Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 357: Mira’s Motherly Gaze on a Broken Brat

"How could I not be rock hard? Just look at you—curled up that way, attempting to conceal how soaked you remain, how your thighs tremble each time the memory of my tongue against your clit hits you. You ought to be grateful I haven’t fully unleashed the beast inside... so watch yourself, Mira. Provoke me too much with that cheeky mouth of yours, and I could easily drop all restraint."

She drew in a quick gasp, her shoulders drawing up even more—but she stayed put. In fact, her form tilted slightly back in my direction, her ass grazing the head of my cock in the faintest, most torturous touch. That brief contact shot a surge right through my body; I let out a sharp hiss through clenched teeth.

With unexpected strength, Mira pushed me back, her hands pressing firmly against my chest as she scooted away a short distance. "Keep your distance... from me, you bastard..." Her voice broke on the final word—not merely fury, but a raw, unraveling edge, as if she clung to composure by a fragile thread.

I held back. This time, the urge to tease faded unspoken. Instead, I eased back, propping myself against the coarse wooden wall facing her, my legs extended relaxedly, arms draped over my knees.

Between us, the flames snapped and danced, casting flickering shadows over her huddled shape. She pulled her knees closer to her chest, chin perched atop them, her dark locks tumbling forward like a veil to shield her features. Bare openness cloaked in defiant resolve.

Heavy quiet stretched for minutes. Only the crackle of glowing coals and our ragged breaths filled the air.

Then, in a soft tone—almost hesitant—she broke the silence.

"What... exactly did you do before?"

Her words surprised me. My thoughts froze for an instant.

Before.

Prior to this world. Prior to the abilities. Prior to death rejecting me like indigestible refuse.

I parted my lips. "I..." The syllable lingered, incomplete.

When Megan had posed the identical query—playful and intrigued—I’d flashed a grin and confessed I was an assassin. A slayer. A phantom who erased troubles for the proper fee. It was truth enough, and it had sparked a thrilling gleam in her gaze.

Yet from Mira’s lips now... the weight felt different.

My mother came to mind first—her gentle chuckle, how she’d tousle my hair despite me being twenty-two and looming over her. She’d understood my true nature fully. Known of the women from her household I’d charmed, the midnight rendezvous, the stifled laughter echoing from the visitors’ quarters.

At times, she’d shielded me—leaving the rear entrance ajar, feigning ignorance when a servant emerged downstairs rosy-cheeked and tousled come morning. "My son has urges," she’d remark with an affectionate, lenient grin, as if it were merely an innocent eccentricity.

My father had been firmer, yet never harsh. He’d instructed me in marksmanship, combat, and sensing a situation’s undercurrents before words were uttered. He ensured our wealth flowed legitimately.

They’d handled every chaos I stirred. Every fallout I disregarded.

Now they were vanished. Ashes. Echoes. While I lingered here—eternal, beyond harm, divine in manners that twisted more like a burden than a boon—yearning for the era when I was merely a wild, pampered offspring convinced the universe would forever yield to him.

A burn gathered behind my eyelids. Intense. Sudden.

Mira’s words yanked me from the depths.

"What... were you pondering?" A beat. Then, gentler: "Hold on... are you crying?"

I blinked fiercely. One tear had trickled free—followed by a second. I rubbed them away harshly with my hand’s back, mortified and furious at my vulnerability.

"I’m not—" I began, but the protest faltered upon meeting her eyes.

No ridicule crossed her face. No scorn. Her features had eased—gaze wide with an empathy that pierced deeply, despite all my cruel words and actions toward her this evening.

She fell utterly still for a beat, simply observing. Then, with tender care:

"Were you remembering your parents?"

I regarded her truly. The fire’s glow highlighted subtle creases near her eyes, the resilient poise in her stance even as she’d attempted to shrink herself.

"How would you know?" I rasped, throat tight.

Mira exhaled deeply, a weary sigh laden with unshared years.

"I can sense it." She adjusted her position a bit, easing her grip to prop her chin on a single knee. "I’m a mother, Dexter. How could I miss that? The expression... how your posture slumps when thoughts turn to the one who once kept you whole."

I gulped down the lump. "I’m no kid."

A faint, melancholic smile touched her mouth.

"Hmm. Your cocky chatter threw me off before. All that swagger, those lewd remarks..." She cocked her head, appraising me. "But at this moment? You’re nothing but a spoiled youth. Perhaps my son’s age."

"I’m twenty-two," I murmured low.

"That makes you a child still," she countered swiftly. "To me, anyway. I’ve hit forty this year."

I examined her anew. The lush, rounded contours of her figure, flawless and inviting under the flickering light.

How her breasts lifted and settled with every inhale. The subtle scars across her lower abdomen that rendered her all the more authentic. Forty didn’t suit her appearance. More like thirty, or less—radiant, vital, immune to age’s harshest touches.

Yet the details aligned. Her daughter’s years. Her son’s. The assured tone when she referenced motherhood.

"You don’t seem it," I admitted plainly.

She let out a brief, ironic chuckle. "Sweet talk now? After labeling me vile and repulsive?"

"I was a jerk," I grumbled. "You get that."

"I do." She hesitated, then murmured kinder: "But thanks. Even if it’s only to lift my spirits."

Quiet returned. This instance, it felt easy. Unstrained.

Moments later, her voice emerged faint as a breath.

"Do you miss them terribly?"

I fixed my gaze on the blaze. "With every moment I allow the thoughts in."

She inclined her head gradually, as if grasping depths beyond her words.

"My daughter... she’s nineteen these days. My boy’s seventeen. At times, I gaze at them and envision the infants I once cradled through the night. I fret over their safety still. Yearn to mend all their woes." She paused to swallow. "No matter if they shove me aside. No matter if they believe they’ve outgrown my help."

I turned to her. "Do you figure I’ve outgrown needing them?"

"I believe you fear they’re lost forever," she stated plainly. "And that pain cuts deeper than all else."

Yet another tear trailed down. This one, I left untouched.

Mira uncurled gradually—bare as ever, exposed as before—but she made no effort to conceal. She inched nearer, close enough for our knees to nearly meet.

"I won’t claim to grasp your full ordeal," she whispered. "But I recognize the ache of shedding parts of who you are and pressing onward regardless. Of faking strength when inside you’re crumbling."

Tentatively, she extended her hand—then placed it softly on my forearm. Warmth spread. Stability followed.

I eyed her palm against my skin. Then lifted to her countenance—forthright, without barriers, compassionate in a manner I hadn’t earned.