Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 461: Fifty Women in Black Gear

Nicole's eyes widened hugely—her pupils dilated to the point of seeming pitch black.

"So... you can return?" she questioned, her tone tiny and delicate, grasping at that single strand of hope available. "Back to our era? Before it all crumbled? Before the tempests... before the starvation...?"

Angela's grin eased slightly—a hint of maternal warmth flashing amid the harshness.

"Well... the tech isn't fully developed yet," she confessed, her voice turning softer. "Initial leaps were irreversible. We're refining reliable return portals. It might happen one day—perhaps in years, or even decades. But truthfully..."

Her arms squeezed tighter around me, cheek nestling against mine.

"I no longer mind," she breathed. "Wherever Dexter stays... that's my reality. I'd choose this place—with him, with you all—over returning to a perishing world only to witness its demise once more."

Lisa, positioned by the entrance, held back her thoughts. She merely touched her earpiece once more and murmured discreetly, with poise.

"Boss... everyone's assembled."

Together, we exited the cave.

The evening breeze struck us—chilly, briny, bearing the remote roar of surf and the subtle, sharp scent of explosives and gore from before.

Then they appeared.

Not a single chopper.

Stealth helicopters from the future—sleek, black as night, 2050s models with rotors whispering so faintly they scarcely rustled foliage while suspended above. Heavy cords uncoiled from their undersides—scores of silhouettes descending in flawless combat array.

Every one a female trooper. Clad in dark combat attire—vests packed with ammo clips, visors with NVG brackets raised, muted firearms draped over torsos, pistols secured at thigh level.

They landed sprinting—fanning out without a sound, forming an impeccable, unseen barrier at the cave's opening within seconds.

Each pivoted to face me—barrels dropped, headgear dipping in precise, unified tribute.

"Awaiting your orders, Sir," the commander stated—tone steady, terse, feminine, laced with a subtle digital modulator.

Fifty strong.

All women.

All under my command.

The world map activated in my sight—a glowing hologram visible solely to me. Drake, Jack, Bill, and their motley band of around twelve guys pressed on—trudging the thick woods, oblivious to the quiet doom ahead.

My gaze shifted to the troops.

"Secure every angle of this zone," I commanded. "Attackers are inbound. When they arrive... take them all alive. Bound. No fatalities unless compelled."

The leader dipped her head sharply.

"Yes, Sir."

They vanished among the foliage—phantoms in ebony kit—weaving a hidden snare encircling the cave.

The choppers ascended anew—noiseless shades—fading into the darkened heavens.

I faced Nicole again—meeting her stunned gape.

"What?" I queried with a deep laugh. "You aren't wowed, are you?"

Nicole gulped forcefully—her words faint, quivering.

"You... you've got an army..." she murmured. "Actual troops... choppers... straight from tomorrow..."

I gave a casual shrug—feigning humility.

"Benefits of devil status," I remarked breezily.

Nicole's glance darted to me—then aside—face tinting rosy.

Mira observed me—silent, reflective, absorbing it all.

Camilla—remaining on her knees bare-chested, enormous breasts smeared with crusted blood—appeared on the verge of passing out from the intensity.

Nicole's voice quaked violently, scarcely audible above the cave light's murmur and the far-off waves' thunder.

"Could you... spare Dad and my brother from harm?" she pleaded once more—eyes vast, misty, face aflame with red. "Please... release them..."

Her body trembled—tiny hands balled tightly, fingers blanched. The plea seemed to wrench from her core.

I cocked my head, examining her at length—then murmured softly, nearly kindly:

"Why?"

Nicole gulped—flush intensifying till her features glowed feverishly. She peeked at Camilla—still prostrate shirtless amid the congealing stain of Drake’s blood, huge breasts streaked crimson, plump Mexican rear branded and shaking—before dragging her stare back to me.

"I... I'll serve as your slave," she breathed—voice fracturing on each word, tears brimming anew. "Just like Camilla. I'll... obey you fully... anything you desire... just free them..."

Silence gripped the cave like a tomb.

Mira gasped sharply—jarring, almost anguished. Her embrace on Nicole's shoulders firmed as if to yank her child to safety and block those uttered words. Yet she held back.

She merely gawked—at Nicole, then me—eyes bulging with dismay, remorse, and a tenderer, torn emotion. Crimson bloomed on her cheeks, neck bobbing with a hard swallow. Witnessing her daughter plead so—before her, before all—struck like a gut punch.

Camilla's head jerked up—eyes raw, new tears tracing down her exposed chest. She eyed Nicole—then me—realization of horror blooming.

Nicole held her eyes on me—petite, shivering, resolute.

"Please..." she breathed yet again. "They're family... I can't bear their deaths... I'll... behave perfectly... I swear..."

Mira's fingers quivered. She fixed on me—truly—gaze imploring, damp, frantic. Speechless. Only that visceral, motherly entreaty in her look:

I breathed out deliberately—then denied with a head shake.

"Alright... alright," I murmured low, tone warming. "No need for that."

Nicole's eyes fluttered—tears flowing freer.

I approached softly—tenderly—extending to wipe a tear from her cheek via my thumb.

"I vow no harm to your dad or brother," I assured her. "Their lives are safe. Besides... you're my girlfriend's girl." A quick look to Mira—gentle grin. "This grants you that boon. No damage befalls them. Not by my doing."

Nicole slumped—relief flooding so intensely she nearly buckled. A raw sob broke free—blend of thanks and residual dread.

Mira acted first, before voices could rise.

She advanced—swift, shaky—reared up on tiptoes, cradled my face in her palms, and planted a kiss.

Right then.

Before her daughter.

Before Camilla.

Before Angela and Lisa, observing from the gloom.

Gentle initially—lips quivering on mine—then fiercer, needier, tongue grazing mine in mute, yielding desperation. Her form molded near—bosom yielding to my torso, pelvis grazing—channeling all thankfulness, ease, culpability, and persistent disgrace into the press.

As she withdrew at last—face blazing red, gaze sparkling with moisture—she breathed over my mouth:

"Thank you..."

I grinned—subtle, near-affectionate—thumb tracing her bottom lip.

"No trouble at all," I whispered.

Nicole gaped—lips parted, cheeks fiery—stunned speechless.

Camilla observed—muted, tears dripping to her naked breasts—wonder and terror blending on her face.