Enjoy essays, poems, and stories by PEP's founder, Nancy Ava Miller, and friends. Check out our fabulous Pervert's Library!


Nancy, (505) 281-6262 with Mistress Kali Ward, (702) 341-0585

Please enjoy an excerpt from "Master, Bill, and Leslie: A Tale of Love, Loss, and Submission"

   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.
     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.