Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks

Chapter 455: Drake: Officer Megan Is Dexter’s Whore

Megan slapped him again—harder this time—SLAP—his head snapping sideways.

"Shut your filthy mouth!" she yelled, voice cracking with sobs. "I didn’t let him touch me! I didn’t beg! I fought him! I pointed a gun at him! And he still gave me clothes and let me leave. Because, unlike you, he’s not a monster who only thinks about raping women and stealing food. He protected his family. He protected Nicole."

Drake’s laugh turned into a sob—broken, defeated.

"You... you’re defending him now..." he whispered. "After everything... you’re defending the man who cut off my hands..."

Megan wiped her tears with the back of her hand, her voice raw and trembling with a mix of exhaustion and fury.

"Because you deserved it," she said quietly, but the words carried weight, as stones dropped into still water. "You threatened his wife. You threatened to rape them—in front of a child. You brought this on yourself."

"And now... now I have to carry you back like this... pretending none of it happened. Pretending I didn’t watch you turn into the monster I swore to protect people from. So shut up. Walk. And never speak of Dexter again."

Drake’s face twisted in pure rage, his eyes burning even in the moonlight. Blood still crusted at the corners of his mouth, but the pain in his stumps seemed to fuel him more than weaken him.

"You... you slut..." he spat, voice cracking with venom and betrayal. "You stand there lecturing me? You? The same woman who pointed a gun at him and did nothing while he groped my wife like a cheap whore? While he fingered her in front of me?"

"You call me a monster? At least I was honest about what I wanted! You hid behind your badge and your ’greater good’ while you let him turn Camilla into his cum-dump! And now you wear his clothes like a fucking trophy? You sold yourself, Megan. You just won’t admit it yet."

Megan stopped dead in her tracks, shoulders shaking. Tears streamed down her face, but this time they were hot with anger, not just guilt.

"Honest?" she hissed, voice rising. "You call threatening to rape a mother and her daughter ’honest’? You call wanting to watch survivors line up to violate them ’honest’? I was trying to save everyone!"

"I was trying to get food, medicine, and a future! And you... You threw it all away because your ego couldn’t handle another man being stronger than you. Look at yourself, Drake. No hands. No power. And still you’re blaming everyone but the man in the mirror."

Drake laughed—bitter, wet, broken.

"The man in the mirror?" he sneered. "At least I didn’t drop to my knees and beg as Camilla did. At least I didn’t come back dressed like his little pet while my wife is still there spreading her legs for him. "

"Tell me, Megan... did he fuck you too? Did you moan for him the same way she did? Is that why he let you live? Because you opened your legs and played the good little cop whore?"

Megan’s hand flew up again—SLAP—the sound echoing through the trees like a gunshot. Drake’s head snapped sideways, fresh blood trickling from his lip.

"Shut your filthy mouth!" she screamed, voice breaking into sobs. "I didn’t touch him! I didn’t beg! I fought him! I pointed a gun at him! And he still gave me clothes and let me leave because he’s not the monster you are! He protected his family. He protected a child. Something you never did for yours!"

Drake sagged against the tree, breathing hard, but his eyes still burned with hatred.

"You’re defending him now..." he whispered, voice thick with pain and disgust. "After everything... you’re defending the man who cut off my hands... the man who stole my wife... You’re already his, Megan. You just haven’t spread your legs for him yet. But you will. Sooner or later... You all do."

Megan turned away—tears falling freely now—her voice barely above a whisper.

"I’m not his. I’m just... trying to survive. For the kids. For all of us. And you... You’re going to get us all killed with your revenge fantasy."

They didn’t speak again for the rest of the walk.

The moonlight was bright—a full moon hanging heavy in the sky—casting long, ghostly shadows across the path. Megan carried Drake the final stretch in grim silence, her new clothes already damp with sweat and his blood.

As they reached the edge of the survivor camp, Megan turned to him one last time, voice low and urgent.

"I warn you... Don’t say things you shouldn’t say. Otherwise... I can’t protect you."

Drake scoffed—weak but arrogant.

"Protect me? You’re the one who needs protection now."

They stepped into the clearing.

The survivors were still awake—huddled around a dying fire, faces gaunt and desperate. The moment they saw Drake—stumps seared black, face pale—they froze in shock.

One woman gasped. "His hands... what happened to his hands?"

Drake lifted his charred stumps—voice hoarse but loud enough for everyone to hear.

"That bastard... Dexter... he kidnapped my wife... raped her... and when I tried to stop him, he cut off my hands. He has huge supplies of food—canned meat, fresh water, warm beds, blankets, and medicine. He’s living like a king in a hidden cave while we starve here!"

Megan stepped forward quickly, voice desperate.

"Don’t listen to him! He’s trying to use you to provoke a fight! He didn’t rape Camilla—she stayed there willingly. She chose to—"

Drake cut her off, yelling over her.

"Don’t listen to this bitch! She’s already working as a mole for Dexter! Look at her—new clothes, clean face, carrying me back as if nothing happened. I even saw her riding him... begging him for more supplies! She sold herself! She’s his whore now!"

Megan’s face flushed with rage and humiliation.

"Drake... what nonsense are you talking about?! When did I do that?! You... don’t listen to his lies! He’s the one who tried to rape Dexter’s wife! That’s why Dexter cut his hands off! He’s using you for revenge!"

Drake laughed bitterly, looking around at the survivors whose eyes were already filling with suspicion and hunger.

"Oh, really? Then tell us how you got these new clothes. Why are you trying to protect Dexter? Why are you dressed like you just came from his bed?"

The survivors stood in a ragged semicircle around the dying fire, faces gaunt and hollowed by months of hunger.

The flames barely reached high enough to warm them anymore—just flickering embers that cast long, twitching shadows across their dirt-streaked cheeks and sunken eyes.

The air smelled of smoke, unwashed bodies, and the faint metallic tang of Drake’s blood still clinging to Megan’s new clothes.