Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 395: Torchlight Voyeur

Mira went rigid. Her knees stayed pulled snug against her chest; her fingers clutched the edge of her shirt tightly. She parted her lips, shut them once more, and then blurted out in a hurried stutter:

"But... it’s not safe out there..."

That final word shattered in her throat—shrill and wavering. All at once, the darkness loomed larger, more oppressive, packed with hidden whispers and lurking threats. Her stare bounced from Angela’s smirking features to the solid curtain of shadows among the trees, and then—almost without meaning to—snapped back toward me. Toward the palm still settled across my groin. Toward the subtle twitch of my fingers beneath the material.

Angela pivoted completely to face her, dropping into a squat until their eyes met levelly. She extended a hand and swept a stray lock of Mira’s hair back behind her ear—tender, like a sibling’s touch, yet laced with a subtle allure.

"It’s just a quick trip, sweetie," she whispered, her thumb brushing Mira’s cheek a moment longer than necessary. "We’ll stay close. And anyway..." Her tone dipped into a playful hush that echoed softly. "...you’ve got nothing to be shy about. We’re all friends here."

Mira’s breathing caught sharply. A new wave of heat surged up her neck and spread vividly over her face, intense as the glowing embers. She squeezed her thighs even tighter—knees bumping lightly, that frantic little shift revealing precisely what she aimed to conceal. Her eyes whipped around frantically: starting at the murky tree line where night devoured all beyond the clearing, shifting to Angela’s rolling hips, then to Lisa’s steady, faintly entertained poise, and ultimately—unavoidably—landing on me once more.

I lounged back against the log, legs splayed casually, one hand planted boldly and without regret over the solid, throbbing bulge of my erection. My pants’ cloth offered no cover for my persistent arousal; in the dim golden light, the shape appeared even more blatant.

Angela cocked her head, locking onto Mira’s rattled look. A gradual, sly grin curved her lips as she regarded Mira with teasing intent. "Then let Dexter follow us and protect us," she suggested effortlessly, her words smooth like syrup but spiked with roguery, her eyes sliding deliberately to my protrusion. "He has a ... so no need to worry about anything lurking out there. It’ll keep us safe while we... handle our needs."

Before Mira could muster any objection—her mouth already opening in a faint, alarmed "But..."—Angela grabbed her hand with a strong, fun tug and pulled her to her feet, their fingers lacing together in a bond that seemed overly personal, Angela’s thumb caressing the back of Mira’s palm.

"Come on, Mira," she coaxed, drawing near so her warm, hinting breath grazed Mira’s ear, her chest almost brushing Mira’s side. "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 flush intensified to a fiery red, her spare hand hovering toward her belly—or perhaps below—as though compressing her mounting discomfort. "No..." she breathed, the syllable faint and nearly lost amid the insect chorus, her gaze flicking to me yet again, picturing that "gun" nudged against her.

Angela spotted Mira’s timid, heated glance at me—dwelling on my concealed hardness—and remarked, cautioning me yet flashing me a naughty wink, her hips tilting provocatively: "Dexter... you are not allowed to peep at us... otherwise... I might bite that thing off..." Her stare shifted to my rigid length, her tongue tracing her lips languidly, turning the warning into something more like an enticing vow of nibbles and licks.

The comment drew a soft giggle from Mira... tinged with crimson... the noise airy and stirred, her legs pressing firm as visions danced in her mind—me, bared; Angela, consuming; herself, observing... or perhaps participating.

I returned Angela’s wink with a relaxed tilt of my head, feigning obedience.

"Sure," I replied, my tone deep and relaxed. "Wouldn’t dream of it."

Yet within, a shadowy thrill twisted like rising mist.

How in hell would I pass up a chance like this?

Three women vanishing into the woods—Angela at the front with her deliberate, hip-swaying stride, Lisa following with quiet assurance, Mira sandwiched in the middle, legs still locked tight, face aflame, stealing peeks over her shoulder at me.

The evening hung heavy, the foliage thick, the moon’s glow sparse. Ample spots to lurk unseen. Plenty of reasons to trail "just to be sure." Countless methods to snag views—outlines lit by the weak light seeping through limbs, the gentle shift of garments being eased, the hushed gasp as relief finally came.

And Mira—innocent, rosy-cheeked Mira—would sense my nearness like a warm touch on her flesh, even without spotting me.

She’d ponder it. She’d color more fiercely. She’d clamp her thighs once again, convincing herself it was merely the chill.

Each pilfered instant would draw her further into the snare that Angela and I were weaving.

I paused a moment—seemingly hesitant—before standing gradually, shaking off bits of grass from my trousers, giving myself one final bold press to keep the bulge evident.

"Lead the way," I said softly, my voice gravelly and hushed, directed at the soft curve of Angela’s exposed shoulder as she advanced into the treeline. She kept her back turned. So did Lisa. Just Mira threw a swift look behind—eyes squinting briefly before she faced forward again.

I trailed after them, steps light on purpose over the scattered leaves and firm ground. The air carried scents of damp earth, bruised greenery, and a subtle, enduring floral hint from whatever scent Angela had applied before.

My heartbeat raced on, not from the stroll, but from the vivid images already unspooling in my thoughts: three figures ahead, shorts and light skirts starting to stick in the muggy atmosphere, bladders swollen from the brews we’d shared by the flames. Up to now, the shadows had aided me—concealing, taunting, tormenting. But shadows have their limits.

In front, the trio huddled nearer, arms touching as the trail squeezed tight. Mira pulled the inexpensive plastic lighter I’d passed her not long ago from her pocket. Its small spark ignited, flickering yellow and erratic, casting dancing shades over her face and the line of her neck.

"God," she grumbled, just audible enough for me to hear, "it would be so much better if we had an actual torch right now..."

Those words struck like a spark on tinder.

I held back my response at first. I allowed the thought to linger as ideas raced through my head. Proper illumination. None of this weak lighter glow, but a strong, pure, cutting light. Intense enough to reflect off smooth inner legs, sharp enough to capture any shine the instant someone yielded and crouched.

Vivid enough to etch every private nuance in stark detail: parted lips, a faint quiver in the limbs, the abrupt warm release. My neck tightened briefly; I forced a hard swallow to steady my breath.

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

She halted abruptly. Angela and Lisa advanced a couple paces before noticing and wheeling around. Mira twisted completely, eyes flaring wide, then pinching as she took in what I offered.

"You... had that with you the entire fucking time?" Her tone pitched up sharply at the end. "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?"