The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 14: The Leak
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 14: The Leak - 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
November 3, 2020
The call came at 7:12 p.m. on Election Night, when the country was already screaming and the house on Cinder Lane was trying very hard to ignore it.
Susan’s phone buzzed on the kitchen island where it sat charging (face down, silenced, as per evening rules). She glanced at the screen anyway.
Incoming FaceTime: Parvin joon ♡♡♡
Susan froze.
Parvin was the eldest sister (sixty-five, Tehran-born, married to a cardiologist in Orange County, keeper of family honor and every secret Susan had buried since 1979).
Bob saw the look on Susan’s face and muted the television mid-meltdown.
“Answer it,” he said quietly. “Speaker. Here.”
They gathered in the living room (Bob in his recliner, Susan kneeling at his right, Nawana and Alicia on the couch behind her, naked and collared, hands clasped tight).
Susan accepted the call.
Parvin’s face filled the screen (beautiful, furious, eyes red from crying).
“Soheila,” she started in rapid Farsi, voice shaking, “what is this filth?”
She held up her phone to the camera.
On it was a photo Susan had posted to a private FetLife group two weeks ago (four masked figures in the backyard at dusk, backs to the camera, collared, naked, arms around one another under fairy lights). The caption had been simple: “My chosen family. 100 days home.”
Someone had screenshotted it, removed the privacy filters, and sent it to Parvin with the message: “Your sister is a whore.”
Parvin switched to English, venom dripping.
“You disgrace our parents’ graves. You disgrace our name. Four people? Naked? Collars like dogs? You are sixty years old, Soheila! Have you lost your mind?”
Susan’s entire body trembled.
Nawana’s hand tightened on her shoulder.
Alicia made a small, wounded sound.
Bob leaned forward, placed one steady hand on the back of Susan’s neck, and spoke (calm, cold, absolute).
“Parvin,” he said, using her name like a weapon. “Look at me.”
Parvin’s eyes snapped to him.
“My name is Bob Callahan. I am the man in that photo. These three women live in my house, wear my collars, sleep in my bed, and answer to my rules. They are mine. All three of them. Not one. Not two. Three. And they are happier, safer, and more loved than they have ever been in their lives.”
Parvin opened her mouth (rage, scripture, shame ready to pour out).
Bob cut her off.
“You will not speak to Susan that way again. You will not speak about Nawana or Alicia at all. You do not get to judge what you do not understand. This is not a phase. This is not a scandal. This is their home. This is their family. And if you cannot respect that, you will lose your sister. Permanently.”
The line went dead silent.
Susan was crying (silent tears sliding down her breasts, dripping onto the rug).
Parvin’s face cycled through shock, disgust, grief.
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