The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 13: Alicia’s Limit
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 13: Alicia’s Limit - In a world that ended in 2020, a 72-year-old widower with no prostate opens his door to three extraordinary women. Five years later, naked, titanium-collared, and complete, they prove love needs no working cock—only steady hands, overflowing trays, and hearts brave enough to burn clothes and build forever. Raw, explicit, tender, triumphant later-in-life BDSM poly romance.
Caution: This Erotica Sex Story contains strong sexual content, including Ma/Fa Mult Consensual Romantic Slavery BiSexual Heterosexual Fiction Military Tear Jerker Workplace Sharing BDSM DomSub MaleDom Humiliation Light Bond Rough Spanking Group Sex Harem Orgy Polygamy/Polyamory White Male Oriental Female Hispanic Female Indian Female Anal Sex Analingus Cream Pie Double Penetration Exhibitionism Facial Fisting Masturbation Oral Sex Safe Sex Squirting Voyeurism Water Sports BBW Big Breasts Public Sex Small Breasts Nudism AI Generated
October 27, 2020
The night it broke was cold for California, the first real bite of autumn sneaking through the open basement window.
They had planned a celebration: one hundred days since Moving Day. The tray had been polished until it shone like a mirror. Susan had cooked a Persian feast upstairs. Nawana had chosen the music (slow, filthy Cuban beats). Alicia had asked for the cane.
She had been flying for weeks (deep in subspace, bruises blooming and fading like tide marks, begging for harder, deeper, more). Tonight she wanted “the edge,” she said. She wanted to mark the hundredth day with something that would last.
Bob should have seen the danger signs.
He didn’t.
He bound her to the St. Andrew’s cross facing outward (arms high, legs spread, purple ropes framing her small breasts and narrow hips). The cane was the thin dragon rattan (her favorite, the one that sang).
He started slow (warm-up taps, then measured strokes that painted perfect parallel lines across her ass and thighs).
She moaned, arched, whispered “more” in Japanese.
He gave more.
At stroke twenty-five, the first welt rose angry and purple.
At thirty her voice cracked on a thank-you.
At thirty-eight she was crying (beautiful, open, the kind of tears that usually meant she was soaring).
At forty-one the cane landed wrong (just a fraction too high, too hard, across the tender crease where thigh meets ass).
The sound was different. A wetter crack.
Alicia’s entire body jerked against the ropes.
The word tore out of her like a blade.
“Red.”
Everything stopped.
Bob dropped the cane so fast it clattered across the concrete.
His hands were on her in seconds (frantic, shaking, unclipping carabiners, loosening ropes, catching her as her legs buckled).
Susan and Nawana were already there (they had been watching from the couch, ready with water and blankets).
Alicia sagged into his arms, sobbing in great, broken gasps.
Bob carried her upstairs (heart hammering so hard he could barely hear her whimpers over the roar in his ears).
He laid her face-down on the California king, grabbed the arnica, the ice, the softest blanket.
His hands (hands that had never once trembled in combat or surgery or grief) shook like leaves as he examined the damage.
One stroke had split the skin (a thin, perfect line of crimson welling up).
The sight of her blood on his sheets hit him like a mortar round.
I’m too old. I’ve lost my touch. I hurt her. I broke her.
The thought looped, vicious and unstoppable.
Alicia turned her head on the pillow, tears cutting clean tracks through the sweat on her temples.
“Captain,” she rasped. “Look at me.”
He couldn’t.
She reached back, found his wrist, pulled his hand to her cheek.
“Look at me.”
He forced his eyes to hers.
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