tagFirst TimeCave Woman, Cave Man

Cave Woman, Cave Man

byIanSaulWhitcomb©

All characters in this story are full and consenting adults.

*****

You squat at the edge of the lake with a hand on one knee while the other hand reaches out to pat the water and send your spirit self shivering and wrinkling away. Then you let the water calm until she returns, only to do it again. The russet tangles of your hair hide your face, but there is much else to see. Hunched down that way, your rump fills and tightens the patchy fur skirt across it, and your breasts hang free and sway and jiggle when you splash the water spirit away. They are smaller than the breasts of some of the other women, but fine and beautiful, and your rump is a match for any of them.

You swat your spirit self again and laugh as she disappears, and that laugh is why I am here. That laugh is what makes you the one, even though your breasts are small and the other hunters ask where my young are supposed to suckle if I take you for mine. I will slay boars and my spawn can drink blood, and I will nourish myself on that laugh.

I move closer, and though my steps could catch the boar or the deer unwary, you hear and jump up and spin.

Seeing me, you grunt dismissively and raise that proud chin. But I see that your shoulders have softened from the tight clench they had before you knew it was me. I walk up to you. You are very small, but your hands on your hips say that if you want to defy me, you will not fear to do it. I stare down at you and you stare back, with those eyes halfway between green and brown. I breathe deep. Your smell is as fierce and defiant as the rest of you.

Your chin lifts again, demanding to know what I want. But you know.

I play your game, though, and grab you and pull you to me, both hands sweeping around you to your bottom to lift and pull you against my crotch so you can feel my desire and intention.

You grin. Your fingers twine into my beard. You pull my face down to press our lips together. I taste the tang of berries and last night's venison in your mouth when I put my tongue there.

Your hands leave my beard and you turn your head aside from mine and one of your hands tugs at my wrist while the other points at the knot that holds up your skirt. But I do not release you. It is not to be here. I have planned.

Instead, I heave you up and over my shoulder, where you squeal and smack the broad muscled plain of my back, then growl and let yourself dangle. I feel your breasts graze my flesh. With one hand firmly clasping your haunch, I set out away from the lake, toward the cliffs.

It is the space of a few songs to reach the spot I have prepared. But we do not sing. I only listen to you breathing and feel your hands slide here and there at my back and my waist. Every once in a while, you find a spot you especially like and make a murmuring hum in your throat.

At the cliffs, I take us to the place. It is a notch in the face of the high stone, wide enough for a man to lie across, deep enough for two to lie head to toe. Across the front of it, I have placed a dense tangle of thorny brush, staked into place with lengths of wood. I set you down so that I can move the barrier. You peer at me with narrow eyes.

Then I have it loose, and shift it, and your gaze shifts too.

At the very center of the rocky hollow lies the bear, my spear jutting straight up from its great corpse. I grin at your wide eyes and put my hand in the center of your back and push you toward it. Then I pull the thorn barrier back into place behind us, and we are sealed in the den I have made for this moment.

You move toward the bear with your shoulders low and your hands spread wide. Then you look at me, the brown tufts of your eyebrows bunched together. You point to the bear, your eyes questioning, and you bring the hand around to point again, this time directly into the hollow between your breasts. I nod.

It is for you.

Pleased with myself, I step toward the bear, a hand out, reaching for my spear, meaning to pluck it loose. But you put yourself between me and the beast I have hunted for you, lured here for you, killed for you. I stop.

You let your spine sway loosely like the snake that means to strike, your hips and shoulders and arms rocking like the waves from when you splashed the surface of the lake. Your head is tilted down, but your eyes are up and at me and your smile is sharp. You reach for the knot of your skirt, and now I do not stop you.

It is loose, the hide cast off. You stand bare before me, brown hair downy on your legs and dense where your belly curves down to the birthing hole that I mean to fill up. I step forward again, but you put a hand up and let those eyes flare.

Back, you move. And carefully, cautiously, first with one foot and then the other, you walk up the bear's hide to the barrel of its chest and you step to the side and around and behind my spear. You grasp it, legs wide. One hand high, one hand low. Around it you spin, rump held high and proud, slowing to point your thatch and a wet gash of flesh at me, face looking back over one shoulder. Then quickening back to the other side.

A glee sets your feet into all but a run. You flash in a circle about the spear, faster, faster, then leap up, feet free, the shaft of the spear curving with your weight as you twirl around it and set back down behind its quivering wooden column, panting and staring at me. Again I step forward, but you do not come round the shaft to meet me. Instead, you plant your feet far apart and roll your hips forward and kiss the wood with your wetness, grinding your scent into my weapon.

I leap atop my kill and grab you, pulling you to me with one hand and ripping the spear from the bear's flesh with the other. As the shaft clatters to the ground, we are nose to nose, staring, our soles and toes cushioned by thick, musky fur. I crush your bare form to me and lower us both to our bed of once-brutal flesh. You try to roll over, face down, meaning to present yourself for me to take. But I hold you by the shoulders so that you may not turn over. Then I let my hands crawl down your body, clutch your breasts, possess your waist. I move farther down, and you watch me, curiously, as I explore what lies between your legs. Your scent mingles with the musk of the bear. I crave a closer look at the curves and folds of flesh that you rubbed against my spear in your dance. You twitch as my fingers move along these fine and delicate parts. Then a sound of alarm escapes you.

"Ah!"

Looking up, I see you lift a hand from the bear's fur, your palm wet with its blood where the spear's shaft had plugged the wound. Grinning, I crawl forward again to dip a finger into the bloody hole.

I draw slow, bright red circles around the nubs at the peaks of your breasts. You squirm your shoulders, then gasp as I seal my lips to suck and lick away the scarlet life-stuff of my prey. I dip my finger again, to dab a red smudge across each of your cheeks and your chin. Then I clean these too, leaving your face flush with your own blood and pinked with that of the bear.

Once more my fingertip pierces the bear, and I draw my sign in the center of your belly, the wolf's head, sharp ears and narrow eyes. This one I do not clear away.

Returning to my explorations, I find your birth-hole drenched in its own fluids, their smell heady and demanding to be fed on. I lower my face and thrust my tongue forward, feeling your crease part and tasting woman.

It is good. A crafty, raw, sharp taste, thick with the fluids of your body and speckled here and there with the dust and dirt you have collected in the days since you last swam in the river.

At this place where one day you will bring forth children, I suckle and lap like a child. But the noises you make are not the noises of a woman nursing her young. The more I lick and curl my tongue through this dank valley of yours, the more you moan and tremble. Then something gutteral rushes from your throat, and you thrust your groin up against me, swirling and grinding your hips and grunting with the ferocity of a beast until at last a surge of wetness spills from within you and your thighs slam tight to my ears as you thrash and scream.

No one has told me about this. It is better than stumbling upon a vast and fertile hunting-ground before any other man has been there.

You lie gasping and shaking, the eyes rolled up in your head. I free my manhood from my loincloth and crawl atop you, meaning to kiss you before I turn you over for a proper mounting. But as my lips touch yours, my spear of flesh brushes your mound and makes you shudder again, and it occurs to me that I could pierce you this way as easily as from behind.

So I seal my mouth to yours and reach down and tilt and angle my stick until its blunt end finds your glorious opening and I thrust into something far better than I have ever felt before. My groan is like the crack of a tree hit by a storm's fire. I feel your breasts with my chest, the fur of the bear with my arms, my thighs. I taste the hunger of your lips as they clutch mine and you lick your flavor from my mouth. But these things are all as the spirits of insects, buzzing in some ghostly distance. The endless surface of the Earth has become small, the sky tiny. My world is the wet embrace of your tight and glossy cave, and I can think of nothing but to pull back and slide in and pump and thrust as quickly as I can, over and over, rocking your body atop the bear's corpse, climbing toward something unendurably pleasurable.

It bursts from me, my seed, filling you in spurts that feel as powerful as the gush of blood from a boar's slit throat. Your legs have wrapped around me, and your arms. You are screaming again, that cry of joy that matches my roar, and as our bliss and quaking begin to calm, you turn it into a wolf-sound for me, a howl of the moon overhead in the deeps of night.

"Ahooo! Aaoooo! Ahooo!"

And then I slump down onto you, spent, barely able to keep my weight from crushing you breathless. My legs are quivering.

Into my ear you whisper, "Ahooo!"

For a while you nuzzle my neck as I lie upon and within you. Then your legs unhook from around my haunches, and you push at my shoulder until I lever myself up, wondering why you want me away from you, when all I want is to remain here forever. But your hand around my back tells me not to pull too far away, and your chin and eyes duck to order me to look downward, past your breasts, where your other hand is pointing at your belly, and the damp, sweat-blurred wolf's face that I drew there.

And your eyes lock on mine and your hand moves to the center of my chest, above the heart, and I know that you mean:

You are mine.

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byIanSaulWhitcomb© 18 comments/ 21087 views/ 9 favorites
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by Anonymous

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by IanSaulWhitcomb06/13/18

@ Jo

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by Anonymous06/11/18

UNIQUE AND REFRESHING

Impressive!! VERY well written! NO TYPOS and no redundant (typical erotic) phrases. It's very original and worded perfectly. I'm very impressed with your style and originality! It's realistic and not stupidmore...

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