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

Olivia's gaze softened as she looked at Abigaille, her friend's pouty expression now almost endearing despite the tension.

"If...If the intimacy isn't the problem." She said, her voice cautious. "Then what are you so upset about, Abigaille? Why are you...angry?"

Abigaille's eyes darted away, her arms still folded as she huffed, her voice defensive.

"I'm not angry." She said, though her tone betrayed her, sharp and petulant. "I don't know where you're getting that from. I'm fine, totally fine."

But the way she avoided Olivia's gaze, the slight tremble in her lips, made it clear she was anything but fine, her jealousy and frustration simmering just beneath the surface.

Kafka chuckled, his hands gripping Olivia's hips as he met her gaze, his voice smooth and reassuring.

"See, Mom? Like I told you this is normal here. No need to worry about how close we are."

His words eased a fraction of her panic, the truth of them underscored by Abigaille's lack of outrage at their intimate position.

Any other mother, Olivia thought, would have recoiled, pulled her away from such closeness with her son, but Abigaille's reaction was different—focused not on the intimacy itself but on Olivia's rapid bond with Kafka.

Olivia nodded, her mind clinging to the idea that this was just the town's way, though the lingering doubt in her heart refused to fully dissolve.

His gaze then flicked to Abigaille, still pouting in the doorway, and his chuckle deepened, a teasing edge creeping in.

"She's not bothered by this, Mom." He said, gesturing to their entwined bodies. "What's actually got her all worked up is how fast you got close to me, Mom."

"...You just got back, and you're already here, in her spot, while she's been here all this time, took her ages to get this close, and now you swoop in, threatening her place as my mother. That's why she's acting all jealous, seeing you as a rival."

He grinned, his words sharp but playful, hitting the mark with precision.

"And also this position, we're in? It's usually her thing with me, our special moment. Seeing you take it? That's what's got her riled up."

Abigaille's eyes widened, a flush creeping up her cheeks as Kafka's words laid bare her feelings. She knew he was right—his insight into her heart was uncanny, a testament to how well he understood her, and it both thrilled and frustrated her.

The position Olivia occupied, the intimacy she shared with Kafka, was a mirror of the moments Abigaille cherished, and the threat of losing that exclusivity stung, a quiet jealousy she hadn't anticipated.

But her pride wouldn't let her admit it. She strode forward, standing over them, her arms still folded as she glared at Kafka.

"That's not true, Kafi!" She snapped, her voice sharp but trembling with emotion. "I'm not jealous! Not at all! You're making things up, Kafi. There's no way I'd be jealous of Olivia, of all people. That's absurd!"

She huffed, her pout deepening.

"You can be in that position with whoever you want and I still won't care!"

Kafka's grin widened, undeterred by her denial, his hand still caressing Olivia's ass as he leaned back slightly.

"Sure, Mom, that's true." He said, his tone teasing but pointed. "If it was anyone else in this spot, you wouldn't bat an eye. You'd just think, 'Oh, they're in love, probably gonna get married, have kids. And that's perfect for you, right? You want tons of grandchildren to coddle, so the more partners I have, the better."

His words were playful, but they hit their mark, and Abigaille's blush deepened, her eyes widening as he voiced her exact thoughts.

The idea of Kafka with countless partners, producing a brood of grandchildren for her to dote on, was precisely her dream, and his accuracy flustered her.

Frustrated and caught off guard, Abigaille stepped. closer, pinching Kafka's cheeks with irritation and affection.

"You're being way too cheeky, Kafi." She said, her voice a mix of exasperation and fondness. "Thinking you know your mother inside out? A little too smug for your own good!"

But to Olivia's shock and Abigaille's fluster, in response Kafka's other hand moved, sliding to Abigaille's plump ass, caressing it with the same casual possessiveness he'd shown with Olivia.

"Grope!♡~ Carress!♡~ Stroke!♡~"

One hand on Olivia's ass, the other on Abigaille's, he held both women in his grasp, the intimacy of the act sending a wave of heat through Olivia. She stared, unable to tear her eyes away from his hand on Abigaille's bottom, the sight both startling and strangely captivating.

The casual way he touched Abigaille, the familiarity of it, confirmed her earlier words about their constant intimacy, and Olivia didn't know whether to feel flustered, jealous, or simply overwhelmed. Her cheeks burned, her body still pressed against Kafka's, her mind grappling with the surreal reality of her son's hands on both their bodies.

Kafka's chuckle was low, his eyes glinting with mischief as he looked between them.

"It's true, though." He said, his voice warm but teasing. "If a son doesn't know his mother inside out, who does?"

His hand gave Abigaille's ass a light pat, mirroring the touch on Olivia, and the boldness of it made Olivia's breath catch, her heart racing at the audacity of the moment.

Abigaille, flustered but caught in the warmth of his words, tried to maintain her indignation. His claim that he knew her thoroughly sparked a bit of happiness and defiance as she loved how well he understood her, but she wasn't ready to concede.

With a hearty smirk, she leaned closer, her eyes narrowing. "Oh, you think you know me so well?" She challenged, her voice playful but sharp. "Fine, let's put it to the test. Prove it, Kafi. Answer some questions—let's see if you're as smart as you think."

She the straightened, her hands on her hips, and fired her first question, confident he'd falter. "First, tell me what's my favorite flower? You should know that right?"

Kafka's grin didn't waver, his answer immediate.

"Lavender." He said, his voice calm and certain. "You love it because it smells like calm mornings, like the quiet before the world wakes up. Always got a little bundle of it in your room to keep you grounded."

His reasoning was so precise, so intimate, that Abigaille's eyes widened, a flicker of surprise crossing her face.

She then huffed, brushing it off as a fluke, and pressed on with a harder question.

"Alright, fine. Then tell me...what do I do when I'm sad?"

Kafka's answer was just as swift, his tone warm with affection.

"You don't like staying sad—you're too cheerful for that. So you crank up some music, loud and upbeat, and dance in your room like nobody's watching. Spins, twirls, the works, gets the sadness out and makes you feel alive again."

His words painted a vivid picture, and Abigaille's cheeks flushed, stunned by his accuracy but determined to challenge him further.

"Y-You're...good. You really know your mother well." She admitted, her voice grudging but impressed, before throwing out a tougher question, one she was sure would stump him. "Fine, then. What was the name of the little sparrow I had when I was twelve? The one I raised myself?"

Olivia raised a brow, her voice cutting through the tension as she leaned slightly forward, still astride Kafka's abdomen.

"That's not fair, Abi." She said, her tone a full of skepticism and protectiveness. "That's a memory from so long ago there's no way he'd know something like that."

She glanced at Kafka, her blue eyes flickering with doubt, though a part of her knew the answer herself, a shared piece of their past that made the question feel almost like a trap.

But Abigaille's smile only widened, her arms still folded as she tilted her head, undeterred.

"Not at all." She said, her voice dripping with challenge. "If he says he knows me inside out, then he should know this, too. Go on, Kafi—answer."

She urged him forward, her eyes glinting with defiance and curiosity, certain this would stump him.

But to both their surprise, Kafka's grin didn't waver, his voice calm and confident as he answered.

"Black tail...You named it black tail since it had dark steaks on its brown tail." He said, his tone matter-of-fact. "It was a sparrow you found outside your house, one day when you were twelve. It had a broken wing, and you couldn't just leave it there, so you nursed it back to health, fed it, kept it safe until it could fly again...Then you let it go."

His words were precise and Abigaille's jaw dropped, a gasp of disbelief escaping her.

"How...How do you know that?"

She stammered, her eyes wide as she stared at him, her earlier confidence crumbling. Olivia's gaze darted between them, equally stunned, her heart racing at the depth of Kafka's knowledge, the intimacy it implied.

Kafka's chuckle was low, his hand still caressing Olivia's ass as he shifted his other hand to Abigaille's thigh, his fingers sliding brazenly under her skirt, groping her plump flesh with a boldness that made Olivia's breath catch.

"You told me yourself, Mom." He said, his voice warm but laced with triumph. "We were lying down, just like this, one day. You were rambling about your past, all the little things you did as a kid. You even told me about Black Tail, about how you cared for it and I heard every word."

Abigaille's cheeks flushed, her hands dropping to her sides as she processed his words.

"I...I was just rambling that day." She said, her voice trembling with disbelief. "Talking about random stuff, things I thought you didn't even care about. I just...I was so comfortable, lying there with you, and I wanted to talk, to share my feelings."

"...I didn't think you were listening, let alone remembering it!"

Her eyes softened, awe and gratitude shimmering in them as she realized the depth of his attention.

Kafka's hand on Abigaille's thigh grew bolder, his fingers kneading her skin as he smiled, his other hand still groping Olivia's ass, the dual intimacy a surreal display that left Olivia's body warm and her mind reeling.

"Of course I remember." He said, his voice rich with affection. "Every word you say matters to me, Mom. Every ramble, every gossip, every random thought I've got it all stored up here." He tapped his temple, his grin widening. "I could probably recite your stories back to you, word for word...There's not a moment I haven't listened to you."

Abigaille's heart swelled, her earlier frustration melting away as a radiant happiness took its place. The realization that her son had not only heard but cherished every word she'd shared, every fleeting thought she'd voiced in their intimate moments, was overwhelming.

Her eyes glistened with appreciation, her voice soft as she murmured, "Kafi...I can't believe you..."

The jealousy that had gripped her moments ago dissolved, replaced by a profound gratitude for a son who treated her with such care, who valued her so deeply. She barely noticed his hand under her skirt, his brazen groping of her thighs in front of Olivia, too caught in the warmth of his devotion.

Olivia, watching the exchange, felt a blend of awe and unease.

Kafka's ability to recall such a specific memory, to understand Abigaille so thoroughly, was both heartwarming and unsettling, a testament to the depth of his bond with her.

She couldn't help but be pleasantly surprised, thinking that Kafka had grown into a true gentleman, one who listened to women with a rare attentiveness that would make his future partner lucky indeed.

But the sight of his hands—one groping her own ass through her skirt, the other brazenly kneading Abigaille's thigh, stirred a conflicting warmth in her body, a stuffy heat that made her skin flush and her lower belly tighten.

She wondered, with a pang of amusement and concern, what Kafka's future wife would think of a husband so openly intimate with his mothers, groping them with such ease.

The thought made her blush deeper, her body reacting to the sight and feel of his touch in ways she couldn't fully reconcile. The warmth of his hand on her ass, the gentle caress, sent shivers through her, and the realization that he was touching Abigaille just as freely sparked a strange mix of curiosity and discomfort.

She tried to focus on the sweetness of the moment, Kafka's devotion to Abigaille, his attentiveness, but the physical sensations, the brazen intimacy, kept her body humming with a heat she didn't know how to name...