Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 400: Mira Smells the Bare Cunt

Angela let out a low, husky moan—full of need—before stifling it, her eyes flicking to the tree line where Mira stood waiting. "You're going to make me climax just from these steps, right? Naked folds chafing, nub pulsing, your stolen underwear tucked in your pocket like some damn prize... heh... alright."

"But if Mira spots it—if she notices my thighs gleaming, how swollen and slick my pussy lips look—she'll figure it out. Then what, hubby? You planning to take hers as well?"

I grinned, delivering one final firm slap to her rear—flesh quivering, the crack echoing through the still night. "Perhaps. But for now... let's head back. Take it easy and slow."

"Let her catch a full view of my wife's exposed, weeping slit beneath that skirt. And if she questions your awkward stride... be honest. Your husband grabbed your panties... and now your pussy's drooling for him."

Angela fixed me with an irritated expression—a mix of teasing scowl and real annoyance—but the fire in her gaze revealed her lingering excitement.

She leaned over swiftly, grabbing her tossed-aside trousers from the ground littered with leaves and slipping them on with quick, uneven motions.

As she pulled the band up over her curves, the material scraped against her newly uncovered, urine-dampened core for the initial time.

She drew in a sharp breath—audible enough for me to catch it plainly, despite her effort to muffle it. The harsh denim bore straight into her inflamed, tender folds—no silky barrier, no soft guard—just rough cloth scraping her engorged button and puffy edges.

Her inner legs remained glossy with our combined urine and arousal, so the jeans stuck right away, tracing every contour of her bulge in moist, lewd clarity. The seam down the middle pressed into her groove, teasing her aching nub with each slight hip sway.

"D-damn... Dexter..." she muttered through gritted teeth, legs tightening as she fastened the buttons and zipper.

"It's... It's chafing my exposed clit already. Each stride will have my pussy lips grinding the denim... hell, I'm leaking more."

I laughed softly and menacingly, moving near to trail my fingers over the front of her jeans—applying just enough force to sense the warmth pulsing from her bare slit underneath the cloth.

"Perfect. Stroll leisurely, wife. Allow that naked pussy to rub itself senseless on your pants. When we reach the flames, you'll have a damp mark on the front... and Mira will catch the scent."

Angela threw me another glare—irritated yet heated—nibbling her bottom lip to hold back a whine as she tested her first step. Her hips shifted oddly—brief, cautious paces, legs squeezed close as if attempting (and not succeeding) to halt the rubbing from pushing her over the brink right then.

I grabbed the torch, its light swaying idly over her backside as she settled her stance, then faced the trail. "Let's move. Don't keep your watcher hanging."

We emerged from the tree's cover side by side—Angela leading a bit, aiming for a regular walk but botching it badly. Her steps were rigid, pelvis circling in small, cut-off loops per motion, the denim already showing a deeper shade at the front from the new flow of desire seeping from her uncovered groove.

Now and then, she halted, squeezing her thighs, a faint, unwanted "nngh" slipping past her lips before she could trap it.

Mira and Lisa remained in place from our departure—Mira frozen there, face reddened, breaths quick and light, gaze jumping between us as though deciphering every outline on our forms.

Lisa appeared more composed, arms folded, one brow arched in subtle humor.

Mira's eyes locked onto Angela at once—following the odd, deliberate movements, the faint stutter in her gait, the way her legs brushed too closely.

She stayed silent initially, but her nose twitched a touch, like she was detecting the subtle, undeniable aroma of intimacy and urine wafting from Angela's body.

I shattered the quiet, tone relaxed, nearly indifferent. "Time to return."

At that, we pivoted and began heading to the far-off shimmer of the campfire. Angela stayed by my side, Lisa went ahead, and Mira—after a prolonged, torn moment—followed just behind, near enough to observe every bit.

Angela endured it gorgeously.

Each footfall drew a quiet gasp from her—bare folds gliding slickly over coarse denim, nub snagging on the ridge with torturous drag. Her legs glistened; she sensed new arousal blending with the crusting urine, dripping along her inner thighs in gradual streams.

The front of her jeans grew noticeably darker—a wet area expanding, shaping the full form of her mound.

She attempted a steady pace, but her pelvis jerked repeatedly, rear tightening, a small cry leaking out whenever the material tugged her hypersensitive nub.

"Damn... Dexter..." she breathed, pressing against my arm so just I could hear. "It's scraping my clit so fiercely... every move feels like your cock still teasing it... I'll climax if I keep going like this..."

I placed a palm low on her spine—digits slipping slightly below the band, grazing the start of her bare rear cleft. "Then climax, wife. Silently. Let Mira pick up those stifled sounds. Let her watch how my wife moves when her pussy's uncovered and flowing under her jeans."

Angela clamped her lip firmly, legs quivering. "You jerk... You stole my panties so I'd have to trek back this way... slit chafing sore, nub pounding, jeans drenched... nghhh... hell, it's overwhelming..."

Mira stayed near enough behind to notice every catch in Angela's breathing, every minor hip tilt. Her stare kept falling—to Angela's rear first, then down to the growing, dark moisture on the front of her trousers.

She gulped deeply, face aflame, yet she refused to glance elsewhere. Her own legs clamped together once more, strides brief and wary, as if battling her rising urge.

Lisa looked over her shoulder briefly, offering a light smirk, but kept quiet.

By the moment the campfire appeared—cozy amber light dancing on the trunks—Angela trembled all over. Her breaths came in rough, quick bursts, pelvis bucking in small, halted pushes with every step.

The front of her jeans was plainly drenched—a shadowy blot creeping down her inner legs, the shape of her bare pussy lips evident through the soaked material.

She tripped once—steadying on my arm—and released a gentle, fractured whimper that reached just far enough for Mira to catch.

Mira's breath caught noticeably behind us.

We arrived at the fire ring. Angela sank to her knees on the turf with a quaking exhale—legs parting a fraction as she settled onto her heels, seeking to ease the strain on her nub.

The shift worsened it—the ridge burrowed further, tormenting her bare, puffed-up tip without mercy. She gnawed her lip fiercely, nearly breaking skin, gaze unfocused, frame shaking on the verge.

I knelt next to her, murmuring softly. "You did it. Bare slit and oozing all the way. Good girl."