Articles
A Slave's Place
After the Party
Different Loving
Dispelling the Myth
Domination at a Distance
Dominatrix Takes On
Enema Within
Growing up Kinky
Hot Boxx
How and Why of a Nice Jewish Girl
Master Bill and Leslie
My Mom the Dom
Ode to the Penis
Peeping Tom
Sex and Absurdity
b y Nancy Ava Miller, MEd
© Copyright 1994
by Nancy Ava Miller
Bath time at age two—that’s when I first noticed Stevie R.’s penis, first noticed that my best friend, Stevie, was “different.” What was that thing between his legs anyway? Our moms would throw us in the tub together, along with rubber soldiers and plastic boats, and thus occurred my initial lessons in sex ed—via observations of Stevie R.’s crotch. I wasn’t impressed.
Later, at age 13, I went—according to my mother—”boy crazy.” The thing between the legs took on new meaning as I learned the sexual differences between guys and gals. Then, in my basement one steely Maryland afternoon as the low sun slithered towards twilight, Stan G. became my first true love.
“Do you want to make out?” he asked.
“What does that mean?” I said.
But, instead of replying, Stan gathered me in his arms like Clark Gable might have done. Stan smashed his plump lips to mine and slid his meaty tongue towards my uvula. He also slipped one hand inside the front of my shirt and pinched my little-girl nipples. They hardened obediently. Goosebumps prickled along my upper torso while an electric sensation whizzed from my tits to the hidden cavern of my pussy, newly crowned with a tuft of wispy pubic hair. Much later, Stan would probe his fingers high in my cunt, slimy and hot with the thought of him. Much later . . . But from that first kiss forward, whenever neighborhood kids gathered for a raucous game of spin-the-bottle, I always rigged my spin so the bottle pointed towards Stan!
At age 18, I married, but not to Stan. Nevertheless, Stan and I remained friends and (sometimes) lovers, even during the separation and divorce from my first husband. That marriage produced two children. During all this time—from Stan’s first kiss to well beyond my first marriage—sex for me was normal; that is, until I met Bill at University of Maryland. And at the start, Bill seemed normal, too. Seemed...
But I soon learned otherwise. Bill, it turned out, was a dominant transvestite. Thus I became his sex slave. And, as things also turned out, I loved it! I loved him! I even loved HER—Leslie, Bill’s female self who (at 6’3”, 230 pounds, with wig aflop) more resembled somebody’s matron aunt than a sex symbol. Nevertheless, from the first spanking, from the first time Bill/Leslie (spruced up in a polyester dress from Goodwill) spread me on the bed and raped my asshole, from the first slap across my cheek—from then forward, I knew I could never return to “normal.”
We planned to marry, to live an isolated existence in the Catoctin Mountains where Bill would forever spank me, slap me, and force me to submit in whatever manner suited him. But then Bill grew ill; he canceled the marriage plans. Heartbroken, made crazy from the loss of Bill, I auctioned off most everything I owned, and headed for New Mexico in a lopsided Chevette with my kids crammed in next to suitcases, books, camera equipment, plus an ancient Remington-Rand typewriter bought years earlier at a pawn shop.
In New Mexico, I established a home among the woods and farms near the Rio Grande, and settled in to complete 20 writing assignments for an editor in Maryland. I also published, circa June, 1980, an ad in Albuquerque Singles Scene Magazine: New to Albuquerque!
Attractive (5’6”, average weight), honest, intelligent, unique, loving, professional female writer (34) seeks (possible) long-term, intense relationships with tall, husky, aware, domineering, tender, protective, reliable, sane man. (All these qualifications not absolutely necessary!)
The ad garnered 36 responses, none of whom where “domineering,” none
of whom resembled Bill in anyway. That, of course, was my hope: to find a
clone of Bill and recreate the passion of my servitude to him. When the ad didn’t pan out as planned, I determined to put S&M in
the past, to forget all that perverted stuff, to live a “normal” life. But I couldn’t forget...
Through the ad, though, I met and married a man. Indeed, Doc was “tall, husky, aware, tender, protective, and
reliable.” And Doc was
“sane,” too. Indeed oh-so-sane
that S&M meant little to him beyond an intellectual curiosity. However—to Doc’s
credit— he did tie me up a few times, act bossy, and
spank me. Once he whacked me so
hard with the flat of a book on my upper thigh that I developed sickly yellow
bruises plus some painful lumps which later required surgery!
Enter my cousin Jimmie, circa Spring, 1985. Jimmie—my first “affair.” Well,
after all, hadn’t Doc—claiming of late to be
impotent—encouraged me to
“get a boyfriend’—? And Jimmie
(age 54 and fresh off a divorce from a long marriage) was hot to trot, or—more
to the point— was hot to be trotted upon! Yes, my cousin, to my dismay, was submissive! I was not dismayed long, however. What
fun to smack Jimmie’s grinning face!—To
make him to kneel before me!—To
force his lips against my cunt, and tell him he was mine, that I
“owned” him. This concept of
ownership I later addressed in a poem written for Jimmy.
A Slave's Place
A slave’s place
is half a pace
behind the striding Mistress—
Not beside
unless she longs to grip his hand
or slip a strong arm through his.
A slave’s seat
is at the feet of Mistress,
groveling, debased—his place;
clinging firm to sturdy legs,
warming ankles with eager fingers,
gazing up towards open cunt,
and the stern stare of Mistress.
A slave’s eyes
never rise
to confront that stare.
And where lies Slave in bed—his place?
His head rests—
hemmed in by Mistress thighs—
beneath the throbbing cunt, that salty space
dripping juices, blood, and piss.
Lick it
Suck it
Kiss it
Love it
till the order comes to cease.
And if he slows
the strap will crack upon Slave’s sweating skin.
His cock grows thick
and stiff as oak
as Mistress guides it in.
Panting, panting
On top rocking
While Slave sprawls trapped,
locked in below.
He calls
He pleads
Says not to stop.
But she slaps his glistening face.
To ask? To order?—Not Slave’s place.
She might then surround the cock
with lips and tongue and mouth and spit.
Though it is not Slave’s place
to ask or whimper
Should instead she force a finger
tight into his virgin ass.
And what of it?
So that finger touches shit.
So his mustache tastes of blood,
sweetly reeks of slit.
Boundaries start to blur between them
While all sounds intermingle
Till one can’t tell
who speaks (or thinks),
or farts, or moans—he or she or both.
Her face mirrors his face
As Slave recalls his rightful place
Owned by her, he also owns.
Once a storm came pelting down,
And all around—the grumbling thunder,
a saddening song of rain,
like longing for a child now dead
(or grown).
Another bed, Another man.
Mistress kissed and touched.
Altho’ it seems her brain
Has broken free of cranium
And lifted from the sweaty room,
Sailing like a toy balloon
Up above the churning clouds
Beyond the damp, the bleak, the chill—
Broken free against her will,
Fleeing from that other one.
(His cock now in, he has her
pinned to crumpled sheets.
She behaves accordingly:
hinting quietly of love,
the moans, the straining,
While high above that shadowed room,
She and Slave have rendezvoused,
Interlaced as souls can do
Slave’s place, she knows,
is her place too—
Beyond beyond some groaning man,
Floating far from blackened rain.)
After Cousin Jimmie, I never felt comfortable in the submissive role again. To this day, I prefer to dominate men.
