Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 343: Fight For Gun

The open space buzzed with disorder, as the remaining people yelled at each other, their tones hoarse from irritation and dread. Tension hung heavy in the atmosphere, mixing the smell of smoke and perspiration with the sharp edge of hopelessness.

Megan positioned herself at the heart of it all, lifting her arms in a vain effort to soothe the throng, yet the assembly had lost all sense. Desperation flared in their stares, fury and bitterness warped their features, and their shouts blended into a stormy wave of pleas.

A sturdy man with a ragged beard and frantic gaze pushed ahead, his words slicing the clamor sharp as a blade. "Officer Megan!" he bellowed, his pitch insistent and blaming.

"It doesn't seem right for you to keep both guns when we're all left without protection!" He pointed sharply at her, cheeks red with fury. "Hand one over for our own security! What happens if we get assaulted? If trouble strikes? We require means to defend ourselves!"

The rest joined the outcry, their calls swelling into a unified surge of discontent. "Officer!" a female voice cried, quivering with terror. "He's correct!" She gripped her mushroom soup bowl tightly, fingers pale. "We can't remain powerless while that jerk parades his dominance!"

"Yeah!" a different guy roared, his expression contorted in wrath. "We ought to feel secure as well!"

Megan remained frozen, stunned, her sight flicking from the group to the pistol on her hip. This turn hadn't crossed her mind—the way they'd lash out at her, trapping her with requests she couldn't deny. Her words faltered, fingers quivering a bit as she replied.

"But to whom should I pass the gun?" she questioned, her manner begging for sense, for rationale. "Does anyone here know how to shoot? Since a mistake could endanger everyone!"

A brief hush settled over the clearing, the people swapping looks and whispering softly. A few raised their shoulders, some averted their eyes, dodging her stare. Then Paul advanced, his speech composed and commanding, piercing the strain.

"Officer Megan..." he stated, his delivery solid and even. "I served as a military doctor." His gaze locked with hers, resolute and assured. "I've been taught to manage guns properly. I understand safe usage."

Megan paused, scanning the assembly for hints of opposition. "Does anyone object to him taking the gun?" she inquired, her tone taut, wishing for a voice to rise and offer grounds to deny.

Yet the crowd stayed quiet. Certain individuals nodded with hesitation, some lifted their shoulders, but none challenged Paul. Their consent came grudgingly, yet it sealed the matter.

Megan let out a breath, her posture sagging from the pressure of their insists. She grasped the firearm she'd seized from Lisa before, her digits grazing the chilly steel prior to offering it to Paul.

"Here..." she whispered, her sound faint amid the group's low talks. "But handle it wisely, Paul. Just for defense. Only when there's no choice."

Paul accepted the weapon, his hold secure, face impassive. He gave Megan a brief nod of comfort, then faced the others, his voice even and directive. "I won't disappoint you." His look passed over them, steadfast and resolute. "But keep in mind—this remains our final option. We avoid stirring up more conflict unless forced."

The people whispered to one another, a few approving with nods, while some continued to shoot glares my way, resentment smoldering in their eyes. For the moment, though, the strain lessened, and the risk of revolt faded. They dispersed, grumbling softly, some eased, others fuming inwardly.

Megan faced me, her features knotted in annoyance, her whisper sharp and charging. "You relish this, huh?" she snapped, her stare piercing mine. "You thrive on our desperation and splits."

I lifted my shoulders, munching more pizza, my grin icy and entertained. "I savor the truth, Megan." My manner stayed casual, but my gaze remained chill and firm. "And this moment defines the truth." I waved toward the group, to Paul with the pistol, to the lingering dread and suspicion in the breeze. "You all selected this path. Not I."

Megan's fists tightened, her tone quaking with anger. "We picked endurance."

I laughed lightly, tilting my head. "No, Megan." My speech flowed sleek and taunting. "You picked frailty." I drew nearer, my words softening to a hush. "And frailty invites exploitation every time."

Flames danced over Megan's visage, highlighting her wrath in stark lines. Her face flushed hot, mouth clamped into a slim, shaky strip. "You're twisted," she hurled, her pitch unsteady—not from fright, but the fury of repeated defeat.

I sipped my beverage deliberately, cubes rattling in the container. My sneer held steady. "And you're innocent," I countered, my voice silky like tainted sweetness. "But rest easy, Megan." I inched close enough to make her recoil, my tone a soft velvet. "You'll catch on shortly."

Her fingers balled at her hips, nails digging into flesh deep enough for blood. For an instant, I sensed she might strike. Rather, she spun sharply, back stiff with shame. "You'll rue this," she growled back, the phrase quivering like a vow.

I observed her vanish into the gloom, flames devouring her outline. My grin persisted. It grew, if possible. "Oh, Megan..." I breathed, stirring the golden fluid in my tumbler, "I never regret."

The area nearby released a collective sigh, the people trading wary looks. Some appeared soothed, like a gale had blown over. Others seethed quietly, ire bubbling under. Yet the strain lingered. It always did.

I paid them no heed.

Angela stayed near, her form cozy and firm. I drew her in, encircling her with my limb, digits sketching lazy designs on her limb. She stayed put. She always stayed.

Her form's press against me thrilled, her gentle breaths a soothing tune silencing the clamor.

The blaze popped, throwing playful shades over her flesh. I allowed my eyes to dwell on her chest's heave and drop, how her air caught faintly as my fingers grazed her garment's edge. The group's murmurs receded, the fire's snap the sole vital noise.

I adjusted, laying my crown on her, ear to her pulse's beat. Her heat flowed into me, aroma ensnaring my awareness like enchantment. I sensed her flesh's yield under cloth, the smooth arc of her bosom lifting and sinking per breath.

My lids drooped, frame easing into her solace. The surroundings might crumble, but then, only Angela existed. Just her chest's motion, her flesh's glow, her shape fitting to mine.

I surrendered to float, breaths steadying, sinews loosening. My crown weighed more, cheek on her bosom's gentle rise. Her top's weave was sheer, scant shield twixt our skins. I felt her fervor, her heartbeat's pulse under my ear.

And soon, only slumber's void remained.

I held no dreams. Never had.

Upon rousing, the cloth under my cheek felt moist, a slim drool line staking my spot. Angela shifted a touch, her digits combing my locks, her tone gravelly from rest. "You're revolting."

I stayed still. Offered no sorry.

I merely grinned against her flesh and shut my lids once more, limb squeezing her midsection.