Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

The sun was dying now, its golden light bleeding across the sky, painting the world in fiery hues of orange and red. Shadows stretched long and hungry across the ground, the tribe’s fire already crackling in the distance, its glow licking at the edges of the gathering darkness.

Soon, it would be night. Soon, the tribe would be lost in the embrace of firelight and whispers, the air thick with the scent of roasted meat and sweat and something deeper—something primal.

Kerry, on my side, didn’t seem to care. She didn’t flinch at the stickiness on her fingers, didn’t wipe them on the grass or rinse them in the nearest stream.

To her, this was just... life. Normal. And the realization that she’d wiped my cum from her face and thighs with nothing but leaves, that she’d let her own piss drip down her skin without a second thought—it sent a jolt of dark, filthy excitement through me.

This wasn’t just savagery.

This was freedom.

And I wanted to corrupt every inch of it.

We stepped back into the center of the tribe, the fire crackling in the middle of the clearing, the smell of roasted meat and smoke filling the air.

Women—some like Kerry, mature and curved, their bodies soft in places where life had touched them, others younger, fresher, like Kina, their skin smooth and unmarked—were scattered around the space.

All of them sat on the dry earth or lounged on the huge, flat stones that lay like natural benches, their laughter and chatter weaving through the crackling fire. Their bodies gleamed—sweat glistening on brown skin, dust clinging to their calves, their arms marked with the signs of labor.

Scars—thin, pale lines—traced their skin, calluses roughened their hands, and the muscles beneath their flesh spoke of women who worked, who endured, who thrived in this harsh, untamed world.

And the men—they were there too. Clustered together, shoulders brushed against their women, fingers greasy from roasted meat, laughter rumbling deep in their chests.

They were rough, strong hunters, warriors, providers—their bodies marked with the same scars and dust as the women, their voices booming as they shared stories, jokes, the spoils of the day.

Some had their arms slung around their women, fingers tracing idle patterns on bare skin, possessive in a way that spoke of ownership—but not cruelty. This was a tribe. A family. They lived, they fought, they fucked—and they did it together.

And then—

I recognized them.

The faces of the men and women I’d met when I first entered this place with Mitt—the ones who had eyed me with curiosity, with suspicion, with the quiet assessment of outsiders.

They were here now, eating, laughing, their gazes flickering over to me before sliding away—some with nods, others with lingering looks that hinted at questions they hadn’t asked yet.

And then—

Her.

One woman stood out—immediately. While the others wore leaves or loose hides, she was draped in animal skin—tanned, soft, fitted to her body in a way that hugged her curves.

The hide wrapped around her waist, dipping low enough to tease the top of her thighs, and another piece was tied around her tits, covering them but barely—the cleavage deep, the swell of them pressing against the leather, the nipples just visible beneath the stitching. Her hair was long, dark, braided back from her face, and her eyes—sharp, assessing—scanned the crowd with the confidence of a queen.

Damn.

The firelight danced across the woman’s face, its flickering glow carving deep shadows that sharpened her already striking features. She carried herself with an unmistakable weight—authority draped over her like a second skin, her spine unyielding, her dark eyes cutting through the dimness as they locked onto mine.

This had to be Hina, the woman Ryan had claimed, the one Kerry had warned me about.

Unlike the others, whose loose hide wraps teased glimpses of flesh beneath, Hina’s attire was deliberate—neatly tied, concealing everything. No hint of her body’s curves, no accidental reveal of skin. Just control.

But that didn’t stop my gaze from lingering on the way the animal skin hugged her strong frame, the way her broad shoulders and scarred arms spoke of years of labor and survival.

Kerry’s hand tightened around my wrist, her voice warm but firm as she pulled me forward. ”Hina,” she said, her tone carrying the familiarity of old friendship.

Hina looked up from the piece of roasted meat she’d been holding, her dark eyes softening as they landed on Kerry before shifting to me. ”Kerry... you’re finally here,” she said, her voice deep and measured. Then, her gaze locked onto me, curious but guarded. ”And who is this kid?”

Kerry squeezed my wrist gently, a silent signal of reassurance. ”Hina, this is Dexter,” she began, her voice steady as she launched into the fabricated story of the death of my parents—the tale of how Mitt and the others had found me lost in the jungle, how I’d been taken in by the tribe. Hina listened intently, her expression unreadable, but her eyes never left mine.

When Kerry finished, Hina leaned forward slightly, her gaze still locked onto me. ”Dexter,” she said, her voice carrying a weight that demanded attention.

”Don’t be sad.” Her calloused hand reached out, brushing against my shoulder with a warmth that felt almost maternal. ”You are not alone anymore. We will all be your family from now on.”

I nodded, my voice respectful. ”Thank you, Elder Hina.”

She let out a low, warm chuckle, shaking her head. ”Just call me Aunt Hina,” she corrected, her lips curving into a small smile. ”Kerry and I are like sisters. And that makes you my nephew, too.”

”Aunt Hina,” I repeated, my voice firm, obedient.

She seemed to like that. Her hand closed around mine, her grip strong and possessive, as she turned to face the rest of the tribe. The firelight danced across her features, casting shadows that made her look even more formidable. She stood, pulling me with her, and raised her voice so it carried over the crackling fire and the murmurs of the crowd.

”Everyone!” she called out, her voice ringing with authority. The chatter died down instantly, all eyes turning toward us. ”This is Dexter!” she announced, her grip on my hand tightening as she pulled me forward. ”He is now one of us—a part of the Kronos Tribe!”