The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 3: Susan
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 3: Susan - 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 2020
The first video call came on a Thursday night when the Los Angeles sky was the color of a healing bruise.
Bob sat in the office, which he had barely used since Mary died (dark wood paneling, a single desk lamp, the leather desk chair that still carried the faint indentation of his wife’s body from decades of kneeling beside it while he paid bills). He wore a plain black T-shirt and gray sweatpants. No vest tonight. He wanted nothing between them and the truth.
The Zoom link appeared at 8:59 p.m. He clicked.
The Screen filled with a woman who looked like every forbidden fantasy he’d never allowed himself to have.
Susan (Soheila) sat on a cream-colored couch in a high-rise apartment overlooking an empty 405 freeway. Behind her, floor-to-ceiling windows showed a city holding its breath. She wore a charcoal silk robe, collar tied loosely, long black hair loose over one shoulder. Sixty years old and still regal enough to make his chest hurt.
“Hello, Captain,” she said in a voice like smoke and honey—Persian accent, soft consonants, vowels that lingered like a kiss.
“Hello, Susan.” He kept his tone level, the same tone that had once made twenty-year-old Marines drop and give him fifty without thinking. “Stand up. Let me see you.”
She rose without hesitation. The robe fell open slightly, revealing the inner curves of heavy breasts, the soft line of a belly that had carried two children she never talked about.
“Drop it.”
The silk whispered to the floor.
She stood naked in the lamplight of her living room, arms at her sides, chin high, eyes lowered. Forty years of gravity and life had written their honest story on her body: silver stretch marks across her hips, two faint C-section scars low on her abdomen, breasts full and pendulous with dark nipples drawn tight from nerves or cold, thighs thick enough to crush a man’s skull if she chose.
Bob let the silence stretch until he saw her breath hitch.
“Turn. Slowly.”
She pivoted. Back strong, ass generous, a faint lattice of old cane marks across the tops of her thighs (someone else’s work, pale and faded).
“Again. Face me.”
She completed the circle.
“Look at me.”
Her eyes lifted (dark, liquid, ancient). They were wet.
“Tell me what you see when you look at me,” she said, voice trembling just enough to betray her.
“I see a woman who has spent six decades waiting for permission to be exactly who she is,” Bob answered. “Every mark on your body is a medal, Susan. You earned them carrying life, surviving men who didn’t deserve you, keeping your Fire banked until the right hand came along to stoke it. You are magnificent.”
A single tear slipped down her cheek.
Bob leaned closer to the camera. “I’m going to say this once. Listen carefully. You are beautiful. Not despite your body. Because of it. Every scar, every stretch mark, every inch that doesn’t match some twenty-year-old fantasy; those are the reasons I already know I could own you for the rest of my life. Do you understand me?”
She nodded, unable to speak.
“Words, Susan.”
“Yes, Captain,” she whispered. “I understand.”
“Good girl. Now kneel.”
She sank to the carpet in one fluid motion, robe forgotten.
Bob’s voice dropped to the register that had once made Mary soak through her panties in public just by leaning in and saying good evening.
“Hands behind your back. Shoulders down. Tits out. Show me what’s mine.”
She obeyed, chest rising and falling fast.
For the next forty minutes, he did not touch himself once. He talked (low, steady, relentless).
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