Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 438: Camilla - Drake’s Wife

Jack couldn’t hold it in any longer. His voice cracked like dry thunder as he staggered forward one last step, blood still trickling from the corner of his mouth, eyes wild and red-rimmed.

"Nicole—think about it carefully," he rasped, voice shaking with fury and something broken underneath.

"If you choose to go with this bitch... You have no relation with us anymore. No more ’Dad.’ No more home. You walk away with her—with him—and you’re dead to me. Dead to Bill. Dead to everything we ever were. You hear me? You’ll be throwing away your real family for some... some fucked-up fantasy she’s living now!"

Nicole flinched hard—her small body jerking against Mira’s chest like she’d been slapped. But she didn’t answer. Didn’t even look at him. She just buried her face deeper into her mother’s neck, arms locked tight around Mira’s waist, fingers digging into the leather jacket like it was the only solid thing left in the world.

Mira’s arms closed protectively around her daughter, one hand cradling the back of Nicole’s head, the other rubbing slow circles on her trembling back.

"Nicole... don’t worry," Mira whispered, voice soft but fierce, lips brushing her daughter’s hair. "Mom will not let you suffer even a bit. Mom promises. No more hungry nights. No more cold. No more being scared every time the wind howls. I’ve got you now. I’ve got you forever."

Nicole nodded—a small, jerky movement against Mira’s shoulder. A fresh tear slipped down her cheek, but she didn’t pull away. Didn’t look back at her father.

Mira lifted her eyes to mine—silent, pleading. A quick flick of her gaze toward the jetpack, then back. Let’s leave. Now.

I nodded once—short, decisive.

Angela slipped her hand into Nicole’s free one—gentle, reassuring—while Lisa moved to Mira’s other side, a protective shadow. The four of us—Mira carrying Nicole close, Angela and Lisa flanking—started walking toward the waiting jetpack, sand crunching under our boots.

Behind us, the camp stayed frozen—Jack’s ragged breathing the only sound louder than the waves.

Then—

"Wait..."

A woman’s voice—breathless, urgent—cut through the silence.

I turned.

She came running across the sand—awkward in high heels that were never meant for this terrain, red mini-dress riding high on thick brown thighs, massive tits bouncing heavily with every step.

The dress was filthy now—torn at the hem, streaked with dust and dried salt—but before whatever catastrophe dropped her here, it had clearly been partywear: tight, low-cut, screaming "look at me."

Mexican heritage in her warm brown skin, full lips painted a faded red, dark hair wild and tangled from wind and neglect.

She wasn’t as classically beautiful as Mira or Angela—her features softer, rounder—but the body was obscene in the best way: wide hips, thick thighs that rubbed together as she ran, and those huge, heavy tits straining the thin fabric like they were about to burst free.

She skidded to a stop in front of me—panting, chest heaving, nipples dark and hard against the red material.

"Can you take me with you?" she gasped, voice thick with accent and desperation. "I am willing... I am willing to be your slave."

A ripple of murmurs behind her.

"Camilla... what are you doing?"

"What about your husband?"

People were pointing—gesturing toward a man in a torn but once-expensive suit standing near the fire pit. Dark hair, sharp jaw, expensive watch still glinting on his wrist despite everything. Drake, they called him.

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

Drake looked at Camilla—then at me. His face was blank for a second. Then he scoffed—low, bitter—and turned away.

"It’s her choice," he muttered, voice carrying just enough to reach us. He walked off toward the tents without another word, shoulders stiff.

I didn’t like it.

Something felt off.

I activated the world map function in my mind—a silent, invisible overlay blooming across my vision. Camilla and Drake’s markers pulsed into existence, pinned exactly where they stood. I flagged them both—permanent track. If this were some setup, some long con, I’d know.

But right now—I didn’t care.

I stepped forward. Wrapped one arm around Camilla’s thick waist—pulling her flush against me.

My other hand slid down, bold and possessive, cupping the full, heavy curve of her ass through the thin red fabric. I squeezed—hard—fingers digging into soft flesh right in front of her husband’s retreating back, right in front of the entire camp.

Camilla shifted—hips rolling instinctively into my grip. A soft, throaty "Hmm..." slipped from her lips. She nodded—once, quick, eyes fluttering half-closed.

"Yes," she breathed. "Please."

Megan walked over—fast, boots kicking sand—face thunder-dark.

"Camilla—what the hell are you doing?" she snapped, voice low and urgent. "You’re giving yourself to a bastard like this? If you’re worried about food, about dying—I promise you, we’ll find some ourselves. We always do. You don’t have to sell your body to him. You don’t have to become his... slave."

Camilla shook her head—slow, resolute. Her massive tits brushed my chest as she leaned into me further.

"Officer Megan..." she said quietly, accent thickening with emotion. "I don’t want to die. And I think... I think it is better to follow Master than... my wasteful husband."

The word Master rolled off her tongue like honey—thick, deliberate.

I couldn’t help the slow, satisfied grin that spread across my face. My cock thickened against her hip; she felt it, shifted again, pressing closer.

Megan stared—jaw tight, eyes flicking between Camilla’s flushed face and my hand still gripping her ass.

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

Camilla met her gaze—unashamed.

"I already kneel every night in my dreams," she answered softly. "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 exhaled—harsh, frustrated—but didn’t argue further. She just looked at me—long, measuring.

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

I squeezed Camilla’s ass again—making her gasp softly.

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

Camilla whimpered—quiet, needy—hips rocking once against my hand.