God of Milfs: The Gods Request Me To Make a Milf Harem-Chapter 636: Pure Admiration

The last button came undone, and Kafka eased the vest off her shoulders, setting it aside with a satisfied nod.

The relief was immediate, the corset-like pressure gone, but her white office shirt now clung to her curves, the fabric stretched taut over her massive breasts, their perfect, firm shape almost impossibly prominent, like twin mountains rising beneath the thin material.

The absence of the vest made her proportions starkly visible, her breasts standing high and proud, as if supported by some invisible force. Olivia's breath hitched, relief and sudden self—consciousness going through her as she felt exposed, the shirt doing little to hide her form.

Kafka's eyes then flicked to her chest, a flicker of something unreadable in his gaze before he spoke, his voice warm but bold.

"Looking better already, Mom. Let's loosen up that shirt next—unbutton it a bit to give you some breathing room."

But when Olivia heard this, her panic surged, her hands shooting out to grab his before he could reach for the buttons.

"No, Kafi, I-I can do that myself!" She blurted, her voice high with fluster.

Her mind was already a storm from him removing her vest, the intimacy overwhelming her senses.

So, the thought of him unbuttoning her shirt, revealing more of her cleavage, was too much.

She feared she'd lose what little control she had left, her sanity fraying at the edges and she braced herself, ready to push back, to draw a line to protect her reeling emotions.

But then Kafka's expression shifted, his confident grin melting into a pitiful, almost puppy-like look, his dark eyes wide and pleading.

"Mom, please." He said, his voice soft and earnest, like a little boy begging for a favor. "You've worked so hard out there, always pushing yourself. At home, I just wanna take care of you, make you feel like a queen."

"...Let me do this, will you, it's a small thing, but it'd mean a lot, knowing I'm helping you out. Can I? Please?"

The sight of her beloved son, so vulnerable and adorable, struck her like an arrow to the heart.

Gone was the bold, teasing man; in his place was her little boy, desperate to please her, his sincerity disarming her defenses. Her resolve crumbled, a reluctant smile tugging at her lips as she fought the urge to squeal at how unbearably cute he looked.

How could she say no to that face, to the son who was trying so hard to make her feel loved?

"O-Okay...You can do it yourself." She said softly, her voice trembling with affection and trembling nerves.

Hearing her acceptane, his face lit up with a joyful smile, his fingers moving to the first button of her shirt with renewed focus, while Olivia's heart pounded, her mind a mess of conflicting thoughts.

She watched his hands, so careful and slow, and forced herself to focus on his intentions.

'He's just helping me.' She repeated. 'Treating me like his mother, nothing more.'

The village's openness, his care for Abigaille, his promise to be the best son—it was all pure, all meant to make her feel cherished. She couldn't taint that with her shameful thoughts, couldn't let her mind wander to places it shouldn't.

To anchor herself, to act more like the mother she needed to be, she reached up, her hand gently patting his head in a loving, maternal gesture.

Her fingers threaded softly through his hair, a tender caress meant to ground them both in their roles—mother and son, nothing else.

Kafka also noticed, his eyes flicking up briefly, but he said nothing, his focus returning to the buttons, his fingers working with practiced ease.

As he unbuttoned the first, the tops of her massive breasts freed from the tight constraint. Olivia's breath hitched, the sensation of freedom mingling with a nervous thrill, but she steeled her heart, repeating her mantra: He's my son, helping me. That's all.

With each button, more of her skin was exposed, the fabric parting to unveil the first glimpse of her wide, pale cleavage, the deep line between her massive breasts poking out, stark and striking against the thin material.

The sight sent a jolt through her, a mix of excitement and illicit thrill coursing through her veins. This was the first time a man had ever undressed her, peeling away her layers to reveal her body, and the fact that it was her son her Kafi—stirred a storm of emotions she couldn't fully grasp.

With every button he unfastened, his knuckles grazed the soft, firm swell of her breasts, a fleeting contact that sent shivers racing across her skin. It was subtle, unintentional, but it was still his hands brushing against her, touching her in a way that felt both innocent and dangerously intimate.

Her mind reeled, torn between the need to see him as her son and the undeniable heat of the moment. To mask the turmoil, she continued patting his head, her fingers threading gently through his hair in a loving, maternal rhythm, a desperate anchor to keep her grounded, to remind herself that this was just Kafka helping her, nothing more.

He continued, unbuttoning lower, until the shirt parted enough to reveal the full expanse of her wide, pale cleavage, a breathtaking sight that seemed to glow under the soft light of the living room.

Her breasts, massive and perfectly firm, stood high, their curves so pronounced they looked like an ocean of milk, inviting and endless, as if one could dive into their softness and be lost forever.

The cleavage was so wide, so perfectly formed, it could have served as a table, sturdy enough to hold a cutting tray for chopping vegetables a thought both absurd and erotically vivid.

Kafka's eyes also widened, his gaze fixed on the sight, awe flickering across his face as he took it in.

Olivia noticed his stare, her cheeks flushing a deep crimson as embarrassment surged.

"Kafi..." She said, her voice a shy whisper. "You...You don't need to stare so much. It's...embarrassing."

Kafka's gaze didn't waver, his expression a full of admiration and unrestrained wonder, as if he were beholding a natural marvel.

"I didn't mean to stare, Mom." He said, his voice soft but fervent. "I mean, I knew they were big—hell, everyone can tell they're massive, but I didn't expect...this."

"...Your cleavage, it's like an icy valley, so wide and white, it's gotta feel as cool as it looks. It's...stunning."

Olivia's blush deepened, her hands twitching as she fought the urge to cover herself.

"They're...They're not that impressive." She mumbled, her voice trembling with modesty and fluster, trying to downplay the attention.

Kafka shook his head frantically, his eyes still locked on her chest, his tone almost reverent.

"Not impressive? Mom, no way. When I first saw Mom's cleavage, who probably has no idea as to what's going on, I thought I'd never see anything like it again."

"...Hers is dark, rich, like a field of fertile soil, deep and earthy. I figured that was it, the pinnacle...But this?"

He gestured to her chest, his voice filled with awe.

"Yours are just as breathtaking, like a field of ice and snow, pale and endless. Both are...absolutely stunning, in their own way. I can't even pick which is more beautiful."

Olivia's breath caught, her heart pounding as his words washed over her. If any other man had spoken like this, comparing her breasts to landscapes, describing them with such vivid, poetic detail, she'd have assumed they were lusting after her, their words dripping with predatory intent.

She'd have shut them down, her discomfort turning to anger.

But this was Kafka, her son, and the gaze in his dark eyes was different.

There was no lechery, no hunger—only pure, unadulterated admiration, as if he were standing before a snow-capped mountain range, marveling at its majesty. He looked at her not as an object of desire but as a work of art, a masterpiece he'd pay millions to preserve.

For the first time, a man's gaze on her chest didn't make her feel exposed or uncomfortable. Instead, it made her feel...valued, cherished, as if her body were something to be celebrated rather than ogled.

The realization hit her hard, her chest swelling with a strange blend of pride and gratitude. Her son saw her beauty, not as a source of lust but as a testament to her worth, and that made her feel more appreciated than she ever had.

She continued patting his head, her fingers trembling slightly as she tried to hold onto the maternal role, to keep the moment grounded.

"You...You're too much, Kafi." She said, her voice soft but tinged with a shy smile. "But...Thank you. It's...nice to hear you think that."

Yet, despite the warmth his words sparked, a peculiar unease gnawed at her. His open stare, so unabashed, felt...strange, no matter how much she tried to frame it as the village's open-mindedness.

Her hand paused on his head, her voice hesitant as she asked,

"Kafi...Isn't this a bit...weird? You staring at your own mother's breasts like this? I mean, no matter how open you're supposed to be, doesn't it feel...strange to you?"

Her eyes searched his, her heart racing as she wondered what he'd say, what he truly thought of this moment that felt so far from a typical mother-son interaction.

And in response, Kafka looked up, his eyes meeting hers with a calm, unwavering sincerity.

"Weird? Not at all, Mom." He said, his voice steady and earnest. "Why I said that is because I'm an admirer of beauty, plain and simple."

"Doesn't matter what I'm looking at a tree covered in blossoms, a vintage bike that's just too cool, or even a random pebble with a weird shape that makes it stand out."

"...If it's beautiful, I appreciate it, no matter what form it takes."

He paused, his gaze softening, a reverence in his tone that made her breath catch.

"And right now, I'm not looking at you as my mom, or a woman, or family, or...anything like that. You're just...an object of pure, unadulterated beauty. A sculpture of femininity, so gorgeous it takes my breath away...That's all."

Olivia's heart stuttered, her body trembling as his words washed over her, overwhelming in their intensity.

It was as if he'd crowned her a goddess, the most beautiful thing in existence, his sincerity so raw it felt like a physical force.

Her years in business had honed her ability to read people, to spot lies in a glance, and as she looked into Kafka's eyes, she saw no exaggeration, no deceit—only truth.

He meant every word, his admiration as pure as if he were gazing at a pristine landscape, not a hint of lust or improper intent tainting his gaze.

The realization made her blood race, her pulse thundering through her veins, her body alight with a joy she'd never felt before.

No one had ever complimented her like this, with such heartfelt reverence, and the urge to hug him, to pull him close and thank him, surged so strongly she nearly acted on it.

But she held back, her arms tightening around his neck instead, her cleavage starkly exposed and dangerously close to his face. If she hugged him now, her breasts would press against him, smothering him in a way that felt far too intimate, even for the village's customs.

The thought alone made her blush deepen, her mind scrambling to stay grounded.

'He's just admiring me' She told herself, seeing beauty, nothing more and she believed it.

She truly believed that Kafka's thoughts were pure, devoid of the lustful intent she'd seen in other men.

She believed that even if he saw her bare breasts, or her entire body naked, she was certain his gaze would remain the same: awe-filled, reverent, seeing only an icon of beauty, not a woman to desire.

The realization erased her lingering doubts about his intentions, cementing her trust in his purity.

Yet, that trust only heightened her own turmoil.

While Kafka might see her as a sculpture, a work of art, she wasn't as composed.

His gaze on her cleavage, his knuckles grazing her breasts as he unbuttoned her shirt, the warmth of his hand stroking her thigh—it was all too much, stirring a thrill in her that felt dangerously close to something forbidden.

She wasn't like him, able to detach and admire without feeling the heat of intimacy.

The thought of him seeing her naked, even with his pure intentions, sent a shiver through her—not because she doubted him, but because she doubted herself.

Her body's reactions, the excitement coursing through her, were her own failing, not his. She was the one out of place, her thoughts straying where they shouldn't, while her son remained the picture of innocence.

'Why am I feeling like this?' She wondered, her heart pounding as she looked down at him, his eyes still tracing the snowy valley of her cleavage with that same reverent awe.

He was her son, her Kafi, and yet her body responded as if he were...something else.

She tightened her grip on his hair, patting his head more firmly desperate to cling to her maternal role, to push away the thoughts that threatened to unravel her.

'It's the village.' She told herself. 'This openness, it's messing with my head.'

She had to be stronger, to keep her heart in check, to ensure she saw him only as her son, no matter how his touch or words made her feel...