Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

”That’s a good slut,” I growled, my voice dark with satisfaction, rough with lust, as I watched Emily’s body convulse, her ass clenching tight around my cock, her pussy still gushing, soaking the sheets beneath her. Fuck. She was broken, used, a filthy mess of tears and cum, and I loved it.

My cock throbbed, pulsing painfully inside her ass, the pressure building, uncontrollable. Fuck. I was about to explode, about to fill her with my cum, mark her as mine—

But then—

Jennifer pulled me out suddenly, her hand gripping the base of my cock, her voice sharp, commanding. ”Don’t cum inside me—!” Her body jerked, her own orgasm ripping through her, her squirt flying everywhere, hitting the walls, the bed, her voice a broken, desperate cry—”AAAAAAAAH AAAAAAAAAH AAAAAAAAH!”

Fuck.

The sight of her coming undone, her body trembling, her pussy gushing, sent me over the edge. My cock twitched violently, cum erupting from me in thick, hot ropes, hitting her body—her tits, her face, her neck—draping her in it, marking her as mine.

”Mmm—” I groaned, my voice low, guttural, as I watched my cum paint her skin, drip down her chest, pool in the hollow of her throat. Fuck. She looked so filthy, so used, so fucking perfect.

Jennifer panted, her chest heaving, her body glistening with sweat and cum, her eyes dark with lust and triumph. ”Good boy,” she purred, her fingers trailing through the cum on her tits, scooping it up before bringing it to her lips, licking it slowly, savoring the taste of me.

”Mmm, so good,” Jennifer murmured, her tongue darting out to catch the last drip of my cum rolling down her chin, her lips glistening with the filth of what we’d done. Her skin shimmered with sweat, her body covered in streaks of cum and the sheen of her own squirt, sticky and obscene.

She looked like a ruined goddess, used and triumphant, her breath still ragged from the night’s depravities.

”I’m leaving,” she purred, her voice thick with satisfaction, as she stood up, wincing slightly as she limped—evidence of how hard she’d been fucked.

She pulled her nightie back over her body, covering herself properly, though the fabric clung to her skin, betraying the mess beneath.

”It’s going to be morning soon,” she murmured, her eyes locking onto mine, dark and knowing. ”My little slave...” Her lips curved into a smug, cruel smile before she turned and slipped out of the room, leaving behind the scent of sex, sweat, and shame.

I watched her go, my body still humming from the night’s excesses, my mind racing with the weight of what we’d done. What I’d done.

Then, I turned to Emily.

She was asleep, her body curled on her side, her breath soft and even, oblivious to the chaos we’d wrought. Gently, I reached out, removing the headphones from her ears, the blindfold from her eyes, the handcuffs from her wrists. Her skin was marked—red from the restraints, her lips swollen from bites and kisses, her asshole no doubt aching from the way I’d torn into her.

I pulled her against me, her body molding to mine, her head resting on my chest. Guilt gnawed at me, but so did something else—a twisted pride, a sick satisfaction. She was mine. Broken, used, but mine.

And with that thought, I fell asleep.

When I woke, the bed was empty.

The sound of running water filled the bathroom, a steady, rhythmic hiss that masked the faint, broken sobs Emily tried to suppress. I walked in and saw.

She perched on the cold, porcelain edge of the bathtub, her legs spread just enough to give her fingers access to the raw, aching mess between her cheeks. The air was thick with steam, her skin glistening with sweat and the sheen of tears she refused to let fall.

Her asshole was a fucking disaster.

Swollen. Red. Angry.

The ring of muscle puckered obscenely, still gaping slightly from the violence of my cock, the skin around it chafed and tender.

Every time she shifted, every time her thighs brushed together, a sharp, stinging pain shot through her, making her hiss between her teeth. Fuck. It looked like it hurt. It looked like it should.

She bit her lip, hard enough to draw blood, as her fingers trembled over the soapy washcloth. She knew she had to clean it.

Knew she had to wash away the evidence of what we’d done—the cum, the sweat, the filth of her own betrayal. But fuck, just looking at it made her stomach twist, her face burning with shame.

Slowly, so slowly, she pressed the washcloth against the swollen flesh, a broken whimper escaping her lips as the fabric made contact. The water was warm, almost too hot, but she didn’t care.

She needed it scorching. Needed it to burn away the memory of how good it had felt, how wrong it had been.

”Ah—! Fuck—!” she hissed, her body jerking as she rubbed the cloth in small, tight circles, her other hand clawing at the porcelain for support.

The soap stung, biting into the raw skin, but she didn’t stop. She couldn’t. Not when she could still feel me inside her, stretching her, owning her. Not when her asshole still ached with the ghost of my cock, the burn of Jennifer’s fingers, the shame of her own surrender.

Her breath came in short, ragged gasps, her chest heaving as she pressed harder, her fingers digging into the flesh around the hole, spreading herself open just enough to let the water rinse deep.

Fuck. It was so fucking sensitive, every touch sending a jolt of pain and something else—something dark, something shameful—straight to her clit.

”Nnngh—” she moaned, low and broken, her hips twitching involuntarily. Goddamn it. Even now, even like this, her body betrayed her. Even the pain made her wet.

She spread her cheeks wider, her face flaming as she stared at the red, puckered mess in the mirror. It looked obscene. Used. Ruined. Just like her.

With a shaky breath, she pressed the washcloth deeper, her fingers trembling as she cleaned every inch, every fold, her body tensing with each stroke.