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

June was still processing everything he'd said, and it showed, not in her usual tight-lipped smiles or dismissive chuckles, but in the way her grip on her crutch had subtly shifted, in the way her shoulders had lifted ever so slightly, her posture no longer folding in on itself.

Ever since they had met, Kafka had drilled the same message into her every time they met: never talk down about yourself, hold yourself higher, stop sabotaging your own beauty with words that make you smaller.

She'd taken those words in before, even repeated them back to herself in private, but deep down the old habit clung like a vine.

It was ingrained. So ingrained, in fact, that just now it had slipped out again without her even thinking about it.

But now...now something had shifted.

It wasn't just the words, it was the way he'd said them, bold and unflinching, right in front of her staff.

It was the way he'd pulled her employees into the moment until they were all chiming in with their own praise, not as an obligation, but because they genuinely admired her.

And it was the way he'd looked at her, sad and almost offended, when she'd tried to diminish herself again. That look had struck deeper than any speech could.

It made her realize that this wasn't about whether she believed she was beautiful. It was about honoring the people who were standing in front of her, defending her, lifting her up.

If she ever slipped back into that habit again, she wouldn't just be insulting herself, she'd be brushing off their effort, their sincerity...and his.

...Especially his.

The boy in front of her, younger than she was by far, had somehow made her feel more cherished, more protected, than most men in her entire life.

She remembered the flicker of anger in his eyes when she'd said no one would find her attractive, the frustration in his voice when he told her to never say such things again.

And now, she realized she owed it to him, too, to stand taller.

And so she decided, right there, that she wouldn't let that self-deprecation slip out again. Not for her sake alone, but for his.

Her spine straightened subtly, and even though her crutch still bore her weight, she stood like a woman who belonged exactly where she was.

To the watching employees, to Olivia, even to herself, it felt like enough. The mood had lifted, June's confidence was rising. This was a win.

But Kafka...apparently didn't think so.

Without warning, he took a slow step toward her. June blinked, caught off guard as his hand came up to cup her cheek.

Her breath hitched instantly, and her eyes darted sideways to the crowd of staff pretending to look away but watching everything.

"Earlier..." He began, his voice low but not so low that it didn't carry. "I gave everyone a proper color palette. Told them what underwear would suit them best…" His thumb brushed her cheek in a slow, unhurried stroke that made her knees tighten against the floor. "And I wanted to do the same for you."

Her lips parted slightly. "Y-You don't—"

"But now that I'm getting a closer look…" His smile widened faintly, and he leaned in until she could feel the warm brush of his breath ghosting across her lips. "Now that I see just how pretty your skin really is…"

He let the pause hang, long enough for her to feel her own heartbeat in her ears, before delivering it.

"I've decided you don't need any underwear at all."

June's eyes went wide, her cheeks flooding crimson.

"Wh-What do you mean?"

He didn't answer aloud. Instead, he bent closer, his lips so near her ear that the employees watching swore they saw her shiver. His voice dropped into a deep, intimate murmur.

"What I mean..." He whispered. "...is that underwear would only obstruct your beauty. Hide it. Cover what should be seen."

"Your body's too beautiful for that, too rare, June. The color of your skin, like the deep ocean at dusk...that shouldn't be hidden away under fabric. The world deserves to see it."

His words slowed and so did her heart.

"Especially you. Even though you own an underwear shop...the owner herself shouldn't wear underwear at all. Not if she's you."

It was a scandal in a single sentence.

Even though it had been meant for her ear alone, the quiet was so charged that every woman in the room seemed to hear it, really hear it. As if each syllable had somehow threaded into the air and slipped under their skin.

The employees, who had been full of smiles moments ago, were now flushed to the roots of their hair. A few turned their faces away under the pretense of busying themselves with hangers or stock, but their eyes kept darting back like they were watching an illicit scene on a screen.

Olivia, closest of all, felt the words hit her like a physical thing.

She knew she was supposed to keep her cold act, keep up her silent punishment.

But her heartbeat spiked instantly, her chest rising and falling faster, the swell of her breasts lifting and lowering in sharp rhythm with her breathing.

She was suddenly, acutely aware of how close she was standing, of how his voice had sounded in that low, warm tone, of how those words might have sounded if they'd been aimed at her.

Her lips pressed together in an attempt to keep her composure, but the shy, gushing heat in her eyes gave her away.

And for the first time since stepping out of that dressing room earlier, Olivia wasn't thinking about winning, or making him work for her forgiveness.

She was just...caught in the moment, just like the rest of them.

If the women in the store could already feel Kafka's words from several paces away, feel them in their cheeks, in their chests, in the warm prickle under their skin, then it wasn't hard to imagine what it was like for the one woman those words were aimed at.

June looked like she wasn't even here anymore.

Her eyes had that distant, glassy daze, the same as someone who'd slipped into a sweet daydream they didn't want to leave. If not for the steady rhythm of her breathing, you could have believed her soul had just floated right out the door and left her body behind.

Kafka, who had been watching her closely, then tilted his head slightly, genuinely wondering if she'd even heard the last thing he'd whispered.

"...June?"

He began, voice low. But before he could get another word in—

Her crutch slipped.

There was a startled gasp from a few of the employees as June's weight pitched forward, her balance tipping.

But Kafka's body moved faster than any thought, his arm looped around her waist, steady and strong, pulling her in before she could hit the floor.

Her body ended up flush against his, her hands braced against his chest instead of the familiar support of her crutch. His expression was instantly laced with concern.

"What's wrong? Are you alright?" He asked, his voice so close she could feel the vibration in her ribs.

The sound alone was enough to snap her out of her daze. She blinked rapidly, realizing where she was, how he was holding her, how close they were.

And that only made it worse, worse for her cheeks, which had already begun to tint a deep reddish-pink despite the natural blue of her skin.

June quickly looked away, the heat in her face radiating like an oven.

"I-I'm alright, Kafka! My...My hand, my grip just gave way. The crutch...slipped out of my hand. That's all!"

She avoided looking him in the eye, her voice fluttering like she was scrambling for excuses.

Kafka didn't push. "Alright." He said simply, still holding her a moment longer before guiding her toward the nearest chair. "But you should be more careful. Have a better grip next time, you could have had a bad fall."

She nodded without meeting his gaze, clutching the seat like it was a lifeline. But everyone watching knew exactly what had happened.

The sidelong smiles from her employees said it all, they'd all seen her knees give out, and they all knew why.

And because of their knowing gazes, he kept her eyes down, pretending to busy herself with adjusting her skirt, anything to avoid the knowing looks and smug grins around her.

Such an elegant woman, blushing and fidgeting like a shy schoolgirl.

The room's mood was soft, almost warm with amusement.

But Olivia?...Olivia was not basking in that warmth.

Her thoughts were spiraling back to where they should have been this whole time.

She had marched out of that dressing room earlier ready to give Kafka a piece of her mind, ready to tear into him for shamelessly flirting in front of other women when he was supposed to be focused on her.

She'd been furious enough to imagine physically dragging him away by the ear.

And yet here she was.

Somehow she'd been pulled into the current of his little "scene" with June. Somehow, she'd found herself helping him, nodding along, saying things to make another woman feel good while watching her man charm her to death.

The very thing she'd been mad about in the first place.

And worst of all?...She'd been enjoying it.

Caught up in it like a viewer watching a drama unfold between the male lead and the female lead, completely forgetting that she was supposed to be the female lead here, and that the man up there wasn't some fictional actor on a screen...He was her son and her property overall.

Her eyes widened, horrified at herself. What the hell am I doing?

She hated how easily he could sway her mood.

Hated that her cold act had started cracking without her even realizing it.

Hated that she had gone from punishing him to essentially supporting his flirtation with another woman.

Frustration churned hot and sharp in her chest, and she needed an outlet.

Something, anything, to vent the pressure before she lost her mind.

And her eyes locked on him.

Before she even knew what she was doing, her legs carried her across the floor, her teeth pressing lightly into her lower lip, her expression caught somewhere between indignation and confusion.

Kafka noticed her approach, blinking as if unsure what to expect. "Olive?" He began cautiously.

She stopped directly in front of him, silent. Staring.

Her mind raced. She wanted to scold him, push him, do something to reclaim the upper hand, but nothing she thought of felt right. He just kept standing there, looking at her, clearly baffled by whatever storm was brewing in her head.

Finally, she pointed at his hand.

He glanced down, confused. "...You want my hand?"

She nodded once, curtly.

Still confused, he extended it toward her. "Why do you—"

And then grabbed onto it and to his utter disbelief...she opened her mouth onto his hand and bit him!

"Ah! What the—Oi! What are you doing?!" Kafka flinched, but she didn't let go.

Her teeth sank in, not hard enough to break skin, but firm enough that he could feel her annoyance in every second she held on.

Bite! Chew!

She glared up at him the entire time, as if to say this is your punishment, each bite animalistic and utterly unladylike.

"Olive! Olive! Mom, hey! What, ow! Are you serious right now?!"

She ignored him completely, biting once more for emphasis before finally letting go with a sharp exhale.

The glare she gave him after said more than any scolding could have, and without another word she spun around, marching back toward the dressing room.

The curtains swished closed behind her, leaving Kafka, June, the employees, and the rest of the shop, in stunned silence.

June's mouth was slightly open. "…Did she just—"

Kafka flexed his hand, muttering under his breath.

"She bit me…She actually bit me."