Master, Bill, and Leslie: A Tale of Love, Loss & Submission
By Nancy Ava Miller, M.Ed.
Copyright 1990, Nancy Ava Miller

Many people recognize Nancy Ava Miller as the author and sex educator who created S&M support groups throughout the United States. The following story—an excerpt from Nancy's book, Love and Abandonment, or Why I Lead S&M Support Groups—offers a unique view of the dominatrix responsible for these support groups, a phenomenon called People Exchanging Power. Here, Nancy reminiscences about the man who introduced her to S&M.

INTRODUCTION

People Exchanging Power (PEP was born October 16, 1986, in Albuquerque, New Mexico, an S&M/B&D support group devised and created out of my own longings, loneliness, fantasies, fears, and frustrations, out of my own quiet desperation. Later, I carried the PEP concept to Washington and founded another successful support network. Next came Tucson; then Phoenix. And soon the Philadelphia group.

Prior to PEP, however, I spent years trying to rein in my obsessions. It all started back in '79 when a dominant transvestite awakened my S&M needs. His name was Bill, but I called him "Master" (when he wasn't dolled up in women's clothing, of course!), and he spanked me and slapped me and ordered me about, and I loved every instant, every smack of the hand. And I loved him, too. I never suspected, though, that other people felt as we did, behaved as we.

Ultimately, we broke up—a mad, frenzied, tearful farewell at BWI (Baltimore Washington Airport). I went off to another man out West. I married, bought a house in the country. But the feelings Bill sparked wouldn't disappear. I grew fanatical, always contemplating S&M, always daydreaming, craving.

I shared my secret with a few men; they couldn't relate. I discussed it with women; they said I possessed a pathological desire for abuse. I saw counselors, psychologists, and social workers, all of whom shrugged and admitted knowing nothing about S&M. I tried to explain how things were between Bill and me; Passionate! Intimate! Even spiritual, but no one understood, so I finally just shut up, further convinced that my ex-beau and I were aberrations of nature. This, then, is the story of Bill and me—two aberrations of nature...

When I met Bill, I was dwelling among the ponds and poplars in Cecil County, Maryland—in a white cottage called the Milk House on Klarwin Farm. Years before, the cottage had been converted to human quarters from a real milk house; it was attached to a huge red bard, and cow smells, earthy and healthy, permeated every nook of my little home. And there were plenty of nooks—cramped rooms with slanted ceilings and walls connected to other walls at odd angles.

I slept in the loft, reachable only by a rickety ladder. There, in the loft, a mirror hung from the low ceiling. When I first moved to Klarwin, my landlord, C.W., told me a gay guy had placed the mirror there a few years earlier. The Gay tenant vacated the Milk House in '78, C.W. said, and headed for Albuquerque. Later I, too, would leave Klarwin Farm for New Mexico.

I placed my mattress squarely under the Gay man's mirror.

It came in handy, that mirror. At night I could glance up and check on my electric blanket. If I saw the orange light from the control box reflected in the mirror, then I knew the blanket was on. It was a lot easier than rolling over and looking directly at the controls on the floor.

No doubt C.W. and other visitors to the Milk House thought me kinky or even perverted, with that mirror strung above the bed. In fact, until Bill, the mirror's only function involved the electric blanket.

October 21, 1979: Bill's first visit to Klarwin Farm.

What did I know of him? He was some guy I met in a creative writing class at Maryland U. a few weeks earlier while giving a lecture—a hulk of a man with filmy blue eyes and blond hair, but balding. An assertive type; yes, quite assertive and domineering—at times almost a loudmouth. He seemed intelligent, however. The transvestitism? —Pretty weird, but I rather liked it. It sounded, well, intimate. Yes, somehow—intimate. Nevertheless, for that first visit, I took out an insurance policy; his kids. I made him bring his children along. I felt safer that way.

No S&M occurred that weekend, with his kids and my kids exploring the various hideaways in or near the Milk House—the loft, the gardens, the barn which now housed only rusty machinery and ancient cars and tractors plus bicycles that creaked when paddled. The four children argued and played. They swung on swings and hammocks that C.W. long ago hung from trees for his own children who were now adults.

Indian Summer in Maryland—hot as July, but not as humid.

Carrying picnic supplies, Bill and I hiked to the pond, kids in tow. There, we ate and swam and rowed in the green boat which C.W. christened the "Green Banana." The woods surrounding the pond were splashed with the reds, rusts, and yellows of Autumn. And there, at the pond, one midday as Bill and I sat in clover and the children dangled bare legs into the water from a wooden dock, there from out of a cloudless Maryland sky—actually blue for once, and not hazy—swooped a heron, its wingspan like a canopy. The big bird sailed soft as a butterfly to the muddy shore. It stood on one leg, ghostly and motionless like a ceramic statue, staring blankly ahead as the shallow waves lapped its toes. From time to time, however, it jerked its beak into the water, in search of fish, I suppose, or insects. I took that bird—so white and stately—to be an omen, some indication of how things would go with Bill and me. A good omen.

I don't recall precisely when or how the S&M crept into our relationship. But it wasn't long before Bill was smacking me across my face in public when I said or did something objectionable, in much the same manner as he punished his children—the quick swat, the stern stare. Or if we were alone, he'd yank down my jeans and beat my ass with an open hand until his palm numbed and his wrist ached. I always craved more and more, though—more pain, more attention, more love, more of his time. This craving on the part of the submissive, I later learned—much later, when leading my own S&M support groups—is typical.

Sometimes he'd roll me on my back, throw my legs apart, and forced me to lie naked like that for hours while he licked my cunt. He'd jam his fingers up my asshole, too, and wiggle them or pump them in and out. Two fingers, three fingers, four fingers... And when I came, he wouldn't stop—not the fucking, not the toying with my ass.

"Nova!" he'd shout (Nova was my "slave name"), "Nova, keep that cunt spread!"

I would remain there as commanded, while he continued to nibble. Now, however, my clitoris throbbed; it felt raw, irritated. Bill's mouth and tongue no longer felt good. The fingers up the ass an intrusion. But I had to keep my legs wide or risk being slapped or spanked or—worse—ignored. At some point, though, a warmth would start, spreading from my clit to my cunt to my knees and then throughout my entire body. Sometimes Bill would allow me to come again immediately, but usually he'd stop licking just before orgasm, remove his fingers from my ass, and jump atop me, his dick thick and ready.

Sometimes, too, he'd fling me on my belly and grease his fingers. He'd pull my ass up, separate the cheeks, and start toying with my anus again—first one finger, then two, then three. Just like before—in and out; in and out till, things loosened up some. Then he'd slowly remove his wet hand and place the head of his cock where his fingers had been. He'd threaten, on occasion, not to use Vaseline, although I suspect the procedure would have been impossible without it. It wasn't easy even with Vaseline. He'd press his dick, against my asshole for thirty seconds, a minute. He'd rub the head around, trying to enter. After a while, I'd relax. But I knew then he was about to hurt me, about to jam himself inside. He'd push forward, an inch or two. At such moments, the pain shot straight through my spine. He'd stop briefly as I tensed, and then shove deeper. More pain; it penetrated every bone, every limb. My eyes began to tear. I squeezed them shut. Moans:

"No, Master, please, no."

"You're mine, Nova! You'll do what I want."

Another push. Another inch or two. That pain, sharp and stabbing, invaded my skin, my cells, my hair.

"No!" I'd wail.

"Yes!"

A final push and he was in all the way, but unmoving. I was filled and hurting—a numb hurt now. I was helpless, pinned by his bulk, and in a moment he would start pumping, clutching my hips so escape was impossible—pumping furiously, pumping as if drilling for my soul or spirit. And somewhere during this process, the pain blended into a new sensation, a pins and needles of heat and trembling, and I found myself straining towards him, whispering softly so he couldn't hear; "Deeper, Master. Harder! Faster! Hurt me, Master! Hurt me!"

He'd slap my ass as he fucked me this way, and when he came, erupting like an enema nozzle gone haywire, he always said—his voice hot and breathy, "I own you, Nova. I own you!" as I clutched a pillow damp with tears.

For days afterwards, my ass ached, still moist, it seemed, from his come, plus all the Vaseline. For days afterwards, that reminder: I was owned; I was loved.

Bill in drag, I must say, made a rather ugly woman—gigantic, ungraceful, with plump calves and a wig like early Phyllis Diller. But perhaps ugly is too strong a term for dear Leslie, Bill's female persona. Matronly, yes, but not downright ugly. A photo of Leslie—hair-do askew and looking remarkably like Bill's sister, adorns our family album to this day. Years ago, my daughter spied that photo and queried, "Which aunt is this, Mom?" That was Leslie, fat and aunt-like. Leslie—my buddy, my lover, my confidant. Who better to discuss Bill with, after all, than Leslie—? For when she visited—with her chunky high heels and that girdle and a long-line bra—Bill disappeared and a new entity emerged, a girlfriend for me who—behind Bills back—would gossip for hours, offering insights and information about the man I called "Master." Psychotic? Split personality? Perhaps. Nevertheless, I always looked forward to time with Leslie.

But although I loved the girlfriend chit-chat, I loved Leslie because she was hot and hard and ready.

The metamorphosis—Bill to Leslie— took hours. And when Bill as Leslie finally emerged form the bathroom (leaving behind uncapped make-up jars and a puff of perfume), woman-to-woman conversation was not foremost on her mind. When Leslie emerged from the bathroom, she wanted—foremost—to play.

She did all Bill did; ate me, fucked me, sodomized me, spanked me, slapped me, controlled me. In addition, Leslie gave the ceiling mirror a good workout. I'd gaze upward and see reflected there a huge "woman" stretched atop me. Her big butt, draped in silky material from a knee-length dress, pumped up and down, up and down beneath the slinky shirt. I could see her ass muscles contracting and relaxing over and over again with the rhythm of her movements. My bare legs, spindly and untanned compared to the brightly garbed creature above me, poked out at awkward angles from under Leslie's mountainous body. As usual, I was spread and helpless and straining. My clenched fists clung firmly to Leslie's tree stump of a neck. My brow appeared furrowed, sweaty. And the mirror revealed all this, if I chose to open my eyes. Thus the mirror, I found out, had a more interesting application than monitoring my electric blanket. Perhaps C.W. and the others were right; perhaps I was perverted.

Bill and I planned to marry—a Spring wedding. We planned to move to the Catoctin Mountains and live in a rustic dome hand-built by aging hippies when they returned to the US after a stint in Peace Corps. Every-thing seemed, well, perfect. I was selling stories on a regular basis to various magazines and newspapers. My two kids resided with my "ex" in another house at Klarwin Farm, so I didn't have too much maternal responsibility at that time. And, after many years of chronic respiratory woes, my health had stabilized. Yes, everything was perfect. Naturally, too, I was ecstatic with Bill.

Not only because of the S&M, however: I remember family outings to Turkey Point, for instance—his kids and my kids and Bill and me and the hikes along the pebbled beach and the old lighthouse at the tip of the peninsula. I remember shooting photographs—on a knoll overlooking Chesapeake Bay—of sunset through a silhouette of tree branches with Bill beside me, our shoulders touching, rain drizzling soft as fog and the smell of Bill—that sweet odor like a mixture of honey and tobacco—hovering in the mist, I remember jaunts to Ocean City in Winter, huddling before the fireplace with him as sea winds furled against the outer walls of the condo. I remember long discussions about writing, trips to the mall at Christmastime, and the day Bill's son, Little Bill, found the dead peacock beneath a dry bush at Klarwin—the blue and gold male bird, shriveled, its neck thin and twisted. And just as the heron seemed an omen, so seemed the peacock, withered and stiff with those once-brilliant feathers—once shimmering and now matted to the still form of a frozen creature. Only the peacock, I suspected, was a bad omen.

As Christmas, 1979, neared and then passed, several things happened that changed the course of my life, at least as I had it mapped out at the time. The first of these occurrences involved my relationship with Bill.

Bill had had back-trouble before, but this time the pain refused to go away. Severe pain. Disabling pain. He couldn't work. He couldn't even move from the bed except to use the bathroom, and even that was tricky. The doctor offered one suggestion, an operation. It was risky; it could leave Bill paralyzed, or dead. Or—as was the hope—it could make him well.

That Winter was taken up with hospitals, doctors, pills, shots, and various medical tests. And finally, in early Spring: the operation. But it would be a year before Bill eased back to normal.

While all this transpired, Bill—rooted to a bed for months—had time to contemplate, and one of the things he contemplated and reassessed was our romance. He determined then that he could not marry me. His excuse: the obligation and responsibility he felt towards his children. He claimed marriage to me would extract form his relationship with his son and daughter. Yes, yes... he still loved me. And yes he would marry me eventually, when his children were grown, he said. but that was eight years away in some hazy future. Eight years! He promised; he assured me; he reassured me; he insisted. Would I wait for him? he asked. But eight years loomed like centuries. To him, I made no promises.

Two months later, I sold all my furniture, my books, my records, and four bicycles, I bought a luggage rack that attached to the roof of my Chevette. In April, 1980, I loaded the car with kids, clothes, camera, and a lopsided Underwood typewriter, and on a rainy afternoon, I turned my wheel westward away from Klarwin Farm and the poplars. Destination: New Mexico!

In New Mexico, I met another man. We, too, planned to marry. We rented a trailer in the mountains: it sat on arid dirt among parched pinon and juniper trees, among low cactus and jackrabbits and rattlesnakes.

On November 20, 1981—the afternoon before my wedding—I scurried around the trailer stuffing things in out-of-the-way boxes, dusting, vacuuming. The Professor, my "intended," was scheduled to arrive home in an hour or two, bringing with him a contingent: his parents, my parents. It was the before-the-wedding dinner, and the fragrances of roast bird, onion, garlic, and sage permeated every corner of the trailer. As the sun dropped beyond the Sandia Mountains, leaving sky and hills draped in twilight gray, the phone jangled, and there was Bill on the other end. How he loved me! How he wanted me!

Take your clothes off, bitch.

Lie down on the bed.

Spread yourself.

Wider!

Touch that cunt, slave!

It better be wet!

(It is, Master.)

Stick your fingers up your hole. Move them. You love it, don't you, Slave?

(Yes, Master. I love it. I love you Master.)

You'd better not come. Do you hear me, Slave? Don't come!

(Yes, Master.)

If I were there, I'd slap your ass. I'd turn it a nice shade of pink before putting my cock up it.

(Yes, Master.)

Now play with your clit. Get it nice and slippery from your pussy juice and slide your fingers around it.

Move your ass, Slave. Pump it. Spread it. Wider.

I felt myself losing control of my bladder, felt myself on the verge or orgasm.

"Master, I'm going to come!"

"Come, you bitch." he ordered, "Come!"

"But, Master, I feel like I'm going to pee."

"Piss in the bed. I want you to spread your cunt wider and when you come, I want you to piss all over yourself."

"No, Master. No. Please!"

"Nova! You're mine, and you'll do as I say!"

Suddenly the convulsions started—the waves of heat in my clitoris, my pussy, in my thighs and my belly and my body and my being. I moaned and tried to catch my breath.

"Are you coming, Slave? Keep that pussy spread, you hear me?<> I opened myself so far the tendons of my upper legs began to cramp. I arched my cunt and ass towards the ceiling, fingers rotating upon my clit—fingers gooey with my juices.

"Come, Slave! Come, you slut. Piss!"

The piss started trickling out.

"I want you to piss out every drop, Slave. I want you lying in a pool of piss—in a bed of piss—when this is over. Piss Slave!"

The trickle became a stream. I tried to stop it, but couldn't. On and on went the orgasm. On and on the piss spurted out. Bill was coming, too. I heard him utter that girl-like shrill I remembered from our nights together in the loft, beneath the mirror. Then, I was spent, lying drenched in sweat and piss, my swollen cunt still convulsing in little spasms, still longing for Master's tongue and cock.

Soon the Professor and all the parents would drive up, everyone smiley and talky and wearing the best of casual attire—polyester slacks with a touch of cotton and wool sweaters, nice clothing, yet rugged enough for a jaunt in the country. The next afternoon: my wedding!

I needed to hurry off the phone and wash the bedding before people arrived for dinner. I needed a long, hot shower to soak the piss from my skin, to soap away the slime of sweat and cunt, the smells of crotch and armpit. If only the smells were Bill's and not my own...If only I could have now his taste, his touch, his odor—that hint of sweetness tinged with tobacco, if only...

But I am marrying the Professor, I reminded myself. Tomorrow!

"Good-bye, Nova," Bill said through long distance wire that swooshed like waves or wind. "Good luck."

"Good luck to you, too," I told him sincerely, though my words felt choked and strained. "Have a good life."

What else could we say, after all?

"I'll always love you," he added, and then the receiver clicked to silence and I was left cradling the phone to my ear.

I remained a moment in the wet bed, staring at the east window that gaped out upon the woodpile and clumps of evergreen. Then I hopped up to gather sheets and mattress pad and pillowcases. I stuffed everything in the washing machine and ran to take a shower. I wanted to cry, but I was in too much of a hurry. After all, tomorrow was my wedding day.