Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 370: Doctor Anya’s Appointment

I dragged her skirt back up inch by torturous inch, the soft fabric scraping over her flushed, oversensitive thighs like a slow, deliberate tease. When it finally snapped tight around her hips again, the hem rode so high it barely kissed the lower curve of her ass cheeks—leaving her completely exposed if she bent even slightly.

No thong anymore. Just my cum-soaked panties wadded brutally deep in her asshole, stretching her open, plugging every drop inside her greedy, spasming hole.

Her blouse I fastened carelessly—two buttons done, the rest forgotten. The thin silk framed her swollen, bite-bruised tits like obscene gift-wrapping; her dark areolas peeked shamelessly at the edges, nipples still stiff and angry-red, tenting the fabric with every shaky breath.

She fumbled her feet back into those sky-high red-soled Louboutins. The moment she straightened, her calves flexed hard and a broken, needy whimper spilled from her throat—the sodden bundle of lace twisted deeper, grinding against her stretched rim, forcing fresh cream to leak past the makeshift plug and trickle hot down her inner thighs.

I put my clothes on in seconds: black shirt plastered to my sweat-slick chest, pants zipped over a cock that was already thickening again at the sight of her, the front darkened and sticky with the mess she’d gushed all over me earlier.

Our scent was obscene—thick, animal, unmistakable: her sharp cunt-honey, my heavy ballsweat, the salty tang of her armpit still smeared across my lips, and the dirty, unmistakable reek of fucked-open ass and thick cum leaking slowly out around her stuffed panties. I didn’t want to shower. I wanted every filthy molecule of it glued to my skin.

I needed Doctor Anya to inhale it the second we walked in—the pungent proof that I’d just turned my elegant wife into a dripping, ass-plugged cum-dump minutes before her appointment.

I gripped Nathalie’s hand. Her palm was drenched, slippery with nervous sweat and probably some of her own slick that had dripped down to her wrist.

"Ready to crawl into that sterile office and let the doctor smell exactly what a depraved, cum-stuffed anal whore you’ve become for me?" My voice was low, gravel-rough, dripping with dark honey.

She lifted glassy, dilated eyes to mine. Her lips were swollen, parted, trembling on shallow pants. A thin string of spit connected her bottom lip to her chin.

"God yes... fuck yes..." she whispered, voice cracking.

"I want her to see how ruined I am... smell your cum leaking out of my wrecked asshole... feel how my panties are soaked through with your load and my own juices... It’s throbbing so deep, stretching me open, every step makes me clench and push more out... I’m dripping down my legs... please... drag me to her like this... show her what you own..."

I banded an arm around her waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her hip. She tried to walk normally—failed spectacularly. Every hesitant step forced the sodden lace deeper, grinding against her swollen prostate-spot, making her knees buckle, and her hips jerk forward involuntarily.

Soft, wet, obscene little squelches accompanied each movement; fresh rivulets of cum and arousal slid down the insides of her thighs, glistening under the hallway lights.

We collapsed into the backseat. The driver pulled away toward the hospital without a word.

Nathalie couldn’t sit still—couldn’t sit at all properly. Every tiny pothole, every speed bump, rammed the stuffed panties harder against her sensitive walls.

She arched, thighs clamped together, one hand clawing at my thigh while the other hovered uselessly over her lap, too ashamed and too desperate to touch herself in front of the driver.

A low, continuous moan vibrated in her throat. Her free hand drifted between her legs anyway—fingers brushing the slick mess coating her inner thighs, then pressing lightly against the obscene bulge of fabric just inside her stretched hole.

"Fuck... it’s leaking... I can feel your cum sliding out around the panties... my asshole’s pulsing around it like it’s begging for more..." she breathed against my neck, voice wrecked.

Her hips rocked in tiny, helpless circles against the leather seat, chasing the pressure, chasing the stretch, chasing the humiliation.

I slid my hand up her thigh, collected the warm, sticky trail on my fingers, then pushed them between her lips.

"Suck," I ordered quietly.

She did—eyes rolling back, tongue swirling greedily around the taste of her own ruined holes and my cum.

The car kept moving.

She kept leaking.

And we were only minutes away from showing Doctor Anya everything.

The car rolled to a stop outside the gleaming glass doors of the Hospital. I helped Nathalie out—more like half-carried her—her legs trembling so violently she could barely stand without my arm locked around her waist.

Each movement ground the cum-drenched panties deeper into her stretched asshole, forcing out fresh, warm trickles that slid down her inner thighs in slow, obscene rivulets.

The scent hit harder in the open air: thick, musky sex, her tangy cunt leaking in sympathy, my sweat and cum still painted across us both like war paint.

We stepped through the automatic doors into cool, sterile silence.

Heads turned instantly.

Nurses in crisp white uniforms froze mid-stride. A receptionist’s pen clattered to the desk. Two orderlies—both women—stopped pushing a gurney, mouths falling open.

Eyes darted from me (the impossible male, broad-shouldered, cock still half-thick and visibly outlined in my damp pants) to Nathalie (flushed, glassy-eyed, skirt riding high enough to flash the glistening trails on her thighs, blouse gaping to show bruised, stiff nipples straining against silk).

A hush rippled outward, then whispers erupted like sparks.

"Oh my God... is that... a man?"

"This is the first male I’ve seen in... days."

"Do any of you know what’s going on? Is there some new virus that infects males and infected were quarantined... maybe he’s immune... or a carrier..."

Their gazes crawled over us—hungry, disbelieving, pupils dilating. One young nurse bit her lip so hard I saw blood bead; another pressed her thighs together, shifting uncomfortably as if fighting a sudden ache.

I tightened my grip on Nathalie’s waist, fingers digging into the soft flesh just above her hip, forcing her to take another shaky step forward.

She whimpered—soft, broken, desperate—hips jerking as the sodden plug twisted inside her. A fresh gush escaped around the edges of her stuffed hole, dripping audibly onto the polished floor in tiny, wet plinks.

The whispers grew filthier, voices trembling with long-suppressed need.

"Look at her... Her legs are shaking...?"