The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 18: The Waiting Room
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 18: The Waiting Room - 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
April 14, 2021
The biopsy was scheduled for 8:00 a.m. at Fresno Community Medical Center.
Bob had fasted since midnight. He wore loose sweatpants, a plain black T-shirt, and the expression of a man marching to a familiar war.
The women had dressed for battle.
Susan in a charcoal sheath dress that hugged every curve, hair in a severe knot, collar hidden beneath a silk scarf but the outline visible to anyone who knew what to look for. Nawana in a crimson wrap dress that screamed Miami and dared the world to comment, red leather collar peeking above the neckline like a declaration. Alicia in a simple black turtleneck and leggings, purple leather collar worn openly, hair in a waist-length braid that swung like a pendulum.
All three vaccinated, all three unmasked (California had lifted the mandate for the fully vaccinated the week before).
They walked into the urology waiting room at 7:42 a.m. like a single organism.
Heads turned.
An older man in a John Deere cap did a double-take at the collars. A woman clutching a rosary whispered something to her husband. The receptionist’s eyes widened behind her plexiglass shield.
Bob signed in.
The four of them took the only four connected chairs in the corner (Bob in the middle, Susan and Nawana on either side, Alicia on his lap because there wasn’t room and because she refused to be anywhere else).
No one spoke.
Susan reached over, laced her fingers through Bob’s left hand. Nawana took his right. Alicia wrapped both arms around his neck from behind, cheek pressed to his hair.
They sat like that (four bodies, one heartbeat), daring the room to say a goddamn word.
A nurse called “Robert Callahan” at 7:58.
Bob stood.
The women stood with him.
The nurse (young, ponytail, kind eyes) hesitated.
“Family only in pre-op,” she started.
Bob’s voice was quiet steel.
“They are my family.”
The nurse looked at the three women (collars gleaming, eyes fierce, hands still linked with his) and made the smartest decision of her career.
“This way.”
They walked the corridor together (past curtained bays, beeping monitors, the smell of antiseptic and fear).
In the pre-op bay the nurse drew the curtain.
Bob sat on the gurney.
The women surrounded him (Susan on his left, Nawana on his right, Alicia standing between his knees, hands on his shoulders).
The anesthesiologist came in, saw the formation, and simply asked, “Who’s staying until he’s under?”
All three raised their hands.
He nodded once and proceeded.
IV placed, questions answered, consents signed.
The sedative began to drip.
Bob’s eyes grew heavy.
Susan leaned in, pressed her lips to his ear.
“We are right here, Captain. Every second. You come back to us.”
Nawana kissed his knuckles, tears sliding down her cheeks but voice steady.
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