Chapter 2: The First Arrival – Harper

Harper Eleanor Voss stepped off the Greyhound bus in Elmwood, Illinois, on a crisp December morning in 2022, her tall frame wrapped in a wool coat that barely contained the restless energy simmering beneath. The coat, a thrift-store find from her Chicago days, smelled faintly of turpentine and patchouli—remnants of her artist’s loft, where canvases leaned against walls like silent sentinels, and the air was thick with the creative chaos she was now leaving behind. At sixty-two, her silver hair flowed in a loose bun, strands escaping like whispers of rebellion, framing her sharp gray eyes that scanned the small station with a mix of curiosity and wariness. The platform was nearly empty, save for a few locals bundled against the wind, their breaths puffing like smoke signals in the cold air. Harper’s suitcase thudded against the cracked concrete as she set it down, the weight not just from her sketchpads, leather tools, and a few changes of clothes, but from the memories packed tightly within—fragments of a life she was abandoning for the unknown.

The journey from her urban loft in Chicago had been more than a bus ride; it was a pilgrimage of sorts, a deliberate leap into the abyss prompted by Bob Harlan’s ad on ALT.com. She’d stumbled upon it late one night, scrolling through profiles on her laptop amid the glow of her studio lights, the site’s black-and-red interface a portal to desires she’d long suppressed and then reclaimed. Bob’s words had resonated like a brushstroke on a blank canvas: a call to a polyamorous household where past traumas could find a new canvas for healing, where dominance wasn’t a weapon but a tool for empowerment. Harper had hesitated only briefly before responding, her fingers flying over the keys with the same fervor she applied to her art. Now, as she hailed a cab—the driver a grizzled man in a faded flannel shirt who nodded curtly and tossed her suitcase into the trunk—she felt the storm of her thoughts churning like a palette of mixed colors, vibrant yet turbulent.

Sliding into the back seat, Harper gave the address—Bob’s suburban home—and leaned against the worn vinyl, the cab rumbling to life with a cough of exhaust. The driver’s chatter began immediately, a stream of small-town gossip about the weather, the local diner’s pie, and some scandal involving the mayor’s son. Harper murmured polite responses, her mind elsewhere, drifting through the layers of her past like flipping through an old sketchbook. What was she leaving behind? The loft in Chicago’s Wicker Park, for starters—a sunlit space with high ceilings and exposed brick, where her easels stood like old friends, splattered with the evidence of her late-night frenzies. It was there she’d rebuilt herself after the divorce, turning the pain of her abusive marriage into abstract canvases of twisted forms and bold reds, symbols of the blood and fury she’d endured. Leaving it felt like abandoning a piece of her soul, the rent-controlled haven where she’d hosted underground art shows, surrounded by fellow creators who understood the language of repression and release. Her social circle—feminist artists, kink enthusiasts from the 70s circles she’d rediscovered in her fifties—would miss her, or so they’d said in farewell toasts, glasses clinking in a haze of wine and nostalgia. But Harper knew the truth: she was outgrowing that world; the solitary dominance of her studio was no longer enough to quell the restlessness that had built up over years of isolation.

As the cab wound through Elmwood’s quiet streets—past neat lawns and holiday decorations twinkling prematurely—Harper’s reflections turned inward, recollections of her past rising unbidden, each one a brushstroke in the portrait of her resilience. Born in 1960 to a conservative family in rural Wisconsin, her childhood had been a canvas of emotional abuse, her father’s voice a harsh critic that painted her dreams in shades of inadequacy.

“Art’s for dreamers, not doers,” he’d sneer, ripping her childish drawings from the fridge, his words landing like blows that left no visible bruises but scarred her spirit deep. She’d hide her sketchbooks under her bed, drawing in secret by flashlight, the thrill of creation mingled with fear of discovery. At sixteen, the trauma escalated—a family friend, trusted like an uncle, cornered her in the barn during a summer visit. His hands were rough on her shoulders, pushing her to her knees, his cock forcing into her mouth as she gagged, his grunts echoing as he came down her throat, hot and bitter, leaving her vomiting in the hay, tears streaming as she swore to bury the memory. The assault repressed her desires for years, turning her into a shadow of herself, her art abandoned for “practical” pursuits—a secretarial job, a marriage at thirty-two to a man who seemed safe but proved coercive.

The marriage to Richard was a decade of physical and emotional domination, a dark period that Harper recollected with a shudder as the cab passed a church steeple, its cross silhouetted against the sky. Richard’s control started subtly—critiquing her outfits, isolating her from friends—but escalated to bedroom violations. Nights where he’d pin her to the mattress, his weight crushing, forcing his cock into her unwilling body, thrusting roughly as she lay still, tears silent on her cheeks, his cum a sticky reminder of her powerlessness. “You’re mine,” he’d growl, his hands bruising her thighs, leaving her sore and hollow. The divorce at forty-two was a liberation, but the scars lingered, her body a map of mistrust. It was in the aftermath, wandering Chicago’s feminist art scenes, that she discovered BDSM—underground gatherings in lofts where women in leather taught her to wield power. Her first dominatrix training, under a mentor named Vivian (ironically sharing a name with one of Bob’s later interests), involved learning the art of the flogger, the satisfaction of control consensual, not coercive. “Dominance is a gift,” Vivian had said, guiding Harper’s hand to strike a willing submissive’s back, the thuds a rhythm that echoed her heartbeat, reclaiming what Richard had stolen.

Harper’s sharp gray eyes misted as the cab turned onto Bob’s street, reflections on her future breaking through the past’s fog. What lay ahead? A polyamorous household with this Bob Harlan, a man whose ad spoke of vitality despite his age and condition, a dungeon where her dominance could flourish in a sisterhood of shared healing. She imagined mornings of artistic creation, afternoons of boundary discussions, evenings where she’d lead scenes—flogging Bob’s chest, his moans a canvas for her commands, his unique fluid release a symbol of acceptance. The poly dynamics excited her: rotating roles, where one night she dominated the group, another she submitted to the collective will, building a family unbound by traditional chains. But doubts crept in—what if the group dynamics triggered her past repressions? At sixty-two, was she too old for such leaps? Yet, the future beckoned with promise: healing her traumas fully, inspiring kink-infused art that could thrive in this new environment, perhaps even a legacy beyond her loft’s confines. Departing at Bob’s 110—though she couldn’t know that yet—would lead to solo pursuits, her works exhibited in galleries, erotic sculptures blending leather and canvas, until a car accident at eighty-five ended it all; her art would endure as a testament to resilience.

What was she leaving behind? The loft, yes—its high ceilings echoing with the ghosts of solitary nights, paint-splattered floors bearing the marks of her fury and joy. Her Chicago community: feminist kink circles where she’d mentored young artists, late-night sessions of bondage and banter that had rebuilt her confidence. Relationships—fleeting lovers who couldn’t match her depth, a string of submissives who adored her dominance but feared her intensity. Leaving meant shedding the safety of isolation and the control of her own space for the uncertainty of shared vulnerability. As the cab stopped at Bob’s tidy home, Harper paid the driver, her suitcase thudding once more, a final echo of departure. Stepping out, the wind whipping her coat, she felt the restless energy peak—a mix of fear, excitement, and determination. This was reclamation, a shield against her youth’s shadows, a canvas for what came next.

Harper Eleanor Voss’s life was a vivid mosaic of repression, rebellion, and resurgence, each phase painted with the bold strokes of her indomitable spirit and the subtle shades of her enduring traumas. Born on July 15, 1960, in the quaint, conservative town of Cedar Rapids, Iowa, Harper entered a world where the winds of change were beginning to whisper through the cornfields. The 1960s were dawning, but in her family home—a modest two-story farmhouse with creaking floors and lace curtains—time seemed frozen in the rigid moralism of the post-war era. Her father, Harlan Voss, was a stern factory foreman at the local meatpacking plant, a man whose calloused hands and unyielding gaze embodied the archetype of Midwestern patriarchy. Harlan’s emotional abuse was relentless, a daily barrage of criticism that targeted Harper’s budding artistic talents like a precision strike. “Those scribbles won’t put food on the table,” he’d sneer, snatching her childish sketches—innocent drawings of sunflowers and imaginary castles—from the kitchen table and crumpling them in his fist, his voice a whip that lashed at her confidence without leaving visible marks. Harper’s mother, Eleanor, a quiet homemaker who had sacrificed her own dreams of nursing to raise a family, offered little solace. Eleanor’s love was expressed through practical acts—baking apple pies or sewing dresses—but she too internalized the era’s expectations, teaching Harper by example that women were to endure, not to aspire. This environment stifled Harper’s creativity from the cradle, turning her innate passion for art into a secret vice, something to be hidden like a forbidden lover.

Harper’s early inspirations were drawn from the natural world around her, a quiet rebellion against her father’s disdain. The golden Iowa sunsets, with their fiery oranges bleeding into purples, ignited her imagination; the intricate patterns in her mother’s quilts, stitched with painstaking care, taught her the beauty of texture and form; and the wildflowers in the fields behind their home whispered of freedom and color in a gray existence. But each attempt to capture these on paper was met with derision. By age ten, Harper had learned to draw in the dead of night, under the covers with a flashlight, her heart pounding with a mix of exhilaration and fear. These clandestine sessions were her first taste of empowerment, a spark that would later blaze into her BDSM explorations. Yet, the emotional abuse left deeper scars— a persistent voice in her head that her art was worthless, her desires frivolous, shaping a self-doubt that would take decades to dismantle.

At sixteen, the trauma deepened in a way that nearly extinguished that spark. It was a humid summer evening in 1976, during a family barbecue, the air thick with the smell of grilled corn and laughter from relatives. A family friend, Uncle Ray—a burly man in his forties whom everyone trusted like kin—cornered her in the toolshed under the pretense of fetching charcoal. His breath reeked of beer and cigarettes as he pushed her against the rough wooden wall, his hands rough and insistent on her shoulders. “You’ve grown so pretty, Harper,” he slurred, his fingers fumbling with his zipper as he forced her to her knees. Harper’s heart hammered in terror, her mind screaming for escape, but fear paralyzed her. He thrust his cock into her mouth, gagging her as she struggled, tears streaming down her face, his grunts filling the confined space like a nightmare. He held her head firmly, pumping relentlessly until he came down her throat, hot and bitter, the taste burning like acid. Harper vomited in the hay afterward, her body shaking with shock and humiliation, the secret buried deep as she stumbled back to the party, forcing a smile through the nausea. This assault repressed her desires for years, turning her into a shadow—obedient, withdrawn, her art abandoned for “practical” pursuits like secretarial school. The inspiration that once flowed from joy now twisted into dark, unspoken fantasies of power and revenge, seeds that would bloom in her later BDSM life.

Harper’s twenties were a fog of conformity, a survival mode where she buried her traumas under layers of normalcy. She took a job as a secretary in a Cedar Rapids law firm, typing letters for attorneys who leered at her figure but never saw her soul. Evenings were spent in the local library, devouring forbidden books on surrealism and expressionism—Salvador Dalí’s melted clocks symbolizing her distorted sense of time, frozen in trauma; Frida Kahlo’s self-portraits of suffering and strength, with their vivid depictions of physical and emotional pain, resonating with her hidden wounds. Kahlo, in particular, became a muse: her unapologetic exploration of sexuality and suffering inspired Harper to doodle in secret, sketches of fractured bodies and chained figures that hinted at her repressed kink. But she dared not create openly, her father’s voice echoing like a ghost: “Waste of time, girl.” This period was marked by isolation, her inspirations simmering beneath the surface, fueling a growing restlessness that no amount of routine could quell.

At thirty-two, Harper married Richard, a salesman with a charming smile and promises of stability. The wedding was a small courthouse affair, her white sheath dress a symbol of hope, but the honeymoon in a cheap motel revealed his true nature. That first night, Richard pinned her to the bed, his weight crushing her, thrusting his cock into her dry pussy with brutal force, the pain searing as he pounded relentlessly, his grunts animalistic as he came inside her, hot and unwanted, leaving her sobbing quietly, blood spotting the sheets. “You’re mine now,” he growled, rolling off with a satisfied smirk, his cum a sticky reminder of her powerlessness. The attacks escalated over the years, each one a layer of horror that deepened her wounds. One evening in their cramped apartment, after an argument over dinner, Richard slammed her against the wall, his hands ripping her blouse, forcing her legs apart as he thrust into her unwilling body, his cock slamming with vicious rhythm, her cries muffled by his hand over her mouth as he came, pulling out to spill on her thigh in dominance, his laughter a cruel echo as she slid to the floor, tears mixing with the semen on her skin.

Another time, in the kitchen during a holiday party, he dragged her to the pantry, bending her over a shelf of canned goods, his fingers digging into her hips as he took her from behind, his cock pounding her ass dry, the pain like fire as he grunted, his release a hot flood inside her, leaving her bleeding and broken, whispering, “This is what you get for talking back.” Harper endured, her courage buried under layers of fear and shame, her art inspirations twisted into private doodles of chained figures, symbols of her entrapment. The assaults blurred into a nightmarish routine—nights where he’d wake her with his erection pressed against her back, forcing entry into her pussy without prelude, his thrusts rough and selfish, her body tensing in pain as he came, his cum a violation she washed away in silent tears under the shower. Each incident chipped away at her spirit, but also kindled a spark of defiance; her secret sketches became darker, more empowered—women wielding whips, men bound in submission, inspirations from Kahlo’s self-inflicted pain transforming into visions of reclaimed power.