Ours
A Story of Trauma and Joy (through the eyes of Ara, Alina, and Carlos)
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Copyright © 2025-2026 by Arabella Valenti. All Rights Reserved.
Dedication
"To the countless mothers and fathers who lost a baby. Your love endures beyond what words could ever express." — Ara
Epigraph
"Space doesn’t care where you started. It only cares how hard you fight to get there."
Table of Contents
Preface
Prologue
Introduction
ARA
(01) Genesis: How We Learned to Worship
(02) Experimentation, Role-Play, and Release
(03) The Breeding Gospels
(04) 2013 Convertible Road Trip to The Grand Canyon
(05) Conception: The First Positive Test
(06) Then the Bleeding Started
(07) My Second Attempt at Pregnancy
(08) The Quiet War
(09) The Night We Broke
(10) Abruption, Hemorrhage, Emergency Delivery, and I Died
(11) Aaron is Strong
(12) 79 Days of Hell
(13) Homecoming
ALINA
(14) February 14, 2013 – The Real Exorcism
(15) Alina Gives Her Soul to Ara
(16) Coffee Shop and Why "I Need This"
(17) The Moment I Found Out I Was Pregnant
CARLOS
(18) Overwhelming Odds
(19) February 14, 2013 (Carlos’s Pledge)
(20) The Confession I Will Never Read Aloud, and Then Do
(21) The Little Ones
• Hope
• Aaron
• Arabello
• Paloma
• Calliope
• Callista
• Adalyn
• Evelyn
(22) A Letter from an Old Friend: To Carlos, the Man I Thought I Knew
(23) The Heart of "Ours" – What the Story Truly Reveals About Human Potential
(24) Evelyn's Perspective: The Weight and Wonder of What We Shared
(25) Hope and Aaron's Big Adventure (Unsupervised at 11)
"Big Kid" and Parent Time for Hope and Aaron
(26) Ara and Alina Alone in the Park
(27) Ara and Carlos Caught by Security: A Stolen Moment in Hollywood Studios
(28) Alina and Carlos Alone in the Park: An Evening at Animal Kingdom
(29) The Unexpected Reunion: Shadows of the Past at Disney World
(30) Tricks of the Trade
(31) Closing out the bill
(32) 2026: Family Revisit of The Grand Canyon with All 8 Kids in the RV
(33) Twins, But Not by Blood
(34) The Asthma Attack (age 9)
(35) The Voice
(36) A Love That Transcends Space, Time, and the Heavens
(37) Soul Deed (Hope reads Momma’s)
(38) The Soul Deed Under the Pillow
(39) Soul Deed (Hope to Aaron)
Aaron Tells Momma Ara: I WILL Be Hope’s Protector
Hope and Aaron Always Remained Close
(40) Christmas Dinner Revelation 2025
(41) Q&A on the Backyard Porch
(42) The Architect of Bedrock:
Today's Modern Hellscape for Men Trying to Start a Family
Roundtable 1: A Dialog During during the Creation of the Manuscript
Roundtable 2: Paloma Becomes a Woman
Roundtable 3: One-Thousand Six-Hundred Eighty Minutes
Preface
Author’s Note and Content Warning
Some of the following dialog is raw and brutal. It contains: graphic consensual power exchange, breeding / impregnation kink, daddy / little girl dynamic, sexual relationships between adult siblings, polyamory, sex work, premature deliveries, medical trauma, and religious trauma.
Nothing in these pages glorifies, romanticizes, or eroticizes the abuse of minors. The graphic sexual content that follows is exclusively between adults. Any reader who conflates the two is misreading both the book and the lived reality of trauma survivors.
This is a memoir of survival and personal growth. Ara’s and Alina’s recollections of childhood sexual abuse and exploitation are included not for titillation, but because they are a true recreation of how they became the women and the mothers they are today. Removing them or changing the content would erase the very wounds that this family spent a decade healing from.
If these descriptions are triggering for you, don’t read this book!
Prologue
The Night the Fantasy Died
3:07am: This is life leaving me in a rush. I look down and the white sheets are pools of blood. The blood is so dark it looks black in the moonlight. The smell is recognizable. I screamed loudly, a scream I didn’t know a human throat could produce. Alina bolts upright beside me with her mouth open in a matching scream that never quite forms. Carlos flies off the bed ripping the comforter away. The saturated fabric hits the floor. Carlos lifts me and blood pours over his forearms, down his chest, and onto the floor. Alina runs barefoot behind us leaving perfect red footprints all the way to the garage. I try to speak but nothing comes out.
The last thing I hear before the world fades to black is Carlos’s voice, "Stay with me baby! Stay with Daddy!"
Alina is in the back with me, her hands pressing towels between my legs, whispering prayers her father taught her. She's rocking back and forth as she watches me fade in and out of consciousness.
I hear these words, "No!" "Lord!" and "Faster!" but most of the rest of it is incomprehensible.
Strangers rip me from Carlos's and Alina's arms in the ER. Someone shouts, "Abruption," and cold shears cut away my clothes. The oxygen mask hisses…
The last words I hear before it's dark are: "Baby," "Alina," and "I’m sorry." My last thoughts about Carlos were, "I never used a safeword."
Introduction
Ours: A Story of Trauma and Joy (through the eyes of Ara, Alina, and Carlos) is a powerful, multi-perspective memoir told through the alternating voices of three deeply scarred and wounded souls. They find each other in the darkest corners of desire. Their experiences transform personal trauma into a story of profound redemption and build an extraordinary family against impossible odds.
Ara is 24 years old. She was orphaned young and was shaped by childhood exploitation. She carries scars that taught her love is transactional. She took the greatest risk of all.
Alina is 19 years old. She is a disowned pastor’s daughter, rebelling against religious repression and a childhood of shame by seeking worship instead of judgment.
Carlos is 43 years old. He's a grieving man trying to regain control of his life. He's haunted by a horrific tragedy that cannot escape his past.
Ours, initially chronicles how the three first meet in an online space. Forged by an unconventional polyamorous relationship built on dominance, surrender, and an intense breeding kink, their story begins.
Raw and explicit intimacy evolves into a deliberate family-building project. The narrative explores the early years' passion and role-play, the devastating miscarriage and jealousy wars that nearly destroy them. The miraculous births of their children, especially that of Hope (with her premature fight for life) and Aaron (destined to be Hope’s guardian), the "twins but not by blood" have a cosmic bond that becomes the family’s heartbeat.
The heart of the story revolves around transformation: jealousy giving way to choice, possession to daily commitment, pain to healing. Eight children become living proof that cycles can be broken. Hope's starbound dreams, Aaron's quiet guardianship, Paloma's joyful resilience, and the younger ones' unscarred freedom to have a childhood their parents never did.
Later chapters expand into a decade of Disney adventures, soul deeds, Hope's Lunar mission, and many other discoveries. The family comes together to document their journey discovering deeply unresolved loss, fear, and anger to form new commitments and transformations.
Thematically, Ours is about radical healing, showing that love born in trauma can outgrow its origins when chosen without possession. It confronts abuse, grooming echoes, religious shame, and grief head-on, never sanitizing the explicit sexuality or suffering, yet earning its hope through honest reckoning.
Stylistically, alternating first-person voices create intimate, overlapping truths. Their childhood perspectives and glimpses of the future adds wonder and legacy to their story.
Ultimately, Ours is proof that family isn't blood, it's the people who reach through darkness and refuse to let go. A devastating and uplifting testament to resilience, chosen love, and light that outlives stars.
ARA
• Unyielding independent survival strength
• Unrestrained protectiveness of others
• Natural authority over self
• Deep empathy for others trauma
• Creates rituals for safety and meaning
• Absolute and unending loyalty
• Intense mothering and nurturing
• Radically accountability and commitment
• Ferocity with simultaneous gentleness
(01) Genesis: How We Learned to Worship
Carlos bought a house in Northeast Portland because the master bedroom was 24-feet long and had 14-foot ceilings. The walls were thick enough that the neighbors would never call the cops no matter how loud we screamed. It was a safe place, the place that the three of us needed. It sheltered them from the elements with just eight inches of cold cinderblock. The house needed a lot of work. As old walls came down inside the house, so did walls inside them.
Ara, Part 1
I’m Ara, 24. Orphaned at 15 when my mother overdosed in a Vegas motel. No one ever came looking for her and I don't think anyone ever knew I existed. I should have been found dead in a motel just like her. That evening, I gave some guy a hand job to buy me a bus ticket to Seattle. I never made it all the way there. I walked away at a stop somewhere in Portland.
I learned to come for strangers on camera before I ever came with someone who knew my real name. It was really easy. No one knew how old I was and nobody cared. They liked me because I looked young. I'd finger myself five times a day on camera to survive. I was fucking myself since I was 12 anyway.
My childhood was a series of motel rooms. All dirty, smoke-stained, and smelling of wet jizz still on the carpet. I remember my mother bringing home men who looked at me way too long. I was 13 the first time my mother let one of them finger me. She told me this is the way we survive. She used her body as a shield, then as a weapon, then as currency. Then she used me. It was inevitable that I would be just like her. I thought about it all the time. I never walked the streets but I learned where the money was and how to get it.
I stepped off the bus at the old Portland terminal off 5th and Hoyt, back when it was still gritty but functional. It’s late fall, chilly rain but not freezing yet. I have my empty backpack that used to have school books in it and I have $87 in my pocket. After giving some guy a handjob in one of the stalls at the bus station to buy my bus ticket, he opened his wallet and gave me everything he had – $87 in cash. We spent a few minutes talking about what happened to me and why I was willing to do this for the ticket while I was cleaning up. He wasn't a hero.
He knew I was only 15 and if he had more cash, would have paid me anything to fuck me. I'm glad he didn't and I'm glad there wasn't an ATM anywhere nearby. My first day getting out of the city and the only thing that I brought with me was picking up where my mother left off 18 hours ago. I spent the first night in the bus station's waiting area. Bright lights beamed down on me all night long. I was terrified but I put on a good game pretending I did this all the time. I popped in and out of sleep trying to keep an eye on everyone trying to do the same thing I was.
This station wasn't like the one in Vegas, but there was still an irrational fear of waking up blindfolded and tied up in the back of a van. I slept on a hard bench with my head resting on my backpack that was rolled up like a makeshift pillow. Security never looked too closely at a pretty girl who kept her head down and stayed out of everyone's way. By morning, I was stiff, hungry, and knew I couldn't stay there.
I walked to the Central Library on 10th and Yamhill so I could use a public computer to search “Portland Youth Shelters” and found Bradley Angle House (now Bradley Angle), a domestic violence shelter that sometimes takes runaways under the radar. I call from a payphone and they tell me they can put me up for a few nights if I'm in immediate danger. I said yes. I'd stay there for 10 days. They had group meals, shared rooms (at least I wasn't on the street), and counselors that didn’t push too hard when I clammed up about home.
The best thing was that I wasn't worried that I'd be woken up with a pervert breathing on my neck or my mother smoking a cigarette after giving a creep a blowjob. It's at that point I remember falling asleep and actually sleeping until 7am the next morning – at least 8 hours. How could a good night's sleep be on anyone's list of dreams they wished would come true?
The next day, the shelter connects me with a caseworker who helps me get a state ID but it would take several weeks to arrive at the shelter. In the meantime, I got to know one of the girls that was aging out of the program. She was turning 19. They were setting her up with a room she'd rent and over the last year, finding dependable, legitimate work. She found a job at a vintage clothing shop and got paid under the table. Her name was Jessica. Everyone called her Jess. She eventually let me crash on her floor in that room. I gave her $50 a week that I got from the caseworker from a grant for disadvantaged and homeless teens.
Jess was rough-edged but kind. Her hair was dyed a carnation pink, she had lots of piercings and tattoos. She totally had a big-sister vibe. She teaches me how to dress to look 18 and how to walk into bars without getting carded right away, and how to spot men who pay for company without expecting “full service.” I stayed there about four months, long enough to feel semi-safe, long enough to start hating the floor and the smell of weed and burnt coffee that never left anything that ever came into that room. Even to this day, I still can't stand the smell of weed.
She smoked a lot of weed and I got to smoke with her on occasion. One night she brought some ecstasy home and we did it together. I don’t remember much, but I do remember making out with her sometime later that night. It was the first time anyone gave me any positive attention in years. I had never been with a woman up to that point, but I really didn't care. I was getting off because I wanted to, not because I had to. We only kissed and played with each others tits.
I started saving every dollar I could, eating cheap (ramen and dollar-menu tacos), and I was already thinking ahead. I needed money that doesn’t come from a man’s wallet or a boss’s pity. I looked her up a year before meeting Alina and she was still at the vintage clothing store, but was now the manager and just had a baby – a little boy. She had no idea who the father was, but she really didn’t care or want to find out. I was happy for her – her life really did turn around.
Ara, Part 2
I survived with the help from others and men I became “acquainted” with. I couch surfed early on. Later, I rented a room from couch surfing owners. I had a lot of time on my hands… Those first months in Portland blurred into a rhythm of borrowed couches and careful smiles. After the shelter and Jess’s place, I learned fast: people will open their doors if you look like you won’t break anything and if you make them feel good about helping. I never asked for money outright. I asked for company. A shared joint on the fire escape, a late-night talk about nothing, a hand on a shoulder that lingered just long enough to make them feel seen. Sometimes they slipped me cash “for groceries” or bought me dinner “because you look hungry.” Sometimes they let me stay another week because I listened when no one else did.
I couch-surfed through Craigslist ads and word-of-mouth, mostly artists, baristas, early tech guys in the Southeast or off Alberta. Shared houses with mismatched furniture, basements that smelled like damp concrete and weed, lofts above coffee shops where the espresso machine woke me at 5am. I kept my backpack light: one change of clothes, the pay-as-you-go phone, the EBT card the caseworker renewed every month, and whatever cash I could tuck away. The men were the easiest. They wanted to feel like heroes. I’d sit on their laps in dimly lit living rooms, let them kiss my neck, whisper how pretty I was, how special I am. I’d guide their hands but never let them go too far unless I decided it was worth the sympathy tip… $50 here. $100 there. Always with a smile and a “thank you for being kind.” I told myself it was just acting, like the motel days but on my terms. I chose who, when, and how much. No one owned me. No one could hurt me if I stayed one step ahead of everybody. But the nights alone were the hardest. When the house went quiet and I was curled on someone else’s futon, the ceiling fan clicking overhead, I’d stare at the dark and feel the weight of it: I was 16, then 17, then almost 18, and still nobody needed me. They wanted me around because I was beautiful, because I laughed at their jokes, because I made them feel less lonely. But need? That was different. Need meant I mattered even when the lights were off and the clothes were on.
I saved every dollar. No drugs, no partying, and no wasting time. I bought thrift-store clothes that made me look older, and practiced walking like I belonged in any room. I waited. The months usually passed the fastest while the days seem to linger. On my 18th birthday, the day I could sign a lease, open a bank account, start something that was mine, my day would be making everyone of those things happen. When I turned 18, a guy from one of the couch surfing houses, a quiet older man, never pushy, offered me the spare room in his big place on Hawthorne for $400 a month cash. I moved in the next day. I locked the door and cried for the first time in years, not from pain, but from the simple relief that this key was mine. It could keep everyone out or let everyone in – I got to choose.
I was 19 going on 38. I met him at a house party. Alcohol is served and I get pretty hammered. He is aggressive but not violent. It was definitely his goal to fuck me and he did. He fucked me like a dirty rag just to blow his load. Then, he left the party. I felt disgusting, dirty, and manhandled. Later, I felt like my mother. I was sick for two days. I was done with men. They sickened me.
I lost what people call virginity at that party. It didn’t feel like losing anything; it felt like something being taken away. So this is what it feels like? Why is it called, “Making love?” I threw up a little in my mouth just thinking about it.
The house party was in a large old Victorian on Mississippi Avenue, on someone’s birthday. There were too many bodies and too much cheap vodka and warm beer. I went because a couch friend invited me, said it would be fun, and said I needed to “loosen up.” I drank more than I planned. Not to blackout, but enough that the edges blurred and my laugh came easier.
He was 26, tall, with an easy smile. He worked in tech, bought me a drink, then another. He talked like he cared, asked about my “story,” touched my arm like it was accidental – I let him. I wanted to feel wanted even if it was a lie.
Later, upstairs in a spare bedroom that smelled like laundry detergent and weed, he got aggressive. Not violent, no bruises, no threats, but insistent. Hands everywhere, mouth on my neck, pants shoved down before I could decide if I wanted them down. I said yes because stopping felt harder than going along. He fucked me fast and rough like he’d been waiting all night for exactly this. When he finished he rolled off, pulled his jeans up, kissed my forehead like I was a good girl, and left the party without saying anything. I lay there staring at the ceiling fan, sticky between my legs, the room spinning, feeling exactly like my mother must have felt every time she let a man use her to pay the rent. I threw up in the hallway bathroom, twice. Then I stumbled home alone at 4:30am, rain soaking through my thin jacket, feeling manhandled, used, dirty in a way soap couldn’t fix. So much so, the soap would turn dark with the filth it scraped away while spreading around the filth he left behind as he touched me.
For two days I stayed in bed at the Hawthorne house, feverish, stomach churning, replaying it until I hated the memory of his cologne, his grunts, the way he didn’t look at my face when he came. I felt like her; like the motel rooms had followed me here; like no matter how far I ran, I’d end up on my back for someone else’s convenience. If I cared at all about myself, I never would have gone to that room with him. It’s not his fault, I am a perpetual victim like most women – looking for and finding the best places to make the worst possible decisions with a man filled with alcohol and testosterone.
Those stupid women seemed to find themselves in the exact same place. Thousands of women before them did the exact same thing. I just don’t believe that the first time you touch a hot stove, you’d want to do it again. Then you’d tell your childhood friends to try it. You’d do it again some day; you’d tell all your teenage friends you’re touching the hot stove this weekend, wanna come? A few years later, a frat party – stoves present. A few more years pass, going to a bar with friends – stoves present. You knew the first time you touched the hot stove that you shouldn’t have done it – especially a second time – lesson learned, right? You spend the rest of your life apologizing to yourself for touching it, but you do it again.
That hot-stove metaphor is viciously sharp and unapologetic.
Ara is not just venting, it's an indictment of an entire cultural script that keeps handing women the same burning pan and then blaming them when their fingers blister again. The escalation is perfect: First touch → pain → lesson learned (supposedly). Telling friends → normalizing it. Teenage dares → peer pressure. Frat party → ritualized danger. Bar with friends → adult “fun”. Lifetime of self-apology while doing it again anyway. It’s not subtle. It’s furious and it lands like a slap because every woman who’s ever replayed a bad night has felt that exact loop: “I knew better. Why did I do it again?”
After that, I tried women, thinking maybe it would feel different, safer, less like being claimed. Wrong.
The first was my age, 19, a barista with short black hair and a septum piercing. We met at a coffee shop open mic. She kissed me in her car after closing, soft at first, then hungry. We went to her studio apartment. Fingers, tongues, her coming hard against my hand while I stayed dry, untouched inside. We did it twice more over the next weeks, always her climaxing first, always her guiding, always me left aching and unsatisfied. When I finally asked her to touch me first, to make me come before we did anything else, she laughed it off, played stupid, and said “show me how.” I never saw her again.
The second was 43. A cougar in every sense, sleek blonde bob, expensive perfume, a condo downtown with floor-to-ceiling windows. We met at a wine bar. She bought my drink, called me
“gorgeous,” said she loved “young energy.” Sex with her was good, skilled, attentive, she made me come hard the first time, twice the second. She bought me clothes, dinners, a new phone… But every outing turned into foreplay. Restaurants, galleries, walks along the river, always ending with her hands under my skirt, her mouth on me in the car, her insisting we go back to her place. After 55 days she started talking about embryos, surrogacy, how perfect my body would be to carry “our” baby. She wanted me locked in. I played along for a week, nodded, smiled, let her think I was considering it, changed my number and ghosted her – disappeared like smoke.
After that, I stopped trying to find connections in bodies. I locked the door and decided that if anyone was going to use my skin for money, it would be on my terms and my schedule. No more parties, no more pity fucks, no more women who wanted me as arm candy or an incubator.
Ara, Part 3
Ages 18-20, Trying to Be Normal
I had my own place now. I rented a small two-bedroom house on Alberta, a quiet street, in a nice neighborhood. I was 18. I tried to be someone else. Someone who didn’t need to perform like a circus monkey. I took office jobs first: receptionist at a small marketing firm and a filing clerk at a law office downtown. The pay was steady, the hours predictable, the dress code boring, but the men noticed anyway. They lingered at my desk, asked if I needed help carrying boxes, complimented my smile like it was currency. A few women too, quieter, but the same hunger in their eyes. I felt it every day: the radar, the proposition disguised as small talk, the “accidental” brush against my arm. I smiled, deflected, and kept my head down. Those jobs never lasted more than six months before I quit. The monkey moved on. Delivery gigs were worse. Biking food across the Pearl District or driving for a courier service was constant motion and constant eyes. Tips were good when I wore shorts, better when I smiled. But every drop-off came with the same script: “You’re too pretty to be doing this,” followed by a number scribbled on a receipt or a “maybe we could hang out sometime.” I took the cash, never the number.
Stripping felt like a step up at first. A fake ID got me in the door for any place I had to be 21 to dance there. I learned to move slowly, to control the gaze instead of dodging it. The money came fast, hundreds a night (but I might as well have been paid in bananas) if I worked the pole right, but the men still wanted more. Lap dances turned into offers for “private time,” the manager always pushed the girls for extras. I never did any. I left after four months, feeling the same dirt on my skin as after the house party.
High-end escorting was the last try. A friend from the club connected me with an agency. It was discreet, all clients were screened, and I would make $1,000 plus on a “date.” I went on three. Dinners were at expensive restaurants with insanely high-priced wines. Conversations with men who made $250k a year and they talked like they could buy anything. The sex was clean, predictable, and condoms were always used. But even if someone spent $5,000 on me, afterwards, I always felt hollow and used. They never needed me; they needed a fantasy. I never needed them; I needed to feel like I mattered. After the third date I walked away. No goodbyes, just deleted the number and the app. Money does not buy happiness.
By 20, I was done pretending normal jobs or normal dates would ever work. The world saw me as a body first and a person second. I stopped trying to fit into that mold. I decided to stop giving pieces away for free or for scraps. I could never be paid enough by the others to feel fulfilled.
Ara, Part 4
Ages 21-24, My Own Webcam Business
My goal was to make $100k a year starting at 21 and keep it there so I can remain self-employed and not rely on anyone. The most important thing I wanted though was the time to do something important. Maybe I'd volunteer somewhere, maybe back at the shelter.
Webcaming became everything. No face at first, just body and voice. Within months I was pulling $100k a year, steady, solo, no boss, no client who could ever touch me through the screen. I worked four nights a week, three hours max. Tips rolled in when
I teased, when I moaned the right way, when I let them think they were special. Then I discovered squirting.
It happened by accident during a long private show. A regular asked for “more mess,” kept tipping higher. I relaxed into it, fingers deep, pressure building, the familiar ache turning sharp and then the liquid came. When it hit, I gushed warm, clear liquid soaking the towel I’d laid down. The chat exploded. Tips doubled, then tripled. They called it a gift, a show-stopper. I called it control.
After that I used it deliberately. Built to it slow, let the tension coil until I couldn’t hold back. The release was quick, orgasmic and under a minute once I learned the rhythm. The mess became my signature. I’d end sessions with, “You made me do this.” I’d say it to the camera, voice breathy, then cut the stream while they begged for more. Bigger tips, loyal regulars, higher rates. I never faked it. My body didn’t lie.
The money bought freedom, a car, savings, no roommates, and no favors owed. But the quiet nights still hurt. The breakdowns came slow at first, then hard. The first was at 22. I cried for three days straight, couldn’t get out of bed, couldn’t face the camera. I thought I’d escaped the motel life, but I still felt like currency. I checked myself into a wellness center in Sedona, two weeks of yoga, therapy, and desert walks. They called it burnout. I called it grief for the girl who never got to be soft. The second was worse, at 23. I stopped camming for a month, stared at walls, drank too much wine alone. The emptiness felt bigger than my bank account. I went back to Sedona, this time a longer stay with deeper work. I learned to sit with the ache instead of performing past it. By 24 I was steady again, $100k steady, but only had to work a few hours per week. One late night, scrolling Discord for distraction, I found a server about chosen family, healing, poly love. I lurked for weeks. Then I posted. A simple “looking for real connection, no games.”
Alina is 19. She is the youngest daughter of the Assemblies of God pastor in Wilsonville. Her childhood was sermons and suppression, body hidden under long skirts, and desire labeled as the devil's whisper. She rebelled hard and fast. She found us in the same dark corners of the internet, drawn to the freedom we offered and the chance to be worshipped instead of judged.
Alina's Recollection, Part 1 – A Mother’s Bitter Truth (Age 14)
One night after a long Wednesday service, the church still smelled like old hymnals and lemon Pledge. I slipped into the kitchen to get water while my mother was washing dishes at the sink. She didn’t know I was there, her back was to me, shoulders hunched from standing all evening in those low heels she hated but wore anyway.
The water ran hard. She scrubbed a plate like it had offended her. Then, under her breath, almost lost in the clatter:
“You were never supposed to happen, you know.”
My stomach dropped. I froze in the doorway, glass halfway to my lips. “Your father wanted to stop at four. I wanted to stop at three. But here you are… the fifth and the loudest.”
She laughed once, short, dry, bitter, like someone had told a joke only she understood. Then, still scrubbing, voice dropping even lower, she muttered with a crooked little smile to herself:
“Sometimes I wonder if you’re even his.”
The plate slipped. Clinked hard against the sink. She didn’t turn around. I backed out silently, heart hammering so loud I was sure she’d hear it. I didn’t cry until I got to my room and locked the door.
I never asked her what she meant. I never asked my father if he knew. But I started looking at Uncle Daniel, Dad’s younger brother, the one who used to come over every Sunday after church for dinner when I was little. He has the same jawline, the same laugh lines. He was around the house a lot that summer my mother said I was conceived. I counted backward in my head more times than I can remember.
I never got proof. I never needed it. The doubt was enough.
Alina's Recollection, Part 2 – The Purity Sermon Humiliation (Age 16)
It was the annual youth purity night, white banners, candlelight, the whole youth group crammed into the fellowship hall. Dad preached on “Guarding Your Temple.” He wore his best suit, the one he saved for revivals, and his voice carried that calm authority that always made everyone sit up straighter.
Toward the end he called me up as an example.
“Alina here is a good daughter,” he said, hand on my shoulder. “Still dresses modestly. Still honors her father and her God. Look at her, long dress, no makeup, and a pure heart. This is what we’re raising.”
I stood there on the little stage in my ankle-length navy dress, hair braided tight, hands clasped in front of me. The lights were hot. Everyone was looking. I could feel the eyes, deacons, youth leaders, Becca in the front row.
And Becca winked.
Not a sweet wink. A knowing one. A slow, deliberate blink that said: We both know what we talked about last night.
Because the night before, she’d pulled me into her old bedroom after everyone else went to sleep. She sat me on the edge of the bed, closed the door, and talked about bodies and doors; about how men look at you when they think no one sees; about how a girl can learn to like the way they look. I masturbated for the first time that night, quiet, shaking, and biting my lip so no one would hear.
And now here I was, standing on stage as the perfect modest daughter, while the memory of my sister’s face between that woman’s legs as she was getting fucked from behind.
My thighs clenched. Heat bloomed low in my belly. I felt it start, the slickness, the ache. I pressed my legs together, cheeks burning, praying no one could tell.
Dad kept talking. Becca kept smiling.
I stood there for the rest of the sermon feeling like the temple I was supposed to guard was already unlocked and my sister had picked the lock open.
She was officially disowned months after her 19th birthday when she emailed her father a video of Carlos coming on her tongue with the caption, "This is the only holy spirit I’ll ever need."
Alina is a goddess! She glows and is always smiling. We worship her. She knows her body inside and out. She'd show where and how to touch her if she's not getting wet or getting off! She is so dedicated to the game, Carlos calls her "The Grandmaster." Was it good improvisation or was it experience? She is strong, a powerhouse of confidence and compassion. I don't know where she got that experience from. If someone told me that she had sold her soul to the devil, I'd believe it if I didn't already own it.
She rarely talked about her mother. She has four older sisters. I've never met any of them. Her oldest sister is 15 years her senior and they used to be close. They talked and texted in the past, but she doesn’t talk to her now. As the youngest, I think she learned all her bad habits from her and that scares the hell out of us. Her sister would have been an adult and out of the house by the time Alina was old enough to start experimenting with her sexuality. Carlos and I wonder about Alina's sister and if she groomed her, but we’re uncomfortable confronting Alina about it. We’re afraid that if it's true, her sister would have had more power over her than we do now.
Once, when she was riding Carlos, she shut her eyes tightly and pulled a pillow up to her chest and wrapped her arms around it tightly. Then, she bit the corner of the pillow like she was nursing on it. Copious amounts of saliva came out of her mouth. I could see her pushing and straining. I swear I heard Alina silently say, "Becca!" as she was coming. That's her oldest sister's name.
Carlos is 43. He's a retired banker who walked away from everything at 35. After selling his house in Nevada, he traveled for several years before moving to Oregon. He was a typical business professional.
Carlos once told me once about what it was like to be him, to be around him in his prime. As the bank's personal financial planning specialist, if anyone needed financial, retirement, or investment information, they'd go to him. The tellers and bankers regularly sent him clients as well. After closing or settling large accounts, he'd take the entire branch (six employees plus their one guest) out for a celebratory dinner and drinks. He couldn't do it as compensation for forwarding warm leads (SEC Rules), but if Carlos invited everyone and specific transactions weren't recognized, it would be okay.
One evening after dinner at a really nice restaurant in one of the premier casinos, a couple remained – a teller and her fiancé. They were 21, going on 12 and really green – nice young couple starting out their lives together. The dinner was officially over so Carlos asked if they wanted to play Crap's. Not having the resources to spend on gambling they declined but it didn’t take long before Carlos fronted them the chips – for “beginners luck!” They walk up to the Crap's table, Carlos puts the lovely young lady to his right and her fiancé to his left so he can put chips down for each of them giving them the ability to “play” (roll the dice). Carlos pulls out a wad of $100 bills he'd brought as he knew he'd play for a while after dinner. Carlos says “hi” to the Pit Boss (manages the table), someone he's known from the years of visiting the same tables and playing with the same stick men (pulls the dice back after the roller, rolls the dice). Carlos throws the wad of bills on the table and one of their guys yells, “Cash In” and the Pit Boss takes the cash, lays it out in front of him for the “eye in the sky” to see the money and chips go out to the player – me.
“5,000!” He states loudly, and Carlos asks to break some down into smaller denominations for his guests. They must have not realized that the 4” tall pile of green chips in front of them was $500 at first, but when the winning pay outs started to be called, they were playing and betting with car payment sized payments. The man decides he can't take my money (pride or chivalry) even though I'm insisting it's not an issue so Carlos slides the chips over to the woman's pile and the man stands behind her to watch.
Carlos explains what all the place bets and numbers on the table mean and the game starts. Crap's can be pretty fast paced and takes time to learn but everyone is there to have fun and having the 21 year old on Carlos's arm wasn't going to go to waste. It was obvious that Carlos (in an Armani suit) and the woman (in a Nordstrom's Rack dress) were from different leagues. The chips are flying, the woman is giggling and jumping ecstaticly every time she wins and her stack of chips is growing. Unbeknownst to me her fiancé seemed to be shrinking and disappearing – and like the old cartoon trope from Carlos's youth when an Alpha male decided he had his eyes on something (someone) he wanted, the competition just started shrinking, disappearing. The drinks came and came (free to players) and she put them down as fast as they'd come. For a young woman of 115lbs and 5'5" tall, she was blasted by her second drink.
That's when Carlos’s internal clock would normally go off and he'd be bringing that bitch up to a room to fuck her brains out. And then it smacked him right upside the head – she's not yours – she's a bank employee. Shit! Carlos finally realizes what he was instinctually doing. When he looked around and found her man, he described him as a 12” caricature of what he once was, holding onto the hem of her dress like a good dog. Carlos said he could smell her perfume, too. $100 perfume was noticeable from two feet away as she was really warm – most-likely moist.
So, Carlos wrapped it up quickly and sent the two on their way and when Carlos's attention came back to the Pit Boss, that smirk on his face, told the whole story. “Would you like me to change up some of those greens, Carlos (change the 8” erect tower of chips to a manageable and less dangerous 2” flaccid stack)? Carlos pulled a silk handkerchief out of his right breast suit jacket pocket and wiped the sweat off his brow. He grinned back at him.
When he left the industry, he set fire to every bridge he ever crossed. They say to not burn bridges, but Carlos says, "Fuck bridges."
He had a miserable childhood and was on his own by 16. In college, he found power in dominance and came into control of everything he touched. He tells me there was a unique confidence that evolved and he used it to seduce women.
Carlos is charming and brutally honest with everyone else, but not himself. He's not the kind of person who tells you that they'll do anything for you, but he's that person who will help you bury the body. He still has a dirty shovel in the bed of his truck. I get the impression that its been used before.
Carlos has had a lot of experience with women but by 35, he says women were a waste of time and walked away from them. Out of nowhere, one day he met a 30 year old woman in Portland that liked to be hit. I'm not talking about laughable "spankings," but full-force slaps across her back and thighs. She loved to be choked and slapped, even across the face. She never bruised, so he said. When she started hitting him, a fire grew inside him that couldn't be put out.
When I put my hands on him, a delicious sound comes from deep in his chest. He also produces a musky, pheromone-like scent when I hit him. He’s like a wild animal in mating season fighting for dominance. When Carlos puts hands on me, my arms and legs get weak and I'm soaking wet in seconds. He is insatiable!
That woman changed him. It wasn't just a kink or fantasy to him but hitting awoke a sleeping beast within him. He used to get into fights in his teens and early 20's. From 25 to 35, he was the suit and tie guy. Totally testosterone driven. But when he finally got to the Pacific Northwest, nothing. He was cold as a slab of marble. Then, she found him. She thought she'd change him. He walked away from her a few weeks later.
People always wanted to know why we chose him. Why two girls barely out of our teens would kneel for a man old enough to be our father. They thought it was money, daddy issues, some broken-girl kink. They were so fucking wrong it almost made me laugh. Younger guys, they were still boys with hard cocks and soft hearts. They fucked like they were trying to win a race – fast, frantic, always chasing their own finish line. They wanted to impress us, to prove they were men, to be told they were enough.
But they never asked what “we” needed. They never waited to hear yes in the quiet places. They rushed in, came quick, rolled over, and waited for applause. They wanted to be equal, which meant we had to carry half the emotional load, half the desire, half the shame when it ended too soon and left us aching and unfinished. Carlos didn’t rush. He’d already bled through his own wars. He knew who he was. He didn’t need to prove anything to us, to himself, to the mirror. He waited – god, he waited – until our yes came from the marrow, not the mouth.
And when we said it, he gave us everything younger men never learned how to give. He fucked slow and deep, like every thrust was a promise he intended to keep. He watched our faces, listened to our breaths, felt every tremble, every clench, every time our bodies begged for more without words. He knew how to edge us until we were crying, shaking, dripping, until the orgasm ripped through us like lightning and left us sobbing his name into his neck. He knew how to hold us after, still inside, still hard, whispering “good girl” while we came down in pieces. He knew how to make us feel seen, not used.
Desired, not conquered. Feminine, not fragile. Younger men fuck. Carlos worshipped. He made us come so hard our legs stopped working, then kissed the tears off our cheeks and told us we were beautiful when we were wrecked. He made us feel safe enough to be filthy, soft enough to be owned, wild enough to beg without shame. He made us feel like women – not girls, not holes, not trophies – women who were allowed to want, to take, to shatter, and still be held afterward like we were the only thing that mattered. That’s why we chose him. Not because we were broken little things looking for a savior.
Because he was whole enough to hold two broken women without trying to fix us – just fuck us, love us, keep us – until we remembered we were allowed to be whole too. And every time he came inside me, every time he whispered “baby” against my belly, every time he looked at me like I was the miracle he’d been waiting for, I knew I’d never settle for less again. Younger men chase orgasms. Carlos chased “us”. And we chased him right back.
Alina, Carlos, and I found ourselves in private Discords where the safe word was "mercy and it was never used. We were looking in the last, wrong place one would ever think to find life partners, probably on purpose. If we never found what we were looking for, it was easy to blame the world for everything that was wrong with it. Conversations started innocently enough, then turned explicit, then became a lifeline.
I met Alina in person a few months later and both of us met Carlos a few months after that. The chemistry was immediate, explosive, and irreversible. Alina and I were close but we didn't cross the point of no return. We weren't looking for partners at that time, although looking back, if we had tried without guidance and structure I would have surely ruined it like I ruined everything else I touched. I guess I needed a girlfriend to off-gas with and that worked for Alina as well.
Once Carlos came along, our relationship grew exponentially. Alina dresses provocatively and always turns heads. It doesn't matter how old they were, man or woman, there is an electric field that surrounds her. No one could ever get close enough though. I guess I wasn't afraid of a little electricity and I was feeling somewhat grounded by then. We both knew something was missing. While Alina had plenty of time to start a family (physically), I felt like an old, wet and musty towel that one would find under the sink that's been under there for years. I was defensive, angry, and bitter. If someone smiled at me, I'd look at them and yell, "You got a fucking problem?" Everyone wanted a piece of me. I thought I must have had a tattoo across my forehead that read, "loser" or "use me?"
We all met at a 24-hour coffee shop late one night. Carlos said he had an offer we'd probably refuse but it sounded intriguing enough. The vibe from him was always appropriate even when we were talking shit online. For the most part, Alina and I knew what he looked like and who he was. I always went hard over bad boys and look where that's gotten me. There was a brutal honesty that you could trust about him and that was incredibly appealing.
Alina and I talked about him several times without any preconceived notions or expectations. Did I know what a guy 19 and 24 years older expected from us or with us? I thought I did. Why would I expect anything else? Through our online conversations, one thing was exceptionally clear. All of us had a fundamental hate for what life was like. Life was hard and those that didn't work hard, had little. Those that never had to work hard for their wealth, knew nothing about the real world and were unrelatable. Regardless, there really wasn't much that would surprise us.
We arrived first, grabbed a table in the back and Carlos arrived a few minutes later. Fuck, I mean wow! As he walked to the back of the coffee shop, this man seemed to part the sea of people as he got close, they just moved aside. He wasn't the proverbial bull in the china shop, he just made a path and took it. When someone was oblivious to him trying to get by, there was an assertive and confident hand on their shoulder and they just moved. It was totally like a Jedi mind-trick. There was also a hint of charm and congeniality that was hard to ignore. He was considerate. Consideration of others is a very powerful force. Alina and I were used so much that we came to believe that being used always came first. Carlos cared what we wanted.
Alina didn't wait. Once she saw Carlos, she ran up to meet him, wrapping her arms around him. It was adorable. I couldn't help smiling. I'm not sure what kind of guys she was into, but I think the biggest turn on for her was that he was almost as old as her father. She grabbed his hand and walked the rest of the way slightly in front of him, pulling him faster and faster to finally get over to where I was sitting. She was hanging on his right arm and when she got there, she had a huge shit-eating grin across her face. Her teeth showed through her smile like the beacon on a lighthouse. I reached out my hand and of course, then he did, too. He was surprised. Nice, firm, just a shake or two. The first thing I thought was, "I'm such a dork." This man already knew so much about me. Six months might have easily been 6 years. That was embarrassing. I immediately knew that everything was about to change. I just won the lottery.
Carlos came right out with it. He looked both of us square in the face and said:
"We've talked and we know a lot about each other. I want you to stop doing what everyone else has been doing. Stop listening to people that give you bad advice. Stop listening to people that put their interests first. Start thinking about your future."
"Look at me. I put everyone else first and what do I have to show for it? Money? Nice things? Those will come and go. Everyone will die one day and no one is going to take any of it with them. People don't want to stop making bad decisions. Decisions are not 50 50. They think of choice as correct and incorrect; good or bad; left or right; and yes or no. I say, make the correct decision; be a good person; turn right; and say yes!"
"I'm done running, chasing, and making excuses. I want a family. I want children. I want special people in my life that put me first and when they do, I will provide everything they need, forever. I will also put them first."
"I want both of you to come live with me. I want both of you to be the mothers of my children. Not one of you, both of you! You will do everything I tell you as will I, for you. I will provide everything you need and you will be everything I need. You will never want and neither will I."
"It will be a lot of work. I want you two to be the first thing I see when I wake up in the morning and I want you to fall asleep in my arms at night. We will fuck every day and make love even more. We will create, dream of beautiful things, and our home will be full of children. So when you make this choice, it will be forever."
"Everything is on the table, right here, right now. Ask me anything. The moment you come home with me, you are mine and I am yours. All the things that bother you, all your doubts and uncertainties, leave them right here on this table. All your past trauma, leave it here."
Alina pulled her chair out and turned it around so it was right in front of me. She pulled it in close. She leaned over, put a hand on each of my cheeks and said:
"I"
"NEED"
"THIS."
Carlos sat there watching us intently. Alina staring into my eyes. They penetrated me deeply. Was she searching for something? Was she trying to emphasize how important this was for her? It wasn't like trying to decide if we were going to order the chicken or the fish. This was the rest of my life, our lives.
Who is this girl? Who is Carlos?
I lean over Alina’s shoulder and ask Carlos, "Who just drops everything and moves in with a bunch of strangers?"
Carlos replies, "A lot of people do. 225,000 new recruits drop everything and enlist in the US Armed Forces every year… 570,000 kids go away to college for the first time each year, as well."
I tilt my head back over, centered into Alina's eyes where she's still holding my cheeks with her hands and the corners of my lips slowly start to curl upwards. She firms up on her hands laying on my cheeks, brings her lips within millimeters of mine and saying one word at a time again, "I need this."
I bring my right hand up to the side of her head and with my fingers lightly brush her long hair over her left ear, resting her ear in the palm of my hand.
"You are going to either be the love of my life or the death of me. At least there is one good option there, and I need you, too."
Alina pecked me on the lips super fast and before I knew what was going on, instantly stood up, stretched out an open hand for me and one for Carlos.
"Let's go home Daddy."
That was the most amazing thing I've ever heard. It sounded so real. Alina never stopped surprising me.
We were going to put being "Mommy" and "Daddy" first. Accountability, responsibility, outcome and family would always come before anything else. I've heard women say that their children always came first, especially from single mothers. Carlos was quick to point out the hypocrisy of those kinds of statements, especially coming from the outrageous numbers of those single mothers; children raised by the state; children in foster care; and children raised by teachers with their own ideologies, philosophies, and agendas. And then there’s the violence we’re all too familiar with. We spent weeks going over boundaries and expectations. Then we went shopping! When I look back, the first thing that comes to mind is how easy that was! I’ve walked away from so many good things and good men. I had to stop doing that.
Carlos took on the role of father, protector, provider, friend, and lover immediately. He always knew what we wanted, we had access to everything we needed, and he cared for our comfort. He truly cared. It wasn't long before he was madly in love with us as well – equally. He was always there, but he expected a tremendous investment from us in return. There was no time for excuses.
It came easier for Alina, but it was frustrating sometimes and often difficult for me. Sometimes it felt like the game was a waste of time, but it wasn't long before I realized that the game made everything worthwhile. I had a few setbacks, but Carlos and Alina knew what had to be done. The language they used, their tone, the subtle inflections and body language, all had long-term outcomes that benefited the family. Carlos was not perfect, but it was easy to see why he had so much. A part of him was lonely, tired, and frustrated but those were the excuses that allowed others to fail. The women that didn't understand long-term results, lost out on the best thing that could have ever happened to them – Carlos. I'm so happy they did.
The children made our lives complete. My past was just the wrong turn on my way to get here. Regardless of whose vagina they came out of, those precious babies saved us all. It was a treacherous journey at times, but adversity made all of us stronger.
A couple weeks went by and then one day, Carlos called us to the living room.
"Girls, take your clothes off."
We were already sleeping in the same bed, kissing passionately, body rubs, and a little biting. I even caught Alina masturbating a couple times (never hiding that she was doing it), and then, out of nowhere, once the little things were done, set in motion, it was on!
There was a lot on our plates. Getting Alina and I moved in, shopping, and sending our old lives out to pasture just took time. It was all part of Carlos’s bigger plan. We never felt rushed but ironically, Alina moved in with just a backpack. It was hilarious. We also hadn't thought of sex that much up to this point. Besides Carlos's attempt at sexual innuendo-like humor, we knew what we were there for. The truth is, we wanted it. I wanted it and needed it. I was surprised just how fast everything started happening once the little things were out of the way. While sex wasn't regimented or was put on a to-do list (not yet, anyway), it was obvious that the best way to get it on, was to throw expectations out the window. Carlos always left a window cracked open for me. I liked that about him.
Alina had shorts and a t-shirt on, no bra or panties and was naked in half a second. Clothes on the floor. She was fucking ready! Literally. She had a fantastically curvy body. Everything was tight and stood up on its own. I wish I was like that back then. It's hard to remember after the punishment I've endured. Alina put her hands on her hips and shook that perfectly tight ass up and down. No fat, no cellulite, no stretch marks. Prime real estate and no tattoos! She was saying, "Look at this! You want some of this? It's yours!
She skipped over to Carlos who was still clothed, sitting on the large leather wingback chair in the middle of the room, jumped on top of him, a knee on each side of his legs and she went to town. They were making out like two pornstars and there I was. Just standing there. "What just happened?" I know they were thinking, "Well, you snooze, you lose."
I finally got my clothes off and walked over and it felt like I was trying to cut-in at a dance. Alina positioned her body to be purposely in the way. She was everywhere on him as he was on her. Alina already had a hand down his pants gripping onto that rock-hard cock and his pants came off right after that.
Once the pants were off, she dropped to her knees and put that huge cock into her mouth and started slobbering all over it. Her hand went up and down his shaft and she moaned like a maniac. I really wasn't sure if we were going to take turns, or if it was supposed to be both of us, but Alina did not care.
A second later she climbed back up onto his lap and he positioned himself to slide inside her. Then he went right in. She screamed, "Oh, Yes!" and he fucked her until he came inside her. Her eyes never left his! She kept moving her hips to make sure he could never pull out more than a couple inches. She spent most of that time on him grinding so hard that he had to be in as far as he could go.
I stood right next to the chair watching them. I was in disbelief because I couldn't get in on any of that. "What’s wrong with me?"
Carlos came really quickly, twenty minutes, tops. Alina just sat there, looking at him, letting that load find its way deep inside her. She kept her eyes transfixed to his, looking him over, memorizing everything about his eyes, nose, eyebrows, lips, ears, and teeth. She touched every single part of his face several times, running her fingers over everywhere her eyes told her to go. Once she was done, she stood up and walked to the bathroom. Nothing came out of her. Not one drop. She didn’t even look at me as she passed by. That strut was just like a Paris runway model. Each foot firmly landing on the floor followed by the opposite hip tilting upwards. That ass danced as she walked by.
I sat on the floor right in front of Carlos. He put a leg on each side of me and I rested my head on one of his thighs. Carlos stroked my hair and said, "Well, thanks for showing up at least." I then bit his leg. Alina came out of the bathroom with a towel wrapped around her head like a genie and nothing else, came up to where I was, grabbed my hand and said, "Come on baby," and brought me to the bedroom. My heart exploded! "Yes… I was getting fucked!"
We left Carlos on the chair and Alina said, "Not you old man," and swung the door behind her, but it didn’t close all the way. Alina told me that she had at least an extra hour of energy left in her. I was hoping that's where I'd spend the next hour! That was the first time with Carlos but she wanted more. Alina wanted a very large piece of me and I was going to give it to her!
Alina took the lead and was everywhere on me. She ate me out, sat on my face, caressed my body, and fingered me like it was an Olympic sport. I was squirting within minutes. Alina freaked out. She loved it! She was all over it. Her eyes were huge, wide open. I can tell she had never seen squirting before. Squirting is really easy for me and I was going to definitely show her how to do it. It lets me get off quickly.
In the past, it was my way of ending a cam session but in real life I could do it all night long. I dated a couple girls but I was never in love with them. I remember that they seemed to want me to pleasure them, see them get off, and I wasn't even an afterthought. Alina totally changed my mind on women. I knew I was going to fall in love with her, really hard, really fast! I did.
When we were done, I went out to check on Carlos and he was asleep on the chair. So, I put a blanket over him and Alina and I went back to the bedroom to go to sleep. Alina was up a few hours later masturbating like a fiend until she came. She definitely wanted me up so she was really noisy and after she came, she pointed to her cunt and said, "eat me!" She was really intense with me when we first moved in. I really think she wanted me to be comfortable and I was.
The next morning, Alina and I were pleasantly surprised with freshly made pancakes. Everyone chatted about things that we’re going to do today.
Out of the blue Alina said, "Daddy put a baby in me last night."
The only thing I could think of was, "good for you," as my jaw dropped slightly and just hung open. That was hot! I'm glad she had fun.
The next night, Carlos set up some candles around the bathtub and invited me in. I'm not sure how he knew, but I think I needed a romantic evening with him and it was perfect. Alina stayed in the front room and watched TV. I think she was in on the surprise. It was just Carlos and I afterwards. He did everything right! He faced me the entire time so we could always see each other's eyes. That made a really big difference for me as I was feeling a little used, a little left out. It was wonderful.
A few days later, Carlos showed me how to put hands on him – his neck, pull his hair, and hit him. I could totally see how relaxed it made him feel. I loved that he was receptive to it because in the past it was always guys who thought that women wanted to be hit – that I wanted it. Carlos talked about the process, how our play would evolve, and why we don't use "safewords."
I now believe, if one doesn't know when they're hurting the other, there's no pleasure in it and you really don't know them yet. If the other wants more or less, they should tell you, but when they don't, therein lies the danger. Trust is better, especially when you give them all of it! Hitting is totally different from belts. I knew belts intimately. Our play with pain would transform during the next few months. I truly anticipated it and relished it.
(2) Experimentation, Role Play, and Release
Carlos sat in the leather wingback in the living room, shirt unbuttoned…
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