Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 363: Caught Officer Megan Taking A Piss

Megan advanced, her arms folded tightly around her body, with tears still staining the edges of her eyes from the previous sobs.

"You all have returned at last..." she whispered, her tone breaking. "We felt such deep concern for every one of you."

Nicole pulled free from Mira's embrace and rushed toward Megan—sibling embracing sibling—as they both melted into soft, grateful weeping.

We settled into seats, forming a casual ring around the modest blaze that Jack had maintained. Rays of the midday sun pierced the overhead leaves in elongated beams of gold, heating the open space even as remnants of dread hung in the air.

Angela approached me silently. She soaked a piece of fresh fabric in a little metal container of water drawn from the close stream, then softly lifted my chin using gentle fingertips.

"Stay steady," she whispered, her words gentle. "You're quite disheveled."

She wiped the grime and artificial blood from my cheeks, my brow, the edge of my lips. Her contact felt caring—nearly personal—her thumb gliding over my bottom lip while removing the final streak. With each brush of her fingers on my face, I sensed Mira's stare fixed on us—intense, claiming, searing.

I noticed Mira observing. Our gazes locked. A profound, ashamed red flooded her cheeks right away, and she turned aside, abruptly focused on straightening the cover over Paul's lap.

I coughed lightly, shattering the hushed strain.

"Did they discover any resources lately?" I inquired, my voice quiet yet audible.

Lisa, positioned with legs crossed by the flames, gave a swift nod.

"They located a pool close by," she explained. "Attempted to catch fish. Managed to snag a few—three good ones. Jack prepared them. We have plenty for this evening, perhaps the next if we ration well."

Jack muttered his assent, stirring the fire with a branch.

"The water's pure as well," he noted. "We boiled it for caution. We can refill the bottles before heading out next."

I acknowledged it with a nod—absorbing the details.

Mira inched nearer to me—discreetly, avoiding detection by others. Her knee touched mine. She directed her sight toward Paul, feigning a tweak to his dressing, yet her digits quivered faintly. Now and then, her eyes darted to my torso—precisely where her bosom had pressed so firmly against me before, where she'd held on so fiercely before her boy.

The recollection lingered clearly on her expression: how her nipples had rubbed along my fabric, rigid and yearning; how her pelvis had instinctively shifted once on my leg during her initial tug to lift me; the humiliating awareness that Bill had witnessed everything—his mom rubbing against me in pure, beastly solace.

She pressed her lip firmly—struggling to quell the new surge of warmth rising in her neck, a blush of desire that sent her heartbeat racing deep within her core.

Angela completed the cleansing of my face and leaned back, tucking a lock of hair behind my ear in a caring gesture that lasted a moment beyond necessity. Her fingers slid along my jaw, her exhale hot on my flesh, though my focus had shifted away.

From the side of my vision, I spotted Megan edging from the gathering—stealthy and hushed, her hips moving in that purposeful, playful sway she favored. She peered over her shoulder once, confirming no eyes followed, then slipped into the dense foliage edging the site.

Intrigue seized me at once. What was her plan? I lingered a moment—acting as if fixing my ripped top—then trailed after, gliding like a specter amid the trunks.

The woods grew thick in this spot, foliage crackling faintly beneath my footwear, though I made my footfalls feather-light and noiseless. Roughly 50 meters in, the sounds from camp dwindled to a remote hum, and I halted behind a sturdy oak, glancing out.

Megan had come to a stop—scanning both directions with that anxious, secretive vibe, ensuring the settlement lay distant enough that nobody might chance upon her secret interlude.

She slipped behind the enormous trunk, its surface rugged and twisted, vanishing from plain sight. The woodland absorbed the final whispers of far-off chatter, leaving just the gentle whisper of foliage and the subtle song of birds in the waning day.

I advanced stealthily—pulse pounding with blended wonder and shadowy thrill—maintaining quiet strides, steady breathing. The World Map verified: her crimson marker throbbed consistently just beyond that trunk, with no other signals close. She remained utterly isolated. Ideal.

I circled the trunk barely enough to glimpse, crouching low and concealed in the shade of a broad fern.

There she stood.

Megan's full, curvaceous rear projected toward me as if presented—two ideal, pale mounds, sleek and unblemished, shimmering softly in the mottled light slipping through the branches. The curves were extraordinarily rounded and taut, quivering just a bit with each minor adjustment of her stance, the tender skin indenting slightly where her thighs joined the base.

A light layer of perspiration caused her skin to shine, accentuating every enticing line—the profound valley between those ample mounds, the smooth widening of her hips, the manner her rear narrowed to a slim midsection yearning for a firm hold.

The view by itself stirred my shaft to harden achingly against the fastening, growing rigid with fierce, primal urge.

She slid her thumbs under the band of her trousers and dark lace undergarment in a single eager pull—dragging them both to her feet in one swift yank.

The material gathered at her boots, holding her legs a touch separated. Her rear mounds separated on their own as she spread her base for steadiness, exposing all: the snug, rosy ring of her rear entrance blinking in the breeze, and beneath, the delicate, bare folds of her core—now puffed and tinted a richer rose, shining with a moist layer unrelated to relief as yet. One drop of her excitement adhered to her inner crease, quivering, poised to fall.

Megan released a gentle, easing breath—nearly a sigh—as she lowered into a crouch, rear extending more, mounds parting broader. The fullness of her rear turned even more provocative in this pose—plump spheres trembling, the valley parting like a welcome, her snug small opening contracting once as she eased her tension.

Then it began.

A piercing, whistling noise echoed through the serene spot—intense, damp, undeniable. Her release burst forth in a powerful amber flow, curving from amid her separated core folds with strong force. The whistle came keen and patterned initially—ssssssshhhhhh—resembling a forceful tap unleashed at maximum, the fluid striking firmly on the parched foliage and soil underneath in a constant, spraying beat.

Each throb of her flow caused her rear mounds to tighten and loosen, the curved flesh shaking enticingly with every rush. Tiny specks scattered in small curves, capturing the light like fluid gems prior to landing on the ground.

The aroma reached me—pungent, sharp, blended with the heated, earthy scent of her excitement. It proved captivating—raw, taboo. Her core folds quivered a bit with each potent spurt, the inner parts gleaming more clearly now as her personal wetness mingled with the stream.

A couple of errant beads stuck to her engorged nub, shaking there before dropping in languid, tantalizing falls. The flow throbbed in sync with her breaths—stronger on her out-breath, milder on her in—forming a dirty, sensual rhythm: