Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 439: Camilla’s Ambush Plan

Drake halted at the boundary of the tents behind us—observing silently. He failed to advance and halt her. Simply... gazing. Vacant-eyed.

I noted his position once more on the map—applying a double marker. An odd vibe lingered. However, that would have to wait.

For the moment—

With a pair of fingers, I lifted Camilla's chin—compelling her gaze to lock with mine.

"Do you grasp what 'slave' entails?" I inquired—softly, closely. "It signifies you part your legs at my command. You take me in your mouth on order. You accept it in all openings—ass, pussy, mouth—till you're dripping and weeping. It requires addressing me as Master."

"It covers your breasts, your legs, that plump Mexican rear—all belonging to me. It demands you observe me with the rest and plead for your chance. It ends all decisions. Pure compliance. In exchange... You get food. You rest in comfort. Your children eat. You survive."

Camilla's eyes dilated sharply—her breathing catching.

"Yes, Master," she breathed. "I get it."

Megan uttered a revulsed noise—yet she refrained from stepping in.

I glanced toward Mira—who still clutched Nicole tightly.

The red tint across Mira's face refused to dim—instead, it intensified, searing her complexion while Angela's tone cooed that potent term: "Master." Directly before her child. Before the entire group.

Mira's hands jerked slightly by her hips, her respiration faltered, yet she wouldn't risk speaking out. She was unable. Rather, she provided a small, rigid dip of her head, her jaw lowering briefly in quiet, mortified concession. Tension hummed in the space among us—heavy with her yielding, my command, and the implicit realization that she had become merely one more element in our ploy.

Angela's grin cut like a knife, keen and shadowy, her red mouth twisting as her stare swept across Camilla's form akin to a hunter assessing quarry.

She made no attempt to conceal her interest. Her vision paused on Camilla's abundant bosom, how her fitted outfit hugged each contour, the manner her pelvis shifted per stride.

"God, I can already savor her," Angela whispered, hushed for my ears alone, yet audible enough to snag Camilla's intake of air. She was aware.

Everyone was aware. Angela's digits flexed, like she envisioned plunging them into Camilla's body already, drawing her near, seizing her lips—or an even more private act.

I clenched my hold around Camilla's midsection, my hand spread assertively across the rise of her Mexican backside, her garment's material offering scant barrier to the warmth of her flesh under my touch. She belonged to me for fondling, for taunting, for possessing—and I ensured every soul present comprehended that fact.

My thumb drew languid, purposeful loops along the arc of her buttock, sensing how her sinews stiffened then eased beneath my contact.

"Time to return," I stated, my tone a gravelly whisper near her earlobe. The phrase was straightforward, yet the implication lurking below was far from it. Camilla quivered, her nails pressing into my arm momentarily before she willed herself to loosen, to embody the dutiful, eager trophy.

My focus shifted momentarily to the World Map Function, its radiant display throwing ghostly azure glow across the setting. As anticipated, isolation eluded us. A pair of shapes advanced through the gloom, following our path accurately.

Drake. Along with Megan.

Yet they operated separately—Drake stuck to the left flank, his actions precise, stalking-like. Megan echoed his position from the right, her method softer, somewhat reluctant.

A chill grin pulled at my mouth. Such alignment was no accident. Undoubtedly Camilla's scheme—to guide me right into my domain, allowing her spouse to waylay me, claim the goods, and abandon me wounded on the ground. Typical. Foreseeable.

But Megan? She emerged as the unknown factor. Did she aim to rescue Camilla? Or did she pursue Drake's identical goal—dominance, authority, the rush from deceit? People's loyalties shifted unpredictably, prone to taint. Given the circumstances, I questioned whether Megan's professed principles would endure proper strain. Not amid such elevated risks.

I cared little regardless.

My digits hooked tighter, my clasp on Camilla's rear growing intentional, corrective. I pressed firmly, sufficient to elicit her sharp intake, her pelvis bucking ahead prior to restraint. "Aaaaah—!"

The cry ripped from her, shrill and desperate, and I laughed, deep and ominous, while her features flamed with shame. "Hurry your steps, mi reina," I breathed, my exhalation warm by her ear. "Or shall I provide cause for you to yell?"

From behind, Nicole's tone sliced as a hushed murmur, laden with astonishment. "Mom... are you actually involved with Dexter? Is that—is that real?" The incredulity in her words felt nearly tangible, her stare broadened as she fixed on Mira, hunting for refutation, for any element to erase this warped truth.

Mira avoided her view. She was incapable. Her flush extended to her throat, her frame quaking as she delivered yet another minuscule, degrading tilt of her head. "Y-yes," she confessed, her sound scarcely audible.

Nicole's sharp breath echoed in the tense quiet. "Mom! He's wed! And Angela? Doesn't she—doesn't she care?" Her inflection broke, her eyes flicking to Angela, anticipating an outburst, a shout, a confrontation.

Angela refrained.

She chuckled.

A full, husky noise, oozing delight as she pivoted her head sufficiently to snare Nicole's appalled look. "Oh, darling," she cooed, her timbre akin to syrup tainted with venom, "why should I object?"

She drew nearer, her pelvis undulating, her hand gliding along Mira's limb prior to drifting to grasp her jaw, raising her visage to align with her own.

"It holds no importance for me," Angela declared, her stare steady. "Truly. Should you position yourself next to your mom as my spouse's partner, should existence attempt to alter our foundation, I recognize his true allegiance."

She inhaled gradually, her phrasing measured, every term bearing the burden of prolonged assurance. "He'd never abandon me. Not for status, not for rumors, not for any cause."

A sour grin flickered at her lip's edge, brief yet edged. "For, in contrast to that rogue Jack, who departed absent even a final look, my spouse comprehends loyalty's essence. He grasps selection's depth—and he's selected me already."