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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.
 

 
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.


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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(505) 255-9255
 

r Inquiries Welcome! Please call Nancy Ava Miller at (505) 281-6262, any hour, or call PEP at (505) 260-1324, M-F 9-5 MT,
PEP's Inquiry LoveLine
(505) 255-9255, any hour, or email Nancy at nancy at nancyava.com.

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