The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 17: The Diagnosis
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 17: The Diagnosis - 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
March 18, 2021
The lab results arrived on a Thursday that started like any other.
Collars and coffee at 5:47 a.m. Susan’s cezve (new, bought after the jealousy incident) is singing on the stove. Nawana hums off-key Cuban love songs while setting out cups. Alicia was kneeling perfectly still, eyes closed, breathing in the cardamom like it was incense.
Bob opened the patient portal on his phone while the coffee cooled.
The number sat at the top of the page, bold and black.
PSA: 0.12 ng/mL
He stared at it for a full ten seconds before the meaning landed.
Eight years post-prostatectomy, anything above 0.03 was considered biochemical recurrence.
He set the phone face down on the island with deliberate calm.
Susan noticed first (she always noticed). She was mid-pour, copper cezve tilted, when she saw his face.
“Captain?”
He couldn’t speak.
Nawana turned from the sink, dish towel in hand. Alicia’s eyes snapped open.
The kitchen went still except for the soft hiss of the stove.
Bob found his voice (rough, foreign).
“My PSA is 0.12.”
Three cups hit the counter at once.
Susan’s hand flew to her collar like it could shield her heart. Nawana made a slight, wounded sound. Alicia stopped breathing.
Bob tried for a smile. It felt like a grimace.
“It’s not zero anymore.”
The words hung in the air like smoke.
Susan was the first to move (crawling the three feet to his feet, pressing her forehead to his bare knee).
Nawana followed, collapsing beside her, arms wrapping around Susan’s waist as much for her own comfort as Susan’s.
Alicia stayed frozen on her cushion, eyes huge, hands clenched so tight her knuckles went white.
Bob looked down at the three women who had become his entire world and felt fear (real, animal fear) for the first time since Mary’s stroke.
He had promised them forever.
Forever might have just shrunk.
He reached down, cupped Susan’s cheek, then Nawana’s, then (when Alicia still didn’t move) walked to her, knelt, and pulled her into his lap like a child.
She buried her face in his neck and finally let out the sob she’d been holding.
The four of them stayed there on the kitchen floor (coffee forgotten, morning light slanting through the window) while the truth settled over them like snow.
Susan spoke first, voice muffled against his thigh.
“What happens now?”
“Repeat blood test in two weeks,” Bob said. “If it’s still rising, biopsy. If the biopsy shows cancer, we fight again.”
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