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A Sexual Evolution: From Sex Slave to
Dominatrix
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 thirteen, 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 toward 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 toward my
uvula. He also slipped one hand inside the front of my shirt and
pinched my little-girl nipples. They hardened obediently. Goose
bumps 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.
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Nancy (circa 1960) |
At age eighteen, I was
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 the University of
Maryland. And at the start, Bill seemed normal too.
Seemed …
But I soon learned
otherwise. Bill was a dominant transvestite, and thus, I became his
sex slave. And I loved it! I loved him! I even loved her—Leslie,
Bill’s female self, who at six feet three inches and 230 pounds,
with wig aflop, more resembled somebody’s matronly 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 Underwood typewriter bought years earlier at a
pawnshop. |
In New Mexico, I
established a home among the woods and farms near the Rio Grande and
settled in to complete twenty writing assignments for an editor in
Maryland. I also published, circa June 1980, an ad in the 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
thirty-six responses, none from men who were “domineering,” none
from men who resembled Bill in any way. 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, and to live a “normal” life. But I couldn’t forget.
Through the ad,
though, I met and married a man. Indeed, the Professor, or Prof as I
sometimes called him, was “tall, husky, aware, tender, protective,
and reliable.” And Prof was “sane” too. Indeed oh so sane that S&M
meant little to him beyond an intellectual curiosity. However, to
Prof’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
that later required surgery!
Enter my cousin
Jimmie, circa Spring 1986. Jimmie, my first “affair.” Well, after
all, hadn’t Prof—claiming of late to be impotent—encouraged me to
“get a boyfriend”? And Jimmie (age fifty-four 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 and that I
“owned” him. This concept of ownership I later addressed in a poem
written for Jimmie:
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 toward 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’s 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.
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Love is bondage; the lover is a slave. When
one loves deeply, passionately, totally, submission to that love is
not only degradation but also an ecstasy.
—Lyn
Cowan, from Masochism: A Jungian View
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