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

The mountain clearing was steeped in a stunned silence, the assassins faces pale and their breaths shallow as they grappled with the grotesque spectacle before them.

The stench of decay hung heavy, burning their eyes and twisting their stomachs, but none dared speak or move.

Kafka, however, seemed unfazed, his expression one of mild inconvenience as he stepped forward, his yellow duck-patterned raincoat a jarring contrast to the horror at his feet.

"Oops." He said, his voice light, almost sheepish. "Should've secured those lids tighter. My fault. I knew they were heavy and I should've carried them myself."

He bent down, his hands moving with unsettling ease as he began to push the mangled corpses back into the barrels.

Blood and filth smeared his fingers, the rats gnawed remains and the leech-bloated body squelching under his touch, but he didn't flinch.

The stench was overpowering, the kind that clung to the back of your throat, yet Kafka worked as if handling nothing more than spoiled groceries.

"Didn't mean to stain your eyes with this." He added, glancing at the assassins with a faint, apologetic smile. "But, well...accidents happen."

The women watched, frozen, as he stuffed the bodies back into their respective barrels, his movements methodical yet disturbingly casual.

He then stood, wiping his hands on his raincoat, leaving streaks of dark red against the cheerful yellow, and began searching for the lids that had rolled away in the chaos.

As he did, he glanced at the group, his smile taking on a storytelling lilt.

"Since you've already seen them, might as well tell you the story behind these two. Don't want you thinking I'm some kind of psychopath, right?"

His tone was almost playful, but there was a glint in his eyes that made the air feel colder.

He nudged the first barrel with his foot, the one that had spilled the rat-eaten corpse.

"This guy..." He began. "He was Camila's husband. My lover's husband, to be exact. And no, it wasn't jealousy that did him in."

"You see when he was away from his home, away from my family, this piece of trash was out there cheating on her...Not just with one woman, mind you, but with girls young enough to be his daughter...Girls Bella's age."

His voice darkened, a rare edge creeping in.

"Out of pure coincidence, his daughter caught him once, you know. Saw him with some university girl who'd sleep with anyone for the right price. When Bella confronted him, the girl spilled everything—how he'd been doing this for years, how he'd go from one to the next."

"...And the worst part? The most despicable part? He was asking these women if they knew anyone younger. Girls still in school. Practically children."

Kafka paused, his eyes narrowing as he found the first lid half-buried in the dirt. He picked it up, turning it over In his hands.

"Bella came back to her mother's house because she couldn't stomach it. Couldn't live with the fact that her father was a predator lusting after kids. And me?..I wasn't about to let a man like that walk away with a quick death. No way. He didn't deserve it."

He slammed the lid onto the barrel, the sound echoing in the silent clearing.

"So I gave him what he deserved...A slow, fitting end."

He moved to the second barrel, his tone shifting to something almost casual tone l as he searched for the other lid.

"This one's easier to explain. Nina's husband. Another real winner. Guy was a leech in every sense of the word. Lived off Nina's money, did nothing but some half-assed accounting work, and still had the nerve to demand more cash than he earned."

"Worse, he was scheming with some shady company that wanted to buy up Nina's land—her hot spring, the one thing her mother left her. They saw money signs, thought they could turn it into some tacky resort."

"...And this guy? He was helping them trick Nina into signing it all away."

Kafka's fingers closed around the second lid, and he straightened, his smile returning, though it didn't reach his eyes.

"Nina's sweet, you know. Too trusting. She'd sign anything he put in front of her, no questions asked. Bit by bit, he was selling off her legacy. I caught it just in time, right before he could get that final signature to hand over the whole property."

"And let me tell you, there was no way I was letting a parasite like that off easy. He leeched off Nina his whole life, sucking her dry without her even noticing."

"...So I thought, why not let him feel what it's like?"

He gestured to the barrel, where the leech-riddled corpse had been stuffed back inside.

"Those leeches made sure he knew his mistake. Drained him slow, just like he did to her."

He fitted the lid onto the second barrel, then paused, glancing at the first with a chuckle that sent a fresh wave of chills through the group.

"The rats, though? That wasn't some grand metaphor like the leeches. Honestly, I just looked at that guy's face and thought he reminded me of a rat...All sneaky and scurrying. So I threw a bunch in there with him. Figured it fit."

His laugh was light, as he hoisted both barrels with ease, carrying them to the truck as if they were no heavier than sacks of flour.

"Guess the rats were hungrier than I thought. Ate his face clean off, wrinkles and all...Not much of a face left now, huh?"

The assassins stood rooted to the spot, their eyes wide with horror and disbelief. Kafka's casual recounting of his actions, delivered like a bedtime story, was more unnerving than the bodies themselves.

They were killers, every one of them, their hands stained with blood from years of missions, but this was different.

This was personal, deliberate, a kind of cruelty that went beyond necessity.

The way Kafka spoke—joking about the rats, chuckling about the faceless corpse made their skin crawl. Even Seraphina, who had seen his brutality firsthand, felt a fresh wave of dread. She'd known he was capable of this, but hearing him describe it so flippantly, with that innocent smile, confirmed her worst fears.

Lyla's stomach also churned, her earlier admiration for Kafka crumbling into ash. The easygoing, grateful master she'd wanted to believe in was gone, replaced by the demon Seraphina had warned her about.

His youth, his charming smile, the absurd duck raincoat—they were all a mask, hiding something far darker.

She glanced at her sister, seeing the grim resignation in Seraphina's eyes, and realized with a sinking heart that she'd been right all along.

Kafka wasn't just scary...He was a force of nature, a storm that could destroy without hesitation or remorse.

Kafka then finished securing the barrels in the truck, dusting his hands off as he turned back to the group. His smile was still there, bright and disarming, but now it carried a weight that made their blood run cold.

"Alright..." He said, his voice deceptively cheerful. "That's two loose ends down. Just one more to go, and then we can get to the transport job. Won't keep you long."

He paused, his gaze sweeping over the group.

"Now, could you bring me the men you brought along? I'd like to finish this up so we can all head home early."

No one responded.

The assassins were still reeling, their minds trapped in the visceral horror of the barrels. Seraphina's face was a mask of grim resignation, her hands trembling slightly at her sides. The other women stood like statues, their training no match for the raw terror Kafka's actions had instilled.

It was only when Kafka tilted his head, repeating his request with a touch of impatience, "The men, please?" did Seraphina snapped out of her daze.

"My apologies, Master." She stammered, her voice hoarse. She turned to the group, her eyes hard despite the fear clawing at her chest. "You heard him. Bring the three men. Now."

The assassins jolted into action, their movements mechanical as they obeyed, desperate not to provoke their terrifying master further.

Two groups of women hurried to their SUVs, dragging out two young men—gagged, bound with thick ropes, their eyes wide with panic.

These were the sons of the man who had lusted after Olivia, the same man now being hauled out of Seraphina's car by Lyla herself.

The father, his bulk straining against his restraints, was dragged forward, his muffled cries mingling with those of his sons. The three were shoved into a tight cluster, forced to crouch on the cold forest floor, their terror palpable.

The sons, in particular, were a mess of confusion and fear.

Just hours ago, they'd been at a pub, plotting to drug a woman they'd targeted, their minds filled with vile. intentions of dragging her to a hotel room.

But their plan had backfired spectacularly.

A sudden dizziness had overtaken them, and they'd woken up bound in the back of a car, now surrounded by a group of armed women in a desolate forest.

The sight of their father, equally bound and gagged, only deepened their panic. They thrashed against their restraints, their muffled shouts unintelligible but desperate, while their father's eyes darted wildly, recognition dawning as he saw his sons.

Kafka strolled over to the trio, his steps light and unhurried, as if he were approaching friends rather than captives. He looked down at them, his expression almost bored, and nodded at Seraphina.

"Good work." He said, his tone warm with approval. "Bringing them all in on such short notice? Impressive...I'm quite excited to wrap up this last loose end."

The father's eyes locked onto Kafka, and a fresh wave of panic surged through him as he recognized the young man—the son of Olivia, the woman he'd threatened and lusted after.

He thrashed harder, his muffled screams growing frantic, as if begging to know why he was here. Kafka ignored him completely, his gaze sliding over the man like he was less than dirt.

Instead, he turned to the assembled assassins, his smile widening into something that sent a chill through the group.

"You probably already know their story..." He said, his voice carrying a dark amusement. "What they did to earn a place here. I could tell you how I'm going to deal with them, but..."

His grin turned evil, almost demonic.

"I think I'll just show you...Let you all watch."

Without another word, Kafka stepped away and retrieved a large, folded tarp from the ground nearby. He unfurled it with a flourish, spreading it across the forest floor like a grotesque stage.

"Seraphina." He called, his tone casual but commanding. "Hold the father. Make sure he watches what's about to happen." He glanced at two other assassins. "You two, bring the sons over. Lay them flat on the tarp, face down."

Seraphina's face paled, but she obeyed, gripping the father's shoulders with a strength that belied her trembling hands. The two women holding the sons hesitated for a heartbeat, their eyes flicking to the tarp, but they complied, dragging the struggling men to the tarp and forcing them face-down against the plastic.

The sons muffled cries grew more desperate, their bodies writhing as the women pinned them down, their faces pressed into the cold ground, leaving only their backs exposed.

Kafka surveyed the scene, his expression unreadable.

"Bind them completely." He instructed. "Hold their legs and feet tight. Leave their backs open."

Several more assassins stepped forward, their movements jerky with fear, and took hold of the sons limbs, pinning them so tightly they could barely move.

The sons flailed, their panic reaching a fever pitch, while the father's eyes bulged, his muffled screams a constant, frantic hum.

Kafka then turned to the women holding the sons, his voice calm but laced with warning.

"You'll need to be strong for this. Once I start, they're going to flail hard. Hold them steady. And..." He paused, his eyes narrowing slightly. "...Don't be queasy. What I'm about to do isn't for weak stomachs. If you can't handle it, step away now and let someone else take your place."

The women exchanged nervous glances, their faces pale, but none moved. They were assassins, hardened by years of bloodshed, and the thought of showing weakness in front of their master was unthinkable.

They steeled themselves, their grips tightening, though their eyes betrayed the dread coiling in their chests.

Kafka's smile returned, softer this time, almost approving. "Good. I'm glad I've got such strong, dependable women on my side."

He then turned to the rest of the group, his gaze sweeping over the assembled assassins.

"As for the rest of you..." He said, his tone almost gentle. "This won't be easy to watch. You don't have to look. Turn away if you need to, there's no shame in it...I won't think less of you."

Several women felt a surge of relief at his words, their instincts screaming to look away after the horror of the barrels.

But pride, or perhaps fear of appearing weak, kept them rooted in place. They were killers, after all, and they'd seen death in all its forms.

Surely they could handle whatever Kafka had planned. They braced themselves, their eyes fixed on the tarp, determined to prove their strength.

Seeing this, Kafka nodded, a faint smirk tugging at his lips.

"Alright. I hope you don't regret that choice."

He reached down and picked up a transparent surgical mask on the ground, the kind used to shield a surgeon's face from blood splatter. He fitted it over his face with practiced ease, the plastic glinting in the moonlight.

Then, to the collective horror of the group, he reached into his pocket and pulled out a small, gleaming scalpel, its blade so sharp it seemed to catch the light in a cruel, almost beautiful way.

The father saw it first, his eyes widening in abject terror. He thrashed against Seraphina's grip, his muffled screams rising to a fevered pitch, his body jerking as if he could break free through sheer desperation.

Seraphina held him firm, her own face ashen as she braced herself for what was coming. The sons, unable to see the scalpel, sensed the shift in the air, their struggles growing more frantic as the women pinned them down.

Kafka then crouched beside the sons, the scalpel glinting in his hand as he looked down at them.

His voice was calm, but it carried a weight that made the air feel so cold and unsettling.

"My mother Abigaille always said to me that men like you, who prey on women, who use them like toys, aren't human. She called you beasts wearing human skin...Even earlier tonight she said the same."

He tilted his head, his smile widening beneath the mask.

"And I've been thinking about that. Wondering if it's true. And now..."

His eyes gleamed with a dark, almost scientific curiosity.

"...I'm going to find out."

The scalpel then moved to hover over the exposed neck of one of the sons, the blade catching the moonlight in a cold, merciless arc.

Seeing this, the father's screams grew hoarse, his body shaking uncontrollably as he realized what was about to happen.

The assassins holding the sons also tightened their grips, their breaths shallow with anticipation and dread.

Finally realising what he was going to do, Seraphina's eyes darted to Lyla, who stood frozen, her face a mask of confusion and growing horror.

"Lyla..." Seraphina hissed, her voice low and urgent. "Look away. Now. You don't need to see this."

Lyla blinked, her mind struggling to process the scene. "What...What's he going to do?" She whispered, her voice trembling.

Seraphina's expression grew even graver, her eyes wide with a fear she couldn't hide.

"Turn around." She ordered, her voice shaking. "I mean it, Lyla...I'll make you if I have to."

Lyla hesitated, her gaze flicking between Kafka's scalpel and her sister's ashen face. The seriousness in Seraphina's eyes, the raw terror beneath her words, was unlike anything she'd ever seen.

With a reluctant nod, she turned away, her heart pounding as she faced the trees, unable to shake the feeling that something unspeakable was about to unfold.

Behind her, the clearing seemed to hold its breath, the assassins bracing for a horror that would sear itself into their memories forever...

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Warning: The next chapter is extremely brutal and if you aren't comfortable with any sort of gore, I suggest you skip the chapter and move on to the next.