The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 7: Moving Day
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 7: Moving Day - 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
June 20, 2020
The longest day of the year began with three U-Hauls pulling into the driveway within seventeen minutes of one another.
Susan arrived first at 4:03 p.m., white Mercedes Sprinter van rented in Los Angeles, driven 400 miles with the windows down and Persian music loud enough to rattle her teeth. She stepped out in a simple black sundress, hair twisted up, eyes already wet. One suitcase. One box labeled “Soheila – keep forever.” Nothing else.
Nawana roared in at 4:11 in a bright orange 10-foot truck that looked like it had been through three hurricanes and a revolution. She wore a red tank top and denim cut-offs, curls exploding in every direction, grinning like a woman walking to her own coronation. Two suitcases, one box spray-painted with the words MIAMI OR BUST (the “or bust” had been crossed out in Sharpie and replaced with CAPTAIN). She kissed Susan hello without asking, full on the mouth, then turned to Bob and dropped to her knees on the hot asphalt.
Alicia was last, 4:20 p.m., small white cargo van driven up from LAX where she had landed that morning. She emerged in a thin gray hoodie and black leggings, hood up, sunglasses hiding eyes that had cried the entire flight. One duffel. One box labeled only with a purple rope symbol inked on every side. She walked straight to Bob, knelt beside Nawana, and laid her head against his thigh without a word.
The neighbors (if they noticed) saw nothing unusual: just an older man helping three women unload boxes on a Saturday in June.
They never saw what happened once the front door closed and locked for the final time.
Bob stood in the foyer, arms crossed, and delivered the last verbal order they would ever receive while clothed.
“Strip. Everything goes in the fire pit. Now.”
Three dresses, one tank top, one pair of cut-offs, one hoodie, three sets of underwear, three bras, three pairs of shoes (all of it carried out to the backyard in trembling arms).
He had dug the pit deeper than usual, lined it with bricks, soaked the base with lighter fluid. The match he struck was the same one he had used to light Mary’s funeral pyre in this very spot four years earlier.
The flames caught fast.
Susan’s black sundress went first (silk curling like black petals). Nawana’s red tank followed, then her denim shorts, laughing and crying at once. Alicia stood silent as her hoodie burned, arms wrapped around her own ribs, watching the last of Seattle turn to smoke.
When the fire settled into steady orange, Bob spoke the words that ended one life and began another.
“Threshold is crossed. Clothes are ash. From this moment forward, you are naked in this house until I say otherwise. Kneel.”
Three bodies dropped to the warm grass in perfect unison.
He looked at them (really looked).
Susan, 60, statuesque, heavy breasts swaying, C-section scars silver in the sunset. Nawana, 50, compact and fierce, hips flared, ass round enough to make the fire jealous. Alicia, 40, delicate and deadly, dancer lines, rope marks still purple across her back from the suspension three weeks ago.
His.
All of them.
He turned and walked inside without another word.
They followed on hands and knees across the threshold, over the cool tile, up the stairs, into the master bedroom where the California king waited with fresh black sheets and four pillows arranged in deliberate formation.
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