Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 455: Drake: Officer Megan Is Dexter’s Whore

Megan struck him again, with significantly more force this time—SLAP—sending his head recoiling to the side.

"Keep your disgusting mouth shut!" she shrieked, her voice fraying into sobs. "I never yielded to him! I didn’t beg! I stood my ground, I leveled a weapon at him! Yet, he still provided me with attire and allowed my departure. Unlike you, he isn’t some depraved beast fixated solely on rape and looting. He stood by his family. He protected Nicole."

Drake’s laughter dissolved into a ragged, defeated sob.

"You’re… you’re actually taking his side now…" he murmured. "After everything… you defend the brute who severed my hands…"

Megan swiped the moisture from her eyes with her palm, her tone raw, vibrating with a volatile cocktail of exhaustion and fury.

"Because you had it coming," she stated quietly, the weight of her words landing like stones sinking into a still pond. "You leveled threats against his wife. You threatened to violate them—right in front of a child. This is entirely your own undoing."

"And currently… I am forced to drag you back while pretending none of this occurred. Pretending that I didn’t witness you spiral into the exact kind of monster I vowed to shield people from. So, be silent. Walk. And let the name of Dexter never cross your lips again."

Fury distorted Drake’s features, his eyes igniting with a frantic light even under the moonlight. Though blood crusted his split lips, the agony of his mangled limbs seemed to invigorate him more than it sapped his strength.

"You wretched woman…" he hissed, his voice fracturing with venomous betrayal. "You dare lecture me? You? The very same woman who brandished a gun at him yet stood by idly while he defiled my wife like a common plaything? While he touched her right before my eyes?"

"You label me a monster? At least I was transparent regarding my desires! You hid behind your shield and the banner of the ’greater good’ while permitting him to treat Camilla like a sex doll. And now you parade around in his clothes like some sort of trophy? You traded your dignity, Megan. You just refuse to face that reality yet."

Megan froze, her frame trembling. Tears traced paths down her cheeks, but they were fueled by the heat of her indignation rather than mere remorse.

"Transparent?" she spat, her voice climbing in pitch. "You call the threat to rape a mother and her daughter ’transparent’? You claim that itching to watch survivors be violated is ’transparent’? My goal was the survival of everyone!"

"I was searching for sustenance, medicine, and a future! But you… you squandered it all because your fragile ego couldn’t handle another man being superior to you. Look at your state, Drake. No hands. No influence. And yet you continue to hold everyone accountable except the man staring back in the mirror."

Drake let out a bitter, choked laugh.

"The man in the mirror?" he sneered. "At least I didn’t drop to my knees and grovel as Camilla did. At least I didn’t return clad like his personal pet while my wife remained there, spreading her legs for him."

"Tell me, Megan… did he sleep with you, too? Did you cry out for him the same way she did? Is that the reason he spared you? Because you surrendered and played the part of his little lapdog?"

Megan’s hand lashed out once more—SLAP—the impact ringing through the dense trees like a gunshot. Drake’s head jerked, a fresh trail of blood seeping from his lip.

"Silence your filthy mouth!" she screamed, her voice fracturing into a sob. "I didn't submit to him! I didn’t plead for mercy! I defied him! I aimed a weapon at him! And yet he bestowed clothes upon me and let me leave because he isn't the monster you are! He held his family safe. He guarded a child. Something you never did for your own!"

Drake slumped against the bark of a tree, lungs heaving, though his gaze remained scorched with malice.

"You’re defending him now…" he rasped, his tone thick with agony and loathing. "After all that has happened… you’re defending the man who took my hands… the man who stole my wife… You are already his, Megan. You just haven’t opened your legs for him yet. But it will happen. Sooner or later… you all inevitably do."

Megan turned away—tears flowing uncontrollably now—her voice reduced to a hollow whisper.

"I belong to no one. I am simply… attempting to survive. For the sake of the kids. For the sake of all of us. And you… you are going to get us all killed with this pathetic quest for vengeance."

Neither spoke for the remainder of their journey.

The moonlight shone brilliantly—a full orb suspended in the night sky—casting long, spectral shadows across their route. Megan hauled Drake the final stretch in solemn silence, her recently acquired garments already dampened by sweat and his gore.

Upon reaching the perimeter of the survivor camp, Megan turned to him one last time, her tone low and urgent.

"Consider yourself warned… keep your mouth shut. Otherwise… I won't be able to protect you."

Drake let out a derisive scoff—weak, yet still laced with arrogance.

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

They entered the clearing.

The survivors remained awake, huddled around a fading fire, their expressions gaunt and desperate. The instant they laid eyes on Drake—his stumps cauterized to black, his face ashen—they froze in disbelief.

A woman gasped. "His hands… what happened to his hands?"

Drake hoisted his charred limbs—his voice hoarse but audible to everyone present.

"That bastard… Dexter… he abducted my wife… violated her… and when I attempted to intervene, he severed my hands. He possesses massive reserves of food—canned goods, fresh water, warm beds, covers, and medicine. He is living like a king within a hidden cave while we rot here from starvation!"

Megan surged forward, her voice desperate.

"Ignore him! He is trying to manipulate you into inciting a war! He didn't rape Camilla—she chose to stay. She went there willingly—"

Drake interjected, bellowing over her words.

"Do not listen to this traitor! She is acting as a puppet for Dexter! Observe her—new clothes, a clean face, carrying me back as if nothing transpired. I even witnessed her with him… pleading for further supplies! She bartered herself! She is his captive plaything now!"

Megan’s face ignited with the heat of indignation and shame.

"Drake… what ridiculous nonsense are you spouting?! When did any of that occur?! Do not listen to his fabrications! He is the one who attempted the rape of Dexter’s wife! That is the reason Dexter removed his hands! He is weaponizing you to satisfy his own vendetta!"

Drake let out a bitter, discordant laugh, glancing around at the survivors, whose eyes were already brimming with suspicion and the gnawing ache of hunger.

"Oh, really? Then explain to us how you came to possess those clothes. Why are you so bent on shielding Dexter? Why are you dressed like you just emerged from his bed?"

The survivors positioned themselves in a frayed semicircle around the dying embers, their visages hollowed out by months of deprivation.

The flames offered little warmth at this stage—merely flickering sparks that cast elongated, shifting shadows across their soot-smeared cheeks and sunken sockets.

The air hung heavy with the odor of smoke, unwashed bodies, and the faint, metallic scent of Drake’s blood that clung to Megan’s clean clothes.