The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 20: Nawana’s Daughter
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 20: Nawana’s Daughter - 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
July 27, 2021
The doorbell rang at 2:14 p.m. on a Tuesday that smelled like cut grass and second chances.
Nawana was in the kitchen, barefoot and naked except for her red collar, chopping cilantro for ceviche and singing old Celia Cruz off-key. Susan and Alicia were in the backyard doing morning (well, afternoon) yoga under the oak. Bob was in his recliner reading the newspaper like it was 1985.
The bell rang again (three sharp presses).
Nawana wiped her hands on a towel, padded to the door, and opened it without thinking.
Marisol Delgado stood on the welcome mat in ripped jeans and a UC Davis T-shirt, long black curls pulled into a messy bun, eyes the exact shape and color of her mother’s at twenty-six.
She had driven fourteen hours straight from Northern California.
Nawana’s heart stopped.
“Mami?”
The towel fell from Nawana’s hand.
For one frozen second mother and daughter stared at each other (Nawana naked, collared, thirty pounds softer than the last time Marisol had seen her, and utterly speechless).
Then Marisol’s gaze flicked past her mother to the living room where Bob stood in jeans and nothing else, silver chest hair catching the light.
Marisol’s mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
Nawana found her voice first (high, panicked, pure Miami).
“Marisol, bebé, what are you doing here?”
“I tried to call,” Marisol said, voice shaking. “You never pick up. I ... I needed to see you. Abuela died last month and—”
Her words died.
Because Susan and Alicia chose that exact moment to walk in from the backyard (naked, glistening with sweat, collars gleaming, hands linked).
Marisol took one step back.
Nawana took one step forward.
“Bebé, listen—”
“You’re in a cult,” Marisol blurted. “You’re naked. With old people. And collars. Mami, what the fuck?”
The word fuck cracked like a slap.
Bob moved first (calm, deliberate, the same way he had once walked into firefights).
He picked up the throw blanket from the couch, wrapped it around Nawana’s shoulders, and stepped between mother and daughter.
“Marisol,” he said quietly, “my name is Bob Callahan. Come inside. Close the door. We’ll talk.”
Marisol’s eyes were huge, furious, terrified.
Nawana started crying (silent, helpless tears).
Susan and Alicia hovered in the hallway, frozen.
Marisol looked at her mother (really looked), saw the collar, the tears, the way Bob’s hand rested protectively on Nawana’s neck.
She stepped inside.
Bob closed the door.
They ended up on the front porch because the living room felt too small for what was about to happen.
Marisol sat on the top step, arms around her knees.
Nawana sat beside her, blanket clutched tight, voice shaking.
“I should have told you,” she started. “I know I should have told you. I didn’t know how.”
Marisol wouldn’t look at her.
Bob stood behind them, leaning against the porch rail. Susan and Alicia stayed inside (visible through the screen door, giving space but not leaving).
Minutes passed (hot, heavy, awful).
Then Marisol spoke, voice small.
“Abuela’s last words were about you. She said, ‘Tell Nawana I forgive her for everything. Tell her to come home.’ I thought she meant Miami.”
Nawana made a broken sound.
“I am home,” she whispered. “This is my home now.”
Marisol finally turned.
“With him?” She jerked her chin toward Bob. “And ... them?”
Bob answered before Nawana could.
To read the complete story you need to be logged in:
Log In or
Register for a Free account
(Why register?)
* Allows you 3 stories to read in 24 hours.