Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 395: Torchlight Voyeur

Mira froze. Her knees were still drawn up tight to her chest; her fingers dug into the hem of her shirt. She opened her mouth, closed it, then stammered out in a rush:

"But... it’s not safe out there..."

Her voice cracked on the last word—high and uncertain. The night suddenly felt bigger, darker, full of unseen rustles and possibilities. Her eyes darted from Angela’s amused face to the black wall of trees, then—almost involuntarily—back to me. To the hand still resting over my crotch. To the way my fingers flexed slightly under the fabric.

Angela turned fully toward her now, crouching down so they were eye-level. She reached out and tucked a loose strand of Mira’s hair behind her ear—gentle, sisterly, but with an undercurrent of invitation.

"It’s just a quick trip, sweetie," she murmured, thumb lingering a second too long against Mira’s cheek. "We’ll stay close. And anyway..." Her voice dropped to a teasing whisper that still carried. "...you’ve got nothing to be shy about. We’re all friends here."

Mira’s breath hitched audibly. A fresh, deep flush crawled up her neck and bloomed across her cheeks, hot enough to rival the coals. She pressed her thighs together harder—knees knocking faintly, the small, desperate motion betraying exactly what she was trying to hide. Her gaze flicked wildly: first to the shadowed wall of trees where the darkness swallowed everything beyond the glade’s edge, then to Angela’s swaying hips, then to Lisa’s calm, almost amused readiness, and finally—inevitably—back to me.

I was still sprawled against the log, legs spread lazily, one hand resting heavy and unapologetic over the thick, straining ridge of my cock. The fabric of my pants did nothing to conceal how hard I still was; if anything, the outline looked more obscene in the low amber glow.

Angela tilted her head, catching Mira’s flustered stare. A slow, wicked smile spread across her face, her voice turning teasing as she eyed Mira. "Then let Dexter follow us and protect us," she said smoothly, voice sweet as honey but edged with mischief, her gaze dropping pointedly to my bulge. "He has a gun... so no need to worry about anything lurking out there. It’ll keep us safe while we... handle our needs."

Before Mira could form a protest—her lips already parting in a soft, panicked "But..."—Angela snatched her hand in a firm, playful grip and tugged her upright, their fingers intertwining in a way that felt too intimate, Angela’s thumb stroking the back of Mira’s hand.

"Come on, Mira," she teased, leaning in close enough that her breath brushed Mira’s ear, warm and suggestive, her breasts nearly grazing Mira’s arm. "Don’t tell me you’re planning to hold it in all night... building up that tension until you explode? We girls have to stick together—let it out, or it’ll drive you crazy."

Mira’s blush deepened to scarlet, her free hand fluttering to her stomach—or lower—as if pressing down her own growing ache. "No..." she whispered, the word barely audible, almost swallowed by the crickets, her eyes darting to me again, imagining that "gun" pressed against her.

Angela noticed Mira’s shy and blushing gaze at me—lingering on my covered cock—and said, warning me but actually winking at me sluttily, her hips cocking in invitation: "Dexter... you are not allowed to peep at us... otherwise... I might bite that thing off..." She moved her eyes to my hard cock, licking her lips slowly, the threat sounding more like a promise of teeth and tongue.

Making Mira chuckle softly... with a blush... the sound breathy and aroused, her thighs clenching as she imagined it—me, exposed; Angela, devouring; herself, watching... or joining.

I met Angela’s wink with a lazy nod, the picture of compliance.

"Sure," I said, voice low and easy. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

But inside, dark amusement uncoiled like smoke.

How the fuck could I let an opportunity like this slip away?

Three women slipping into the trees—Angela leading with that swaying, deliberate walk, Lisa trailing calm and knowing, Mira caught between them, thighs still clenched, cheeks burning, eyes still stealing glances back at me.

The night was thick, the trees dense, the moonlight thin. Plenty of shadows to hide in. Plenty of excuses to follow "just in case." Plenty of ways to catch glimpses—silhouettes against the faint glow filtering through branches, the soft rustle of clothing being adjusted, the quiet hitch of breath as someone finally relieved themselves.

And Mira—sweet, blushing Mira—would feel my presence like heat on her skin even if she never saw me.

She’d wonder. She’d flush harder. She’d press her thighs together again, telling herself it was just the cold.

And every stolen second would pull her deeper into the web Angela and I were spinning.

I waited a beat—long enough to look reluctant—then rose slowly, brushing grass from my pants, adjusting myself with one last shameless squeeze so the outline stayed prominent.

"Lead the way," I murmured, voice low and rough, aimed at the pale crescent of Angela’s bare shoulder as she moved deeper into the tree-line. She didn’t look back. Neither did Lisa. Only Mira flicked a quick glance over her shoulder—eyes narrowing for half a second before she turned away again.

I fell in behind them, footsteps deliberately soft on the leaf-litter and packed earth. The night smelled of wet soil, crushed ferns, and the faint, lingering sweetness of whatever floral perfume Angela had sprayed earlier.

My pulse stayed elevated, not from the walk, but from the mental reel already playing: three women ahead of me, shorts and thin dresses already clinging slightly from the humid air, bladders full from all the beer we’d cracked open around the fire. The darkness had been my ally until now—hiding, teasing, frustrating. But darkness only goes so far.

Up ahead, the three of them bunched closer together, shoulders brushing as the path narrowed. Mira fished the cheap plastic lighter I’d handed her twenty minutes earlier from her pocket. The tiny flame flared, orange and unsteady, throwing jittery shadows across her cheekbones and the curve of her throat.

"God," she muttered, barely loud enough for me to catch, "it would be so much better if we had an actual torch right now..."

The words landed like a match in dry grass.

I didn’t answer immediately. I let the sentence hang while my mind sprinted forward. Torchlight. Not this pathetic cigarette-lighter flicker, but a real, white, piercing beam. Bright enough to bounce off pale inner thighs, bright enough to catch the glisten the moment any of them finally gave in and squatted.

Bright enough to freeze every small, intimate detail in merciless clarity: the way lips would part, the slight tremble of muscle, the sudden hot rush. My throat closed for a second; I had to swallow hard to keep my breathing even.

I bought a torch from the supermarket and gave it to Mira. " Here... "

She stopped dead. Angela and Lisa took two more steps before they realised and turned. Mira spun fully, eyes wide, then narrowed again as she registered what I was holding out.

"You... had that with you the entire fucking time?" Her voice cracked higher on the last word. "We were tripping over roots, scratching our legs on thorns, calling Bill’s name into the goddamn forest for twenty minutes—and you just had a torch in your pocket?"