Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

I cupped her cheek with infinite tenderness, my thumb brushing slowly along the sharp line of her jaw as though I were handling something fragile and irreplaceable.

With my other hand, I caught a loose strand of her dark hair that the evening breeze had tugged free, tucking it behind her ear with deliberate care, letting my fingertips linger against the warm shell of her ear a heartbeat longer than necessary.

”I... didn’t want you to be worried,” I murmured, voice low and velvet-soft, almost a confession. ”I thought if I stayed close — if I kept showing up the way I always did — it would only carve deeper cracks between you and Jack. The last thing I ever wanted was to become the shadow that ruined your home.”

A single tear slipped free from the corner of Mira’s eye and traced a slow, shining path down her cheek.

She tried to blink it away, but another quickly followed. Her lips trembled as she whispered, ”I’m so sorry... because of me... because I let you get so close... you’ve been accused like that. Called those horrible names. I’ll explain everything to Jack tonight. I’ll make him see. He’ll apologise to you — I swear he will.”

Her voice cracked on the last word.

I gave her the smallest, saddest smile and shook my head once. ”Don’t,” I said gently, catching the next tear with the pad of my thumb before it could fall.

She looked up at me then — wide, glistening eyes searching mine for reassurance, for absolution.

I slid my hand from her cheek down to the nape of her neck, fingers threading lightly into her hair, not pulling, just... holding. Anchoring her gaze to mine.

”I already spoke to your wife,” She continued, calm and measured. ”She was crying when you left. I told her the truth — that there is nothing. That there never has been. She believed me... mostly. But she’s still scared. She wants you home. So let’s go back now, okay?”

Before I could answer, Mira reached out suddenly and caught my hand. Her fingers wrapped around mine with surprising strength, squeezing so tightly I could feel the fine tremor running through her.

I let her hold on. I didn’t pull away.

Instead, I turned our joined hands slowly, palm to palm, and laced my fingers through hers with careful deliberation, the way someone claims something precious without ever saying the word mine.

She exhaled shakily, shoulders dropping as though that small connection had leeched some of the tension from her body.

I nodded once, soft and encouraging. ”It’s not your fault, Mira,” I said, voice dropping even lower, intimate, meant for her ears alone.

”None of this is. If there’s blame, it’s mine. I should have kept a greater distance. I should have seen how my presence was poisoning things between you two. Because of me, he started doubting you... and now you’re both hurting.”

Her lower lip quivered. She opened her mouth — probably to protest, to insist again that it wasn’t my fault — but I pressed the pad of my thumb very lightly against her lips, silencing her with the gentlest touch.

”Shh,” I whispered.

Inside my head, I was smiling — a dark, patient little chuckle I would never let reach my face.

I already knew exactly what would happen if we walked back to that house together and tried to ”explain” anything to Jack. Every careful word, every earnest denial would only tighten the noose.

The more desperately Mira protested her innocence, the more convinced he would become that she was lying. That we were lying. That there really was something secret and filthy blooming between us.

And when the shouting started again — when he hurled more accusations, when he stormed out or locked himself in the guest room with a bottle — Mira would be left standing in the wreckage of her marriage, alone, raw, heartsick.

And I would be there.

Quiet. Steady. The only one who never raised his voice. The only one who still looked at her like she was worth saving.

Her light in the dark.

Her harbor.

And once Jack finally walked away for good — once the last door slammed — she would turn to me with those same tear-filled eyes and reach for the only hand that had never let go.

She would be mine then.

Completely.

Utterly.

I gave her laced fingers one slow, reassuring squeeze and dipped my head just enough that our foreheads almost touched.

”Come on,” I murmured against her temple, lips brushing skin so lightly it might have been imagination. ”Let’s go back.”

I started walking, slow and unhurried, guiding her forward with the gentle pressure of my hand in hers — steering her exactly where I wanted her to go.

She followed without resistance.

Of course she did.

She always did.

Mira’s fingers tightened around mine until the edges of her nails pressed tiny crescents into my skin. It was going to be night soon... the sun was about to set as we walked for a long time.

The night air was thick with jasmine and the faint smoke of an incense stick someone had lit earlier; crickets pulsed in the undergrowth like a heartbeat.

We had barely taken ten steps when her foot caught on an exposed root half-hidden in the grass. Her ankle rolled sharply inward. A soft, involuntary moan slipped from her lips—”Aaa...”—high and startled, almost childlike in its sudden helplessness.

She stumbled, weight pitching forward. Instinctively, I caught her, one arm sliding around her waist, the other still locked with hers.

My palm flattened against the small of her back, fingers splaying wide to brace her, feeling the quick rise and fall of her breathing through the thin fabric of her coat.

”Are you okay?” I asked, voice dropping low, urgent but calm. I turned her gently toward me so I could see her face in the dappled sunlight. ”Tell me where it hurts. Right now.”

Mira’s brows pinched together; her lower lip caught between her teeth. She tried to put weight on the injured foot and immediately winced, a small hiss escaping. ”Hm... my ankle,” she whispered, eyes glistening again—not from earlier tears this time, but from sharp, fresh pain. ”It hurts... I think it’s twisted. I can’t... I can’t step properly.”

”Easy,” I murmured. ”Don’t try to walk on it yet.”

Without waiting for permission, I shifted my grip, sliding my arm more securely around her waist until my forearm pressed warmly against the curve of her lower ribs. I could feel the tremor running through her side. ”Lean on me. All your weight. I’ve got you.”

She hesitated for half a second—habit, maybe, or the last shred of propriety—but then she sagged gratefully against my side, her free hand coming up to clutch at my shoulder as though anchoring herself to the only steady thing in the spinning night.

I guided her slowly, step by careful step, away from the open path toward the nearest large neem tree whose trunk was broad and shadowed. The bark was rough under my fingertips when I reached out to steady her.

”Here,” I said softly. ”Lean against the tree. Just like that—good.”