Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 464: A Choice To Camilla

Drake and his companions were utterly clueless about the sudden arrival of these troops. Moments earlier, the woods lay barren aside from their tattered crew; instantly after, countless red laser sights flickered over their torsos and skulls like lethal glowing insects.

Silent women warriors in black gear materialized from the shadows of the trees—tactical outfits non-glossy and elite, firearms aimed with steady expertise. The mere vision of them locked everyone motionless.

Yet it was I who delivered the real jolt.

There I remained, utterly at ease with a serene grin, Camilla nestled securely beneath my right arm and Mira beneath the left. Camilla's enormous Mexican breasts squished firmly against my flank, her nipples stiffened by the chilly evening breeze and persistent humiliation. Mira pressed against me, quivering faintly yet clinging tight, her posture radiating total yielding.

Jack cracked first.

He collapsed to his knees right away, thrusting hands skyward in capitulation, gaze bulging with frantic optimism.

"Soldiers!" he bellowed, tone splintering with phony gratitude. "You’ve got the wrong person! I’m a military pilot—Jack! This man—" he jabbed a quivering digit toward me "—this villain Dexter is the true danger! He abducted my wife! He’s kept her captive, twisted her into his slut! He’s the guilty one! Arrest him! Rescue us!"

Lisa advanced, grip firm on her pistol, glaring at him with sheer revulsion.

"Shut up," she snapped icily.

The whole crowd hushed for a split second—then burst into uproar.

A survivor—middle-aged with a unkempt beard—roared furiously, "What the hell is this?! You’re soldiers! You’re supposed to protect civilians! We’re tax-paying citizens! If the government sent you, then you have orders to rescue us, not help some psychopath!"

Another fellow, slimmer and more youthful, chimed in with poisonous fury:

"Yeah! This is treason! You’re pointing guns at innocent people! We’ve been surviving out here for months—starving, fighting for our lives—and now you show up and take orders from this bastard? You’ll all be court-martialed! Dismissed! Thrown in prison for the rest of your lives!"

From the rear, a man shrieked maniacally:

"You’re supposed to be the good guys! How can you stand there and let him treat women like property?! This is illegal! This is against every law! You’re all going to burn in hell for this!"

Even an elderly survivor hawked spit onto the earth and hollered:

"We paid taxes for decades so people like you could protect us! And now you’re working for a warlord who cuts off hands and collects slaves?! Shame on you! Shame on all of you! You’re no better than him!"

Lisa never flinched.

She pivoted toward me—utterly dismissing the furious yells—and inquired deferentially:

"Boss... what should we do to them?"

The clamor ceased sharply. All stares bulged in horror as reality sank in: Lisa—positioned directly at my side—was issuing directives to these well-armed troops. The reverse was not true.

Drake's features contorted in utter incredulity.

"It’s you..." he croaked, throat raw from prior yells. "They’re your people... all of them..."

I let out a low, entertained chuckle, nearly indifferent.

"You guessed right," I remarked offhandedly. "But there’s no reward for that."

Objections detonated once more—more frantic, more intense.

"You can’t do this!" one man wailed. "We’re American citizens! You have no right! The government will hang you all for treason!"

"Traitors!" a different man thundered. "You swore an oath! You’re supposed to defend the Constitution—not some rich psychopath with a harem!"

A young survivor—hardly past twenty—screamed through tear-filled eyes:

"My little sister is back at camp! She’s only eight! If you kill us, who’s going to protect her?! You’re monsters! All of you!"

I lifted my hand—quelling the mayhem with one motion.

Not a soldier budged. Rifles remained locked on target.

My gaze swept the huddled mass ahead—Jack kneeling persistently, expression warped by fury and dread; Drake ashen and maimed without hands, cauterized remnants blackened and oozing past rough wrappings; remaining survivors shuddering prone, glances flitting from gun barrels to my composed visage. The atmosphere hung heavy with blood's iron reek and acrid panic perspiration.

Next, I grinned—deliberate, icy, perfectly composed.

Angela approached nearer, utterly bare, her form shimmering faintly under the lantern glow. She wrapped an arm about my midsection, pressing close, mouth grazing my earlobe while projecting her words for all to catch.

"Husband," she cooed, tone laced with sinister delight, "why don’t you send them to the laboratory? We need new specimens. They would be of some use... especially the healthy ones. Think of all the tests we could run."

I inclined my head gradually, stare fixed on the prostrate males.

"Yeah," I replied. "Do as she says."

The women troops sprang into action—swift, merciless. Plastic cuffs clicked tight on wrists and ankles. Jack struggled, hurling profanities, yet a trooper drove her knee into his spine, slamming his face into the soil. Drake howled as handlers seized his limbs—mangled ends thrashing pointlessly—while the group got hauled into orderly formation like livestock.

I signaled halt, halting them prior to securing Megan and Hailey.

"Leave those two," I commanded. "And leave Jack and Drake for now."

Troops retreated without delay.

I faced Camilla—still topless on her knees amid congealing gore, colossal Mexican breasts heaving with frenzied inhales, dark nipples erect against the brisk night, plump thighs quaking.

"Camilla," I murmured softly, near tenderly. "I will give you one more chance. If you want to stay with me... go ahead and kill Drake. Prove your loyalty. If not... you’ll be going with them."

Camilla freaked—eyes bulging, breaths ragged and fearful bursts. She glanced at Drake—his burned, limbless arms, his ashy countenance contorted in agony and fright—then returned to me. Having seen the troops, the seamless dominance, the nonchalant termination of lives... she remained merely mortal. Desire, self-preservation, and primal horror battled over her features.

She dipped her head—deliberately, unsteadily, fresh tears cascading.

I motioned to Lisa.

"Give her a gun."

Lisa drew a small pistol from her belt and passed it silently to Camilla.

Camilla's grip trembled fiercely upon receiving it. Rising on wobbly legs, she advanced to Drake, who knelt staring upward in stunned horror.

"No... Camilla... don’t..." he pleaded, voice fracturing. "I know you love me... you’re doing this because of a threat, right? Please... think about our children... don’t do this..."

Suddenly, his panic ignited into wrath.

"Bitch—don’t! I’ll kill you—!"