Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 438: Camilla - Drake’s Wife

Jack could no longer contain himself. His voice shattered like parched thunder while he lurched ahead in one final step, blood dripping from the edge of his mouth, his eyes fierce and bloodshot around the edges.

"Nicole—consider it thoroughly," he croaked, his tone quivering with rage and a shattered edge beneath.

"Should you decide to leave with this woman... You’ll have no ties to us any longer. No more ’Dad.’ No more home. If you depart with her—with him—you’ll be gone from me. Gone from Bill. Gone from all that we once shared. Understand? You’ll be discarding your true family for whatever... twisted dream she’s chasing these days!"

Nicole recoiled sharply—her petite frame twitching against Mira’s torso as if struck. Yet she offered no reply. She didn’t even glance his way. Instead, she pressed her face tighter into her mother’s neck, her arms clamped firmly around Mira’s waist, fingers clutching the leather jacket as though it were the sole anchor in a crumbling reality.

Mira enveloped her daughter in a shielding embrace, one hand gently supporting the nape of Nicole’s head, the other tracing soothing patterns on her quaking back.

"Nicole... don’t fret," Mira murmured, her voice tender yet resolute, lips grazing her daughter’s locks. "Mom won’t allow you to endure even the slightest hardship. Mom swears it. No more nights of hunger. No more chill. No more fear when the winds rage. I have you safe now. I have you for always."

Nicole gave a nod—a tiny, abrupt motion against Mira’s shoulder. Another tear trailed down her face, but she refused to withdraw. Refused to turn toward her father.

Mira raised her gaze to meet mine—wordless, imploring. A swift glance toward the jetpack, then returning.

I gave a single nod—brief, firm.

Angela took Nicole’s available hand—softly, comfortingly—while Lisa positioned herself beside Mira, a guarding presence. The group of us—Mira holding Nicole near, Angela and Lisa at the sides—began moving toward the idling jetpack, grains of sand grinding beneath our footwear.

In our wake, the camp remained still—Jack’s labored breaths the sole noise surpassing the ocean’s roar.

Then—

"Wait..."

A female voice—gasping, pressing—sliced the quiet.

I spun around.

She dashed over the dunes—clumsy in stilettos unfit for such ground, her crimson mini-dress hiking up over plump tan legs, enormous breasts jiggling intensely with each stride.

The garment was grimy now—ripped along the bottom, marked with dirt and crusted brine—but prior to the disaster that stranded her, it had obviously been nightlife attire: snug, plunging, demanding "eyes on me."

Her skin glowed with a rich caramel tone from Mexican roots, plump lips bearing chipped scarlet, ebony hair messy and unkempt from gales and disregard.

She lacked the refined allure of Mira or Angela—her traits more gentle, fuller—but her figure was outrageously voluptuous in the most enticing manner: broad hips, meaty thighs chafing as she hurried, and those vast, weighty breasts pushing against the flimsy cloth as if ready to escape.

She halted abruptly before me—breathless, bosom rising and falling, peaks prominent and rigid beneath the scarlet cloth.

"Can you take me with you?" she panted, her words heavy with accent and urgency. "I am willing... I am willing to be your slave."

A wave of whispers erupted in her trail.

"Camilla... what are you doing?"

"What about your husband?"

Folks were indicating—motioning at a fellow in a shredded yet formerly posh suit by the flames. Sleek black hair, defined chin, lavish timepiece gleaming on his arm amid the ruin. Drake, they named him.

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

Drake regarded Camilla—then me. His expression stayed neutral briefly. Then he sneered—deep, resentful—and averted his gaze.

"It’s her choice," he grumbled, his words audible just enough for us. He strode toward the shelters without further comment, posture rigid.

I wasn’t fond of the situation.

Something seemed wrong.

I engaged the world map feature within my thoughts—a quiet, unseen layer expanding over my sight. Markers for Camilla and Drake flickered to life, fixed precisely at their spots. I marked them both—enduring surveillance. Should this prove a scheme, a drawn-out ploy, I’d detect it.

Yet at this moment—I disregarded it.

I advanced. Encircled one arm about Camilla’s ample midsection—drawing her snug against my form.

My free hand trailed lower, assertive and claiming, grasping the plump, solid swell of her rear via the sheer red material. I gripped—firmly—digits pressing into yielding tissue directly before her spouse’s withdrawing figure, before the whole settlement.

Camilla adjusted—pelvis swaying naturally into my hold. A low, husky "Hmm..." escaped her mouth. She inclined her head—once, swift, lids drooping halfway.

"Yes," she sighed. "Please."

Megan approached—swiftly, boots scattering sand—expression storm-clouded.

"Camilla—what the hell are you doing?" she barked, tone hushed and insistent. "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 denied with a shake—gradual, determined. Her immense breasts grazed my torso as she nestled deeper against me.

"Officer Megan..." she uttered softly, her accent intensifying with feeling. "I don’t want to die. And I think... I think it is better to follow Master than... my wasteful husband."

The word flowed from her tongue like honey—rich, intentional.

I couldn’t suppress the gradual, pleased smirk crossing my features. My arousal swelled against her side; she sensed it, moved once more, drawing nearer.

Megan observed—clenching her jaw, glances darting from Camilla’s reddened cheeks to my palm remaining on her rear.

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

Camilla held her stare—without shame.

"I already kneel every night in my dreams," she replied gently. "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 let out a breath—sharp, annoyed—but refrained from debating more. She simply eyed me—extended, assessing.

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

I gripped Camilla’s rear once more—eliciting a faint gasp from her.

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

Camilla let out a soft whimper—subtle, yearning—her hips shifting once into my touch.