Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

I stared at the fruit in my hand, my grip tightening until my fingers ached. Useless. My gaze snapped to Kerry, my throat burning with the words I wanted to snarl:

I don’t want fucking fruit. I want Aunt’s milk—thick, warm, dripping down my throat. I want her pussy juices coating my tongue, her legs shaking while I feast like a starving man.

Points? Fuck the points. I had 98 left—enough to keep me fed for days. But right now, all I could think about was burying myself inside her, hard, until neither of us remembered our own names.

Until the only thing that mattered was the way her body clenched around me, milking me dry. The rules, the game—none of it mattered. Not when my cock was throbbing like this, my mind drowning in the filthy, perfect image of her spread out beneath me, begging for it.

I needed a plan, a way to earn these points without raising suspicion. I had to be strategic, to bide my time and find a way to touch those tantalizing areas without drawing attention.

Kerry settled onto the stone beside me, her presence a striking blend of wild grace and untamed warmth. She leaned in, her voice soft but firm: ”Take your time with it...”

There was something in the way she spoke—not just care, but a quiet understanding, the kind that comes from shared history, from the unspoken ties that bind people like family.

But my eyes were drawn to her tits, to the dots on her body, to the potential for pleasure and reward. I was just staring at her tits, at the dots on her body, at the promise of Pervert Points.

But one thought kept gnawing at me, lingering just out of reach. If I earned all the points from Kerry, would she still have more to give? The question hung there, unsettling—a strange mix of frustration and curiosity. I needed answers, needed to understand the rules of this world, even if I didn’t know where to start.

I turned to Kerry, her gaze soft but inquisitive as she studied me. Maybe a simple question could open the door to something bigger. So I asked, ”Aunt Kerry, who else is in your family?” My voice came out light, almost hesitant, like I was testing the waters of this new life.

Her smile warmed as she began to speak, her words carrying the weight of pride and love. ”Well, I have a daughter... Kina. She’s already found her partner, and they live just next to us.” There was something in the way she said it—not just facts, but a quiet joy, the kind that comes from roots running deep.

I nodded, but my mind was already elsewhere, racing with images of Kina. What did she look like? Was she as striking as Kerry? The thought of her—sun-bronzed skin, dark hair cascading down her back, the curve of her body—sent a rush of anticipation through me.

I could almost picture her: full lips, a confident stance, the kind of presence that lingered in the mind long after you looked away.

I forced my focus back to Kerry, keeping my tone light, almost casual. ”What about the tribe? How does everything work here?”

Kerry’s voice was warm as she explained. The village chief was Ryan—the same man I’d met in the jungle—and he had a woman named Hina. ”You’ll recognize her easily,” Kerry said. ”She wears animal skin around her waist, just like Ryan does.”

The mention of Hina sparked another wave of curiosity. What did she look like? How did she move? The thought of her, of the possibilities, sent a pulse of excitement through me.

Kerry went on, painting a picture of their way of life. They cooked together, shared meals as a tribe. It was summer now, she said—a time for hunting, for gathering, for preparing for the colder months ahead.

As she spoke, I couldn’t help but notice the way her body moved, the subtle sway of her hips, and the gentle rise and fall of her chest. It was intoxicating, and my mind wandered to more intimate thoughts.

I wanted to ask about their knowledge of sex education, but I wasn’t sure how to approach the subject without seeming too forward. Instead, I decided to approach it indirectly, my eyes tracing the outline of her leaf-covered nipples.

”Aunt Kerry,” I said, my voice slightly husky, ”What are you wearing there? My mom and the other women I met before didn’t wear this.”

I gestured toward her nipples, which were covered only by a few scattered leaves—no bindings like jute or fabric. They clung loosely to her skin, the vibrant green standing out against her bare body.

It felt like the perfect opening to steer the conversation toward something more intimate; after all, nudity seemed almost ordinary in this world.

Kerry looked down at her nipples and looked at me. ”Oh, this?” she said, her voice soft. ”Well, we wear this because sometimes our nipples get hard when they get rubbed accidentally. Even sometimes water starts to drip from our pussies, so we cover our nipples and pussies so that our nipples won’t get hard and make us feel sick as our pussies leak.”

Her words sent a jolt of desire through me, my cock throbbing hard as I imagined the scenarios she described. I knew that if their nipples or pussies were rubbed somewhere accidentally, it might make them feel horny and wanting to cum, but they didn’t know that and saw it as a sickness.

The thought of helping them understand their own bodies, of showing them the pleasure that could be found in those sensations, was incredibly arousing.

I chuckled to myself, thinking maybe I could help her cure their sickness. The idea of being the one to introduce them to the pleasures of the flesh, to guide them through their first experiences of true sexual pleasure, was intoxicating.

Kerry spoke with the earnestness of a teacher, her voice soft but firm, as if explaining the sacred laws of nature. ”And the most important thing is our nipples feed our children, and our pussies cradle life itself, so we must protect them.”

Kerry’s voice carried the calm authority of someone explaining the natural order of things. ”The men in our tribe wear leaves around their waists to protect themselves from accidental injury while hunting, or from insects that might bite them.”