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

The narrow alley fell into a silence so sharp it could snap.

The men who had been charging just a second ago now stood rooted to the ground, their bodies locked up as though invisible chains had bound them.

Sweat trickled down their temples, soaking their shirts, their breath coming out in uneven, ragged gasps. It wasn't just the sight of their comrade slammed like a ragdoll into the pavement, it was the aftermath.

The body lay there, crooked and unmoving, his limbs bent in angles that no living human could endure, and not a single groan escaped his lips.

No shallow breaths. No twitch. Nothing.

That absence of sound, of life, was what terrified them most.

They had seen fights before. They had seen blood, fists, even knives. But this was different. This wasn't a brawl. This was execution.

One of the men even inched backward unconsciously, as if his own survival instincts screamed at him to flee before he joined the corpse on the ground.

But before he could take a proper step, something struck him from behind, only there was no wall behind him, no obstacle to stop his retreat.

His eyes widened, snapping back over his shoulder...and there he was.

Kafka.

Standing right there behind him, when only a breath ago he had been meters away. He hadn't seen him move. Hadn't heard a step. It was as though the man had just materialized.

The thug's blood ran cold.

Kafka, however, simply tilted his head, his voice carrying over Olivia's sharp intake of breath.

"Mom..."

The sound of him calling her cut through her daze, dragging her gaze from the crumpled body on the floor to him. He was smiling, casually, as if none of this mattered.

"I saw how you dislocated that bastard's shoulder earlier...Snapped his wrist too." His tone was approving, almost playful. "Not bad. Pretty good, actually."

The corner of his mouth quirked up, but then his voice dropped, low and cruel.

"But me? I prefer something else. Something more...satisfying. I like breaking bones directly."

"...Like this."

And before the man in front of him could react, Kafka's leg lashed out with ruthless precision. His boot connected with the thug's shin, and the alley rang with a sickening snap.

BREAK!

The man's leg twisted into an unnatural angle, buckling beneath him as he let out a shrill scream and crumpled to the floor.

"AHHHHH! MY LEG! MY DAMN LEG! AHHHHH!"

The others flinched, horror striking their features, but Kafka wasn't done.

"And unlike you." He said, addressing Olivia without ever glancing down at the wailing man at his feet. "I don't like stopping at just one limb."

He then stamped down hard, until another grotesque crack echoed out, his other leg snapping under the sheer force.

SNAP!

"HAUGHHHHH! HAAAAAHH! AHHHHH!"

The man howled, his cries echoing off the walls as bone pierced through flesh, jagged white protruding through soaked fabric.

His arms shot up instinctively to defend himself, but Kafka's boot slammed down on one elbow, then the other, breaking both in quick succession.

SNAP!

BREAK!

The thug lay there now, writhing and sobbing, his limbs shattered and useless, pleading desperately with his friends.

"S-SAVE ME! AHH! MY LEGS, I CAN'T MOVE! HELP ME!"

But his friends couldn't move. Not because they were injured, but because terror had frozen them where they stood.

Olivia's lips also parted, her lungs struggling to pull in air.

Was this real?..Just moments ago she had prepared herself to sacrifice everything to protect Kafka. She had steeled her heart, ready to face humiliation, pain, even death, so long as he was safe.

Yet now...now it was Kafka who stood like an executioner in the alley, his every motion precise, effortless, devastating.

And then he turned back toward her.

His voice softened, calm but edged with something darker.

"What I'm about to do next, Mom..." He said evenly. "...isn't easy on the eyes. You can turn away if you want. Step out of the alley. Take a breath. Or…"

His eyes gleamed, a cruel smile ghosting across his lips.

"You can stay. You can watch me give them the end they deserve."

The words shouldn't have made her chest tighten the way they did. They shouldn't have sent a rush of heat through her veins.

But they did...Because the way he said it, it wasn't bluster.

It wasn't empty bravado. It was dominance. Absolute confidence. As though every man here was already dead, and the only choice left was whether she wanted to watch the show.

Her heart thundered in her chest, but it wasn't only fear anymore, it was something far more dangerous, far more intoxicating. Something primal in her core responded to the raw, unshakable confidence that Kafka radiated.

A moment ago, she had been ready to sacrifice herself to protect him. Now, standing in his shadow, she realized she hadn't needed to protect him at all.

He had always been the predator here, and she...she was under the wing of someone who could bend the whole world with his hands if he wanted.

It made her dizzy. It made her weak. It made her want.

Olivia swallowed hard, the trembling in her hands no longer from fear but from adrenaline that left her body overheated, her skin too tight around her bones.

She thought she knew her son. She thought she understood her dear son who teased her, who listened to her stammer through explanations, who walked beside her as though she were delicate porcelain.

But this side of him, this ruthless, commanding force, was something else entirely. And against all reason, against everything she thought she should feel, she wanted more of it.

That's why her lips parted before she even realized she was speaking.

"I-It's fine, Kafka."

She whispered, stammering, her voice trembling with something close to exhilaration.

"I can...I can handle this. So, go on. I'll...I'll watch it all."

The moment she finished, his casual smile shifted. It curved into something cruel. Something that made every guy still standing feel their bowels loosen in dread.

The sheer inevitability in that grin was more frightening than the sound of snapping bones.

And in that instant, they broke.

All at once, the men bolted. Their bravado shattered, their courage burned to ash. Feet scrambled against the concrete, frantic to get away from the monster in human form before he decided their fates too.

The men's desperate scramble should have bought them freedom, but against Kafka, there was no such thing.

He moved through the narrow alley like a shadow given flesh, his speed so unnatural it seemed as if he had simply appeared in front of the pack.

The one leading their retreat barely had time to gasp before Kafka's hand clamped over his skull.

Then...CRACK!...his head was smashed against the wall with such brutal force that the sound of bone grinding against stone echoed through the alley.

It also didn't stop there.

CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK! CRACK!

Once. Twice. Again. Over and over, until the man's body slumped against the wall, sliding down like a broken doll, neck bent at an angle that spoke of finality.

There was no pause after that.

Kafka immediately caught the next one by the wrist and then yanked with a casual strength that wrenched the joint free from its socket with a sickening pop.

POP!

The scream of the guy also never made it out, as Kafka's free hand seized the back of the man's head, driving it down hard into his rising knee.

SMASH!

The crack of skull against bone was sharp, final. The body crumpled at his feet without resistance.

And still he advanced, like he was a machine of ruin, violence incarnate.

A man's jaw shattered under a single hammering punch, the wet thud of flesh against bone echoing, followed by the choked wheeze of a man drowning on his own teeth.

Another's hair was torn in vicious handfuls, scalp splitting, blood seeping in threads.

Someone's chest caved beneath a single stomp, ribs cracking inward like kindling, his last gasp a wet cough cut off mid-breath.

And just like that the corridor became an orchestra of breaking bones, tearing tendons, meat slapped against concrete, every sound more unbearable than any scream could have been.

And still, Kafka's face remained calm, detached, as if the brutality required no emotion at all.

He was violence incarnate, calm, methodical, merciless.

And while any sane onlooker would have vomited, fainted, or fled, Olivia was utterly different.

She could not look away. Her lips parted, her breathing uneven, not out of fear but out of something far hotter, far more dangerous.

Each wet crunch of bone, each guttural thud of flesh broken beneath Kafka's rampage, fanned the fire already simmering inside her.

What had been an ember from before, that faint stirring of primal heat, now roared into a blaze. The sight of him, his dominance so absolute, his fury so calm, his body moving with the authority of a god who allowed no resistance, triggered something ancient, something deep within her blood.

Her thighs pressed together almost unconsciously, as if trying to contain the warmth flooding between them. She could feel it rising, her body betraying her, skin prickling with heat as her pulse beat faster and faster.

Her lips were dry, her tongue darting out to wet them, and her chest rose and fell sharply with every savage blow Kafka delivered.

Each strike sent a jolt of arousal up her spine, making her body feel molten, feverish. It was as though her flesh itself was responding to the display, craving the man who stood so far above all others, craving the storm that was Kafka.

This was not a matter of thought but of raw biology, of womanhood calling out to strength, to supremacy.

She wanted him, wanted him with the primal clarity of a beast in heat, wanted to be taken by him, to be claimed, to feel his body against hers, inside hers, to be filled and bred by the only man worthy.

The thought of carrying his children, of being the vessel for something so brutally powerful, made her shiver and burn.

Her nipples hardened beneath her clothes, sensitive against the fabric as her body betrayed the intensity of her arousal. Her skin glowed with heat, sweat forming at her neck, at the hollow of her back, as if she were burning with a fever.

Her hands twitched, restless, wanting to reach between her thighs, to soothe the throbbing ache that pulsed there. Every instinct screamed at her to move closer, to throw herself against him, to beg, to surrender.

And by the time Kafka was finished, bodies slumped around him in broken silence, Olivia's breath was shallow and desperate. Her legs clenched tight, her cheeks flushed deep crimson, and her entire frame quivered as though she were possessed by the heat inside her.

And finally when her eyes finally locked onto him, Kafka, her son, her protector, they were no longer the eyes of a woman watching in horror. They were the eyes of a woman consumed with lust, fevered, hungry, wet with longing.

Kafka had become her obsession in that instant, and every beat of her heart begged only for him...