Pervert In Stone Age: Breaking Cavewomen with Modern Kinks Chapter 491: Helena Under Threat

Together, we headed into the dining room. I settled between my parents in the very seat I'd claimed since childhood. Victoria swiftly took over, her gaze tender with motherly warmth as she heaped food onto my plate in lavish, caring heaps.

"Eat more, Dexter. You look like you’ve lost weight," she urged, adding yet another hefty slice of salmon, then a big dollop of mashed potatoes and a full ladle of soup. "You’ve been working too hard lately, haven’t you? Don’t think I don’t notice."

I felt completely indulged — nurtured in a manner that no harem member, no matter how loyal or shattered by ecstasy, could ever match. This was unique. This was the pure, boundless love from the woman who had given me life.

My typically stoic father got involved too, sliding the basket of fresh bread my way with a faint smile. "Your mother is right. You’ve been gone too much these days. Eat properly while you’re home."

A gentle, sincere smile lit my face toward them both. To Mom and Dad, everything remained unchanged. In their view, I'd just returned from an ordinary day — perhaps a bit weary, a touch sentimental, but forever their boy.

They remained oblivious to my death in agony within another man's home, my revival in the Stone Age bound to a twisted system fused into my essence, the empire of women I'd forged through raw power and desire, and how mere hours earlier I'd ripped through time and space via God Speed to behold my own killing and its concealment.

For them, I'd never departed.

Yet for me... I'd been absent for ages. Eons of personal time squeezed into savage, depraved, thrilling years. I'd claimed queens and slaves, subdued wild creatures, shattered wills and flesh, evolving into something utterly inhuman.

Still, here at this table, observing my mother hover over my plate with that anxious-yet-proud expression, sensing my father's calm, reliable aura opposite me — it all flooded back fiercely.

The vast journey I'd undertaken rendered this instant profoundly more precious.

I savored each mouthful deliberately. Explosions of flavor danced on my palate — opulent, soothing, ideally spiced — far superior to the crude rations or system-procured indulgences I'd accustomed myself to. Whenever my plate lightened even a bit, Mom was quick to replenish it with kind determination.

"You used to love this mushroom soup when you were little," she murmured tenderly, nostalgia tinting her tone as she topped off my bowl. "You’d ask for seconds and thirds until your stomach hurt. Remember?"

I nodded, choking back the emotion in my throat. "I remember, Mom."

She stretched across to tenderly sweep a loose strand of hair from my brow, her contact cozy and reassuring. "Then eat well tonight. No rush to go anywhere."

My father observed us with subtle mirth, now and then adding casual remarks on business and local affairs, but largely permitting the cozy quiet to envelop us.

The tinkling of cutlery, the gentle whir of the AC, and Mom's sporadic affectionate chidings wove a serene haven I hadn't known in what felt like eternity.

While dining, a profound insight rooted itself in my heart.

No matter my amassed might — regardless of the hordes of women who'd groveled at my feet, ruined and leaking, pleading for my shaft — irrespective of how effortlessly I could warp time and existence with one mere notion, this ordinary family meal, this lavish spoiling, this untainted sense of being cherished as a treasured child... it was beyond the grasp of the Pervert Debauchery System to mimic, acquire, or taint.

For the first instance since awakening in the Stone Age with that vile system melded to my soul, true, profound satisfaction washed over me.

And just for this evening, I let myself erase it all. Erase Peter. Erase Helena. Erase the harem anticipating their lord's comeback beyond temporal veils. This night, I was merely Dexter Williams — the son returned at last.

Dinner concluded, I bid them goodnight and ascended to my former bedroom. Upon entering, nostalgia surged like a tidal wave. All was preserved precisely as I'd abandoned it — the massive bed draped in shadowy linens, the modern desk in the corner cluttered with aged journals, the expansive window framing the garden. The subtle aroma of my boyhood cologne still hung in the atmosphere.

I shut the door quietly and collapsed onto the bed, gazing at the well-known ceiling. For an extended instant, I just inhaled deeply.

Soon, my mind wandered to Helena.

That avaricious, stunning whore whose vise-like rear had claimed my existence. Uncertainty plagued me over Peter's next move with her. Would he slay her as well? Retain her as a quaking, coerced plaything? The not-knowing ate at me.

I refused to let it linger unresolved.

With one concentrated notion, I triggered God Speed.

Once again, the time-space vortex surged alive within my chest. My domain burst outward in an instant, grinding the whole world to a snail's pace. Dust motes hung motionless in the air. Downstairs, my parents' voices dragged into prolonged, bass rumbles.

In a streak, I vaulted from the window, my form blurring so swiftly the glass couldn't catch my passage. Night winds morphed into a corridor of flashing lights as I blazed through the metropolis, portals winking at my sight's borders like ephemeral flashbacks. Before a single heartbeat passed, I reached Helena's luxury apartment.

I dialed back my domain barely enough to stay unseen—a phantom surfing the brink of super-velocity—and ghosted through the balcony entrance.

Helena huddled on the living room couch, quaking fiercely with knees hugged tight. Her eyes, raw and puffy from sobs, stared out. She appeared shattered and panic-stricken, far from the bold, cock-starved vixen who'd once parted her cheeks so willingly for me.

A few paces off, Peter stood with arms folded, gaze fixed on the late-night news playing across the massive TV. The newscaster chattered about urban congestion and forecasts—no mention yet of disappearances or accidents.

"There’s still no news about his death," Peter grumbled, tone icy and annoyed. "Looks like we have to wait till morning."

He wheeled toward Helena, face twisted in ominous fury.

"Remember this, bitch," he growled, yanking out his phone and brandishing it before her.

"I already have the video of you cleaning up his blood. If you say even one word to anyone, I’ll pin the entire murder on you. They’ll believe me — the husband — over some whore who was fucking her lover behind my back. Keep your mouth shut, and you might live."

Helena recoiled from his venom, new tears streaming down her face. She dipped her head faintly, dread choking her voice.

Peter shot her a final sneer of revulsion, then pivoted and stalked into the bedroom, crashing the door shut in his wake.