The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 15: Winter Solstice
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 15: Winter Solstice - 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
December 21, 2020
The longest night of the darkest year began with fire.
Bob built it himself in the backyard pit (oak and cedar, stacked high, doused with just enough lighter fluid to roar without exploding). By 6:00 p.m., the flames were tall enough to paint the fence gold and warm enough to make eight masked guests shed their coats the moment they stepped through the gate.
They were the careful ones (six couples who had quarantined together since March, tested religiously, trusted implicitly). Old friends from the Los Angeles and Fresno scenes, some Bob had known since the 1990s, others newer but vetted by Marcus the notary himself. They brought wine, pastries, and the kind of quiet reverence usually reserved for churches.
Inside the house, the women prepared.
Susan oiled every inch of skin until they gleamed (olive, bronze, porcelain). Nawana braided Susan’s hair and Alicia’s into matching crowns, left her own curls wild because Bob liked something to grip. Alicia laid out the collars (black, red, purple) on a black velvet pillow like royal jewels.
At 7:30 p.m., the guests were seated in a wide circle of folding chairs around the Fire pit.
At 7:45, the sliding door opened.
Bob stepped out first, naked except for the original leather vest Mary had bought him in 1982 (cracked, soft, smelling of smoke and history). Behind him walked Susan, Nawana, and Alicia (barefoot, collared, heads high, eyes lowered).
The only light came from the fire and strings of white fairy lights Alicia had hung in the oak.
Bob raised one hand.
Conversation stopped.
“This is the longest night,” he said, voice carrying over the crackle of wood. “Six months ago these women crossed my threshold and never left. Tonight we mark the turning of the year. Tonight you witness what this house is. You do not speak. You do not touch. You only watch.”
Eight heads nodded.
He led the women to the center of the circle (a low, wide ottoman draped in black leather, the stainless tray on its stand waiting beside it like an altar).
He seated himself on the ottoman, legs apart, vest open.
Susan knelt to his left. Nawana to his right. Alicia between his knees.
The ritual began.
First the collars were removed (slowly, reverently, each padlock opened with the same tiny key he wore around his neck). The leather was laid on the velvet pillow like relics.
Then the edging began.
For fifty-three minutes Bob sat motionless while three mouths and six hands worshipped him (Susan’s throat taking him deep and slow, Nawana’s tongue on his balls, Alicia’s delicate fingers tracing every vein and scar).
He never thrust. He never spoke. He simply breathed (deep, controlled, Marine steady) while the fire painted them all in shifting gold.
The guests watched in absolute silence, some with tears on their cheeks, some with hands clasped tight to keep from reaching out.
At 8:38 p.m. Bob finally moved.
He stood.
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