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

Kafka noticed it too, not just their stares, but the subtle movements, the restless shifting of hips.

His mouth was still pressed to Olivia's, but his gaze slid sideways, taking in the sight of every single employee's hand wandering low, rubbing against the front of their skirts or trousers.

They weren't even pretending to hide it. Palms dragging in circles over damp fabric, thighs squeezing together, fingers tapping little rhythms against their own heat.

It was, to him, an absurdly erotic sight, and rather than disappointing him, it made his lips curl against Olivia's in pure amusement.

He pulled back from the kiss, leaving her gasping for air, and addressed the room with that lazy, taunting smirk.

"Well..." He drawled, his voice carrying easily. "It seems I'm not the only one keeping busy." His eyes swept deliberately over them. "Hands going to your...crotches." He said with crudeness. "Rubbing and teasing like you think I won't notice."

"...Seems the scene's still too spicy for you to handle without a little self-service."

Several women froze, their faces flushing in embarrassment as if suddenly aware of what they'd been doing.

June's eyes also went wide, and she yanked her free hand back from where it had been pressed between her thighs.

Seeing this, Kafka chuckled low in his throat and shook his head.

"No, no, no...don't stop on my account." He gestured lazily with one hand still splayed over Olivia's bare stomach. "This is a show. Shows are meant to be enjoyed. And if the audience wants to play along…" He shrugged. "…I'm hardly going to complain."

A few of them shifted again, hesitant.

"Besides..." He went on, tone dipping into something darker. "If this were another man watching this sight, he'd be...well, let's just say he wouldn't be breathing much longer."

He said which made everyone think that he was surely joking.

"But since you're all women...women I know June trusts...I don't mind. In fact..." He stepped forward, Olivia still locked against him, her hips brushing his with every movement. "...I think you shouldn't hold back at all."

That got their attention.

"I mean, why rub yourself through your clothes?" He asked. "Why torture yourselves like that? That fabric's just going to get in the way."

"...That's why I'm suggesting you all to take off your clothes. Keep your underwear of course..."

"...Enjoy yourselves properly, freely. Much easier that way, much more fun."

The women stiffened, their breath catching.

It was tempting. And the idea alone sent another warm pulse between their thighs. But the shame of exposing themselves, even partially, made them hesitate, glancing sidelong at one another.

Several were about to murmur polite refusals...but then Kafka turned his head, that easy smile still on his lips but his eyes sharpening into something that brooked no argument.

The change in the air was immediate. The same commanding energy that had made Olivia's knees weak now pressed against every single one of them.

"Please, I insist...I'm saying for your own good."

He said with half-lidded eyes and it didn't sound like a request at all.

It sounded like something inevitable.

And shockingly one by one, they obeyed.

Belts loosened. Zippers hissed. Skirts and blouses were shrugged off, shoes kicked aside.

Olivia stared in shock as the pile of discarded clothing grew. She'd thought she was the only one who couldn't resist him like this.

But no, every single one of them moved like they were under the same spell she was. It wasn't just obedience, it was the pull he had on women.

That magnetic thing that made denial impossible if even a part of you wanted what he was offering.

And clearly...they all wanted.

Within moments, the staff stood before him in lace bras, satin panties, mesh slips.

The youngest had flushed cheeks and nervous smiles; even the oldest, a curvy woman in her forties, stood shyly but obediently in lilac lingerie, eyes downcast.

Kafi's gaze skimmed over them, assessing, appreciative.

Then June also moved, reaching for the zipper at her side.

Olivia blinked at this sight as she wasn't expecting someone as elegant and tidy as June to strip down.

But before she could undo more than an inch, Kafka's voice cut in, gentler, warmer than it had been all day.

"Not you, June."

Her hands stilled instantly.

"You don't need to."

He said, looking at her like she was something fragile he refused to mishandle.

"I know it's...hard for you to take your clothes off in front of others. No need to force yourself."

June's lips parted, and she let out a breath she'd been holding. "Thank you…" She murmured, her relief almost visible.

Olivia caught it. That moment. That tone. The way June's relief wasn't about modesty, but about hiding something deeper. And the way Kafi was helping her keep it hidden.

She didn't have time to think about it before his breath was warm against her ear.

"And would you look at that, Olive." He murmured, his tone sharp with amusement. "Seems like everyone else has joined your little club and is standing here in their underwear."

Her cheeks flared hotter. "Y-Yeah, but…" She stammered, lowering her voice. "They're still wearing proper underwear. Not…" She looked down at herself. "…not this."

He chuckled, the sound curling around her. "Doesn't matter." His eyes lifted, meeting the group's. "What matters is…" He pointed toward the polished floor, where faint darker patches betrayed damp fabric pressing against wet skin. "…they're just as turned on as you."

Olivia's mouth fell open slightly at the sight, he was right. The darker ovals on panties and slips didn't lie.

"They're just as wet as you." He said, his voice low but carrying. "And that's what matters most, Olive."

She turned her head away, mortified.

Kafi straightened, glancing around the cramped fitting space. "You know...this place is too tight for what I have in mind next."

The staff looked at each other.

"We'll take it out to the main hall." He said, already starting to guide Olivia forward, his palm pressing at the small of her back. The sway of her hips and the jiggle of her ass were impossible to ignore.

No one protested. Not a single voice spoke against it.

They simply followed, eager, curious, flushed, June moving with her crutch as quickly as she could to keep up. Because whatever he had planned next, none of them wanted to miss a second.

The shift from the narrow trial room to the wide, open main hall felt like stepping from a warm alcove into a stage, except the "stage" here was surrounded by bright studio lights meant to illuminate fabric and lace, not bare skin and wet heat. And yet, under those lights, the scene became far more raw, far more revealing.

The women, every one of them except June and Kafka, stood in a loose circle, now able to see each other fully.

There were wet patches on panties in pale silk and black mesh, on lace boyshorts and thin cotton briefs. There were bra cups with faint darker spots where nipples pressed stubbornly against the fabric, the stiff points betraying their owners' arousal.

One woman, a brunette with a delicate frame, had her bra straps slipped just a little too far down her shoulders; another, taller and busty, had her panties clinging tight in the center seam, the dampness making the outline all too clear.

It was ironic, painfully, hilariously ironic.

These were women who, for years, had handled lingerie as business: measuring customers busts, guiding them into new bras, tugging silky panties into place on display mannequins.

They had accessorized other women's bodies daily...but had never been the ones on display themselves.

Now here they stood, wearing only the sort of intimate pieces they'd sold to others, but under the burning gaze of their coworkers, flushed and fidgeting, feeling the sting of vulnerability they usually left to customers in the fitting rooms.

June, still fully dressed and leaning on her crutch, let out a faint wry smile. 'What the hell am I even watching? she thought. And how the hell did I let myself get dragged this far into it?'

Her eyes inevitably went to Kafka, who stood in the middle of the hall, surrounded by them all like the focal point of some strange ritual. He was bent slightly at the waist, murmuring into Olivia's ear, his hand still firm around her waist.

June felt the truth sink in. 'It's him. His presence. That stupid, magnetic pull he has. You just...follow.'

But another thought crept in, uncomfortably honest. 'It's not just him. It's me, too. I wanted to know how far he'd go. I wanted to see what he's like when the polite mask drops. And now...here we are.'

While she wrestled with that admission, Olivia flinched in Kafka's arms. She had been listening to his whispering, his voice low and coaxing, and suddenly gasped, her eyes widening.

"N-no, no, I can't—" She stammered, shaking her head so fast her hair whipped. "I can't do something like that!"

Her hands lifted as if to push him away, her face hot and utterly flustered. "Not...not in front of everyone. I've never even...done that before! I wouldn't even know how—!"

Her gaze darted around, catching the stares, the expectant eyes of every woman in the circle.

"There's too many people." She said quickly, voice catching. "I can't, Kafi, I can't, it's too vulgar! There's no way!"

Hearing this protest, June and the rest of the girls couldn't help but wonder what exactly it was that he had suggested, that Olive of all people looked so scared right now...