Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 438: Camilla - Drake’s Wife

Jack could no longer contain himself. His voice broke like parched lightning as he lurched ahead in a final stumble, blood dripping from the edge of his lips, gaze frantic and bloodshot.

"Nicole—consider it well," he croaked, tone quivering with rage and a shattered edge beneath.

"Should you decide to leave with this woman... You’ll have no ties to us left. No more ‘Dad.’ No more home. You depart with her—with him—and you’re gone from me. Gone from Bill. Gone from all we once shared. Understand? You’ll be discarding your true family for whatever... twisted dream she’s chasing these days!"

Nicole recoiled sharply—her petite frame twitching against Mira’s embrace as if struck. Yet she offered no reply. She wouldn’t even glance his way. Instead, she pressed her face tighter into her mother’s neck, limbs clamped firmly around Mira’s midsection, nails clutching the leather coat like it was the last anchor in existence.

Mira’s embrace tightened shieldingly around her child, one palm supporting the nape of Nicole’s head, the other tracing gentle loops along her quaking spine.

"Nicole... don’t fret," Mira murmured, tone tender yet intense, lips grazing her daughter’s locks. "Mom won’t allow you to endure any hardship. Mom swears it. No more nights of hunger. No more chills. No more fear when the winds rage. I’ve got you now. I’ve got you always."

Nicole dipped her head—a brief, uneven motion against Mira’s shoulder. Another tear trailed down her face, but she held firm. She refused to turn toward her father.

Mira raised her gaze to meet mine—wordless, imploring. A swift glance toward the jetpack, then returning.

I gave a single nod—crisp and firm.

Angela took Nicole’s available hand—softly, comfortingly—while Lisa positioned herself at Mira’s opposite flank, a guarding presence. We four—Mira holding Nicole near, Angela and Lisa at the sides—began moving toward the ready jetpack, grains of sand grinding beneath our footwear.

In our wake, the settlement remained still—Jack’s uneven breaths the sole noise surpassing the surf.

Then—

"Wait..."

A female voice—gasping, pressing—sliced the quiet.

I pivoted.

She dashed over the dunes—clumsy in stilettos unfit for such ground, scarlet short dress hiking up on plump tan legs, enormous breasts jiggling vigorously per stride.

The outfit was grimy at present—ripped along the bottom, marked with grime and crusted brine—but prior to the disaster that stranded her, it had obviously been nightlife attire: snug, plunging, demanding attention.

Her Mexican roots showed in the rich bronze tone of her skin, plump mouth with smudged crimson, ebony tresses messy and unkempt from gales and disregard.

She lacked the refined allure of Mira or Angela—her traits more gentle, fuller—but her figure was outrageously enticing: broad pelvis, meaty legs chafing as she hurried, and those vast, weighty breasts pushing against the flimsy cloth as if eager to escape.

She halted abruptly before me—huffing, bosom rising and falling, peaks prominent and rigid beneath the crimson cloth.

"Can you take me with you?" she panted, words heavy with her lilt and urgency. "I am willing... I am willing to be your slave."

Murmurs stirred in her trail.

"Camilla... what are you doing?"

"What about your husband?"

Folks were indicating—motioning to a fellow in a shredded yet formerly posh suit by the flame hollow. Jet-black hair, defined chin, lavish timepiece gleaming on his arm amid the ruin. Drake, as they named him.

"Drake... quickly, bring your wife back!"

Drake eyed Camilla—then me. His expression went neutral briefly. Then he snorted—deep, sour—and averted his gaze.

"It’s her choice," he grumbled, words audible just to us. He strode toward the shelters without more, posture rigid.

I wasn’t fond of the scene.

Something seemed wrong.

I triggered the global map feature mentally—a quiet, unseen layer expanding over my sight. Markers for Camilla and Drake flickered alive, fixed right at their spots. I marked them both—ongoing trace. Should this be a trap, a drawn-out scheme, I’d detect it.

Yet for the moment—I disregarded it.

I advanced. Encircled one arm about Camilla’s full waist—drawing her snug to me.

My free palm descended, daring and claiming, grasping the plump, substantial swell of her rear via the sheer red material. I gripped—firmly—digits pressing into yielding tissue directly before her spouse’s departing form, before the whole group.

Camilla moved—pelvis swaying naturally into my hold. A low, husky "Hmm..." escaped her. She affirmed—sharp, swift, lids drooping halfway.

"Yes," she sighed. "Please."

Megan approached—swiftly, boots scattering sand—countenance storm-shadowed.

"Camilla—what the hell are you doing?" she barked, tone hushed and pressing. "You’re giving yourself to a bastard like this? If you’re concerned about rations, about perishing—I assure you, we’ll manage on our own. We always manage. You don’t need to trade your body to him. You don’t need to become his... slave."

Camilla denied with her head—deliberate, steadfast. Her immense breasts grazed my torso as she pressed nearer to me.

"Officer Megan..." she replied softly, inflection deepening with feeling. "I don’t want to die. And I think... I think it is better to follow Master than... my wasteful husband."

The word Master flowed from her tongue like honey—rich, intentional.

I couldn’t suppress the gradual, pleased smile crossing my features. My arousal hardened against her side; she sensed it, adjusted once more, drawing tighter.

Megan gazed—jaw clenched, sight darting from Camilla’s reddened cheeks to my palm yet clutching her rear.

"You’re serious," Megan stated dully. "You’re really going to kneel for him. Let him use you."

Camilla held her look—without shame.

"I already kneel every night in my dreams," she responded gently. "For food. For safety. This... this is just honest. He doesn’t pretend to be kind. He just... takes. And gives back. I’d rather be owned and fed than free and starving."

Megan breathed out—sharp, irritated—but held back from debating. She simply regarded me—extended, assessing.

"You’re collecting them like trophies," she whispered.

I gripped Camilla’s rear anew—eliciting her soft intake.

"Only the ones who beg," I replied. "And she’s begging pretty."

Camilla let out a faint, desirous sound—pelvis shifting once into my touch.