Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 435: Officer Megan’s Complaint

Megan's gaze sharpened just a bit as she scanned us once more—our spotless outfits, no grains of sand stuck to the edges, no hair stiff with salt or skin scorched by the sun.

Angela's sundress appeared newly washed, the light fabric brushing softly against her legs with each small movement, climbing up enough to hint at the smooth swell of her rear if she leaned over even slightly.

Mira's jeans were now sharp and deep in color, fitting snugly around her waist like an intimate embrace, yet I could still detect the subtle, remaining scent of her in-flight release on my trousers where she'd rubbed against me.

Lisa's tank top stuck to her perspiration-soaked body, her nipples showing as dark outlines beneath the material, her cargo shorts undone at the waistband as if a single heavy breath might make her slide them away.

Even I seemed unaffected by the surroundings: no perspiration marks, no grime in my shirt's folds, hair still moist but tidy from the cavern pool wash, my erection semi-rigid and straining my fly from recalling Mira's breasts pressed firmly to my torso.

She paused—obviously considering her response, her law enforcement stare darting from one face to another as if noting dangers, advantages, vulnerabilities. Her uniform—formerly crisp and commanding—now draped more loosely on her build, the cloth worn and marked with soil, cuffs folded back to reveal sun-kissed, muscular arms marked by scars from who-knows-what clashes in this perpetual catastrophe.

Yet despite the fatigue, she remained striking: high and toned, her hips widening subtly beneath the belt to suggest a snug, clenching pussy if one breached the defenses.

Her breasts pushed against the buttoned blouse, the third fastening loose from the warmth, a light layer of perspiration shining in the dip at her neckline.

"That... Mr. Dexter..." she began, tone cautious, nearly courteous in spite of the weariness carved into the subtle creases near her eyes, "have you discovered something beyond? I mean, your attire... and... you all appear as if you just emerged from a blasted magazine. Pristine. Refreshed. No grime. What on earth occurred out there?"

I held her stare firmly, allowing a slight, relaxed grin to pull at my mouth—gradual, aware, the sort that indicated I'd already noticed how her glance dropped to Angela's décolletage, then Lisa's bare stomach, then paused an instant too much on the damp patch I knew lingered faintly on Mira's fresh jeans under the proper angle of light.

"We located some packs out there," I replied offhandedly, waving loosely toward the distant line as if it were trivial, as if the enchanted device buzzing in my belt pocket wasn't the secret to conjuring fresh garments and filled pantries from nowhere.

"Mostly attire. Fresh pieces—grocery store finds, left behind in the turmoil. And we've fortunately secured a spot to live... sturdy refuge, hewn directly into the rocks, shielded from gusts and showers. Sustenance isn't an issue either—abundant supplies, tinned items, recent hauls. There's even a brook close by teeming with fish. Pure water as well. Clear as glass. You could sip it directly, or... apply it for various uses. Soaks. Washing away the grime after a prolonged, filthy evening."

Megan's eyes brightened—real astonishment crossing her weary expression, easing the rigid clench of her chin for the initial time.

She even bounced a tad, her boots scraping the sand with a gentle grind, as if the statement had truly shaken her from the profound tiredness weighing on her posture.

"Really?" she whispered, her voice breaking with a hint of optimism, bending nearer instinctively, her blouse opening sufficient to reveal the dim cleft amid her breasts, the vague shape of a dark bra supporting them solidly.

"That's... that's damn fantastic. We were barely scraping by for anything. The creek we used had some fish initially, but now they're all depleted. Traps have been barren for days."

"The children are reduced to remnants, Paul's hacking blood through half the nights, and we're all conserving water as if it's treasure. Damn, I haven't had a real cleanse in... hell, two weeks? My skin's rough as grit. If you've got pure water and fish... that alters it all."

She broke off, already pivoting halfway toward the others as if ready to issue commands, muster the fatigued figures near the flame hollow—Jack still glaring at the ocean as if it could devour his fury, Bill scattering sand in tiny, angry sweeps, Nicole holding onto Mira like an anchor, her tiny fists clenched in her mom's leather coat.

The other survivors—Hailey with her keen sight, Paul bent over a box rasping quietly—stirred as well, whispers spreading among them like initial rain patters.

I cleared my throat once—soft, intentional—slicing through her mounting thrill like a blade through satin.

"Um... did you misinterpret something, Officer Megan?" I stated, voice steady yet laced with firmness, moving nearer so she needed to lift her chin to lock eyes with me, near enough that I could catch the subtle, base aroma of her—perspiration, brine, and a richer note, like a female untouched for ages and beginning to crave contact.

"I was referring to finding these for myself. Why would I distribute it? Do you believe heaven simply drops into your hands here? No. All things carry a cost."

The atmosphere turned motionless—dense, charged, the roar of waves abruptly overpowering in the shocked quiet. Megan halted mid-inhalation—eyes flaring, lips separating a touch as the statement embedded like barbs.

The optimism that had sparked in her emerald eyes vanished as swiftly as it arose, supplanted by shocked incredulity, then a tougher emotion: a burst of rage that colored her cheeks beneath the soil streaks, her plump lips compressing into a slim barrier. Her fingers curled at her hips—police reflexes clashing with stark, urgent survival urge, digits jerking as if moments from reaching for the holstered gun that was gone now.

"That... I..." she faltered, voice sinking to near silence, retreating a step as if my declaration had thrust her bodily.

"You're joking. We're... we're scarcely enduring here, Dexter. The kids are famished—Nicole's been forgoing meals to pass hers to the young ones. Paul's temperature is rising once more; we've no remedies remaining."

"I've been foraging until my soles are raw, returning with nothing. And you swoop in—immaculate as can be, with your ladies appearing freshly pampered—chatting about brooks and fish like it's a luxury getaway? You're saying you possess sustenance, pure water, refuge... and you're simply going to stockpile it? Let us wither while you build your nest?"

Her tone climbed on the final phrase—splintering with wrath and a profounder, frailer element, as if the fatigue had peeled away her protections. She waved abruptly at her companions, the gesture drawing her blouse taut over her bosom, fastenings pulling tight.