Antique Sex Story, Pt. 1
(Cave Man)
It is 320 BC and hickory smoke is saturating our elevated
home site on top of Seminole Canyon, the weather dry, but
now damp from an early evening down pour. It is now my job
to start a raging fire, to wave my arms about and to make the
fire swell in size. The Real Woman wants fireflies buzzing
around as this brings her contentment. I cum running before
the hole of our cave carrying shells, horns, and antlers,
the leftover remnants and artifacts from last nights ambush
kill. I am a prehistoric and filthy, early man. I am about
to hunt down my archeological find: The Real Woman.
When I shake the trees, she cums to me, and sometimes I must
force her to bend down by the tree to eat and to swallow my
long, shielding arrowhead. Often times, she bends down
for me over by the trees after hunting for deer or buffalo.
It's usually raining, and while the pure rain drizzles
down her face, I pump my arrowhead into the hole in her face.While
over by the hunting trees, she sucks down my entire beastly
eruption, and drinks all of my fluid down. But I continue
to wheel my arrowhead into the space in her face as deeply
as possible, excavating her tongue to encircle my muscular
loin. She says that my loin smells of the skin of the buffalo,
with my foreskin continuely unyielding to her wide-open
hole. I growl on my two legs while my friends of four-paws
holler at the moon, and I force the loin through the space
in her face again and again, and out through the other side
I shoot.
When I am not feeding her my arrowhead, she is contributing
etchings, figures, shapes, and messages onto the wall
of our cave home. It is her job to scrub down the old markings
on the wall, as she is an artist, painter, and village messenger.
She's a creative, illustrator, a cave woman with paintings
and hieroglyphic etchings in 5 colors on the Seminole Canyon
cave wall. Her paints are wild yellow, made of ochre rock
which she pounds everyday. She uses small stones as paint
brushes to create her wavy, zigzag lines.
Seems like I spent a century looking for her, although I
cannot articulate this. I also mumble and drool while speaking,
and I now stumble over to her, splashing some brew from the
wooden pot over into the burning fire, but very carefully
as to not disturb her. Does she know that I am here?
(Real Woman)
What does it feel like to make love to a real woman? I am that
woman. I am bland and entice with my blandness. I wear no
powder nor paint on my face. My body is scented with my own
natural musk, with only field-flower petals, which I rub
behind my ears for a hint of an atomistic scent, my only luring
perfume towards sexual pleasing. I have no erotic toys,
aids, soaps, pills, videos, music, or creams. I don't
think. I express in violence. It is an ancient time, and
I live a non-communicative life, with very little pleasurable
substances. I mumble and drool when I communicate. I now
lay out the thick and furry, bison hide on the floor of the
cave, and place my body down upon it. I have dirty feet and
long toe nails. The first moments of the fire are crisp,
crackling, and flashing throughout the den. Cum to me now,
the First Man. Cum to me now, my Cave Man.
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