Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 454: Drake’s Revenge Caravan Begins

Nicole looked at me strangely, her brow furrowed in that mix of confusion and lingering anger only teenagers can pull off so perfectly.

"Then why didn’t you... tell Officer Megan that you were protecting her?" she asked, voice small but pointed. "She’s probably cursing you by now... thinking you’re just some cruel monster who enjoys hurting people."

I chuckled inside my head—quiet, dark amusement. Nicole is really too young for this world. She still believed people could be won with kindness, explanations, and moral lectures.

She didn’t understand yet how to truly win a woman’s heart—especially one like Megan: proud, broken, guilty, and already half-cracked open by shame and gratitude. When I bring Megan back here... Nicole might even help me win her heart without realizing it.

Out loud, I kept my voice casual, almost lazy.

"It’s nothing," I said, shrugging one shoulder. "I don’t like being a good guy. I’m just a bad guy."

Nicole’s mouth opened—ready to fire back—but Mira stepped in quickly, arm still looped through mine, her soft tits pressing warmly against my bicep.

"Okay... okay..." Mira said gently, squeezing my arm. "Let him go. Or he might not even find where Megan went."

Nicole huffed—crossing her arms—but didn’t argue further.

I turned to Camilla—still kneeling near the cave mouth, dress haphazardly pulled back into place but stained with blood and her own juices, massive tits straining the torn fabric, fat ass still marked red.

"Behave," I told her—voice low, final.

Camilla nodded quickly—eyes downcast, submissive.

"Yes, Master..."

I went out of the cave. It was getting dark outside—sky bleeding from purple to full black, stars already pricking through. I reached into the system storage, pulled out a compact tactical flashlight, but on second thought, I didn’t turn it on.

I could already see Megan’s silhouette moving ahead—slow, staggering under Drake’s dead weight. If I flicked on the light, she’d spot me immediately. No need. I’d already marked her on the World Map Function—her little blue dot pulsing steadily in my HUD, impossible to lose.

Megan ahead was moving slowly—careful, uneven steps. She’d noticed her situation too: night falling fast, carrying a handless, unconscious man over her shoulder on a rocky path full of roots and shadows. Her breathing was audible even from this distance—labored, edged with panic.

I stayed in the shadows—silent, invisible—following at a safe distance. Megan’s silhouette was easy to track ahead: stumbling under Drake’s dead weight, shoulders hunched. The night had swallowed the path completely now—only faint moonlight filtering through the trees lit her way.

Then Drake stirred.

His groan cut through the quiet first—low, pained—then his voice rasped out, weak but venomous.

"Camilla..." he muttered, head lolling against Megan’s shoulder. "Don’t... don’t let that bastard..."

Megan grunted—shifting his weight higher on her back, her new clothes already damp with sweat.

"You’re awake," she said, voice strained but relieved. "Good. Can you walk? We’re almost back to camp."

Drake tried to lift his head—then realized again that he had no hands. His body jerked—stumps flailing uselessly in the air—and he nearly slipped off her shoulder.

"Yeah... I think I can..." he rasped after a moment.

Megan lowered him carefully to the ground. Drake staggered upright—leaning heavily against a tree trunk, knees buckling every few seconds. Without hands to brace himself, every movement looked pathetic, his body swaying like a drunkard.

Megan stayed close—ready to catch him.

Drake’s eyes sharpened—rage flooding back in.

"I will definitely take revenge..." he growled, voice low and trembling with fury.

"Don’t think that motherfucker Dexter is proud and arrogant just because he found some supplies... and those women... whom they all look down on... I don’t believe he can fight everyone. I will tell those survivors his exact location... and didn’t he cut off my arms?"

"I will chop him up into pieces... I’ll watch as those survivors line up to rape his women... that arrogant bitch Angela... Lisa with her smug face... and that whore Mira... and her little daughter too... I’ll make sure they all get what they deserve..."

Megan stopped dead—her face twisting in disgust and anger.

"Shut up," she snapped, voice cracking like a whip. "And you are not allowed to reveal Dexter’s location. Just forget about it. You hear me? Forget it."

Drake laughed—bitter, wet, coughing blood.

"Forget about it...?" He turned his head toward her—eyes wild even in the dark. "Wait a minute..."

He stared at her—then at the clean clothes she now wore, the way she stood straighter, less broken.

"He chopped off my arms..." he said slowly, voice rising with accusation. "Why didn’t he do anything to you...? Or did you already sell your body to him...? Did you spread your legs for that bastard while I was bleeding out? Is that why you came back dressed like a fucking queen? Did you moan for him the same way Camilla did?"

Megan’s hand cracked across his face—hard, open-palmed—SLAP—echoing through the trees.

"Shut up!" she snarled, voice shaking with rage and shame.

"Not everyone is like you! I didn’t sell anything. I didn’t beg. I pointed a gun at him—yes—but I didn’t drop to my knees as your whore wife did. I was trying to protect everyone! You were the one who threatened to rape them! You were the one who got your hands cut off because of your own greed! Don’t you dare accuse me when you’re the one who started this!"

Drake spat blood—cheek blooming red—and laughed again, weaker but uglier.

"Oh, so now you’re the hero?" he sneered. "You stood there with a gun while he groped Camilla in front of me. You watched him finger her like a slut, and you did nothing. And now you’re wearing his clothes... carrying me back like a good little dog... You think I don’t see it? You’re already his. You just haven’t admitted it yet."

Megan’s fists clenched—tears spilling down her cheeks now.

"You’re disgusting," she whispered, voice breaking. "You lost your hands, and you still can’t stop thinking with your dick. I was trying to save us. All of us. The kids. Paul. Everyone. And you... You were ready to throw it all away for revenge and rape. If Dexter hadn’t stopped you... We’d both be dead. Or worse."

Drake leaned more heavily against the tree—stumps twitching uselessly.

"Worse?" he laughed bitterly. "Worse than this? Look at me, Megan. No hands. No power. And you... You get to walk back in new clothes while I’m the cripple. You probably let him fuck you already. That’s why he let you live. That’s why he gave you clothes. You’re his new whore now, aren’t you?"