Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 362: Back to Camp: Mira’s Guilty Trip

Gently, I drew Mira away—my palms resting on her shoulders, pulling her back slightly to end the intense embrace she held me in.

Her eyes fluttered open, suddenly conscious of her position—arms partially encircling me, her chest firmly against mine, face nestled into the curve of my neck. As the truth sank in, a vivid red blush surged over her face, trailing down her neck and even tinting the edges of her ears.

She recoiled abruptly as if scorched, her hands rushing to shield her mouth, gaze widened in humiliated awareness.

"Oh—oh God—" she stuttered, peeking toward Bill, who lingered several paces distant, staring off in any direction except ours. "I—I didn’t—I mean—"

I acted equally bashful—lowering my chin a bit, scratching the nape of my neck, allowing a timid, youthful flush to spread across my features, despite the inner glee of triumph I truly experienced.

Mira noticed my look and—regardless of the situation—released a faint, trembling chuckle. It blended equal parts ease and shame, the noise delicate yet genuine.

"You’re impossible," she whispered, giving my arm a soft tap before retreating completely, her fidgety fingers straightening her top.

She eyed Bill once more—then me—then the blood-smeared soil on my ripped garments—and chuckled again, more gently this time. "Look at you. You’re a mess. Covered in dirt and... and blood... "

She shook her head, brushing the tear tracks on her cheeks with her hand’s backside.

"Let’s go back," she declared, her tone more stable now but still heavy with feeling. "Jack must be waiting for us... and your wife will also be worried sick about you."

The term wife dropped like a pebble into calm waters.

She remembered.

I observed the subtle shift in her eyes—the rapid, nearly invisible clench of her lips, how her stare fell to my left hand (no ring, naturally—I’d never donned one here). She offered no further comment on it. Simply pivoted, her posture firming as if steeling herself.

With my thoughts, I probed for the mountain lion.

Nothing.

No trace of sensation. No watchful golden gaze hidden in the dimness. Only... quiet.

That indicated he was truly gone.

The drop—or the stones beneath—had completed the task Mira’s shots began. A minor, odd twinge struck me—not quite remorse, more the absence of a handy instrument. Yet he’d fulfilled his role splendidly.

Bill’s subdued words shattered the instant.

"Mom... I’m sorry..." He remained there—cheek marked red from her strike, gaze lowered, tone diminutive. "I really didn’t mean it... my hand—it just... I couldn’t..."

Mira’s frame tensed. She faced him—eyes sharpening, mouth forming a narrow line. The fury reignited, fierce and safeguarding.

"You couldn’t?" she began, pitch elevating. "You let go, Bill. You let go when he was dangling there—when he’d just saved your life—twice! Do you have any idea—"

I extended my reach—swift yet tender—grasping her wrist before she advanced on him.

"Mira," I murmured gently, giving a single squeeze. I shook my head—a minor motion. Not now.

She regarded me—eyes still fiery—then my features. The simulated blood on my mouth, the grime across my face, how my breaths came ragged as the ascent had almost ended me.

Her ire wavered. Eased.

She breathed out—deep and unsteady—then gave a single nod.

"It’s okay, Bill," I stated, facing him. My tone stayed even, pardoning, the ideal big-brother vibe. "I know you didn’t mean it. You were scared. We all were. Let’s just... go back. Before it gets dark."

Bill gulped heavily—eyes shimmering once more—but he agreed with a nod.

Mira gripped my hand briefly—thankful—then released it.

We headed back along the path we’d taken. The sun hung high, afternoon rays filtering through the branches, casting a golden, cozy glow over the scene despite the earlier turmoil.

Bill trailed between us—silent initially—then at last inquired:

"Mom... how did you guys find me?"

Mira looked my way—then to her boy.

"We followed your shoe trails," she explained. "Broken branches, scuffed dirt... You weren’t exactly subtle. And then Dexter—he just... knew where to look."

Bill regarded me—cautious and remorseful still—but with a fresh glint in his eyes. Admiration, perhaps. Or apprehension.

We continued onward.

Soon, we arrived at the location where Mira had earlier positioned Paul against the tree—his wounded leg wrapped and everything.

He had vanished.

Instead: a creased sheet of paper secured beneath a stone.

Mira lifted it with quivering digits. Opened it up.

Her inhalation hitched.

"It’s Jack," she breathed. "He took Paul back to the base. Look—’Mira—if you find this, I’ve gone back with Paul. Jack."

Bill peered over, scanning above her shoulder.

"He’s safe," Mira uttered—voice breaking from relief. "Paul’s safe. Jack got him out."

Bill nodded—wordless, yet disturbed.

We pressed on.

When we got to the open area where the group had established a temporary camp, the sun dipped lower, shadows elongating over the terrain.

Nicole spotted us initially.

"Mom!"

She dashed forward—locks whipping—directly into Mira’s embrace.

Mira enveloped her—clutching tightly.

"You’re okay—you’re okay—thank God—"

Megan, Angela, and Hailey followed closely—hurrying up, their words tumbling in a jumbled rush of gladness and inquiries.

"Are you hurt—?"

I lingered a pace behind—observing.

Jack stood nearby—next to Paul, who leaned against a toppled trunk, leg thoroughly wrapped, complexion ashen but conscious. He lifted his gaze as we neared—fixing on Mira first.

"You’re okay..." he croaked, tone faint yet eased.

Mira approached him directly—still clasping Nicole’s hand firmly, as though releasing it could restart the horror. She dropped to her knees by Paul on the yielding soil, knees pressing into the moist turf, the note quivering faintly in her spare fingers as she displayed it for Jack.

"I found your message," she mentioned, tone gentle but laden with sentiment. She angled the paper so Jack could view the recognizable script—his own hand, rushed yet firm.

Jack’s weary eyes wrinkled at the edges. He extended his hand, grazing his knuckles softly along Mira’s cheek—cautious, nearly worshipful.

"It’s good that everyone is safe," he murmured low. "It’s just Paul who got injured... but he’s tough. Tougher than he looks."

Paul—resting against the downed log with his wrapped stump raised on a bundled cover—forced a feeble, lopsided smile. The bottom portion of his right leg was missing below the knee, the cut rough but neat, bound in folds of shredded fabric and what appeared to be shreds from a garment. Crimson had penetrated spots, but no new bleeding emerged.

"I’m fine," Paul grated, voice rough but bold. "Hurts like hell... but I’m still breathing. That’s more than I expected when that thing got me."

His gaze darted to Mira, then to me—pausing briefly on the soil and shredded attire that adhered to me like proof of the day’s brutality.