Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 411: Summoning Slutty Assassin Suits

"Don’t worry," I whispered softly right by her ear while we floated ten feet above the ground, the rocky cave roof near enough to graze with an outstretched hand. "You’re safe. I’ve got you. I won’t let anything happen to you."

Her pulse thumped furiously against my torso—rapid, uneven, blending terror with excitement. She gasped in quick, steamy bursts against my neck. "This... this can’t be happening... we’re flying... I’m ... oh my god... oh my god, Dexter, how—how are you doing this? This isn’t real. This isn’t—"

"You should believe me now," I replied gently, my tone even and reassuring as her form shook in my arms.

Mira nodded—quick, jerky, distracted—her gaze unfocused and enormous. "Y-yes... I... I believe you... I believe..."

I lowered us gradually, tenderly, placing her feet firmly on the hard rock next to Angela and Lisa, who were already devouring their meals like the events were utterly ordinary.

Angela glanced up from her steak, her mouth glistening with butter, a sly smile playing on her lips. "Mira... you should eat too. It’s getting cold. And trust me—once you taste it, you’ll understand why I call him a god in a way."

Mira collapsed onto the ground—unsteady, her knees buckling as if they’d lost their strength. She grasped her chopsticks with quivering hands, yet her stare darted toward me repeatedly—vast, reverent, craving in all possible ways.

Angela spotted it right away. She reclined against the cavern wall, savoring her wine in leisurely gulps, allowing the crimson liquid to color her lips.

"Mira... I know my husband is stunning and mighty and actually carries folks through caves in flight... but you don’t have to gawk like that. You’re gonna make me jealous~."

Mira’s cheeks burst into a deep red. She snapped her eyes to her ramen, embarrassed. "I—I wasn’t—I didn’t mean—"

Angela laughed—deep, affectionate, playful—then eased her expression a touch. "I’m kidding, sweetie. I know you’re stunned. It’s overwhelming. The food, the flying, the... everything. But trust me..." She inched closer, her whisper turning intimate and smooth.

"Once you accept it? Once you stop trying to explain it away? Life gets so much better. He takes care of everything. Food, safety... pleasure. Whatever you need. Whatever you want."

Mira gulped deeply, her chopsticks shaking as she raised a salmon nigiri to her mouth. "I... I still can’t believe... this is real. You’re real. All of this..."

Angela winked, drawing another unhurried sip of wine. "Oh, it’s real. And the best part? He’s just getting started."

The cavern seemed to shrink all at once—cozier, dimmer, laden with implicit vows and the subtle, remaining aroma of fresh sushi, seared steak, and intensifying, primal longing.

Three hundred thousand points awaited.

And Mira—still flushed, still stealing looks, still quivering—was already halfway ensnared.

Mira grew intensely inquisitive following the aerial display—her astonishment hadn’t faded; it had evolved into profound, wondering captivation. She unleashed a barrage of queries, her voice quaking with equal parts reverence and skepticism, scarcely stopping to chew her ramen.

"How does it work? The food, the flying, the... everything? Is it magic? Technology? Some kind of... divine power?" She bent ahead, chopsticks abandoned, her focus fixed on me as if I possessed all the mysteries of existence.

"Can you do it with anything? Can you make people... disappear? Or heal wounds? Or... read minds?" Her face heated up the moment the final question escaped—she hastily averted her eyes to her bowl, swirling the soup anxiously. "I-I mean... just curious..."

Angela observed her with a perceptive grin, nursing her wine gradually as her other hand settled lightly on my leg—claiming, flirtatious. Lisa, chewing on her burger, simply beamed and muttered about "god-boyfriend perks."

I allowed Mira to chatter briefly, responding in general terms—"It’s a gift. Part of who I am. More than that... later."—as my thoughts drifted inside.

Pervert Insight had sown the initial idea with that 300,000-point "Sneaky Accident" scheme, but witnessing Mira in this state—rosy, enthusiastic, captivated by my words—ignited a swifter notion. A fresh approach. Something right now.

I eyed the trio. They remained in the outfits from days prior: jackets fastened over flimsy bras (no tops beneath—the sweltering conditions had compelled them to shed garments ages ago), jeans marked with soil and foliage, boots worn and caked in mud.

The cloth stuck awkwardly at present—drenched in sweat, filthy, beginning to carry a mild odor of effort and the wilderness. Even Angela’s fresh trousers from the previous evening showed a clear dark patch at the groin, my dried semen blended with new moisture, rendering the dark fabric nearly shiny in spots.

Ideal chance.

Through a quiet thought directive, I accessed the SUPER-MARKET STORE and scanned the apparel area. I sought nothing adorable or pure. I craved items that shouted peril, sensuality, yielding—all encased in smooth, strategic appeal.

I chose three matching ensembles: women’s assassin-inspired bodysuits. Dull black, clinging latex-leather blend—flexible but protected at vital spots, tall collars, extended sleeves finishing in partial gloves, plunging V-zips along the front for quick entry, fortified legs and pelvis, incorporated sheaths and gear fastenings.

The bottoms were ultra-snug leggings that molded to each contour, concluding in fused fighting boots with noiseless treads. Functional. Lethal. And outrageously seductive when fitted properly.

I brought the three bundles into existence in my grasp—stacked tidily, bearing residual warmth from the system’s mysterious creation process.

"Here," I stated offhandedly, offering them forward. "You all need new clothes. These should fit. Change into them."

Angela’s gaze sparkled at once—she grasped the style without delay. "Ooh... husband, you spoil us~" She seized hers with a naughty smile, starting to unzip her jacket. "Black assassin chic? I love it."

Lisa grabbed hers with enthusiasm. "Hell yes! Finally, something that doesn’t smell like swamp ass. Thank you, Dexter!"

Mira accepted hers more cautiously—fingertips grazing the texture as though it might dissolve. The material felt incredibly supple yet durable, chilly to the touch, the blackness so intense it drank in the light.

"Thank you..." she whispered, tone gentle, nearly bashful. But her eyes rose to meet mine—holding a moment beyond necessary—before returning to the attire. "These are... beautiful."

Angela shed her clothes without any hesitation—jacket discarded, bra released, her ample breasts springing loose before she slid off the soiled jeans.

Semen-marked underwear followed last; she exited them with an exaggerated breath, letting them fall to the rock with a damp smack. "God, finally. These new ones better not get ruined in five minutes..." She flashed me a playful glance. "Though knowing you, husband, they probably will."