Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 385: Olivia’s Final Taunt

The hesitant, soft voice of a woman echoed from the corridor, tinged with apology. "Is Doctor Anya available...? I booked an appointment..."

Olivia, her face still red, locks matted with urine and perspiration, scrub bottoms askew, the groin area soaked and sticking—muttered a quiet, annoyed snarl to herself.

She glanced sharply toward us: Anya, partially clothed in her unzipped white coat, Nancy collapsed in the armchair with semen dripping from her stretched rear, me struggling to fasten my pants over a slippery, half-erect shaft, and Nathalie shaking against me as if her knees could buckle at any moment.

Olivia tugged her shirt lower to hide the bulk of the stains on her torso, ran fingers through her hair (futile effort), and eased the door open barely enough to glance outside.

A woman in her mid-40s waited there, dressed plainly in a straightforward salwar kameez, her dupatta arranged modestly and gripped firmly by anxious hands. Her features showed a deep blush, gaze lowered, face glowing with clear mortification. She appeared Indian.

She resembled precisely the type who had arrived for an intensely personal, awkward meeting and was now second-guessing her choice.

Anya coughed lightly, somehow pulling on her doctorly facade even as the briny, lust-drenched odor seeped from the ajar door and the wet spot remained evident on the ground behind her.

"Do come inside," Anya invited, her tone calm and medical, ignoring the room's aroma reminiscent of a chaotic orgy in a seafood stall. She moved out of the way, her coat briefly swinging to expose naked flesh underneath before she pulled it shut.

Next, Anya turned her eyes to Nathalie and me—her stare holding a moment longer on how Nathalie held onto my arm, squeezing her legs to prevent my seed from sliding down her thighs.

"Our... session will resume at the next visit," Anya stated evenly, a subtle grin playing at her lips. "Mr. and Mrs. Dexter, thanks for your... complete involvement this time. I’ll contact you to arrange the next one."

I dipped my head, going with the flow. "Certainly, Doctor. We’ll... anticipate it."

Wrapping an arm around Nathalie’s midsection—she quivered so intensely her legs nearly folded—I steered her to the exit. Her gait wobbled, inner thighs glossy, breaths escaping in quick, uneven puffs. Occasionally, a faint, unintended moan slipped out, as if echoes of pleasure still surged within.

While we brushed past the newcomer, the lady’s gaze lifted briefly—detecting the obvious aroma, the moist surface, the tousled appearances of all—and her color rose to a vivid crimson. She averted her eyes fast, holding her handbag like a shield.

Olivia trailed after us, shutting the door with a gentle snap. She stayed near—too near—her warmth grazing me, the odor of urine and her release lingering on her body.

In the parking area, I assisted Nathalie into the rear of our vehicle; she slumped down, limbs parting momentarily before she forced them closed, another drop of semen seeping out anyway.

She appeared utterly spent—stunningly, completely spent—gaze unfocused, mouth puffy, face heated with a blend of fatigue and fading desire.

As I bent to secure her belt, she seized my collar, drew me nearer, and breathed into my ear, tone rough and quivering: "I hate them... I hate the way they eyed you... how they laid hands on you... You’re mine. Exclusively mine."

Without waiting for my reply, Olivia appeared beside us—bending toward the open door, her chest grazing my side, mouth near my ear.

"Next time," she whispered, her words husky and dirty, "I’ll claim you myself. Fully. Without distractions. No dividing unless I decide."

She rose, peered over me at Nathalie in the back, and grinned—deliberate, hunting, mocking.

"That Mrs..." Olivia cooed, "why not lend your husband to me? Bet you can’t manage him alone these days. See you—quivering, dripping, scarcely able to stand. Let’s split him? I’ll handle him well... very well. You observe. Or participate. Or weep. Up to you."

Nathalie’s head jerked upward. Her eyes—clouded by orgasmic haze—sharpened into a fierce, threatening, genuine glare.

She snorted, though it sounded more like a snarl. "Bitch... he’s my husband."

No jesting. No playful edge. Simply fierce, territorial envy—intense and searing. Her grip on my arm clenched to the point of marking, nails biting deep.

"He’s not for you to divide. Not for you to claim. He’s mine. And if there’s another round—I’ll ensure you all recall that before daring to reach for what belongs to me once more."

Olivia’s grin stretched further—thrilled, excited by the rivalry.

"We’ll find out," she said softly. Then she bent close again, her lips touching my earlobe for my ears alone: "Her jealousy... it’s soaking her even more. Exploit it. Take her in the car now if you like. I’ll peek from the office... and plot how I’ll take you soon."

She withdrew, shot Nathalie a final conceited glance, then pivoted and strolled back to the clinic entrance—hips swinging, faint red marks showing through her sheer scrubs.

The trip home to the villa started silently—dense with the persistent sex smell adhering to our attire and bodies, the vehicle’s cooling failing to dispel the thick, personal fragrance.

Nathalie occupied the rear, thighs clamped firm, one palm placed claimingly on my leg while the other gripped her skirt’s hem as if it could betray her and expose the ongoing seep of semen.

Periodically, she adjusted position, releasing a quiet, unbidden whine as fresh tremors pulsed in her center.

I gripped the steering wheel with one hand, the other extending rearward to caress her knee. She seized my digits, pressed them firmly, and murmured, "Hold on. Just a bit longer."

We pulled into the villa as sunset cast golden hues on the pale walls. The chauffeur—ever tactful—halted without comment, stare forward.

Once the entrance shut after us, the villa’s chilled stone floors and lofty ceilings offered relief from the clinic’s frenzied warmth. Nathalie pivoted to me at once, molding her form to mine, head nestled in my shoulder.

"Shower," she uttered, voice scraped. "I need to wash away... then feel you once more. Just you."

In the main bath, we shed our garments—fabrics landing in a soggy pile on the floor. The shower loomed large, with overhead sprays, vapor rising swiftly.

Warm streams poured down as I drew her near, lathering her spine, chest, and inner legs with unhurried, purposeful motions. She shuddered at my contact, thrusting her pelvis ahead whenever my fingers skimmed her tender nub.

"Today’s jealousy hit you hard," I breathed near her ear, trailing a foamy palm to grasp her rear. "I sensed it each time they reached for me."

She nipped her lower lip, stare misty. "They aimed to steal you. Olivia most of all. Her stares at you... her words on dividing... It infuriated me. I loathe that they took bits of you. I demand every part. Forever."

I spun her to face the wall, hands flat on the tiles, and eased my length between her legs from the rear—not penetrating, merely stroking her wet slit. "Claim me then. Reaffirm whose I am."

She arched backward, rubbing against me. "Not in here. Not now. I crave you in our bed... gradual... profound... till no one else occupies my thoughts."

We washed clean, patted dry with plush towels, and donned cozy robes. Below, aromas of cooking wafted up—garlic, spices, a hearty and soothing dish.