God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem - Chapter 584

Chapter 584: If You Weren’t My Son…
Abigaille hesitated for a moment, her breath shallow and uneven, before stepping forward toward her son.

Her wide, teary eyes shimmered as she looked up at him, her hands still clutching her chest protectively. She stopped just in front of him, her voice trembling as she spoke, soft and uncertain.

“Kafi…J-Just what exactly are you going to do to me?” She asked, her gaze flickering with fear and curiosity. “How…How are you going to make me let out milk which I don’t even know if I can?…” She bit her lip, her expression turning pitiful as she tilted her head, her voice dropping lower. “Are you…Are you going to slap my breasts around too? Like you did with Camila? Or—or abuse them like you did with Nina? I saw how rough you were, and I…”

She trailed off, swallowing hard as she looked at him with those big, pleading eyes, almost like a frightened child despite her determination.

“I—I don’t mind, you know, even though I’m a bit scared.” She added quickly, her tone wavering but resolute. “You’re my son you can do anything to me. Don’t hold back if that’s what it takes. I’ll take it, whatever it is, as long as I can lactate too—as long as I can prove I’m a mother like they are. I just…I need to know…Please.” Her words were laced with a fragile bravery, her gentle nature shining through even as she braced herself for the unknown.

Unlike Nina and Camila, with their wild, untamed edges, Abigaille was soft, delicate a tender soul stepping into this with a courageous heart, driven by a quiet desperation to uncover her own truth.

And seeing this, Kafka’s smirk faltered, as he took her in, those pitiful, glistening eyes piercing straight through him. His chest tightened, an arrow of guilt and affection striking his heart as he saw her trembling resolve.

The thought of treating his mother like he had Nina or Camila—of slapping her around, bruising her fragile frame suddenly felt unthinkable. His mother, so cute and adorable in her vulnerability, was nothing like the others. Hurting her would shatter him.

So, instead, his hand moved instinctively, reaching out to pet her head with a soft, reassuring touch, his fingers threading gently through her hair as a warm smile spread across his face.

“Hey, hey, no tears now.” He said, his voice dropping to a soothing murmur. “Of course I’m not gonna do that to you, Mom. I couldn’t bear hurting you—not like that. You’re too precious for me to rough up.”

“We’re gonna go a different way—gentle, loving, just how you deserve. No slapping, no abuse just me taking care of you, alright?”

Abigaille’s eyes widened in pleasant surprise, a soft gasp escaping her as the tension in her shoulders melted away.

“Really?” She whispered, her voice lifting with relief as she leaned into his touch, her lips trembling into a small, grateful smile. “Oh, thank you, Kafi—I was so scared, but…That sounds so much better.”

But before she could say more, Nina’s voice cut through the moment, sharp and indignant.

“Wait a damn minute!” She snapped, stepping forward with her arms crossed, her face flushed with irritation. “Why’s she getting the gentle treatment, Kafka? You absolutely abused me—humiliated me in front of everyone and now you’re all soft and sweet with her? What’s that about, huh? Why’s she special?”

Kafka turned to her, his smile shifting into a sly, knowing grin as he raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, come off it, Nina.” He said, scoffing lightly. “You and my mom? You’re different—night and day. She’s gentle, wholesome—look at her, all cute and trying her best. She deserves the love, the soft touch…You, on the other hand?” He chuckled, his tone teasing but pointed. “You just proved to everyone here you’re one hell of a pervert—took everything I threw at you and loved it.”

“…Don’t act like you didn’t enjoy every second of that ‘abuse.”

Nina’s mouth opened to retort, but the words caught in her throat as her face flared a deep red, the truth of his jab hitting home. She stammered for a second, “I-I didn’t!” before huffing and stepping back, her arms tightening across her chest as she glared at the floor.

“Whatever…” She muttered, knowing she’d lost this round, her flush betraying the fact that he wasn’t entirely wrong.

Kafka laughed softly, shaking his head before turning back to his mother, his expression softening again.

“See? She’s fine—she can handle herself. You, though?” He cupped her cheek gently, his thumb brushing away a stray tear. “You’re my sweet little mom. We’re doing this my way—nice and easy.”

“…So, you ready to find out what you’ve got in there?”

His voice was warm, encouraging, a stark contrast to the wild energy he’d shared with the others, and Abigaille nodded, her head in the most adorable way, her small fists pumping up in the air as a determined little squeak escaped her lips.

“I’ll do my best!” She declared, her voice bright and earnest, her cheeks puffing out slightly with effort.

The sight was so utterly charming—like a tiny hamster rallying itself for a big task—that even Camila and Nina couldn’t help but soften.

Camila clutched her chest dramatically, cooing. “Oh my God, she’s too cute—I can’t handle it!”, while Nina, still flushed from her earlier exchange, muttered under her breath. “Like a little puffball trying so hard…ugh, fine, she wins.”

Abigaille then turned her wide, hopeful eyes back to Kafka, tilting her head as she asked. “So…What are you going to do, sweetie? How’s this gonna work?” Her tone was soft, curious, a faint tremble of nerves threading through it.

Kafka shook his head with a gentle smile, his hand still resting lightly on her hair. “It’s not about what I’m gonna do, Mom.” He said, his voice warm and patient. “It’s about what ‘you’re’ gonna do.” Her brows furrowed in confusion, and he chuckled, leaning in a little closer as he elaborated.

“See, the other two—Camila and Nina—they got there with physical stuff, right? Slaps, squeezes, all that wild energy. But this method I heard about? It’s different. It’s all in here…” He tapped her temple lightly. “…the psychology of a mother and her love for her child. They say if you visualize it strong enough, imagine feeding your own kid with your breasts, really feel that connection, your body listens. It’ll start leaking, lactating, all on its own—naturally.”

“And since your actual son’s standing right here.” He gestured to himself with a playful grin. “I figured this is the perfect setup for you.”

Abigaille’s eyes widened, sparkling with awe as his words sank in. “Really?” She breathed, her voice trembling with wonder. “Just…Imagining it? And I’ll lactate? That’s so…beautiful.” She clasped her hands together, almost reverent, then blinked up at him again, a touch of uncertainty creeping in.

“But…How do I do that? How do I even start?”

Kafka’s grin softened into something encouraging. “It’s simple, Mom, just the same as what Camila and I were up to just now. But no father-daughter stuff here though.”

“Instead, you’re a young mom again, and I’m your little boy who still hasn’t weaned off your milk. You just lean into that—treat me like I’m your kid, hungry for you, and let that motherly instinct take over. Picture it, feel it, and let it happen.”

Abigaille’s cheeks flushed a soft pink, her hands fidgeting as she processed the idea. “Oh…Oh my.” She murmured, glancing away for a moment before looking back at him, her expression flustered. “I don’t know if I can do what Camila did she’s so good at all this roleplay stuff! I’m not…I’m not talented like that.” Her voice dipped into a self-conscious whine, and across the room, Camila raised an eyebrow, muttering to Nina.

“Talented? At roleplay?..Is that a thing now?”

Kafka laughed softly at her reaction, shaking his head as he squeezed her shoulder reassuringly. “You don’t need to be ‘talented’, Mom—you’re already perfect at this. It’s not that different from how you normally are with me—all sweet and caring.”

“…Just imagine you can lactate too, that it’s your job to give your son your milk. You’ve got that love in you already—it’s just about letting it out. I know you can do it.”

She hesitated, her lips pursing as she mulled it over, her gentle nature warring with the unfamiliarity of the task.

But then her thoughts drifted to a future where she might hold her own children, to the fear of not being able to provide for them, to nourish them.

That possibility lit a spark of courage in her chest, and with a cute little huff, she straightened up, her fists clenching again.

“Okay.” She said, her voice firmer now, though still adorably soft. “I’ll do it. I’ll try—for you, and for me.”

Kafka’s face lit up with a proud, tender smile, and he leaned down to press a quick, affectionate kiss to her cheek. “That’s my mom.” He said, his tone brimming with warmth. “So damn proud of you. Now, from here on out, I’m not gonna talk much—gonna let you take the lead. You carry this however you want, in the most motherly way you can. It’s all you now, okay?”

Abigaille froze, the sudden weight of being in charge hitting her like a ton of bricks. She’d never done this kind of roleplay before, and even when she had played along, Kafka had always been the one steering the ship.

Her eyes darted around for a moment, a flicker of panic crossing her face as she realized she was on the spot. But then she took a deep breath, her brows furrowing slightly as a plan started to form in her mind.

And after a few seconds of quiet thought, she looked back up at him, her gaze steadying into something determined, a quiet resolve settling over her delicate features. She was ready—or at least, she was going to try her damnedest to step into this motherly roleplay and make herself lactate, driven by love and a fierce little burst of willpower that only she could muster.

She then took a deep breath, her eyes fluttering shut as she steadied herself, her hands clasped tightly in front of her. The room went quiet, the air full of anticipation as she gathered her courage, letting the scenario take shape in her mind.

When she was ready, her lids lifted, revealing a soft, determined gaze that shifted almost instantly into the warm, fretting expression of a mother. She stepped forward toward her son, her movements gentle but purposeful, fully slipping into the roleplay as if a switch had flipped inside her.

“Oh, sweetie, there you are!” She exclaimed, her voice lilting with a mix of relief and exasperation as she reached out to caress his face, her fingers brushing his cheeks in a tender, motherly fuss. “Do you have any idea how late it is? I’ve been waiting up for you, pacing around, worried sick! You’ve been out playing football with your friends all day, haven’t you?”

“Look at you—covered in dirt and sweat, tracking it all over my clean floors! You shouldn’t make your poor mother worry like this—I was starting to think something happened to you!”

Her tone was scolding but soft, her hands cupping his face as she tilted it side to side, inspecting him with a dramatic little sigh.

But then, as her fingers lingered on his skin, her expression softened, a loving glow creeping into her eyes. She paused, her thumbs tracing gently along his jaw as she really looked at him, her voice dropping into a quieter, almost reverent murmur.

“Oh, but…look at you.” She said, a faint smile tugging at her lips. “Even all messy like this, you’re so handsome. My charming, good looking boy—how’d I end up with a son like you? That perfect jaw, those dark eyes, that messy hair that somehow still looks perfect…You’re just too pretty, you know that? Even covered in mud, you’ve got this…This glow about you.”

“…I’m so lucky to have such a handsome son.”

She then tilted her head, her hands still cradling his face as she rambled on, lost in her admiration.

“I mean, really—those broad shoulders from all that running around, that little smirk you get when you’re up to no good…You must have all the girls chasing after you out there.”

“And that laugh of yours—it’s been lighting up this house since you were tiny. I’m blessed, truly blessed, to have a boy like you to call mine.”

Her voice was warm, overflowing with pride and affection, every word painting a picture of a mother utterly smitten with her child.

But then, her brow furrowed slightly, a flicker of something deeper crossing her face as she paused, her hands stilling.

“Although…” She mused, her tone turning wistful, almost melancholy. “Maybe I’m not that lucky. I mean, you’re my son—so handsome, so perfect—and here I am, just your mother. I can’t…be with someone as charming as you, can I?”

“…But if you weren’t my boy, if you were someone else’s son instead…” She trailed off, her cheeks flushing a sudden, bright pink as the taboo weight of her words hit her.

Her hands dropped to her sides, and she let out a flustered little laugh, pressing them to her face. “Oh—oh goodness, what am I even saying? That’s…That’s silly, isn’t it? Forget I said that!”

Across the room, Nina and Camila exchanged wide-eyed glances, their jaws practically on the floor as they watched Abigaille’s performance unfold.

Nina leaned in close to Camila, whispering under her breath. “Holy shit, she’s good. Like, really good. She’s got this whole ‘doting mom who’s maybe a little too into her son’ thing down pat—I’m actually buying it!”

Camila nodded, her own brows raised as she murmured back. “Right? I thought I was the roleplay queen, but she’s out here fully immersing herself like it’s nothing! She’s got that sweet, pitiful vibe locked in—might even have me beat with how she’s selling this.”

Abigaille, oblivious to their commentary, stayed in her own world, her blush still lingering as she peeked up at Kafka through her lashes, her hands fidgeting nervously now.

“Anyway.” She said, quickly steering herself back on track with a shaky little laugh. “You’re home now, and that’s what matters. My handsome boy, all grown up but still mine.”

“…I-I just want to take care of you, you know? Always have.”

Her voice softened again, her eyes glinting with that motherly love she was channeling, the roleplay weaving seamlessly into her gentle nature as she prepared to take it further, her mind already drifting toward the next step of imagining him as her needy, milk-hungry child.