God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem

Even after that first blow to his pride, Kafka didn't quit.

Every time Olivia emerged from the changing room in another piece of lingerie, lace, silk, sheer panels, things that could make a saint swallow hard, he was ready.

It didn't matter that she wasn't asking for his opinion. She wasn't showing off for him. She was clearly just parading out to make some point he didn't yet understand.

But if she thought he was going to sit there and keep quiet, she didn't know who she was dealing with.

"Ohhh, look at you, no, no, look at you, Olive."

He'd say with that same shameless flourish as the first time, giving dramatic hand motions like he was a host on some fashion show.

"If the moon had curves, they'd look like this. You're not wearing lingerie, you're wearing weaponry, and I'm the one getting hit."

"Those straps?" He'd go on for another set. "Perfectly balanced between elegance and the dangerous suggestion of what happens when they come off—"

"Black lace? Oh, cruel woman, you know what that does to a man—"

It got to the point where one of the shop girls in the corner had to crouch down and pretend to organize a drawer just to hide the blush creeping over her face.

Another disappeared into the stockroom under the excuse of needing to "check inventory" when in reality she was probably splashing her cheeks with cold water.

Even June, who had started the whole "praise her" suggestion, eventually had to drop herself onto the small velvet seat near the display window and fan her own face.

"God, so this what they call second-hand embarrassment." She mumbled under her breath, though she still couldn't stop grinning at the absurdity.

But Olivia?...The one all of this was aimed at?

She was a fortress. A cold, perfect, regal fortress.

She'd walk out, let him talk, let him sweat and smile and overplay every single compliment until he was practically out of breath, then she'd just give him that same calm, distant glance.

Not shy, not flustered.

Just...nothing.

And she'd turn, vanish behind the curtain, and come back with something else to try.

It went on like that until Kafka actually had beads of sweat along his hairline, not from nerves, but from sheer effort. His voice was rough from talking so much, his gestures a little slower, but he still pushed himself.

Finally, when Olivia retreated yet again, June got up and came over. She gave him a sympathetic pat on the shoulder, the kind you'd give someone who just lost a hard match.

"You put up a good fight, I'll give you that." She said, smirking slightly. "But let's face it, this one's a lost cause. You're not breaking through that wall today."

She tilted her head toward the changing room.

"Maybe right now just isn't the moment. Try again when she's...you know...less ready to bite your head off."

She fully expected him to agree.

Hell, anyone would agree. Most men would've thrown in the towel three outfits ago.

But Kafka didn't.

He straightened, his eyes narrowing in mild irritation, like he couldn't quite believe he was actually failing.

"No." He said flatly. "There's no way I'm giving up now."

June blinked. "…You're kidding. After that?"

"You don't understand June, I've got a big family at home." He said, tone hardening into something that made her eyebrows lift. "If I just let every single woman in my family do whatever they want, whenever they want, the whole place will fall apart."

"...I can't let that happen. I have to keep them all in order, no matter what I have to do."

June's curiosity piqued immediately. "Just how many women are we talking here?"

Kafka ignored the question and kept going. "Point is, if I start letting one get away with ignoring me like this, the rest will think it's fine too."

"Okay...so what exactly are you going to do?" She crossed her arms. "Because right now she's not reacting to anything. It's like you're standing in front of a stone wall."

He went silent for a moment, thinking. Then his expression shifted, slowly, into a smirk.

"For all this time..." He said. "I've been going after her. Chasing her. Trying to make her react."

He looked toward the changing room curtain.

"So now, instead, I'm going to make it so she's the one who has no choice but to come to me."

June tilted her head. "Oh? And how exactly are you going to pull that off?"

Kafka turned his head to her fully now, smirk still there, but there was a certain focus in his eyes.

"I'm going to need a little help." He said.

Then, slowly, he let his gaze travel from June to the handful of employees still lingering nearby, pretending to be busy while obviously eavesdropping.

"From you..." He told June. "...and from them."

That got him a whole set of puzzled stares. June raised an eyebrow, the others glanced at each other like they'd just been invited into the middle of a soap opera scene.

"What exactly are you planning?" June asked, clearly both suspicious and intrigued.

Kafka's smirk only widened. "You'll see."

—

Olivia was still fuming, and it showed in every subtle tell she usually kept hidden.

That faint, stubborn pout on her lips, rare for her, because she wasn't the type to wear her emotions so plainly.

The stiffness in her shoulders as she peeled off the black panties in the fitting room, her hands working with slow movements.

Even the way her thighs pressed together slightly as she stepped out of them, her beautiful pussy catching the light with a faint glisten still lingering from earlier...all of it painted a picture of a woman who, right now, was simmering with emotion.

Normally, Olivia wasn't like this.

She wasn't the sort of woman to sulk or throw a fit like some spoiled child. She prided herself on being composed, cold when she needed to be, regal when it was required, and capable of handling herself with a mature, almost frightening level of control.

Even when Kafka teased her, pushed her, made her do things that made her skin burn with humiliation, things so filthy she could never say them out loud, she'd never reacted with this kind of icy defiance.

Around him, she simply couldn't stay angry.

Even if she was for a heartbeat, it would melt away the moment he smiled at her or said her name in that low, confident tone.

She'd submit without thinking, follow his lead without protest.

She'd even accepted long ago that she, the older one, behaved more like his pet than an equal when they were alone together.

And because of all that, she'd once believed, truly believed, that there was nothing Kafka could do to provoke this kind of deep, lingering anger in her.

But that was before she learned the truth.

That Abigaille, sweet, cheerful Abigaille, was the one he had treated like a lover first.

It had blindsided her.

Just hours ago, she'd been so happy, so proud, thinking she'd been given something special.

When he'd called her his girlfriend, she'd felt as though it was a private, intimate thing that belonged only to the two of them.

It had filled her with a strange, giddy pride that made her forget the nature of their relationship entirely.

For a while, she'd truly acted like his girlfriend, without shame, without hesitation, forgetting that she was actually his mother because she thought she'd finally been given something that no other woman in his life had.

And now she knew Abigaille had already had it first.

That no matter how special she thought it was, she was second. Again. Like every other time.

The realization had hit her like a stone in the gut.

And then to pile on top of that, there was June.

This elegant shop owner with her knowing smiles and flirty asides, the kind of woman who clearly had her own fondness for Kafka.

The thought that maybe there was something between them, that there might be layers of his relationships she didn't know about, only made her more irritated, more frustrated, until every charming word he'd said to her felt suspect.

And that was the breaking point. That was when she'd stopped holding back her emotions.

Everything else he'd ever done, she could excuse.

Everything else, she could forgive instantly.

But this?...No.

For some reason she couldn't explain, this was the one thing she couldn't just swallow down.

So she ignored him. Thoroughly. Deliberately. No matter what he did, no matter how he tried to get her attention, she kept her responses short and flat, kept her gaze cold, and carried on like he wasn't there.

Of course, she wasn't entirely honest with herself about why she was doing it.

Yes, she was angry. But there was something else, too. A quiet, shameful little thrill every time she saw him fail to get through to her.

Every time she caught that flicker of uncertainty in his eyes, the way he started to look almost pitiful as he tried harder and harder to make her soften...it was intoxicating.

Normally, she was the one on the submissive side.

The one being cornered, teased, coaxed into shameful little displays. The one who always bent, always yielded.

But now, for once, he was the one chasing her. He was the one making the effort, working for her attention. And seeing that shift, seeing him try and fail, was...satisfying.

She liked it.

She liked it enough to keep the cold look on her face even though, deep down, she was already past the worst of her anger. She'd already forgotten the sharpness of what made her mad in the first place, his kisses, his apologies, and the ridiculous compliments he'd been piling on her were more than enough to soften her if she let them.

In truth, she wanted to throw herself into his arms again, hug him tight, and bury her face in his chest like she always did.

But she held back.

Because she wanted more of this.

She wanted to see him keep trying, to see him in this rare position, this needy little puppy, instead of the hungry, dominant wolf who usually devoured her.

She wanted to keep punishing him just a little longer, to enjoy this role reversal until she decided to grant him forgiveness, realising that she actually had a sadistic side to her that she never expected.

That was the plan.

By the end of the shopping trip, she'd "relent." She'd let him pull her into one of those deep, claiming embraces she secretly loved, and then they'd talk, really talk, about how he managed his relationships, and what, exactly, his connection to June was.

She was so sure she had the rest of the day mapped out.

But as she stepped out of the fitting room again, expecting him to be there with another overblown compliment while she pretended to ignore it, something else was happening.

Something she never would have expected.

And to her horror, it was about to throw her careful little plan completely off-balance...