Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 385: Olivia’s Final Taunt

The female voice from the hallway was soft, hesitant, almost apologetic. "Is Doctor Anya here...? I have an appointment..."

Olivia—still flushed, hair damp with piss and sweat, scrub pants crooked, the crotch dark and clinging—let out a low, irritated growl under her breath.

She shot a look back at us: Anya, half-dressed in her open white coat, Nancy slumped on the recliner with cum still trickling from her gaping asshole, me with my pants barely zipped over a slick, semi-hard cock, and Nathalie trembling against me like her legs might give out any second.

Olivia yanked her top down to cover the worst of the mess on her chest, smoothed her hair (pointless), and cracked the door just wide enough to peer out.

Standing there was a middle-aged woman, mid-40s, conservatively dressed in a simple salwar kameez, dupatta draped modestly, dupatta clutched tight in nervous fingers. Her face was flushed, eyes downcast, cheeks burning with obvious embarrassment. She looked Indian.

She looked exactly like someone who had come for a very private, very uncomfortable consultation and was already regretting it.

Anya cleared her throat, miraculously summoning her professional mask despite the fishy, sex-soaked air rolling out the cracked door and the slick puddle still visible on the floor behind her.

"Please come in," Anya said, voice steady and clinical, as if the room didn’t smell like a gangbang in a fish market. She stepped aside, coat flapping open for a split second to reveal bare skin beneath before she tugged it closed.

Then Anya looked at Nathalie and me—her gaze lingering just a heartbeat too long on the way Nathalie was clinging to my arm, thighs pressed together to keep my cum from running down her legs.

"We will continue our... session next time," Anya said smoothly, the faintest smirk tugging at the corner of her mouth. "Mr. and Mrs. Dexter, thank you for your... thorough participation today. I’ll be in touch to schedule the follow-up."

I nodded, playing along. "Of course, Doctor. We’ll... look forward to it."

I slipped my arm around Nathalie’s waist—she was trembling so hard her knees kept buckling—and guided her toward the door. Her steps were unsteady, thighs slick, breath coming in short, shaky gasps. Every few steps, she let out a soft, involuntary whimper, like the aftershocks were still rolling through her.

As we passed the new patient, the woman’s eyes flicked up—caught the unmistakable scent, the damp floor, the disheveled state of everyone—and her flush deepened to scarlet. She quickly looked away, clutching her purse like a lifeline.

Olivia followed us out, closing the door behind her with a soft click. She walked close—too close—her body heat brushing mine, the smell of piss and squirt still clinging to her skin.

We reached the parking lot. I helped Nathalie into the back seat of our car; she practically collapsed, legs splaying open for a second before she clamped them shut again, a fresh trickle of cum escaping despite her efforts.

She looked wrecked—beautifully, thoroughly wrecked—eyes glassy, lips swollen, cheeks flushed with a mix of exhaustion and lingering arousal.

I leaned in to buckle her seatbelt. She grabbed my shirt, pulled me close, and whispered against my ear, voice hoarse and trembling: "I hate them... I hate how they looked at you... how they touched you... You’re mine. Only mine."

Before I could answer, Olivia was right there—leaning into the open door, her breasts brushing my arm, lips inches from my ear.

"Next time," she breathed, voice low and filthy, "I will be the one to get you. Properly. No interruptions. No sharing unless I say so."

She straightened, looked across me at Nathalie in the backseat, and smiled—slow, predatory, taunting.

"That Mrs..." Olivia purred, "why don’t you give your husband to me? I’m sure you can’t handle him by yourself anymore. Look at you—shaking, leaking, barely able to walk. Why don’t we share him? I’ll take good care of him... real good care. You can watch. Or join. Or cry. Your choice."

Nathalie’s head snapped up. Her eyes—still hazy with post-orgasm fog—narrowed into something sharp, dangerous, and very real.

She scoffed, but it came out more like a growl. "Bitch... he is my husband."

No playfulness. No teasing lilt. Just pure, possessive jealousy—raw and burning. Her fingers tightened on my arm hard enough to bruise, nails digging in.

"He’s not yours to share. He’s not yours to take. He’s mine. And next time—if there is a next time—I’ll make sure every single one of you remembers that before you even think about touching what’s mine again."

Olivia’s smile only widened—delighted, aroused by the challenge.

"We’ll see," she murmured. Then she leaned in one last time, lips brushing my earlobe so only I could hear: "She’s jealous... and it’s making her cunt drip even more. Use that. Fuck her in the car right now if you want. I’ll watch from the clinic window... and think about how I’m going to steal you next."

She stepped back, gave Nathalie one last smug look, then turned and sauntered back toward the clinic door—ass swaying, red handprints still visible through the thin scrub fabric.

The drive back to the villa was quiet at first—thick with the lingering scent of sex clinging to our clothes and skin, the car’s AC doing little to cut through the heavy, intimate musk.

Nathalie sat in the back seat, legs pressed tightly together, one hand resting possessively on my thigh while the other clutched the edge of her skirt like it might slip away and reveal the slow trickle of cum still leaking from her.

Every few minutes, she shifted, letting out a soft, involuntary whimper as another aftershock rippled through her core.

I kept one hand on the wheel, the other reaching back to stroke her knee. She caught my fingers, squeezed them hard, and whispered, "Don’t let go. Not yet."

We arrived at the villa just as the sun dipped low, painting the white walls gold. The driver—discreet as always—pulled up without a word, eyes fixed straight ahead.

The moment the front door closed behind us, the villa’s cool marble floors and high ceilings felt like a sanctuary after the clinic’s chaotic heat. Nathalie turned into me immediately, pressing her body flush against mine, face buried in my neck.

"Shower," she murmured, voice raw. "I need to feel clean... and then I need to feel you again. Only you."

We stripped in the master bathroom—clothes hitting the tile in a damp heap. The shower was massive, rain-head nozzles, steam filling the space almost instantly.

Hot water cascaded over us as I pulled her close, soaping her back, her breasts, between her thighs with slow, deliberate strokes. She trembled under my touch, pressing her hips forward every time my fingers grazed her still-sensitive clit.

"You were so jealous today," I whispered against her ear, sliding a soapy hand down to cup her ass. "I could feel it every time one of them touched me."

She bit her lip, eyes glassy. "They wanted to take you. Olivia especially. The way she looked at you... the way she talked about sharing... I hated it. I hate that they got pieces of you. I want all of you. Always."

I turned her around, pressed her palms to the tile wall, and slid my cock between her thighs from behind—not entering, just gliding along her slick folds. "Then take me now. Remind yourself who I belong to."

She pushed back, grinding against me. "Not here. Not yet. I want you in our bed... slow... deep... until I can’t think about anyone else."

We rinsed off, dried each other with thick towels, and slipped into soft robes. Downstairs, the smell of food hit us—garlic, herbs, something rich and comforting.