Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 398: Angela Clamps My Cock While Pissing

Before I even had the chance to agree—before I could snarl my approval and pull her behind the tree myself—the light from the torch swung back in our direction, glaring and judgmental.

Mira and Lisa stepped out from the darkness, their pants pulled up once more but their cheeks still red, breathing coming in short bursts.

Mira's gaze shot straight to my groin—eyes going wide at the obvious damp stain, the heavy bulge pushing hard as if ready to rip through the zipper—before snapping away, her face flushing even deeper than earlier. She shoved the torch at Angela with shaky hands.

"Take... this," she whispered, her tone soft and out of breath. "I'll watch over him..."

Angela accepted the torch for just a moment—then, moving with intentional leisure, she placed it into my palm, her fingers brushing mine, her thumb caressing the back of my hand in a manner that sent my dick twitching.

"Mira..." she murmured gently, pivoting to meet her eyes with that sly, aware grin. "Dexter's my husband. Why should I conceal anything from him?" Her words lowered, carrying a layered intent that filled the atmosphere heavily.

"He'll guide me with the light... assist me in squatting... support me if I wobble. And truthfully, I'm afraid to head there by myself in the blackness. You get it, don't you? A wife relies on her husband's... safeguard."

Mira went still. The statement washed over her like a gradual, heated tide.

She has no reason to feel embarrassed about being viewed that way—urine flowing, intimate area bared, rear cheeks divided—since it's natural for a husband to observe his wife as she empties her bladder. To hold the flame. To gaze. To become aroused by it.

Yet even so...

Mira's eyes returned to my erection—staying there longer now—then shifted to Angela's triumphant look, then to the torch burning in my hold. Her legs squeezed together once more, a subtle, instinctive friction revealing the new throb growing in her core. She gulped, mouth opening on a quiet exhale, her nipples hardening against her undergarment in the chilly breeze.

Angela moved nearer to me, molding her form along my body so Mira could witness—her palm gliding down to grasp my balls over the denim, delivering a soft, claiming press.

"Let's go, husband," she cooed, making sure Mira caught each lewd word. "Illuminate the path for your wife. Let's offer her a real sight to monitor."

She faced the tree once again, her hips rolling seductively, already yanking at her pant's edge. The torch's glow quivered a bit in my grasp—not from anxiety, but from the fierce, throbbing desire racing inside me.

Mira remained planted there—face crimson, respiration rapid, stare fixed on our figures.

She failed to step back. She failed to avert her eyes.

She observed.

And right then, the snare tightened further.

Angela and I ducked behind the huge oak's trunk, the coarse bark rubbing against my back as I drew her close, her full breasts smashing into my torso, nipples dragging like firm tiny points across her shirt.

The torch had been set on that short root already—intense white light cutting across our midsections, rendering every contour, every moist area, in sharp, explicit detail.

Mira lingered outside still—about twenty steps distant, frozen in place, panting heavily, eyes riveted to the dim spot where we'd disappeared. She stayed put. She kept staring. She damn well observed.

The atmosphere stank of arousal and urine—Mira and Lisa's pungent, sharp flows still hanging on the soil, blending with the scent of pine and wet ground.

My dick stood rigid as iron, oozing pre-cum in heavy, constant drips that darkened my trousers at the end.

Angela wasted no time. She yanked her pants down roughly—cloth sliding over plump thighs, rear flesh bouncing as she flung them off.

Only those black lace panties remained—center drenched completely, dark moisture expanding like leaked semen, her plump labia clearly shaped, swollen and full, bulging against the delicate fabric as if eager to escape.

She began to lower herself—thighs parting, cheeks separating to reveal that snug, pink rear opening flickering in the light—but I seized her beneath the arms, pulling her upright again.

"Hold off, you dirty urine whore," I snarled, sinking to my knees.

I clutched her thighs—plush, heated skin giving way beneath my grasp—and spread them forcefully. Her panty-clad slit hovered mere inches from my face, warmth pouring from it like an oven.

I plunged my nose directly into the sodden lace, breathing in deeply—damn, the aroma struck like a narcotic: dense, earthy feminine essence, sharp excitement, the biting, restrained hint of urine.

Her labia swelled large, deep rose and shining through the transparent material, inner parts exposed and slippery, her clit a firm, jutting gem pulsing against the damp weave.

Scattered hairs poked through the lace, tangled with her fluids. I ran my tongue broadly over the front—savoring salt, earthiness, the slight tartness of impending urine—drawing a deep, vulgar groan from her.

"Aah... Dexter... you filthy bastard, smelling my sopping slit like an animal..." Angela gasped, hands clenching my hair, pelvis thrusting to smear her drenched folds over my lips and nose.

"Inhale how soaked you get me... my pussy's dripping for your dick..."

I rose gradually, trailing my tongue along her stomach, through her cleavage, sampling perspiration and flesh, until I loomed above her.

Zipper undone—my cock burst out, girthy and lined with veins, tip bloated violet and glossy with pre-cum, a thick drop falling from the opening.

I seized the root and pushed ahead, slipping the stiff shaft straight between her legs—the warm underside fitting closely against her panty-shielded labia.

"Grip those thighs, you eager slut," I commanded, tone gravelly. "Clamp my thick cock like the dick-craving bitch you are. Hold it firm against your leaking pussy. Now release—douse my shaft with that steaming, filthy flow while I chafe your clit sore."

Angela's eyes fluttered shut, a lewd whine slipping out before she clamped her mouth. "Oh god... yes, Dexter... drag that huge, meaty cock across my drenched pussy... force me to urinate on it like a nasty hound..." She crushed her thighs shut—yielding, cushioned flesh gripping like a silken vice around my cock, locking it in cozy, damp confinement.

The lace scraped my tender flesh, her enlarged lips spreading around the thickness via the slim layer, enveloping my cock like an extra sheath.

My head poked directly at her clit—rubbing the opening right onto that rigid, pulsing button, circling lazily as she adjusted.

Then she released.

A blazing, powerful surge erupted from her core—amber urine spraying through the lace in a chaotic, sputtering stream that soaked my cock right away.