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Ours

A Story of Trauma and Joy (Through the Eyes of Ara, Alina, and Carlos, Third Edition)

Dedication

"To the countless mothers and fathers who lost a baby. Your love endures beyond what words could ever express."—Ara

Epigraph

“The man who thought he was building a kingdom and woke up one morning to discover he had simply been allowed inside someone else's." —Carlos

(Ch 1) Genesis
(Ch 2) Experimentation
(Ch 3) The Breeding Gospels
(Ch 4) Convertible Road Trip
(Ch 5) Conception
(Ch 6) The Bleeding Started
(Ch 7) Attempt at Pregnancy
(Ch 8) The Quiet War
(Ch 9) What We Broke
(Ch 10) Abruption and Emergency
(Ch 11) Aaron is Strong
(Ch 12) 79 Days
(Ch 13) Homecoming
(Ch 14) The Real Exorcism
(Ch 15) Alina's Soul
(Ch 16) I Need This
(Ch 17) I am Pregnant
(Ch 18) Overwhelming Odds
(Ch 19) Carlos's Pledge
(Ch 20) The Confession
(Ch 21) Graduating to Motherhood
(Ch 22) The Little Ones
(Ch 23) An Old Friend
(Ch 24) Heart of Ours
(Ch 25) Weight and Wonder
(Ch 26) Magic Kingdom Miracle
(Ch 27) Ara and Alina
(Ch 28) Ara and Carlos
(Ch 29) Alina and Carlos
(Ch 30) The Unexpected Reunion
(Ch 31) Tricks and Trades
(Ch 32) Closing the Bill
(Ch 33) Grand Canyon Revisited
(Ch 34) Not By Blood
(Ch 35) The Asthma Attack
(Ch 36) The Voice
(Ch 37) Love That Transcends
(Ch 38) Momma's Soul Deed
(Ch 39) Under the Pillow
(Ch 40) Hope's Soul Deed
(Ch 41) Christmas Dinner Revelation
(Ch 42) The Backyard Porch
(Ch 43) A Roundtable Dialog

Prologue

The Night the Fantasy Died

3:07am: This is my life leaving me in a rush. I look at the white sheets and they're pools of blood. The blood is so dark it looks black in the moonlight. There is a pungent and recognizable smell from it. 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 still, nothing comes out.

The last thing I hear before the world fades to black is Carlos's voice, "Stay with me baby! Stay with..."

Alina is in the back seat 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.

At the hospital, strangers rip me from Carlos's and Alina's arms. Someone shouts, "abruption," and cold shears cut away my clothes. The oxygen mask hisses...

My final thought is, "I never used a safeword."

(Chapter 1) Genesis

Carlos bought a house in Northeast Portland that had a 24-foot long master bedroom with 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 us from the elements with eight inches of cold cinderblock. The house needed a lot of work. As old walls came down inside the house, so did the walls inside us.

Ara, Part 1

Ara is 24 years old.

Orphaned at fifteen 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. 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 easy. No one knew how old I was and nobody cared. They wanted me because I looked young. I'd finger myself at least five times a day on camera to survive. I had been fucking myself since I was twelve, anyway.

My childhood was a series of motel rooms. All dirty, smoke-stained, with wet jizz still on the carpet. I remember my mother bringing home men who looked at me way too long. I was thirteen 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'd grow up to be like her. I thought about it all the time. I never walked the streets but I knew where the money was and how to get it.

I stepped off that bus at the old Portland terminal at 5th and Hoyt, back when it was still gritty but functional. It's late fall, chilly, but not freezing yet. It was raining. I have my empty backpack that used to carry school books in it and I have that $87 in my pocket. After giving that guy a handjob in one of the bathroom stalls to buy my 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 I was willing to do this. I cleaned up the best I could. He wasn't a hero.

He knew I was only fifteen and if he had more cash, would have paid 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 thing that I brought with me, was picking up where my mother left off. It had only been eighteen hours. I spent the first night in the bus station's waiting area. Bright lights shined 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.

This station wasn't like the one in Vegas, but I still had 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. I rolled it up, transforming it into a makeshift pillow. Security never looked closely at a pretty girl who 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." I found Bradley Angle House (now Bradley Angle), a domestic violence shelter that sometimes takes runaways under the radar. I call them from a payphone and they tell me they can put me up for a few nights if I'm in immediate danger. I tell them I am. I'd stay there for ten 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 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 eight hours.

The next day, the shelter connects me with a caseworker who helps me get a state ID, but it would take a couple weeks for it to arrive. In the meantime, I got to know one of the girls aging out of the program. She was turning nineteen. They were setting her up with a room she'd rent and over the last year, helping her to find 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 had a big-sister vibe. She teaches me how to dress to look eighteen and how to walk into bars without getting carded right away. She also shows me how to spot men who pay for company without expecting "full service." She didn't try to make me believe it was going to be easy. I liked that about her. 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 can't stand the smell of it.

She smoked a lot of pot. I smoked 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 girl to that point, but I didn't care. It felt so good to have someone holding me – touching me, without ulterior motives. That was the only time we fooled around. It was only kissing and I let her play with my 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 didn't come from a man's wallet or a boss's pity. I looked Jess up a year before meeting Alina and she was still at the vintage clothing store, but was now the manager and had a baby boy. She had no idea who the father was, didn't care, or want to find out. I was happy for her. Her life did turn around. We kept in touch.

Ara, Part 2

I survived with the help from others and men I became "acquainted" with. I couch surfed early on. Later, I rented rooms from couch owners. I had a lot of time on my hands... Those first months in Portland blurred into a cycle of borrowed couches and careful smiles. After the shelter and Jess's place, I learned fast: people will open their doors if 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, or a hand on a shoulder that lingered long enough to make them feel seen... Sometimes they slipped me cash "for groceries" or bought me dinner, "because I looked 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. All the houses had mismatched furniture and most had mildew stains on the walls. Concrete basements were always damp. The burnt remnants of rolling papers littered the floor next to every back door. The lofts above coffee shops were the worst. The espresso machines always woke me at 5am, everyday! I kept my backpack light. I always kept a change of clothes, my pay-as-you-go phone, the EBT card the caseworker renewed every month, and whatever cash I could tuck away. The men I engaged with were the easiest. They wanted to be helpful. I'd sit on their laps in dimly lit living rooms, let them kiss my neck, whisper how pretty I was and how special I was. 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. Everything helped. I always returned a smile and a "thank you." I told myself it was acting, like I did during the motel days, but on my terms. I chose who, when, and how much I'd let them touch me. I wasn't anybody's property and didn't owe anyone any favors. No one could hurt me if I always stayed one step ahead of them. The nights alone were the hardest. When the houses went quiet and I was laid out on someone's futon or old couch, I'd stare into the dark and feel the weight of everything on my chest. I was sixteen, then seventeen, then almost eighteen, and still, nobody needed me. They wanted me around because I was beautiful, because I laughed at their jokes and 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 almost every dollar. No drugs, very little partying, and no wasting time. I bought thrift-store clothes that made me look older, and practiced walking so it looked as if I belonged in any room. I waited. The months usually pass the fastest while the days seem to linger. On my eighteenth birthday, the day I could sign a lease, open a bank account, start something that was mine, my day would be making as many of those things happen. A man from one of the couch surfing houses 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 anyone in – I got to choose.

The Pack and the Whelping Stone

In the shadowed valley where the wolves hunted, there was a flat black stone that the sun baked all day until it glowed like a coal at dusk. The old wolves called it the Whelping Stone and warned the young: "Touch it and your paw will blister. The pain will teach you once, sharp and true. Never again."

One spring, a young wolf named Bardo, hungry for the respect of the yearlings, crept close while the pack howled approval. "See how brave he is!" They sang. He pressed his pad to the stone. The burn came fast. White fire up his leg. He yelped, pulled back, and limped away licking the wound. The pack laughed, then licked his ears. "You survived," they said. "Now you're one of us." Bardo told himself the lesson was learned.

By summer, the yearlings had their own game. They gathered at twilight around the stone, chanting low: "Whelp, whelp, whelp, show your fire." Bardo, now with a faint scar, felt the old burn echo in his memory, but the chant was louder. A new pup hesitated; Bardo nudged him forward. "It's quick," he said. "We all did it." The pup touched, cried out, and the pack howled louder still. The scar on Bardo's paw thickened; the pain felt smaller, almost ordinary.

Autumn came, and the pack moved to the high ridges for the mating season. The Whelping Stone waited there too, warmed by the last sun. The adults circled it in a ring, tails high, voices thick with the season's heat. "Touch for the pack," they growled. "Touch to prove you're alive." Bardo watched a young she-wolf step forward, eyes bright with the group's gaze. She touched; the burn rose, she flinched but held. The pack sang her name. Bardo joined the chorus, though his own paw throbbed in memory. Later, alone, he nosed the scar and thought: I knew. I still led them to it.

Years turned. The pack grew old together. The Whelping Stone remained, black and patient. When new pups arrived, the elders (Bardo among them) told the old warning, "Never touch the stone; it burns." But when twilight fell, the chant rose again, soft at first, then insistent. The young wolves looked to the scarred ones for permission. And the scarred ones, throats tight with old apologies, stepped aside or even nudged. The stone took its toll each season: blisters, limps, quiet whines in the dark, but the pack never moved the stone away, never stopped the circle.

One winter night, an old wolf lay apart from the fire, paw curled around a scar that had never healed clean. He watched the young circle the stone once more, heard the chant, saw the first touch, the first yelp, the first proud howl. He closed his eyes and thought: We all knew the first time. We knew every time after. Yet we kept the stone hot, kept the circle turning, kept telling ourselves the burn was the price of the pack.

The Whelping Stone waited through every season, faithful and unforgiving, while the wolves sang that the pain made them stronger, closer, alive, never admitting that the only thing it truly made was, more scars.

The Hot Stove

Soon, I was nineteen going on 38. I met him at a house party. The party was in an old Victorian on Mississippi Avenue, on someone's birthday. The bodies, cheap vodka, and warm beer were everywhere. I went because a couch friend invited me, said it would be fun, and said I needed to "loosen up." Alcohol was served and I got pretty hammered. He is aggressive but not violent. It was definitely his goal to fuck me and he did.

He was twenty-seven, tall, with an forgettable smile. He worked in tech, bought me a drink, then another. He talked as if he cared, asked about "my story," touched my arm, pretending it was accidental. I let him. I wanted to feel wanted even if it was a lie.

Later, in an upstairs bedroom, he got aggressive. Not violent, no bruises, no threats, but insistent. His hands everywhere, mouth on my neck, pants pulled my feet before I could decide if I wanted them there. I said yes because stopping felt harder than going along. He fucked me fast and rough. He'd been waiting for it all night. When he finished he rolled off, pulled his jeans up, and kissed my forehead. He left the party without saying anything. I lost my virginity at this party. It didn't feel like losing anything. It felt as if something was taken away. So that was it. That's getting fucked. I was a dirty rag to blow his load in. I felt disgusting, dirty, and manhandled.

I laid there staring at the ceiling fan, felt stickiness between my legs, the room was spinning, and was 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 used, dirty in a way soap couldn't fix. So much so, the soap would turn dark with the filth it scraped away.

I stayed in bed for two days, feverish, stomach churning, replaying it in my head until I hated the memory of his cologne, his grunts, and the way he didn't look at my face when he came. My life from motel rooms followed me here. No matter how far I ran, it was like I ended up on my back for someone else's convenience – someone else's gratification. If I cared at all about myself, I never should have gone to that room with him. It's not his fault. I am a perpetual victim.

Most women are looking for the best place to make the worst possible decision. It's always from men filled with alcohol and testosterone. Stupid women seem to find themselves in the exact same places. The cycle never ends. I can't believe that the first time you touch a hot stove, you'd want to do it again. You knew the first time you touched the hot stove that you shouldn't have done it (especially a second time), lesson learned, right? Right? You spend the rest of your life apologizing to yourself for touching it, but you do it again and again.

The hot stove metaphor is burned into every woman's psyche and it's unapologetic. I'm not venting, I'm sharing an indictment of the entire cultural script that keeps handing women the same burning pan and then blaming men when their fingers blister. The tragedy is a perfect script. A lifetime of self-apology while doing it anyway. It's not subtle. It's a slap to every woman's ego who's ever replayed a bad night and has felt that exact loop: "I knew better and I did it again."

Men were a lost cause, so I tried women, thinking maybe it would feel different, safer, less like being claimed. Wrong. This time, not stoves, but the same scalding consequences.

The first was my age, nineteen, a barista with short black hair and a septum piercing. We met at a coffee shop open mic after hours. She kissed me in her car later that night, 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 week, 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 I did anything else, she laughed it off, played stupid, and said "Show me how." I never saw her again after that night.

The second was 43. A cougar in every sense, sleek blonde bob, expensive perfume, a condo downtown with floor-to-ceiling windows. I met her at a wine bar, fake ID in hand. She bought me a glass of wine, called me "gorgeous," and said she loved my "young energy." Sex with her was good, skilled, and 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,and how perfect my body would be to carry "our" baby. She wanted me locked in. I played along for a few more days, nodded, smiled, let her think I was seriously considering it, then changed my number and ghosted her.

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, and no more women who wanted me as arm candy or as an incubator.

Ara, Part 3

Ages 19-20, 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 almost twenty. I tried to be someone else. Someone who didn't need to perform, but I was 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, and complimented me on my smile. It was currency I should have learned to invest more wisely. A few women lingered as well, but quieter and with the same hunger in their eyes. I felt it every day: the radar, the proposition disguised as small talk, and the "accidental" brush against my arm. I smiled, deflected, and kept my nose in my work. Those jobs never lasted more than six months before I quit. The monkey moved on. Delivery gigs were worse but I needed cash. 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 actually felt like a step up at first. My fake ID got me in the door at 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 under my fingernails 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 four. 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, boring, and condoms were always used. But even if someone spent $5,000 on me, afterwards, I always felt hollow. They never needed me; they needed a fantasy. I never needed them; I needed to feel as if I mattered. After the fourth date I walked away. No goodbyes, deleted the number and stopped taking calls. Money does not buy happiness.

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-sufficient 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, only body and voice. Within months I was pulling enough to make $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." He kept tipping and I fucked myself harder. I finally relaxed into it, fingers deep and curling upwards, pressure building, the familiar ache turning sharply and then the liquid came. When it hit, I gushed warm, clear liquid soaking my sheets. Eventually, my channel exploded. Tips doubled, then tripled. They called it a gift – a show-stopper. I called it control. After that, I used it deliberately. Build to it slowly, let the tension coil until I couldn't hold back. The release was quick, orgasmic and I could summon it 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. The biggest tips, loyal regulars, and higher rates made it dependable. I never faked it. I never had to. 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. I couldn't get out of bed and couldn't face the camera. I thought I'd escaped the motel life, but I was still only currency. I checked myself into a wellness center in Sedona, two weeks of yoga, therapy, and desert walks. They called it burnout but I called it grief for a girl who never got to be soft. The third at 24 was the worst. I stopped camming for a month, stared at walls, and drank a lot of 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, and only had to work a few hours per week. One late night, scrolling Discord for distraction, I found a server about chosen family, healing, and poly love. I lurked for weeks. Then I posted. A simple, "Looking for real connection, no games."

Alina is nineteen years old.

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 Fourteen)

One night after a long Wednesday service, the church empty with old hymnals still laying on pews, she crept towards the kitchen to get a glass of water. Her mother was washing dishes at the sink. She didn't know Alina was there. Her back was to her, her shoulders hunched from standing all evening in those low heels she hated but wore anyway. She looked worn, disheveled, used, and ragged more than she usually did.

The water ran slowly as she scrubbed away leftover pieces of uneaten gristle with teeth marks clearly visible on them. The cutlery mocked her and plates resented her. If they had a voice, they'd likely ask her what she's become of herself. Then, under her breath, almost lost in the clatter of the dishes banging against each other, she heard it.

"You were never supposed to happen..."

Alina's stomach dropped and she froze in the doorway. "Your father wanted to stop at four. I wanted to stop at three. But here we are... a fifth, the loudest, you filthy whore."

Her mother laughed to herself, a snorty grunt, a dry, bitter chuckle. It was a joke only she understood, told by an imaginary person standing beside her. 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 others in the sink. Alina backed out silently, heart hammering so loud she was sure her mother could hear it. Alina ran to her room but didn't start crying until she got inside and locked the door.

Alina never asked her what she meant. She never asked her father if he knew. She started looking at her Uncle Daniel, her father's younger brother, the one who used to come over every Sunday after church for dinner all the time when she was a little girl. Then, one day stopped. He had the same jawline, the same laugh lines. Alina counted backward in her head more times than she could remember. She never got proof – she 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. Her father 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. Towards the end he called Alina up to the stage.

"Alina here is a good daughter," he said, hand on her shoulder. "Still dresses modestly. Still honors her father and God. Look at her, long dress, no makeup, and a pure heart. This is what we're raising."

Alina stood there on that little stage in an ankle-length navy dress, hair braided tightly and hands clasped in front of her. The lights were hot. She could feel the droplets of perspiration pushing their way onto the surface of her skin. Everyone was looking at her. She felt their eyes judging her. The deacons saw a young girl and fantasized about her virginity. The youth leaders fantasized about watching her sweaty body on the softball field. Becca sat in the front row and winked at her. Not a sweet wink , but a knowing one. A slow, deliberate blink that said, "Remember what we talked about?" Becca's stare was the worst because the night before, she'd pulled her into her old bedroom after everyone else went to sleep. She sat Alina on the edge of the bed, closed the door, and talked about bodies and doors; about how men look at girls and women when they think no one sees them, about how a girl can learn to appreciate the way they look at her. And now, there she was, standing on stage as the perfect, modest daughter while the memory of her sister's face between that woman's legs as she was getting fucked from behind.

Alina's thighs clenched and heat bloomed low in her belly. She felt it start, the wetness, the ache... She pressed her legs together as tightly as she could, hoping no one could tell, praying the front of her dress would stay dry.

Her father kept talking and Becca kept smiling. She stood there for the rest of the sermon hoping her eyes wouldn't roll into the back of her head. The temple she was supposed to guard had already been unlocked by Becca and she knew it. Her sister had picked the lock open and now she had access to every door. She only needed enough encouragement to visit all the rooms with doors partially and purposefully left open. Alina was officially disowned months after her nineteenth 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 woman out of time, reminiscent of Veronica Lake, a Hollywood actress from the 1940's. With long, cascading blonde curls and bright blue-grey eyes, she stands as unreachable to those without the confidence to approach her. She is the archetype of the "untouched enigma." A woman who exists in a perpetual state of elegant removal from the ordinary. She's not arrogant in the performative way. She's been placed on a slightly higher plane by circumstances rather than by ego.

Assuming she's cold because she insists you show her your colors first was a defensive mechanism, but it's not – it's strategy. It's her greatest personality trait. They mistake selective engagement for disdain. In reality, she simply refuses to waste emotional energy on anything that doesn't intrigue her or prove itself worthy of her attention first.

Alina is intelligent and coy, mindful and mysterious. An aura surrounds her. It intimidates most because her confidence embodies detached sophistication. Alina's graceful and a contemplative nature makes her seem perpetually unimpressed by the world around her.

There's an almost childlike amazement preserved in her, not because she's naive, but because large parts of ordinary life were deliberately kept from her reach. Everything hits fresh: tastes, places, ideas, even betrayals or disappointments. That makes her reactions vivid and unguarded in private moments, which is probably what makes her magnetic to the few people who get close enough to see it.

Alina is dedicated to the game, Carlos calls her "The Grandmaster." We don't know if she's a good improvisationalist or she sold her soul to the devil. I might believe it if I didn't already own it.

Alina rarely talked about her mother. She has four older sisters. We've never met any of them. Her oldest sister is fifteen years her senior and they used to be close. 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 speculate 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. Wrapping her arms around it tightly, she bit the corner of the pillow, appearing to nurse 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 years old.

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 about being 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 top tier restaurant in one of the premier casinos, a couple remained, a teller and her fiancé. They were 21, going on twelve and very green. They were a 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 Craps table, Carlos puts the lovely young lady to his right and her fiancé to his left so he can put chips on the table 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, in this case, me.

"5,000!" He states loudly, and Carlos asks to break some into smaller denominations for his guests. They must have not been aware that the 4" tall pile of green chips in front of them was $500 at first, but when the winning pay outs were 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, hands rapidly clapping ecstatically every time she wins and her stack of chips grows. Unbeknownst to me, her fiancé to be shrinking and disappearing. It was an old cartoon trope from Carlos's youth. When an Alpha male decided he had his eyes on someone he wanted, the competition started shrinking, disappearing. The drinks came and came (free to players) and she drank them as fast as they'd come. For a young woman of 115lbs and 5'5" tall, she was blasted by her second drink but she was on her fourth!

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. It smacked him right upside the head, she's not yours, she's a fellow bank employee. Shit! Carlos finally recognizes 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. He was a good dog. Carlos said the $100 perfume she wore was noticeable from three feet away.

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. "You want me to change up some of those greens, Carlos." Carlos pulled a handkerchief out of his right breast suit jacket pocket and wiped the sweat off his forehead. 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 sixteen. 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 it's been used before.

Carlos has had a lot of experience with women but by 35, he says women became a waste of time and walked away. Out of nowhere, he met a 30 year old in Portland that loved 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 within his chest, perhaps a growl, maybe a purr. He also produces a musky scent when he sweats. It's animalistic and aggressive. 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 a kink or fantasy for him but hitting awoke something sleeping within him. He used to get into fights in his teens and early 20's and 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 we chose him. 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, trying to win a race that only they ran in. It was always fast and 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 quickly, 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 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. Our yes finally 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. 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. It 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 apart in pieces. He knew how to make us feel seen, not used. Desired, not conquered. Feminine, not fragile. Younger men fuck. Carlos worshiped. 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,and wild enough to beg without shame. He made us feel like women, not girls, not holes, definitely not trophies. We felt like women who were allowed to want, to take, to shatter, and still be held afterward. 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, he'd love us, keep us, until we remembered we were allowed to be whole as well. Every time he came inside me, every time he whispered "Baby inside" against my belly, every time he looked at me as if it 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. 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 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 was 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 fuckin' problem?" Everyone wanted a piece of me. I thought I must have had a tattoo across my forehead that read, "use me."

We all met at a 24-hour coffee shop late one night.

Alina and I talked about him several times without any preconceived notions or expectations. Did I know what a guy nineteen and twenry-four years older expected from us or with us? I thought I did. Through our online conversations, one thing was exceptionally clear. All of us fundamentally despised what life gave us. 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 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 parted the sea of people as he got close, they moved aside. He wasn't the proverbial bull in the china shop, he 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 moved. It was 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. Only the beacon on a lighthouse would shine brighter. I reached out my hand and of course, then he did. He was surprised. Nice, firm, 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 six years. That was embarrassing. I immediately knew that everything was about to change. I 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! I will provide everything you need. You will be everything I need. You and I will never want."

"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 as if we were trying to decide if we were going to order the chicken or the fish. This was the rest of my life, our lives.

I lean over Alina's shoulder and ask Carlos, "Who 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 says 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're going to be the love of my life. Please don't be the death of me."

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."

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. There's also 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 maybe even 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 both of us as well. 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, the game was a waste of time, but it wasn't long before I understood 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 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 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 took time. It was all part of Carlos's bigger plan. We never felt rushed but ironically, Alina moved in with only 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 style of humor, we knew what we were there for. The truth is, we wanted it. I wanted it and needed it. I was surprised 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 appreciated 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 had that body 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 so intensely, two pornstars could learn from them. There I was, standing there. I said to myself, "What happened?" I know they were thinking, "You snooze, you lose."

I finally got my clothes off and walked over. If I didn't know better, I'd say I was trying to cut-in at the 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 in 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 loudly. She was a maniac. I 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 quickly, twenty minutes, tops. Alina 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. She was a Paris runway model at that moment. 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 as genie's did 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. If it was an Olympic sport, she'd win gold. 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 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 wanted 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, hard and fast, and 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. She was a fiend until she came. She definitely wanted me up so she was noisy and after she came, she pointed to her cunt and said, "eat me!" She was intense with me when we first moved in. I truly 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 inside me last night."

The only thing I could think of was, "good for you?" as my jaw dropped slightly and 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 only Carlos and I afterwards. He did everything right! He faced me the entire time so we could always look into each other's eyes. That made a 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, on 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 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 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.

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Ours

A Story of Trauma and Joy (Through the Eyes of Ara, Alina, and Carlos, Third Edition)

Dedication

Epigraph

Table of Contents

Prologue

(Chapter 1) Genesis