Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 442: Megan Draws the Gun

I continued to knead Camilla’s rounded, heavy posterior in slow, possessive motions. My fingers dug deep into the yielding flesh, pressed firmly through the thin red fabric, as I revisited the stinging palm prints I had left on her skin earlier, effectively marking her as my property once more.

Each firm compression caused her plump buttocks to tremble, prompting an involuntary twitch from her hips, while tiny, degraded whimpers of pleasure escaped her lips before she could stifle them.

"Mas... mm... aah... hold on..." she whimpered, her voice wavering between desperate plea and raw necessity. Her thick thighs scrambled against each other as hot, clear fluids trickled down her inner legs in glistening streaks.

The hem of her dress was hiked high, leaving her intimate parts fully exposed; her swollen labia shined, and her clit peeked out as if challenging me to further torment.

I let out a low, dark chuckle of contentment before leaning in to graze her ear with my teeth. "Wait? You think you hold the authority to say wait while your body leaks like a sieve for its Master? No, slave. You display it. You moan. You accept whatever I choose to bestow upon you."

Before she could offer a rebuttal, an explosive shout erupted from the tree line—sharp, wrathful, and vibrating with the authority of someone who had spent months keeping a fractured group in check.

"THAT’S FAR ENOUGH, YOU SCUMBAG!"

Megan bolted from behind the pines, her firearm already leveled. She held the weapon with a steady, two-handed grip, the muzzle fixed firmly on the center of my chest. Her police uniform was disheveled—her blouse partially unbuttoned due to the sweltering heat, exposing a black lace bra beneath, with her nipples rigid and prominent against the fabric, betraying a reaction she seemed desperate to conceal.

Her breathing was ragged—a mix of fury and an underlying, heated tension flushed her complexion. Her thighs remained tightly locked, as though the scene of Camilla’s subjection had ignited an impulse she dared not acknowledge.

Drake appeared at her side, his suit jacket ruined and dusty. His countenance was a mask of icy, simmering rage, though his luxurious wristwatch glinted mockingly in the daylight despite the state of the world. His focus remained pinned to Camilla—noting her marked skin, her slick thighs, and her humiliated expression—as he clenched his jaw so tightly the muscle spasmed.

Camilla went perfectly still, her body locking up as if she had received an electric shock. Her eyes widened, the weight of the reality slamming into her like an impact.

In that heartbeat, the realization hit: Drake had watched. He had seen her sound like a desperate wanton while I pinched her flesh through the dress. He had seen the raw, red welts on her backside. He had seen her dripping, exposed state, and her hips rhythmically grinding into my palm as if she were addicted to the contact.

She erupted into a deep, agonizing blush, the wave of shame hitting her with enough force to make her legs tremble. As she fumbled to pull down her dress with shaking fingers, she realized it was far too late—the humiliation was complete.

"Drake...?" she breathed, her voice a thin, panicked tremor, her native accent spiking with dread. "You... you saw all of it...?"

Releasing my hold, I let my hands drop in a slow, calculated, theatrical motion before turning toward them with an expression of feigned astonishment. I raised my brows and parted my lips, my eyes widening as if I had been entirely oblivious to their presence until that exact moment.

"Officer Megan..." I began, my tone level and reasonable, as if we were discussing something mundane. "What is the meaning of this? Why point that weapon at me? After all the discourse we shared back at our camp?"

Megan’s grip tightened on the piece, her knuckles ghost-white, though the barrel remained unmoving despite the tremor in her arms.

"Scumbag... we are finished here," she growled, her voice dripping with venom as she moved forward with a measured, tactical stride. "Camilla—come to us. Right now. You don't have to endure this. You don't need to demean yourself for this piece of filth. Forget the act. We are taking what we came for and exiting this place."

Drake gave a sharp, indignant nod, his eyes locked on Camilla, his tone fraying with suppressed rage and a touch of desperation.

"Honey... get over here," he urged, his voice strained and tight as he gestured commandingly. "I’m sorry. I forced you into this. Please, don't worry—I don't hold you responsible. You did well. We’ve discovered his location. That’s all that counts now. Come—get away from him before he touches you again."

Camilla hesitated for a brief moment, her gaze darting between myself, Drake, and Megan as if paralyzed by her situation. Finally, with a shuddering inhale, she moved away from me.

Her heels pressed into the dirt with each unsteady step, the motion feeling like a profound betrayal. Her dress remained bunched, leaving her reddened, marked backside exposed in the fading light, and her femininity shone obscenely with every stride she took.

She came to a halt beside them, standing shoulder-to-shoulder with the others. Her head bowed, her face burning hotter than the dying sun, and she clutched her arms around her chest as if attempting to conceal the shame bleeding down her legs.

I folded my arms, adopting an air of false indignation, allowing my voice to sharpen with a calculated amount of irritation.

"Officer Megan... are you attempting to pillage my stores?" I pressed, letting an accusatory edge filter into my words. "I truly didn't anticipate this behavior from you. Not after everything. I proposed a sincere exchange. Provisions. Shelter. Security. And this is your response? Threatening me with a firearm like some petty scavenger?"

Megan’s lip curled in a display of visceral disgust, her features twisted with a feral intensity.

"I’m not looting your supplies," she retorted, her voice climbing in volume, her weapon still aimed steadily.

"I simply want to stop this. That is all. But you—you have crossed every line, Dexter. Harvesting people like slaves? Ordering them to kneel and beg? Making them expose their bodies and moan like rutting beasts just to keep breathing? You aren't a savior. You are a base predator. A sick individual who thrives on shattering other people."

I pivoted to look at Camilla, letting the silence draw out until the tension became stifling. My expression reflected a pained, deep disappointment.

"Camilla..." I stated softly, nearly tenderly, as if that betrayal stung more than the gun itself. "So, this was your strategy all along. You offered yourself as my slave... just to identify my location. To find where I keep my supplies. To guide them straight to my front door."

Camilla hoisted her chin—her shame hardening into rigid defiance, her voice trembling yet sharp.

"Hmph..." she spat, locking her arms over her heaving chest, a movement that only served to make her curves strain harder against the fabric. "Otherwise... why would I consent to be your slave? Do you honestly believe I enjoyed it? Do you think I found pleasure in whimpering for you like a common harlot while my husband looked on?"