The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 19: Negative
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 19: Negative - 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
May 3, 2021
The official letter arrived on a Monday that smelled like orange blossoms and second chances.
Dr. Patel’s office called first: “All margins clean, PSA dropping. You’re officially boring again, Mr. Callahan.”
Bob hung up, stood in the kitchen doorway, and said four words that stopped the world.
“It’s negative. Completely.”
The house exploded.
Susan dropped the wooden spoon she was holding; it clattered across the tile like a starting gun. Nawana screamed one high, joyous note in Cuban Spanish and tackled him. Alicia (quiet, deadly Alicia) walked forward, wrapped her arms around both of them, and began to cry so hard her knees buckled.
They ended up on the floor again (same spot as the diagnosis, only this time the tears were different).
When the sobbing and laughing and kissing finally slowed, Bob wiped his eyes and issued the only order that mattered.
“Basement. Now. All of you.”
They went.
The playroom had never looked more beautiful (red floor gleaming, oak cross polished, stainless tray waiting like it had known this day was coming).
Bob locked the door behind them.
He did not speak again for a long time.
He simply pointed.
Susan understood first (she always did). She walked to the center of the room, knelt, and bowed until her forehead touched the rubber mat.
Nawana and Alicia followed without hesitation (three perfect lines of submission).
Bob circled them once, slowly.
Then he began.
First the ropes (purple hemp for Alicia, red for Nawana, black for Susan). He bound them together in a single, intricate harness (chest to chest to chest, arms behind backs, hips locked, legs spread and tied to floor rings so they formed a living triangle around the low padded bench).
When he finished, they were one creature (six breasts pressed tight, three throats collared and connected by short chains, three cunts open and dripping onto the mat beneath).
He rolled on the custom triple-threat sleeve he had ordered months ago and never used: one solid silicone shaft for Alicia’s ass, a hollow channel through the center for his own release, and a second hollow strap-on that Nawana would wear forward into Susan’s cunt.
He positioned himself behind Alicia.
Nawana behind Susan.
Susan in the center, suspended between them.
He entered Alicia’s ass in one slow, relentless push.
She cried out (beautiful, broken, perfect).
Nawana followed, sliding the second hollow shaft into Susan’s cunt with a wet sound that echoed off the walls.
Susan’s back arched, a low moan tearing from her throat.
Then the rhythm began.
Bob set the pace (deep, punishing strokes that drove Alicia forward into Nawana, who drove into Susan, who took it all with rolling hips and tears of gratitude).
The chains between their collars rattled with every thrust.
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