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

But even though Nina and Abigaille were holding back, Camila, who was now fully aware of the envious gazes drilling into her from Nina and Abigaille, found herself enjoying the moment even more.

Normally, she wasn't the type to be so openly smug, but seeing the way the two of them were forced to hold back, fidgeting in place while trying to mask their frustration, sent a thrill through her.

And because of that, she only doubled down.

Her fingers moved even softer through Kafka's hair, her touch featherlight as she whispered sweet reassurances into his ear, her voice warm, soothing, and utterly sickeningly tender.

"There, there, sweetheart." She said in a soothing tone, letting her nails gently scratch at his scalp. "You've been through a lot today, haven't you? It's okay. Just let it all out."

Kafka let out a muffled sniffle against her shoulder, and Camila nearly grinned. Perfect.

She pulled him in tighter, shifting slightly so that he was resting fully against her, face smushed into her breasts. Then, with all the mocking grace of a queen, she turned her gaze toward the two seething women standing across from her.

And she smirked.

Not just any smirk—a full, triumphant, taunting smirk.

Nina's eye twitched so hard it looked like she was having a seizure.

Abigaille, on the other hand, had gone completely stiff. Her expression, at first, was a mask of barely restrained patience. But then—

In the most sweet, motherly tone, Camila cooed.

"Aww, my poor darling. You shouldn't be upset because of what happened." She reached out a hand, her touch feather-light on his arm. "Would you like me to sing you a lullaby? Something soothing to help you relax?" She hummed a few gentle notes, her eyes filled with an almost cloying tenderness. "There, there." She murmured. "Let Mommy sing for you."

Kafka, still sniffling in her embrace, let out a small, pitiful hum of acknowledgment, burying his face further into her chest.

That was when something inside Abigaille snapped.

Her fingers twitched at her sides as she clenched her fists, her eyes trembling. Her patience had been strong—she had been holding herself back so well.

But this?...This was too much.

Camila wasn't just comforting Kafka—she was acting as his mother and rubbing it in her face.

And to make matters even worse, she actually started humming.

A slow, gentle lullaby, swaying slightly as she rocked Kafka in her arms, patting his head like a doting mother putting her child to sleep.

Abigaille felt her entire body go rigid.

Her eye twitched.

Her breathing hitched.

Her rationality? Gone.

"That's enough, you two!" She declared, marching forward, her voice sharp and filled with urgency as she snatched Kafka right out of Camila's arms.

"And you, Kafi!" She huffed, her voice firm but slightly flustered. "Why are you crying so much? It's not like you to be this dramatic...Well, it's not like I don't want you to be emotional."

"...But why don't you show that side of you to your actual Mommy?!"

Kafka, who had been comfortably snuggled against Camila's warmth just moments ago, suddenly found himself jolted back to reality. His face, still slightly damp with tears, was now fully exposed for everyone to see.

His eyes darted to Nina, who was now smirking in absolute amusement. Then to Camila, who was looking thoroughly irritated that her fun had been cut short. And then—finally—to his mother, who was looking at him with a mixture of frustration and affection.

…And that's when it hit him.

He had just been sobbing like a baby in front of all of them.

A deep horror settled into Kafka's bones.

His mind screamed at him to salvage his dignity—fix the situation—act like it never happened.

So, in a panic, he immediately wiped at his eyes, hurriedly brushing away any lingering tears before straightening his posture and clearing his throat.

"Ahem—"

The women all watched with raised brows.

Kafka forced himself to casually look around, casually run a hand through his hair, and then—casuallysay,

"Pfft. What tears? I wasn't crying." He scoffed, a dry, humorless sound. "There's no way I was crying. Absolutely not. A manly man like me? Never."

"...I mean, it's been so long since I've shed a tear, I'm pretty sure my tear ducts have all dried up. Completely desiccated. Like little raisins. So, no tears. Definitely not."

He offered a tight, unconvincing smile, which did little to dispel the awkwardness of the moment, much less the lingering suspicion that, to all three of their dismay, he very much had been crying.

Nina's smirk stretched wide when she saw him acting all flustered, an expression of pure, unfiltered glee on her face as she immediately seized the opportunity.

"Oh, you weren't crying?" She repeated, voice dripping with mockery. "Right, right, of course. A man full of testosterone like you? No way! You'd never cry. Just like I'd never—"

She dramatically flung herself forward, wrapping her arms around an invisible Camila, pressing her cheek to an imaginary shoulder as she began fake sobbing in the most exaggerated, ridiculous manner possible.

"Oh, Camila!" She wailed, shaking her shoulders as she pretended to weep. "I-I'm so sorry! I didn't mean to hurt you! Please, please tell me you still love me! Tell me I'm worth fighting for! Tell me I'm your good boy—"

"Shut up." Kafka deadpanned.

Nina ignored him. She continued her theatrical display, sniffling dramatically as she rubbed fake tears into her sleeves.

"Boo-hoo-hoo! Oh, Camila, I can't live without youuuu!" She moaned, swaying back and forth as if lost in despair.

Camila, despite herself, was biting back laughter. Abigaille, even though she was supposed to be supporting her son, had turned away slightly, covering her mouth with her fingers in a poor attempt to hide her amusement.

Kafka, on the other hand, just clicked his tongue in exasperation. "Hah. Very funny." He said dryly, arms crossed over his chest in a adamant manner. "But unfortunately for you, Nina, I wasn't crying, so all that effort you just put into your little performance?...Completely wasted."

Nina snorted. "Oh yeah? Then explain this."

She pointed—right at Camila's blouse.

Everyone's gaze immediately followed.

And sure enough, there they were.

Small, but unmistakable—damp stains right over the fabric where Kafka's face had been buried in her chest just moments before.

Camila blinked and looked down at her blouse. And then, as realization set in, her lips twitched into a knowing grin. "Oh." She said, faux innocence lacing her tone. "Would you look at that?"

Nina's smirk widened. Explore more at My Virtual Library Empire

Kafka stiffened. A cold sweat began forming on the back of his neck.

"Well, well, well." Nina drawled, looking like she had just won the lottery. "How do you explain this, Mr. I-Never-Cry?"

"I—" Kafka opened his mouth, then shut it. His eyes darted around, scrambling for an escape route, a defense, anything—

And then, in a desperate act of pure survival, he blurted out the first thing that came to mind.

"That wasn't me."

Nina cocked her head. "Oh? Then who was it?"

And that's when Kafka really hit rock bottom.

He pointed directly at Camila, looking her dead in the eyes, and said out of utter desperation, "It really wasn't me."

"...I-It was probably Camila's breast milk leaking out!"

Silence.

Kafka, realizing a millisecond too late what had just escaped his own mouth, slowly turned to stone.

The silence that followed Kafka's pronouncement was thick enough to cut with a knife. Camila's eyes widened, her jaw dropping slightly. Nina's face was a picture of stunned disbelief, her mouth hanging open. His mother, for her part, simply stared at Kafka, her expression unreadable.

Kafka, however, had already unleashed the beast. He knew there was no going back. He had crossed the Rubicon of ridiculousness, and now, all that was left was to double down.

If he was going down, he was going down swinging.

So he straightened his posture, trying to project an air of nonchalance he was far from feeling.

"Well..." H finally said, his voice a little too loud, a little too forced. "If you have...excess milk leaking, Camila perhaps you should consider...a breast pump?" He gestured vaguely in the direction of plump Camila's chest. "There are various models available. Some are manual, some are electric. I believe there are even hands-free options these days...Quite convenient, really."

He cleared his throat, avoiding eye contact with any of the women.

"It's...It's quite common, you know." He continued, his voice rising slightly in pitch. "Lactating...it's a natural process. Nothing to be ashamed of. But...perhaps a little discretion is in order? Especially in public. Or, well, in front pany."

He trailed off, his gaze landing on a dusty shelf in the corner of the room, as if he had suddenly become fascinated by the intricate patterns of dust bunnies.

And finally, the absurdity of the situation was almost too much to bear. Nina, still recovering from her initial shock, let out a snort, which quickly escalated into a full-blown laugh.

"Hahahahaha!~"

She was laughing so hard she could barely breathe, doubling over with tears in her eyes.

"Oh my god." She gasped between wheezes, clutching her stomach. "A breast pump? Are you serious?" Her laughter only grew louder, practically howling at this point.

Then, with an absolutely wicked grin, she turned to Camila, wiping a stray tear from her eye.

"Wait, hold up. Didn't you have Bella ages ago? Are you still lactating?!" She gasped dramatically. "Girl, if that's the case, you might wanna visit a doctor. That ain't normal!"

She snorted again, shaking her head in mock pity.

"Damn, Camila, you out here producing milk like a whole-ass dairy farm? What's next, you gonna start supplying the local grocery store?" She let out another cackle, barely able to stand from how hard she was laughing. "Moo, bitch. Moo!—"

But the laughter died in Nina's throat as Camila turned, an icy gaze fixed on Kafka. The air crackled with a sudden chill.

"Kafka..." She began, her voice dangerously low. "Did you just accuse me...of lactating when I'm not even pregnant?" Her eyes narrowed, and a muscle twitched in her jaw. "Do you know just how offensive do you think it is to say something like that to a woman my age?"

She continued, each word clipped and precise.

"Are you implying...Are you asking if my breasts are sagging? Is that what you're doing, Kafka? Because if you are..." She hissed, her voice dropping to a near whisper that was somehow even more terrifying. "...you might want to reconsider your next few words very carefully."

The amusement vanished from her face, replaced by an expression of pure, unadulterated fury.

Her eyes narrowed, and a vein throbbed visibly in her temple. Even Nina, still recovering from her laughing fit, felt a shiver crawl down her spine.

Kafka stood at a crossroads.

He could either apologize, grovel for forgiveness, and hope Camila's fury wouldn't manifest into actual, physical violence that left him in a hospital bed for the next month.

Or…

He could double down.

Obviously, he chose the second option.

Because Kafka had never been the type to take the easy way out—especially not when it came to teasing a woman who was practically begging to be teased with how flustered she looked right now.

So, instead of backing down, instead of scrambling for an apology like a normal person with self-preservation instincts, he did the exact opposite.

He straightened his posture, lifted his head high, and then—with all the cocky confidence in the world—met Camila's murderous glare with an easy, teasing smirk.

"What's wrong with what I said?" He asked smoothly, tilting his head slightly, his eyes glinting with mischief. "I mean, there's nothing wrong with it, right?"

Camila's eye twitched.

"Kafka..." Her voice was still dangerously low, but now there was a slight warning in it.

But he still didn't falter.

"In fact..." He continued, smirking wider and decided to give the heavy blow he was waiting for. "You'll be producing milk again in the future, Camila, so why are you making such a big deal about it now?"

Silence.

Absolute, deafening silence.

Nina choked, was wondering if her ears were working properly.

Abigaille's lips parted slightly in sheer disbelief at what her son had just said.

And Camila—Camila froze. For the first time in a long time, she looked genuinely caught off guard.

Her anger wavered for just a moment, confusion flickering across her features.

"What…" She narrowed her eyes at him, her voice slower now, more cautious. "W-What exactly are you talking about?"

She folded her arms over her chest, her usual confidence returning as she stared him down.

"How exactly am I going to 'make more milk,' huh? I already had Bella years ago, Kafka. It's not like there's anything left inside now."

But as intimidating as she looked, Kafka took a step closer. Then another.

Camila didn't back away—but she did tense slightly, her breath hitching just a little as he leaned in and a smirk played at his lips as he murmured, "No, Camila...I'm not talking about the old product that's been used up and already eaten sucked up by baby Bella."

His voice dropped even lower, intimate and slow.

"...I'm talking about the new product that'll come when I knock you up all the way through..."

"...The same milk that the little babies that you'll pop out will be drinking all the time."

It took a moment to comprehend the absurdness of what Kafka. But the moment it did, Camila's entire face exploded into red, while her body strangely warm like it really liked the words he uttered.