wished he hadn’t. His green eyes were both empty, and at the same time filled to the brim with pain. But the pain was not fresh, she saw; it had been there a long while. Almost five months, she realized in that moment. Their five months.
She felt as thin and brittle as a dropped bud vase. And the urge to run from him was overpowering. Her calves twitched as she tried to get hold of herself, and her heart went from silent to hammering overdrive, almost drowning out his next words.
“We’ve talked about this,” he said. “Who I am. What I am.”
And her heart stopped again. She hated disappointing him. For the most part, she believed him when he said he was never disappointed in her, but now, even though he wasn’t saying it, his disappointment bellowed at her. She shrank in on herself, feeling tiny and cold. Inadequate.
“It’s my fault,” he said, now reaching out for her hand where it lay atop her thigh. Her little fingers felt insignificant inside his big, hot palm. “Not yours. Mine.”
She tried to say something, anything, but no words came. He didn’t seem to notice as he went on.
“I tried to get you to do something you are not ready to do,” he murmured. “I wasn’t sensitive enough to your process, how you need to work things through. And I’ve realized I’ve simply been pushing you along too quickly.”
Something in his tone allowed her to turn her head and look at him. She saw his eyes were glistening. Moist. Oh. Her fingers tightened in his, and she dropped her gaze again. Maybe she could still save this—
“I have to release you,” he said. “I have to let you go.”
Her entire body went slack. It was as if all her muscles and tendons and bones simply went away, leaving her a sack of cold flesh.
“You’re…” was all that came out of her in a gasp.
He breathed hard through his nose as he cupped her cheek with his other hand. His hand felt ablaze on her senseless skin.
“I have to,” he said. “I can’t keep shoving you forward just because it’s the direction I think you should go.” Now his voice dropped to a whisper. “I can’t keep hurting you.”
“No!” she cried, jerking up onto her elbows, coming up so fast she clunked her forehead against the hard edge of his hand. He drew it back, and she clutched at him. “No!”
“I don’t have a choice, babyg—” He compressed his lips as he cut himself off from what he’d been about to call her. The name he’d been trying to get her to accept the past three months. “I don’t have any choice.”
She looked to that part of herself, buried deep inside, the part he assured her was there. It seemed so far removed from how she viewed herself.
“I don’t want to go,” she said, the tears beginning. She raised her face to him, eyes swimmy cloudy. “Don’t make me go, please, Sir.”
He sighed, and his grip on her hand loosened. “That is why we cannot be.”
“Because I call you Sir?”
“Because of what you are unable to call me.”
She shook her head, her auburn curls swaying limply around her face. “I want to,” she whispered.
“If you felt it, it would be natural to say,” he said. “If you felt it, it would be impossible not to say.”
“How do you know that?”
“Because of what I am. Because of what you are.”
She pondered that. It wasn’t the first time he’d said it, but usually her brain was melting from sex they’d either just had, or were about to have. That seemed to be their only two speeds. Not that she ever felt like complaining about it—he made her feel alive in a way she’d never experienced. Like breathless alive. Swelling in the chest alive. Can’t stop thinking about him alive. The times she returned to her apartment from his just felt like waiting, like blah, like why was she back there. She’d fallen for him so hard, so fast, and nothing in their dynamic ever deterred her from how she felt.
Except that one Thing.
She kept trying, mainly because he insisted it was who she really was, but partly…
Partly, she felt he might be onto something.
Oh, at first she’d barely listened when he tried to tell her what his instincts were picking up from her. She just figured it was a case of, when all you have is a hammer, everything looks like a nail. She’d said as much at one point, phrasing it respectfully as a question, and to her surprise he had just laughed and told her he could see her point. But then he assured her he wasn’t just saying it because he wanted it to be true.
Then he proceeded to tell her about his four previous submissives, and how he had never gotten even a remotely similar vibe from them as he had from her. They were companions, nothing more, he told her. Because he was looking for only one thing. One type of girl.
And he’d assured her she was that type. That girl.
At the time, she’d gotten caught up in jealousy upon hearing about the four freaking submissives. Now, she reran the conversation in her head, and realized she’d missed something.
She’d missed her own reaction to his words.
Oh, she’d noted it afterwards, and chalked it up to just his masculine hotness and Dom vibe. But he was always hot and Domesque. So now, remembering, she grasped how it had been different. The moment he’d told her she was a “little”, a “babygirl”, two simultaneous things occurred: her pussy had flooded, and she’d wanted to crawl into his lap.
The memory bitch-slapped her in her brain, like it had been trying to get her attention for years.
“And because of what I am, what you are,” he was saying, as if he had no idea a war had begun inside her head, “I can’t be with you anymore.” He looked down at her, and the expression on his face started the flood from her eyes again. “I wish it could be different. But it’s unfair for me to do to you what I’ve been doing. You aren’t ready. Not for me, anyway. Perhaps, in a few years, for someone else.” He squeezed her hand, and her heart broke. “But not for me.”
“But…” she started, struggling to sit up without breaking free of his tenuous grip on her hand. “But if you’re so sure, why can’t we just keep going like we have until—”
“Because it’s become too difficult,” he said, releasing her hand and making her whimper. He returned his hand to his lap, joining it with the other one. Leaving her out of the equation. His knuckles cracked, muscles bunching, as he tightened his fingers together.
“For me?” she said. “Because I want to keep trying for you—”
“For me,” he said. He glanced at her. “I know that sounds selfish.”
It did, a little. But then she thought about all the ways he had given of himself to her. And then she become conscious that he had done nothing but give to her. He doted on her. Sure, he was a sadistic bastard, but she was an enthusiastic masochist, so it was a twistedly symbiotic dynamic. But every time they finished with whatever demonic scenario he’d cooked up, he cared for her afterwards like she was the most precious thing in the world to him.
Which, she was understanding now, was exactly the way he felt about her. Now she was the one feeling selfish.
“I want to find my little,” he said. “I need to find my little.”
The more he separated from her with words like that, the sharper became the pain she was feeling. It was as if him slipping away from her was taking everything that she had ever wanted along with it.
She panicked, dragging up an old fear. “So you just want someone closer to your own age, is that it?” Please, let that be it.
He looked at her again, and shook his head as if he was growing even more sad and disappointed with her. “Our age difference is irrelevant,” he said, his words soft, but with a sharp edge beneath his gentleness. “You are an adult woman, almost thirty years old. We are always able to carry on intelligent conversations, even about things other than sex.” For a moment, she thought he was trying to joke, but the somber look on his face told her she was wrong. He went on, “It has everything to do with acknowledging those parts of ourselves that speak to each other’s core beings.” He took in a slow breath, as if he was trying to calm himself.
“And you think my core is a—”
“It’s not even a question,” he said. “My instincts are good. I’ve never been wrong about this.” The head shake again. “But try as I might, I can’t get past the walls you surround your true nature with.” Realizing how his words had just cut her, he took her hand again, in both of his this time, and turned a bit towards her. “And that’s my fault, not yours. I simply haven’t found the way in. And that means I am not the right D—”
“No!” she said, pulling on his hands as if she was trying to tug him back to her. “You are! You are!” Dammit! Why wouldn’t he get all the way on the bed with her? If there was ever a time she wanted to be in his lap, it was now!
“I thought so once.”
“Tell me about it again!” she said, scooting herself closer to him. She thought about pulling the comforter off so she could be naked against his coarse black denims and navy broadcloth shirt, but decided that might make him retreat further from her. “Please, S— Please.”
“We’ve talked about it a lot. Or at least, I have,” he said, then paused. His eyes lost some of their sadness, but it frightened her to see that it was replaced by annoyance. “You weren’t listening.”
“I was so,” she said, and as soon as the words left her mouth, she realized it was a lie.
His jaw muscles worked, and the sight of him fighting for control of himself both frightened her and sent a shiver down her spine to her pussy. He was usually so in charge of himself, so self-possessed. Even when he had her strapped down over the leather horse in his fun room, he never for a moment lost himself. Even when he was inside her, filling her, cumming in her, he may have grunted or even moaned, but she always felt it was a conscious choice on his part to make a sound.
“No,” he said. “You are not telling me the truth.” The muscle clenched and stood straight out from his rugged jawline. His fingers tightened around her small hands.
“Am so,” she said. What the fuck was she doing, arguing with him? She’d already lost him, and now she was going to piss him off in the bargain? But an annoying little voice inside her, usually quiet, was getting louder and louder in her ears.
“I don’t like being lied to,” he said. A deep growl came up from his chest.
Her pussy flooded. “Not lying,” she said. “You’re being mean.”
Seriously? What the hell was wrong with her? She was always so respectful to her Doms, especially to this one, because she thought she might actually love him. She always said “Yes, Sir” and “No, Sir” and “Anything you like, Sir”. When she had frequented the scene clubs in her early twenties, she quickly became known as an especially compliant sub, willing to do whatever was asked of her. She’d never really thought why, until this moment. Now she realized it was because those minutes she was tied, or strapped, or denied orgasm, or impaled in some horribly delicious way, were the only minutes in her life she had been able to actually breathe.
That same feeling was starting to bubble up in her now, in this moment, with him. And he was barely touching her.
“I’m being—” He stopped, swallowed, and she saw his vaunted control begin to slip back over him like a mask. Like a suit of armor that he wore to keep himself in check.
No! She yanked on his hands with all her small strength, feeling his six-two frame barely move. But she got him to drill her with that stare, the one that said he wasn’t entirely in control of himself.
“Mean,” she said. “Being mean. Mean man. Mean mean mean man.”
That growl again, and the bed beneath pussy her got damp. “Mean?” he said, the words a rasp. “You are a brat.”
“Nuh-uh,” she said, shaking her head so her curls flew. “You’re just mean. Meany.” That little quiet voice inside her head was shouting now. She started to tremble. She felt hot. Her scalp prickled.
With a roar, he snatched her up off the bed, tossed her over his knee, and flung the dragged-along comforter off her. Her bare ass thrust up into the air. His jeans were rough against the soft skin of her thighs.
“You want mean?” he growled. “I’ll show you mean.”
The instant he brought his big wide palm down on her naked ass cheek, she came. And kept cumming as he spanked her again and again, first one cheek, then the other, then the first. Her butt heated, then burned, then sizzled. He’d never spanked her this long or this hard before. She could not stop cumming. This had never happened to her before, either. Her entire body clenched into what felt like a pretzel, and all her toes cracked as she curled them. She flailed, but not to push away his hands; she just could not keep still. Another first for a usually-compliant sub.
Just when she thought he would never stop spanking her, he did. She started to raise up, but suddenly she was in the air, in freefall! He’d picked her up and tossed her through the air and onto his bed. He’d never done that before. Even at his most sadistic, he always gave her the impression he had every move planned down to the inch. Like he was working from a script.
Now it felt like he’d gone so far off-book, that there hadn’t even been a book in the first place.
She started to feel afraid of him, because he was so big, and she was so little. But along with the fear was a thrill that coursed through her like white water in spring floods. It picked up that part of her that was shouting on tiptoes now and carried it along in a current that grew more raging and out of control by the moment.
And in that instant, she understood that was because he was going out of control, too.
The more he lost it, the more she found herself. The wider he opened himself to her, the less she needed to hide. The deeper she saw into him, the higher grew her trust. But now, she saw, he was wavering. The armor he maintained was trying to wrap itself around him again and return his control. He needed her help.
“Meany,” she whispered.
That was it. He bellowed something wordless and guttural, and tore off his clothes. His erection sprang from his snug boxer-briefs, purple and angry and huge. And leaking. The sight of it made her gasp, but she had no time to regard it as he fell on her like a wolf upon his prey.
None of his usual studied finesse. He plunged into her with no warning, no buildup, no attention to her readiness. She was lucky she was as wet as she had ever been. More. He slammed into her, balls-deep, her slickness accepting him, her folds parting, her walls clutching at his steel shaft. His girth stretched her to her limits and beyond, his length bumping her cervix. But she didn’t care.
She understood now.
His strong arms were crossed behind her back and wrapped around her so tightly she could scarcely breathe. His palms gripped her shoulder blades. The coarse hair on his chest chafed against her soft full breasts, causing her nipples to harden and pucker and deliciously hurt. She wriggled against his big body, trying to get closer to him as he pounded in and out of her without mercy.
Her pussy and his cock together made loud wet sounds, and she could feel her nectar splashing from her on each of his brutal downstrokes, soaking them both. His head was pressed into the mattress next to her head, the groans coming from him all the more animal as his control slipped further and further away from him.
He surrounded her, enveloped her, covered her. As vicious as his current attack was, she felt safe in his arms. Secure. Like she had never ever felt in her entire life. He could impale her with his huge long cock whenever he wanted, as hard as he wanted, and she would take it. But not because she was a compliant sub. But because he was her—
“Daddy,” she whispered in his ear. “You are my Daddy.”
He raised up, his green eyes wide, searching hers. With a roar, his face tightened as he lost himself in her smiling gaze, his orgasm filling her more than he ever had. The ropes he pumped into her were merely the physical manifestation of the connection that now bound them. The trust it took for her to open herself to him, and to say the words she now realized she had wanted to say to him since they’d met, was absolute. He was her Daddy, and she was his—
“Babygirl,” he growled, as his orgasm reached its crescendo.
The pulses from his cum subsided, his pounding heartbeat slowed, and his eyes focused on her. For just a moment, she thought he was about to ask her a question. But she saw the shift slip across his eyes, that same one she knew had slid across her own just minutes before. Understanding. Realization at the obstacles he had put in his own path. A small amount of annoyance that he hadn’t known sooner. And finally, acceptance that it had happened.
He looked at her. She looked at him back. It was like two puzzle pieces had just clicked together. No more turning and turning and turning to get them to fit. They just were. Now and always.
He rolled them over and took his weight off her, then sat upright and pulled her into his lap. She drew her legs in and snuggled against him, making herself as small as she could next to his big body. Resting her cheek on his shoulder, she let out a sigh.
It felt like she’d just released all the sighs she had ever had inside her. All gone now, every last one of them.
She looked up at him, admiring that square jaw and little bit of stubble that scratched her when he nuzzled her. Nuzzled his babygirl. Her Daddy. She put her arms around him. They had so much to say, it made her chest swell. And yet, they need say nothing at all. They both understood everything, the moment their puzzle pieces had clicked.
He kissed the top of her head, her forehead, her nose. Tightened his arms around her. Let one hand fall between her legs and stroked the still-damp lips of her pussy.
“So, babygirl,” he rumbled. “Tell me about your day.”
I’ve read many wonderful articles on the Daddy/babygirl dynamic, but haven’t to date come across one that talks about the struggle some littles have in acknowledging their nature. The acknowledgement can happen in many ways; this was just one of them.
I’ll get some definitions out of the way up front: the “little” can also be referred to as “lil”, “babygirl”, “littlegirl”, or whatever variation a Daddy and his bg (for short) enjoy using. And Daddy is always “Daddy”. Not “Dad”, “Pops”, “Father”, or any other variation. Because, ick.
Yes, some of you unfamiliar with the Daddy/bg dynamic are squicked right now, so let me make this very clear:
The Daddy/bg dynamic is NOT about incest.
Oh, don’t look at me like that; I know you were thinking it.
The participants are adults, all of legal age, not related by blood, not idiots or otherwise impaired, and a few of them probably live in your neighborhood. They have jobs, take their kids to school, go to church, and are otherwise as normal as anyone else. And probably happier.
Obviously I’m biased. But from my perspective, the level of internal trust it takes for a bg to give herself to a Daddy is massive. Again, in my opinion (and many in the BDSM/kink community may disagree), this is the most open, the most connected, of all the variants of relationship types in our community.
That’s because that trust level I just mentioned—not dependent on how good he is with ropes, or the flogger, or any of the other fun toys—comes straight from her emotions to his. (I say “her” for bg and “him” for Daddy, but a male can be a bg, and a female can be a Daddy, though what they call each other is up to them. Since I am heteroflexible, I will use the paradigms that are most familiar to me in this article, and stick with the male Daddy/female bg combination.)
I’ve known subs that keep their emotions tight to their hearts, and instead give themselves over to be used like our compliant sub in the vignette. I’ve known others that act out in various ways, either as brats, or even a little blustery, because they weren’t ready to bring out their littles.
Even the girls who know they are littles can struggle. They carry massive amounts of emotions around with them. Strong emotions. Like whirlwinds in tutus. It’s not at all surprising they would clamp down on those emotions, or act out, because how else are they supposed to deal with them?
Think about it: if she has these cyclones of overwhelming feelings lashing around inside her, what does she do with them? How does she cope?
For someone who is not a little, just saying “suck it up” to one who is, is not a tenable solution. Yes, some littles do suck it up, but rarely successfully. Oh, don’t get me wrong; they manage, coping with their lives and challenges, but actual happiness eludes them. (The same for Daddies, but it works a bit differently for them. More on that in a moment.)
For a little, emotional highs are higher, lows are very low. Euphoria (very common) is stronger, and upsets cut far more deeply (also very common).
An example, pulled from my Tumblr feed, of what a little texted to her Daddy:
Funny? Of course. Silly? Every little I’ve ever met has been devastatingly intelligent, so I’ve no doubt that—objectively—she was aware of the silliness of her statement. I’m also relatively certain that, in that moment, she truly did feel her life was over. (And in the moment after that, she probably found a crayon she liked better and forgot about the broken one. Or Daddy bought her an entire new box.)
Think of a bucket filled to overflowing, then think of more liquid going into that bucket. She doesn’t have another bucket; she can’t keep up with the overflowing. And the more she tries to keep up, the sadder and more frenzied she feels.
That’s an iceberg’s tip of her flood of emotions. And these emotions don’t stop. She can’t fight them. She can barely deal with them some days. Like I said, some littles repress and compartmentalize, while others have strong emotional episodes. I.e., explosions. These are stopgaps at best.
So what’s the solution?
Sound familiar? Dom needs sub; sub needs Dom. And if you think that one has a powerful pull, you ain’t seen nothing till you’ve run across a little in a spin who needs her Daddy.
Once she acknowledges who and what she is, those needs get stronger. (Remember my article on the awakening of a submissive? This is like that, except rather like comparing a Cessna to a Gulfstream.) And similar to with a “regular” submissive, it is the Dom who takes on the care of her emotions. But for a little, the emotional responsibility is considerably greater, because for the little to feel completely free in her skin, she has to let it all out. To him.
And it’s massive.
A Daddy has to be ready for any emotion, at any level, at any time. No compromises, no “I’m too tired tonight, babygirl”. This is the power exchange in the Daddy/bg dynamic, and it must be absolute, or it doesn’t work. If he’s taking her on as his little, he gets it all. Every crumb of news in her life, every bit of excited blather, every morsel of sadness, joy, anger, happiness. Sometimes all at the same time.
A girl with an emerging little can become overwhelmed. Think about it: it’s almost like a birth. Except instead of the blissful unconsciousness of actual infancy, she has just become aware of her true nature. She emerges, blinking, into her brave new world, bright lights and loud noises startling her. Anything that upsets this process of nascent awareness can cause her to recoil, hide, run. The fault will be her Daddy’s, of course. And in this case, the best thing he can do is to back off, give her a “breather”, let her “skin” toughen a bit to her new environment. If she continues to become overwhelmed, scheduling regular breather periods can help her to adjust and balance more easily as her little grows more confident in their bond.
Littles can be complicated. They are also a blast. They fulfill the same thing in a Daddy as he fulfills in them. Same coin, opposite sides. A Daddy without a little gets grumpy, growly, and feels incomplete. A Daddy with a little is the happiest place on Earth, way happier than Disneyland. Which she may want to go to.
Which brings me to the next thing you are thinking: that all littles act… well, little. As in, young. Immature. Babies.
Certainly age play can be a part of the Daddy/bg dynamic, but it isn’t a requirement. It does tend to be common, but there are plenty of littles that don’t do age regression play at all. I tend to see being a little, and any age play included, as two separate things. Many in the community would disagree, because the littles who engage in some level of age play are far more common than those who don’t, and it is a very integrated part of their little natures.
What am I talking about here? It varies, and is entirely dependent on the little. It ranges from those who don’t do it at all—needing only for Daddy’s nurturing lap to be there when they want it—to littles who, when they are very upset, regress to needing blankets, stuffed animals, binkies, even baby bottles. And everything in between.
The girl in my last article on “sub drop” was a realized little, and I touched on her self-comforting behavior a little (heh heh). But that little had a Daddy; many do not. It’s very difficult for them, and they get sad about it often. Hence the various methods I mentioned to self-comfort.
Some of you who are unfamiliar with this dynamic might be thinking, “Eww! What a baby. A bottle?” First, let me remind you of my philosophy—I am a zero-tolerance anti-YKINOK (Your Kink Is Not Okay) pervert. What that means is, you’re a perverted fuck, too (or you wouldn’t be reading this), so don’t go judging anyone else. If everyone knew the shit you got up to behind closed doors, thou wouldst also be judged. Don’t perpetuate the hate.
Now that I got that little rant out of the way:
The thing is, littles have an extremely tender core, as tender as the friable flesh of a newborn infant. So a Daddy is a different kind of Dom, wired to deal with their sometimes hair-trigger emotions. They can go off the rails in a variety of ways: inconsolable sobbing, acting out, brattiness (our little in the vignette did that to a mild degree), and at the other end of the spectrum, completely shutting down and running away.
Though the outward manifestation appears different, inside they are in similar turmoil. Something is amiss in the Daddy/bg dynamic. She needs… something. Many times she will not be able to use her words to tell him what that is. He has to figure it out for her, and bring the both of them back into balance.
Does this make it sound like littles are high-maintenance? Well, they kinda are. But that’s like saying the effort a five-star chef puts in to creating a special meal is high-maintenance. It’s what a Daddy is wired to deal with. And it is a pleasure for him.
A Daddy lives to care for his little. His world revolves around her, because she is at his center. Nothing is more important than her. And since she is at his center, he surrounds her, metaphorically speaking, with his protection and love. She becomes free to be who she truly is, at her core self. The being she was meant to express. The littlegirl that can sometimes become trapped by layers of baggage, the judgments of others, and her own fears, can finally breathe free. No half-measures. No compromises. No compartmentalizing. Her world rights itself every day when he comes through the door and she hears those two words:
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.
“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.
“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.”
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.”
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.
Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper
He listened, the phone sitting on the polished wood desk in his hotel suite. Her voice strained from the speaker, shrill, loud.
It had been awhile since she had gotten like this.
“Another week?” she screamed. “You are seriously staying there another week?”
“You’re fucking someone, aren’t you?” she yelled. “You are! Tell me!”
“That’s enough,” he said, when she took a breath. And waited again, his senses attuned to her next words.
“No it most certainly isn’t enough!” she shrieked. “It’s never enough! Fuck you! Don’t come home!”
The phone’s screen showed the “call ended” icon. He gazed at it a moment, thinking. Then he picked up the phone and made two calls. The first to his assistant, the second to a private number.
She glared at the phone, her nails digging into her palms, and threw it across the room. It smashed against the corner of the hardwood bookcase built into the far wall, and exploded into a dozen pieces.
She froze, her eyes wide. Ran across the room. Knelt on the oak wood floor, slicing her bare knee on one of the broken pieces of plastic.
What had she done?
The tears burst from her like a rain-swollen river crashing through a weakened dam. She scrabbled up the pieces of the ruined phone, letting them fall through her fingers like beach pebbles. She clutched her arms around her naked body, bending forward till her forehead touched the cold floor. Racking sobs shook her as she made herself as small as she could, willing the hardwood to swallow her up.
“Let me die,” she whispered.
She had stripped naked earlier that morning, despite the chill in the house. She had put on the special wide black leather collar he had gotten for her, the one with the silver studs that they only used when they were going to play hard. She had masturbated three—no, four times.
Nothing had helped.
And now she had yelled at him. And wrecked the only way he had to contact her. The fact that both a tablet and a laptop sat on the desk by the window—less than six feet away—didn’t enter her head as she stared, cloudy eyed, at the pieces of the last conversation she knew she would ever have with him.
Why would he want her now? She had called him names. She had disrespected him. What was wrong with her?
She thought about her suitcase in the closet. Thought about packing it up, going to a friend’s house. Running away. She didn’t want to be here when he came home next week. Didn’t want to see the twist of disappointment on his face when he looked at her.
That would be the worst thing of all: that she had disappointed him.
She got up and went to the bedroom. Opening the closet, she eyed her pink suitcase and matching makeup case. Instead, she pulled out her frilliest pink robe and drew it around her suddenly cold shoulders.
Going into the kitchen, she put her small fists on her hips and looked at the three days of dishes she’d let pile up. If she decided to move out, she wasn’t going to leave this mess for him to come home to—she owed him that much.
Her brain and body felt numb as she went through the mechanics of cleaning the kitchen. His kitchen. Didn’t even feel like theirs anymore. But she cleaned it, making everything sparkle like she usually did.
The ache inside her small body was unrelenting. It tore outward from her belly and the center of her chest, the pain like an itch, a craving that could never be satisfied. Like an ague of the mind. A grief of the body. A death of the spirit. The anger she’d felt towards him earlier was replaced by an emptiness that wasn’t empty. It held pain.
Once she was satisfied he wouldn’t also hate her for leaving his house a shithole, she went to their master bedroom and showered, standing still as the hot water sluiced down her shivering body. She let her hands creep down her belly towards her pussy, but as soon as she touched herself, she recoiled.
She didn’t want to do this. Not to herself. She wanted his hands on her. And now that she had insulted him beyond his ability to forgive her, there was nothing left to say. She would never feel his touch again.
The bone-cracking sobs took her again, and she sank to the rough-tile floor of the shower, wrapping her arms around herself and bending forward as she had in the living room.
She had no idea how long she had stayed like that, but realized at some point that the water pelting her rounded back was icy, and that she was shivering uncontrollably.
Good. She deserved it.
The gash on her knee trickled a faint red trail swirling away from her and into the shower drain. It throbbed, like the pounding of guilt in her ears, telling her that she was a bad girl. A very bad girl. An unlovable girl.
She reached for the grab bar and hauled herself up, her knees almost buckling as the pins-and-needles hit her legs. Her skin was embossed with the coarse pattern of the tiles. How long had she been there on the shower floor?
Stepping out of the shower, she glanced at the small brass ship’s clock on the counter, the one he kept there to keep her on schedule, and to punish her when she went a minute or two over. It had been their game: she would be a brat and purposely make them late for something, he would call and cancel whatever it was, and then would spend the next hour spanking her over various parts of her body.
At the end of those evenings, she never failed to sleep deeply and dreamlessly, wrapped up in his big arms.
Well, that was over now, so no use belaboring the issue. She sighed, looking at her face in the mirror. Eyes red and swollen, cheeks puffy… She was a disaster. The next forty-five minutes she spent repairing her face to some semblance of non-horror. Why, she had no idea.
Okay, yes she did. What if he needed to call her to tell her to do something? Like pay a bill, or get him something from the hardware store? For just a moment her mind wandered back to their first trip to the Ace Hardware store, when he took her into the aisle with all the pretty ropes and cords, and told her what he would do to her with each kind.
She shook herself. Not only would he never want her again, no man would. But still, until she packed up her things and left, maintaining his household for him while he was away on business was her responsibility, and one she took seriously.
So best to be sure he could reach her, even if it was just a cold text message issuing instructions.
She dressed quickly, jeans and a shapeless black sweater that fell off one shoulder. No point bothering with her hair; she twisted that into a long ponytail.
Again, her memory trailed back to one of their first sessions together, before he had told her he loved her. How he had entered her from behind, she on her hands and knees, and he had yanked on her long black ponytail in one strong hand while he spanked her ass with the other. She never knew she could come as hard as she had that night.
She went out the front door of their Craftsman bungalow, a warm spring breeze brushing the fine hairs on the back of her neck. The air smelled of cherry blossoms. Normally she loved spring, but her heart today was locked in the dead of winter.
She waved to one of their neighbors across the street as she got into her Subaru SUV, forcing a smile onto her face. The neighbors would find out soon enough; no need to get them gossiping any earlier than necessary.
She drove to the nearest Verizon store, explained that her phone was broken, and purchased a new one. She felt bad charging it to their credit card—his credit card—since she was the one who broke it, but she would find a way to pay him back. In the meantime, he could still reach her.
The back entrance to the store was closer to the parking lot, so she went out that way with her new phone, stepping around a white delivery van parked near the door. As she crossed the lot, she heard the van start up, and looked over her shoulder to make sure she wasn’t in its way. It circled the parking lot, looking for the way out.
At her Subaru, she juggled her keys with her new purchase. The big plastic fob of the key caught on the corner of the box the phone came in, and she dropped the key to the asphalt. Bending, she reached for it where it had fallen a couple of inches under the car.
Rough hands grabbed her and yanked her backwards. She had only a moment to register the open side door of the white van, before a black hood was pulled over her head and she was picked up bodily and placed into the van.
The hands laid her on the floor of the van, the metal cold against her skin. She started to flail, completely blind inside the thick fabric of the snug-fitting hood, scrabbling to get it off so she could see.
Someone grabbed her wrists and shackled them together behind her back with handcuffs. A second pair of hands manacled her ankles. She was helpless, and at their mercy!
Her heart pounded like a jackhammer. It felt like it would burst from her chest.
The van lurched into motion, and she slid against the legs of one of her kidnappers. He nudged her onto what felt like a blanket of the kind used for moving furniture. They probably didn’t want her sliding around all over them.
They drove for only a few minutes, the vehicle bumping over several rows of train tracks at the end. The van stopped. She heard the side door scrape open, and like a sack of rice she was hauled up and thrown over someone’s shoulder. He began walking with her that way, easily carrying her small body.
What sounded like a metal door squealed open, the man moved forward with her on his shoulder, and the door closed behind them with a clang.
The man’s footsteps echoed across concrete, and after several moments she was lifted off his shoulder and set on her feet. The cuffs around her wrists were removed, and just as she tried to rub them, her hands were grabbed and raised over her head. More cuffs were attached, but when the hands released hers, she found she could not lower her arms. A shake, and she heard chains rattle.
A man grunted, and she heard two pairs of footsteps fade across whatever space they were in. She smelled motor oil. The metal door banged open, and a moment later closed.
The black hood was pulled from her head. Gently. She blinked, even though the light was quite dim in what she now saw was an old warehouse. She turned her head.
He stood there. Smiled at her.
“I thought you were going to be gone another week!” was the first thing that popped into her head and straight out of her mouth. Geez, what an idiot she sounded like. She tried to lower her eyes, embarrassed, but he put a thumb and forefinger under her chin.
Raising her head gently, but so she could feel the strength in just his two fingers, he said, “It was time to come home.” He released her chin, cupped her cheeks in both his warm hands, and kissed first her forehead, then her lips.
She sighed, and melted into his muscled body as his hands slid down her shoulders to her small waist, and then around her back to encircle her. He gripped her ass cheeks in his hands and pressed her into him until she could feel his erection.
When he at last released her, eliciting a whimper from her core, he reached up and tapped the chains. She looked at them, then back down into his dark gold eyes.
“It’s been a long time since you kidnapped me,” she said. Her heart was still racing from his kiss, and as she lowered her eyes, she could see his urgent erection thrusting against his black jeans. “The last time—”
“The last time was not long after we were married,” he finished for her. “Before I knew how bad it could get for you.”
She felt tears heat in her eyes. “But it’s not your fault,” she said. “I’m so screwed up—”
He put a finger to her lips, shushing her. “No,” he said. His eyes grew dark. “And I never want you to think that again.” He let out a breath. “This is my fault. It is, and always will be, my fault. You are my baby girl. You are in my care. I let work get in my way, and I’ve neglected you for far too long.” He stepped closer to her, till she could feel his hot breath on her face. “I hope you can forgive me, my little girl. Sooner than I can forgive myself.”
She felt the tears come, but not the hot ones of shame; these flowed from joy. Forgive him? How could he think she would not? Still, perhaps some fun with him—
“Maybe,” she said, watching that smirky grin spread across his face as he recognized this part of her coming alive. That dangerous, smirky grin. She shook her manacled arms and rattled the chains. “What’s in it for me?”
He inclined his head to the side, and she followed the movement. His big nylon toy bag sat on the floor of the warehouse twenty feet away. She looked back at him and smiled, and felt her tummy clench.
“I knew it would take something big to bring you out of this one,” he said.
“Frenzies suck,” she pouted.
“Yes, they do,” he agreed. “Now,” he said, rolling up his sleeves, “let’s see what we can do about it.”
For the rest of the day, and into the evening, he worked on her till every molecule of the Frenzy left her small body. Then he made gentle love to her. That night she slept in his arms, deeply and dreamlessly.
I don’t recommend a kidnapping “scene” for everyone; it is a specific kink, and not to be used lightly or non-consensually. But for our loving adult couple in the above vignette, he knew she needed something big to bring her out of her Frenzy.
The Frenzy. Capital fucking “F”. This can hit any female submissive, and just absolutely wrecks them. I mean, it fucking wrecks them. It’s heartbreaking. And no Dom should ever let it get that far, but as we all know, shit happens.
One of the more aptly name phenomenon in BDSM kink, the general reason for a female sub to experience the Frenzy is lack of proper attention or discipline maintenance from her Dom in their ongoing relationship. (This can also happen to a sub who attaches to a Dom when he can’t be with her, such as online.)
Basically, the girl needs a spanking.
Or whatever agreed-upon method of discipline the Dom uses to relax his sub so she can avoid the Frenzy. She can’t reach that moment of peace on her own, and her behavior will grow increasingly erratic as she nears the Frenzy stage.
For subs who are “asleep”—those without Doms, or those who have not yet awakened to their true sub nature—they may have clamped down on their feelings over time, and while it never feels good to them, they get by because nothing disturbs it in any meaningful way. Not so the submissive who has been awakened by a Dom, has gotten a taste of the calm of submission, and has at least partially attached. If, for whatever reason, she cannot reach the next stage with him, some level of Frenzy is almost bound to happen.
Or via neglect from a Dom that she does have in her life, she gets to the point of our poor submissive in the vignette above. Though it is not quite a one-to-one ratio—a lot depends on her personality and nature—the more intense her relationship and playtime with him, the more extreme the Frenzy episode is likely to be.
Basically, it’s like a non-submissive missing her man, but the emotions that kick loose during the Frenzy are massively greater for a submissive. As I said, it wrecks them.
While I always hope the Dom would catch it before it gets so bad, if it does get that bad, he should take immediate steps to ground her and return her to Earth. He can never be angry with her about it; it’s not her fault. It’s his. If she has given over her power to him, to trust him to care for her in all things, then that’s just what it means. All things. Her emotional state is his responsibility.
I can imagine some of you—even experienced submissives—scratching your heads and wondering how it can be his fault. After all, she is an adult, isn’t she?
Think about it; she has given over her power to him in exchange for his care. Here’s an analogy that may help:
If she takes her broken car to a mechanic, she is putting the car in his care, and expects to receive it back in repaired working order. That is the expectation of that exchange. If the mechanic screws it up, it is his fault, not hers.
It’s the same with her giving her emotions—her power—to her Dom. They become solely his responsibility to administer.
Some girls might feel they are acting needy or weak if they don’t take responsibility for their emotions. I feel the exact opposite is true: they are far stronger and more powerful in that exchange, because the trust they have built with their Doms creates a tremendous feeling of freedom. When a woman feels that freedom, her ability to love and experience becomes pure and boundless. Knowing he has her, will always have her, allows her to explore parts of herself she may be unaware even exist.
It’s all about trust.
That trust gets shaken during the lead-up to, and the onset of, the Frenzy. She feels like he doesn’t have her, like he is lost to her. This is beyond wrenching to her.
And what he must do then, to drive the Frenzy from her, depends on their specific power exchange and their kinks.
She might respond to something as simple as rough anal sex. Or being spanked, or erotically choked during sex. Or manacled in a warehouse and tortured for several hours, like our vignette heroine. The “usual” methods, at their prosaic levels, generally won’t do the trick; it takes something larger, stronger, more targeted to her needs.
If the Frenzy happens—and it often does in a new BDSM relationship—both people can learn more about each other. Take it as an opportunity to get closer to your partner, go deeper, become more trusting. Let it be growth, not a coffin nail. Talk. Learn. Grow. Love.
Just don’t give up.
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.
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 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.