Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 362: Back to Camp: Mira’s Guilty Trip

I pulled Mira away gently—my hands on her shoulders, easing her back just enough to break the crushing hug she had me in.

She blinked, suddenly aware of herself—arms still half-wrapped around me, breasts pressed firmly to my chest, her face buried in the crook of my neck. The moment the reality hit her, a deep crimson flush exploded across her cheeks, down her throat, even staining the tops of her ears.

She jerked back like she’d been burned, hands flying up to cover her mouth, eyes wide with mortified realization.

"Oh—oh God—" she stammered, glancing sideways at Bill, who was standing a few feet away, looking anywhere but at us. "I—I didn’t—I mean—"

I pretended to be just as shy—ducking my head slightly, rubbing the back of my neck, letting a sheepish, boyish blush creep up my face even though I felt nothing but smug satisfaction inside.

Mira caught my expression and—despite everything—let out a small, shaky laugh. It was half relief, half embarrassment, the sound fragile but real.

"You’re impossible," she muttered, swatting my arm lightly before stepping fully back, smoothing her shirt down with nervous hands.

She glanced at Bill again—then at me—then at the blood-streaked dirt on my torn clothes—and laughed again, softer this time. "Look at you. You’re a mess. Covered in dirt and... and blood... "

She shook her head, wiping at her tear-streaked cheeks with the back of her hand.

"Let’s go back," she said, voice steadier now but still thick with emotion. "Jack must be waiting for us... and your wife will also be worried sick about you."

The word wife landed like a small stone in still water.

She remembered.

I saw the flicker in her eyes—the quick, almost imperceptible tightening of her mouth, the way her gaze dropped to my left hand (no ring, of course—I’d never worn one in this place). She didn’t say anything else about it. Just turned away, shoulders squaring like she was bracing herself.

I reached out with my mind—searching for the mountain lion.

Nothing.

No brush of awareness. No golden-eyed presence lurking in the shadows. Just... silence.

That meant he was really dead.

The fall—or the rocks below—had finished what Mira’s bullets started. I felt a small, strange pang—not guilt, exactly, more like the loss of a useful tool. But he’d served his purpose beautifully.

Bill’s quiet voice broke the moment.

"Mom... I’m sorry..." He stood there—cheek still red from her slap, eyes downcast, voice small. "I really didn’t mean it... my hand—it just... I couldn’t..."

Mira’s shoulders stiffened. She turned toward him—eyes narrowing, lips pressing into a thin line. The anger flared again, hot and protective.

"You couldn’t?" she started, voice rising. "You let go, Bill. You let go when he was hanging there—when he’d just saved your life—twice! Do you have any idea—"

I reached out—quick but gentle—catching her hand before she could step toward him.

"Mira," I said softly, squeezing once. I shook my head—just a small gesture. Not now.

She looked at me—eyes still blazing—then at my face. The fake blood on my lip, the dirt streaked across my cheek, the way I was still breathing hard as the climb had nearly killed me.

Her anger flickered. Softened.

She exhaled—long and shaky—then nodded once.

"It’s okay, Bill," I said, turning to him. My voice was calm, forgiving, the perfect older-brother tone. "I know you didn’t mean it. You were scared. We all were. Let’s just... go back. Before it gets dark."

Bill swallowed hard—eyes glistening again—, but he nodded.

Mira squeezed my hand once—grateful—then let go.

We started walking back in the same direction we’d come from. The sun was high now, afternoon light slanting through the trees, turning everything gold and warm despite the morning’s violence.

Bill walked between us—quiet at first—then finally asked:

"Mom... how did you guys find me?"

Mira glanced at me—then back at her son.

"We followed your shoe trails," she said. "Broken branches, scuffed dirt... You weren’t exactly subtle. And then Dexter—he just... knew where to look."

Bill looked at me—still wary, still guilty—but with something new in his eyes. Respect, maybe. Or fear.

We kept walking.

Eventually, we reached the spot where Mira had left Paul propped against the tree earlier—bandaged leg and all.

He was gone.

In his place: a folded piece of paper tucked under a rock.

Mira picked it up with trembling fingers. Unfolded it.

Her breath caught.

"It’s Jack," she whispered. "He took Paul back to the base. Look—’Mira—if you find this, I’ve gone back with Paul. Jack."

Bill leaned in, reading over her shoulder.

"He’s safe," Mira said—voice cracking with relief. "Paul’s safe. Jack got him out."

Bill nodded—silent, still shaken.

We kept walking.

By the time we reached the clearing where the others had set up a makeshift camp, the sun was lower, shadows stretching long across the ground.

Nicole saw us first.

"Mom!"

She ran—hair flying—straight into Mira’s arms.

Mira caught her—hugging her fiercely.

"You’re okay—you’re okay—thank God—"

Megan, Angela, and Hailey were right behind her—rushing forward, voices overlapping in a chaotic wave of relief and questions.

"Are you hurt—?"

I hung back a step—watching.

Jack was there—standing beside Paul, who was propped against a fallen log, leg heavily bandaged, face pale but awake. He looked up as we approached—eyes finding Mira first.

"You’re okay..." he rasped, voice weak but relieved.

Mira walked straight to him—still holding Nicole’s hand tightly in her own, as if letting go might make the nightmare start all over again. She knelt beside Paul on the soft earth, knees sinking into the damp grass, the paper trembling slightly in her free fingers as she held it up for Jack to see.

"I found your message," she said, voice soft but thick with emotion. She turned the note so Jack could read the familiar scrawl—his own handwriting, hurried but steady.

Jack’s tired eyes crinkled at the corners. He reached out, brushing his knuckles gently along Mira’s cheek—careful, almost reverent.

"It’s good that everyone is safe," he said quietly. "It’s just Paul who got injured... but he’s tough. Tougher than he looks."

Paul—propped against the fallen log with his bandaged stump elevated on a rolled blanket—managed a weak, crooked grin. The lower half of his right leg was gone below the knee, the amputation crude but clean, wrapped in layers of torn cloth and what looked like strips of someone’s shirt. Blood had soaked through in places, but no fresh red was seeping now.

"I’m fine," Paul rasped, voice hoarse but defiant. "Hurts like hell... but I’m still breathing. That’s more than I expected when that thing got me."

His eyes flicked to Mira, then to me—lingering for a moment on the dirt, and torn clothes that still clung to me like evidence of the morning’s violence.