The House on Cinder Lane
Copyright© 2025 by Dilbert Jazz
Chapter 8: Collars and Coffee
Erotica Sex Story: Chapter 8: Collars and Coffee - 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
First Full Week, Late June 2020
The first Monday after Moving Day began at 5:47 a.m. with the quiet click of the bedroom door.
Bob woke instantly (old Marine habit), found the bed empty except for the warm indentations where three bodies had slept curled around him like cats claiming a sunbeam. The air smelled faintly of sex, sweat, and the lingering smoke from last night’s fire pit.
He pulled on loose cotton pants, padded barefoot downstairs, and discovered the new center of his universe already in motion.
Susan knelt naked in the kitchen, back straight, knees wide on the soft rug he had placed in front of the stove exactly for this purpose. A small copper cezve simmered on low flame, filling the house with cardamom and darkness. Her long black hair was braided tightly down her back (bedroom rule: hair controlled before coffee, always). Breasts heavy, nipples dark and peaked from the cool morning air, C-section scars silver in the first gray light.
Nawana and Alicia knelt behind her in perfect line, three feet apart, palms on thighs, heads bowed. Nawana’s curls were already rebelling against the scrunchie she’d wrestled them into; Alicia’s straight black ponytail brushed the floor between her shoulder blades.
None of them looked up when his bare feet appeared in their peripheral vision. They didn’t need to. They felt him the way sailors feel a shift in the wind.
Bob took his place in the leather recliner that now faced the kitchen island like a throne. The same recliner where he had sat alone for four years drinking whiskey and silence.
Susan spoke without turning, voice soft, Persian accent thicker in the morning.
“Good morning, Captain. Coffee will be three minutes. May we have permission to begin service?”
“Granted.”
The ritual began.
Susan rose only enough to pour the thick brew into four handleless porcelain cups she had brought from Los Angeles (eggshell thin, gold-rimmed, older than any of them). She placed one cup on a small silver tray, lowered herself to hands and knees, and crawled the eight feet to Bob.
The tray balanced perfectly between her shoulder blades.
When she reached his feet she stopped, forehead to the floor, tray steady.
Bob took the cup.
Only then did she rise to kneel upright, hands behind her head, elbows wide, breasts lifted in offering.
Nawana crawled next with her cup, same posture, same grace (though her hips swayed with deliberate Miami heat).
Alicia last, moving like water, tray trembling only slightly from the newness of it all.
Three cups. Three women. One man who suddenly understood why kings used to conquer empires just to wake up to this.
He sipped (perfect, bitter, sweet, spiced exactly the way Susan had described in their first video call). Set the cup on the side table.
“Collars.”
The word was soft, but the room snapped to attention.
On the coffee table waited three leather day collars he had finished oiling at 2 a.m. while they slept.
Black for Susan (simple, elegant, 1-inch Italian leather with a discreet O-ring). Red for Nawana (wider, rolled edges, built to withstand her fire). Purple for Alicia (thin, almost delicate, but lined with steel cable because she would test every limit).
He started with Susan.
She crawled forward, knelt tall, tilted her head back to expose the long column of her throat.
Bob buckled the black collar with deliberate slowness, letting the leather creak, letting the O-ring settle just above her sternum.
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