The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 4: Nawana
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 4: Nawana - 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 2020
The doorbell rang at 3:17 p.m. on a Friday that felt like the first real day the world had opened its eyes since March.
Bob opened the door wearing only faded jeans, barefoot, silver chest hair catching the late-spring sun. Nawana Delgado stood on his welcome mat with a red weekender bag slung over one shoulder and a grin that could start fires.
She was shorter than he expected (5’4” in flat sandals), but every inch packed like dynamite. Cuban curves wrapped in a white ribbed tank that clung to heavy breasts and a black maxi skirt that slit up one thigh. Skin sun-kissed bronze, black curls exploding around her head like she’d just been fucked by the wind on I-10. Fifty years old and radiating the kind of energy that made men forget their own names.
“Captain,” she said, voice pure Miami (rolled r’s, zero hesitation). “I drove thirty-six hours straight. You gonna invite me in or make me beg on the porch?”
Bob stepped aside.
She crossed the threshold, dropped the bag, kicked the door shut with one heel, and was on her knees before the sound finished echoing.
The movement was so fast, so certain, it stole his breath.
Her palms landed flat on his thighs, forehead pressed to his bare stomach just above the waistband. She inhaled like she was trying to memorize the scent of his skin.
“Permission to speak freely, Sir?”
“Granted.”
“I have not come since I read your profile,” she said against his skin. “I have not slept. I have not eaten anything that wasn’t gas-station junk because I was afraid if I stopped moving I’d chicken out. I am here. I am yours. Use me, break me, send me away (whatever you decide), but please, for the love of God, do not make me wait another second.”
Bob’s hand found the back of her head, fingers threading through wild curls.
“Stand up.”
She rose slowly, eyes never leaving his. He took one step back, looked her over the way a man looks over land he’s about to claim.
“Strip.”
Tank top over her head (no bra). Breasts spilled free: full, heavy, dark nipples already peaked. Skirt unzipped and pooled at her feet. No panties. A neat landing strip above swollen lips that glistened in the afternoon light.
She stood naked in his foyer, breathing hard, waiting.
Bob walked a slow circle around her. The ass he’d only seen in photos was even better in person (round, high, the kind of bubble that made men write bad poetry). A tiny tattoo of a red hibiscus just above the cleft.
He stopped in front of her again.
“Living-room rug. On your back. Legs open. Show me what you brought me.”
She practically ran.
By the time he followed, she was sprawled on the cream shag carpet (the one Mary had picked out in 1998), knees bent, thighs wide, fingers already spreading herself open.
“Look at me,” he said.
Her eyes locked on his, wild and wet.
“I’m going to fuck you now,” he told her. “Not with what I lost. With what I still have. You’ll take every inch I give you, and when I come you’ll take every drop inside you. Then you’ll decide if you’re staying. Clear?”
“Yes, Sir. Please.”
He stepped out of his jeans. His cock lay soft against his thigh (no erection, never would be again), but the custom hollow sleeve waited on the coffee table beside a bottle of lube: matte black silicone, open through the center like a tunnel, flared base, seven thick inches.
He rolled it on slowly, letting her watch. The sight of it made her hips roll involuntarily.
He knelt between her thighs, slicked himself generously, and lined up.
“Look at me,” he repeated.
She did.
He pushed in with one long, steady thrust.
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