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.