God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem-Chapter 613: The Church Of The Lesser Demons

In a dimly lit hotel room, the air thick with the scent of cheap cologne and anticipation, a middle-aged man sprawled across a king-sized bed, his bulk sinking into the mattress. His bathrobe, a shade of burgundy, gaped open to reveal a hairy chest and a protruding belly, glistening faintly with sweat.

A glass of red wine dangled lazily in his hand, the liquid sloshing as he chuckled to himself, his eyes gleaming with a perverse delight. His face, flushed and jovial, wore the smug satisfaction of a man who believed he was on the cusp of getting exactly what he wanted.

On the television mounted to the wall, a fashion show flickered, models strutting down a runway in glittering dresses, their bodies slender and angular.

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The man snorted, taking a sloppy sip of his wine, his lips smacking as he shook his head.

"These girls." He muttered, his voice thick with disdain. "They're nothing. Skinny little twigs, all of 'em. Can't hold a candle to my Olivia." He chuckled, a low, guttural sound that seemed to rumble from deep within his chest. "That woman...God, that body. Thick in all the right places, curves that could make a man lose his damn mind."

"...And those big, fat breasts of hers? One in a million. Absolute perfection."

His tongue darted out, wetting his lips as his eyes glazed over, lost in the fantasy.

"I'm gonna have so much fun with those tonight. Gonna play with them, squeeze 'em, make her beg for me...She's mine, all mine!"

This was the man who had threatened Olivia, who had dangled his power over her like a guillotine, his demands laced with menace.

Ever since he'd laid eyes on her—those lush curves, that defiant spark in her eyes, he'd been consumed by a singular obsession: to tame her, to bend her to his will, to make her his in every way. He'd spent months orchestrating this moment, pulling strings. making threats, ensuring she had no choice but to come to him.

And now, here he was, in this tacky hotel room with its gaudy gold wallpaper and mirrored ceiling, waiting for her to walk through that door. He was certain she wouldn't back down.

No woman ever had.

They all crumbled eventually, just like the others from his past under his thumb. Olivia would be no different. The thought made his chest swell with a sick kind of joy.

He leaned back against the headboard, the bed creaking under his weight, and let his mind wander to the depraved things he planned to do with her.

"Gonna start slow." He mused aloud, his voice dripping with relish. "Tease her a bit, make her squirm. Maybe tie her up, yeah...let her know who's in charge. Then I'll take my time with that body, every inch of it. Gonna make her scream my name."

He laughed, a wet, ugly sound, and took another gulp of wine, some of it dribbling down his chin. His thoughts drifted, growing darker, more twisted.

"Wonder if she'll bring that Abigaille along. Now that would be a treat. Two of them, all for me. Those curves, those mouths...oh, I'd have a field day. And that kid, what's his name—Kafka? Hah!"

"...Imagine the look on his face, watching his two mommies get banged right in front of him. Bet it'd break him. Bet it'd make him cry."

The thought sent a shiver of perverse excitement through him, and he felt a stirring beneath his robe, his arousal evident as he shifted on the bed.

"Goddamn, tonight's gonna be good."

He cackled, his laughter echoing in the empty room.

He was so lost in his vile fantasies, so consumed by the image of Olivia and Abigaille at his mercy, that he barely registered the sharp knock at the door.

And the moment he did, his head snapped up, his heart leaping with glee.

"She's here..." He whispered, his voice trembling with eagerness. He then scrambled off the bed, nearly spilling his wine in his haste, and waddled toward the door, his robe flapping open.

"Olivia, baby, you didn't keep me waiting long."

He called out, his tone smug, certain that she had no choice but to submit to him.

"Knew you'd come crawling to me. They always do."

He flung the door open, his grin wide and lecherous, but the sight that greeted him made his jaw slacken.

It wasn't Olivia standing there. Instead, a woman he didn't recognize filled the doorway—a mature beauty with a commanding presence.

Her dark hair was swept back, framing a face that was both elegant and dangerous, her eyes sharp and unyielding. She wore a fitted black dress that hugged her curves, accentuating a body that, while not as voluptuous as Olivia's, was undeniably stunning.

Her waist was tiny, her hips flared, and her breasts, though not as large as Olivia's, were full and inviting.

But it was her ass, round and firm, that drew his gaze, and he felt a fresh wave of lust surge through him.

"Well, hello there." He purred, his voice oozing with sleaze as he leaned against the doorframe, already imagining dragging her inside. "Did Olivia send you as a little appetizer? Or are you here to join the party?"

He didn't care who she was or why she was there. His mind was already racing with thoughts of pulling her into the room, of tearing that dress off and ravaging her until he was satisfied.

Consequences be damned—he'd deal with them later.

"Come on in, sweetheart." He said, stepping aside and gesturing toward the bed. "Let's have a little chat, get to know each other better. I promise I don't bite...unless you want me to."

But before he could say another word, the woman moved with a speed that caught him off guard.

Her hand darted out, and he felt a sharp prick at his neck. His eyes widened as he saw the syringe, its plunger already depressed, a clear liquid disappearing into his bloodstream.

"What the—"

He gasped, his hand flying to his neck, but the words died in his throat. A wave of dizziness crashed over him, his vision blurring at the edges.

His legs buckled, his massive frame swaying as he tried to grab the doorframe for support, but his fingers slipped, numb and useless.

"You...bitch..."

He slurred, his voice fading as the room spun violently and then collapsed to the floor with a heavy thud, his robe splaying open, his wine glass shattering beside him.

The last thing he saw, as his consciousness slipped away, was the woman standing over him, her expression cold and merciless, like a hunter sizing up a slaughtered pig, and in that moment, he realized with a flicker of terror that he had underestimated everything.

•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•°•

In the suffocating darkness of a car trunk, the man stirred, his consciousness clawing its way back from the haze of the sedative.

His eyes fluttered open, meeting nothing but pitch black, and the memory of his last moments flooded back with brutal clarity—the woman at the hotel door, her cold stare, the sharp sting of the syringe in his neck.

Panic surged through him like wildfire, his heart hammering against his ribcage as he thrashed against his restraints.

Thick ropes bit into his wrists and ankles, the coarse fibers chafing his skin, and a foul-tasting gag muffled his attempts to scream. His body jolted with every bump and rattle of the car, the jagged pathway tossing him against the trunk's hard interior.

He didn't know where he was or who had done this, but the uncertainty gnawed at him. He had enemies, sure—plenty of them...but kidnapping?

This was beyond anything he'd imagined.

His muffled cries echoed uselessly in the confined space, swallowed by the hum of the engine and the crunch of gravel under the tires.

All he could do was wait, helpless, for whatever fate awaited him.

In the front of the car, Seraphina gripped the steering wheel with steady hands, her expression serene as she navigated the steep, winding mountain path.

The road was little more than a forgotten trail, overgrown and uneven, the kind of place no one would think to look. Her dark eyes flicked to the rearview mirror, unperturbed by the faint thumping coming from the trunk.

Beside her, in the passenger seat, sat Lyla, her younger sister, whose short pink hair with blonde streaks caught the moonlight filtering through the windshield.

Lyla's light pink eyes sparkled with curiosity as she twisted in her seat, craning her neck to glance at the trunk.

"Sounds like our guest is awake." She said, her voice light, almost playful. "He's making an awful racket back there. Want me to hop back and give him a good whack? Quiet him down again?"

"No need, Lyla." She replied calmly, her voice smooth as silk. "The path's rough enough to jostle anyone awake. Besides, we're almost there. It won't be long before we deliver the package to the Master."

Her tone was matter-of-fact, as if kidnapping a man and hauling him up a desolate mountain was just another Tuesday.

At the mention of the Master, Lyla's face lit up like a child hearing about their favorite hero. She leaned forward, practically bouncing in her seat, her slender frame vibrating with excitement.

"Oh, Sera, I can't wait to meet him!" She gushed, her words tumbling out in a rush. "I've been dreaming about this moment forever."

"You're so lucky, you know? You've already seen him, worked with him, witnessed all his glorious deeds! I've been stuck babysitting his mother, Olivia—don't get me wrong, she's impeccable woman in her own right, but I've never even seen Master in person."

"...I mean, can you imagine? The man who changed everything, who saved us all, just...standing there, being all powerful and amazing? I bet he's even more incredible up close!"

The way Lyla spoke of the Master—Kafka, was laced with a reverence that bordered on worship.

To her, he wasn't just a man; he was a savior, an idol, a beacon of hope who had shattered the chains of their past.

And the truth wasn't far off.

Kafka was their savior, in every sense of the word, a figure who had upended their lives and given them something they'd never dared to dream of: freedom.

The organization they belonged to, 'The Church of the Lesser Demons', was a relic of a darker age, born in the shadows of a world ruled by kings and queens.

On the surface, it masqueraded as a benevolent church, a sanctuary for orphans, its public face radiating goodwill and charity. But behind closed doors, it was a merciless machine, a guild of killers that executed the bidding of nobles, warlords, and anyone with enough coin to pay for blood.

From ancient times to the present day, they had been the best in the world, their reputation forged in countless silent kills.

The assassins themselves were orphans, plucked from the streets and molded into weapons through brutal, unrelenting training.

From childhood, they were taught to kill, to move like ghosts, to bury any trace of humanity beneath layers of discipline and fear. Those who resisted were disposed of without hesitation, their bodies vanishing into the same shadows the guild thrived in.

This cycle had persisted for centuries, unbroken, as the guild adapted to the modern era, trading royal courts for corporate boardrooms and noble estates for underworld empires.

They worked as mercenaries now, their services available to the highest bidder, but the wealth never trickled down to the assassins.

Every cent was siphoned off by the higher-ups, a council of ruthless overseers who ruled the guild with an iron fist. The assassins, despite their deadly skills, were little more than slaves, their lives dictated by fear and coercion.

The guild's most insidious tactic was its use of sibling pairs. They deliberately took in sister pairs, knowing the bond between them could be weaponized.

Failure on a mission didn't just mean death for the assassin—it meant death for their sibling, too. This ensured absolute loyalty, as no one dared risk the life of the person they loved most.

Seraphina and Lyla were one such pair, drawn into the guild's clutches years ago as frightened children.

Seraphina, with her cunning and relentless drive, had clawed her way to the top, becoming the guild's most lethal operative and its leader among the assassins.

Lyla, though less experienced, was no less skilled, her agility and precision honed to a razor's edge.

But both sisters hated the life they'd been forced into.

Every kill, every mission, left a stain on their souls, and they dreamed of a life beyond the bloodshed—a life that seemed impossible under the guild's suffocating control.

That is, until Kafka appeared.

He came like a storm, swift and unstoppable, tearing through the guild's corrupt leadership in a single, bloody day. The higher-ups, those untouchable tyrants who had ruled for generations, were slaughtered without mercy, their heads presented as proof of his dominance.

And when Kafka declared the guild under new management, the assassins braced for another master, another leash.

But Kafka was different.

He was kind...Carefree.

He didn't demand blind obedience or force them to kill for profit. His only command was to protect his family, those he held dear.

Beyond that, he gave them something they'd never had...choice.

He told them to live, to chase their dreams, to step out of the shadows and into the light.

Want to study? Go to school. Want to bake? Open a shop. Want to leave the life entirely? Walk away.

As long as his family was safe, he didn't care what they did.

To the assassins, this was nothing short of a miracle. Kafka hadn't just freed them from their chains—he'd given them a future.

And for Lyla, who had spent her life in the guild's grip, Kafka was a hero, a godlike figure who had rewritten her destiny.

It was why she was so giddy now, her heart racing at the thought of meeting him, of standing in the presence of the man who had changed everything.