Rough Sex: Why We Need Slapping, Spanking, and Yanking

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.)


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The Frenzy

Copyright © 2014 Corey Harper



“Fucking asshole!”

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?”

He waited.

“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.