Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 357: Mira’s Motherly Gaze on a Broken Brat

"Why the hell wouldn’t I be hard? Look at you—curled up like that, trying to hide how wet you still are, how your thighs keep shaking every time you remember my tongue on your clit. You should be thankful I haven’t turned into a complete beast yet... so be careful, Mira. Push me too far with that sassy little mouth, and I might just stop holding back."

She sucked in a sharp breath, shoulders hunching higher—but she didn’t move away. If anything, her body angled back toward me just a fraction, ass brushing the tip of my cock in the lightest, most maddening graze. The contact sent a jolt straight through me; I hissed low between my teeth.

Mira shoved me away with surprising force, her palms flat against my chest as she scrambled back a few inches. "Stay away... from me, bastard..." Her voice cracked on the last word—not just anger, but something raw and frayed, like she was holding herself together by threads.

I didn’t push. For once, the teasing died on my tongue. I simply sat back, leaning against the rough wooden wall opposite her, legs stretched out casually, arms resting on my knees.

The fire crackled between us, throwing shifting shadows across her curled-up form. She hugged her knees tighter to her chest, chin resting on them, dark hair falling forward like a curtain to hide her face. Naked vulnerability wrapped in stubborn pride.

Minutes passed in heavy silence. Just the pop of embers and our uneven breathing.

Then, softly—almost reluctantly—she spoke.

"What... is it you did before?"

The question caught me off guard. My mind blanked for a second.

Before.

Before this place. Before the powers. Before death spat me back out like something it couldn’t digest.

I opened my mouth. "I..." The word hung there, unfinished.

Back when Megan had asked the same thing—curious, flirtatious—I’d grinned and told her I was an assassin. A killer. A shadow who made problems disappear for the right price. It had been the truth, more or less, and it had made her eyes light up with dangerous excitement.

But hearing it from Mira now... something shifted.

I thought of my mother first—her soft laugh, the way she’d ruffle my hair even when I was twenty-two and towered over her. She’d known exactly who I was. Known about the girls I’d seduced from her staff, the late-night visits, the hushed giggles in the guest wing.

Sometimes she’d even covered for me—left the back door unlocked, pretended not to notice when a maid came downstairs flushed and disheveled the next morning. "My boy has needs," she’d say with a fond, indulgent smile, like it was just another harmless quirk.

My father had been sterner, but never cruel. He’d taught me how to shoot, how to fight, how to read a room before anyone spoke. He made sure the money kept coming in clean.

They’d dealt with every mess I made. Every consequence I ignored.

And now they were gone. Dust. Memories. While I sat here—immortal, untouchable, godlike in ways that felt more like a curse than a gift—missing the days when I was just a reckless, spoiled son who thought the world would always bend for him.

A sting built behind my eyes. Hot. Unexpected.

Mira’s voice pulled me back.

"What... were you thinking?" A pause. Then, softer: "Wait... are you crying?"

I blinked hard. A tear had escaped—then another. I swiped at them roughly with the back of my hand, embarrassed, angry at myself for letting it show.

"I’m not—" I started, but the denial died when I saw her face.

She wasn’t laughing. Wasn’t mocking. Her expression had softened—eyes wide with something achingly close to sympathy, even after everything I’d said, everything I’d done to her tonight.

She quieted completely for a moment, just watching me. Then, very gently:

"Were you thinking of your parents?"

I looked at her—really looked. The firelight caught the faint lines at the corners of her eyes, the quiet strength in her posture despite how small she’d tried to make herself.

"How do you know?" I asked, voice rough.

Mira sighed, a long, tired sound that carried years I hadn’t lived yet.

"I can tell." She shifted slightly, loosening her arms just enough to rest her chin on one knee. "I’m a mother, Dexter. How could I not see it? That look... the way your shoulders drop when you remember someone who used to hold you together."

I swallowed. "I’m not a child."

A small, sad smile curved her lips.

"Hm. Your frivolous talk got me confused earlier. All that bravado, all those dirty words..." She tilted her head, studying me. "But right now? You’re just a brat. Maybe as old as my son."

"I’m twenty-two," I said quietly.

"You’re still a child," she replied without hesitation. "In front of me, at least. I’m forty this year."

I looked at her—really looked again. The curves of her body, soft and full and perfect in the firelight.

The way her breasts rose and fell with each breath. The faint stretch marks low on her belly only made her more real. She didn’t look forty. She looked thirty, maybe younger—vibrant, alive, untouched by time in the ways that mattered.

But the math checked out. Her daughter’s age. Her son’s. The quiet authority in her voice when she spoke about being a mother.

"You don’t look it," I said honestly.

She gave a small, wry laugh. "Flattery now? After calling me filthy and disgusting?"

"I was being an asshole," I muttered. "You know that."

"I know." She paused, then added more softly: "But thank you. Even if it’s just to make me feel better."

Silence settled again. Comfortable this time. Not tense.

After a minute, she spoke again—voice barely above a whisper.

"Do you miss them a lot?"

I stared into the fire. "Every second I let myself think about it."

She nodded slowly, like she understood more than she was saying.

"My daughter... she’s nineteen now. My son’s seventeen. Sometimes I look at them, and I still see the babies I used to rock to sleep. I still worry they’ll get hurt. Still want to fix everything for them." She swallowed. "Even when they push me away. Even when they think they don’t need me anymore."

I glanced at her. "You think I don’t need them anymore?"

"I think you’re scared you’ll never get them back," she said simply. "And that hurts more than anything."

Another tear slipped free. I didn’t wipe it away this time.

Mira unfolded herself slowly—still naked, still vulnerable—but she didn’t hide. She scooted closer, just enough that our knees almost touched.

"I’m not going to pretend I understand everything you’ve been through," she said quietly. "But I do know what it feels like to lose pieces of yourself and still have to keep going. To pretend you’re fine when you’re not."

She reached out—hesitant—then rested her hand lightly on my forearm. Warm. Steady.

I stared at her hand on my arm. Then up at her face—open, unguarded, kind in a way I didn’t deserve.