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

Chapter 264: Burrowing Down A Throat

[Note: I tried using the new chatgpt version I got to increase the vocabulary on this chapter and I can assure you that it's simply a one time thing and won't happen again, since I simply wanted to test it out]

"MMM!~ NNNN! ~ MGHHH!~"

The man's muffled cries echoed through the serene garden like the agonised whispers of a soul in torment. The quaint little house stood as a stark contrast to the macabre scene unfolding outside, where his futile screams, gagged by the ruthless hands of Kafka, sounded more like the groans of a damned spirit than a desperate plea for help.

The man had been cocooned in the lap of luxury all his life, shielded from the trials and tribulations that common folk endured. But now, as the centipedes' countless legs scraped against his teeth and their segmented, armoured bodies slithered across his tongue, he was thrust into a nightmare of his own making.

His eyes, once devoid of any understanding of pain, now bulged in their sockets, blood vessels bursting in a crimson spiderweb across the whites.

His body convulsed, each involuntary spasm a reaction to the horrors within his mouth. It felt as though his tongue was being lacerated by barbed wires, each movement of the centipedes sending shocks of excruciating pain radiating through his skull.

The vile creatures explored every crevice, their tiny, armoured bodies attempting to burrow into his gums, as if seeking escape from their fleshy prison.

Just as he thought he could bear no more, the centipedes retaliated. Their sharp, black pincers began to pierce and tear at the tender flesh inside his mouth.

Each bite was a fresh agony, their venom injecting waves of searing fire into his soft tissue. The poison burned like acid, and the pain was so intense that it felt as if his very soul was being scorched. His tongue, gums, inner cheeks—every surface was a canvas for the centipedes' relentless fury.

Kafka watched with a cold, detached fascination as the man clawed at the ground, his nails tearing and breaking off, leaving streaks of blood on the verdant grass. The garden, once a symbol of peace and beauty, was now a witness to his brutal torment. Blood splattered like obscene petals among the greenery, a macabre testament to the man's suffering.

The venom continued its merciless assault, setting every nerve ablaze. The man's body convulsed violently, and his attempts to scream were reduced to pitiful gurgles as he choked on his own blood and venom.

The man's mind began to fracture under the unrelenting torment, each second stretching into an eternity of pain. His eyes rolled back, the whites now streaked with red, his consciousness flickering like a dying flame. The garden, once a haven, now bore witness to the grotesque and the horrific scene Kafka orchestrated with the precision of a dark symphony conductor.

And just as the man teetered on the brink of blessed unconsciousness, hoping for an end to the excruciating pain that seared through his mouth, a new horror began. The centipedes, having exhausted their vile exploration of his mouth, turned towards the only remaining path: his throat.

The man's eyes widened in renewed terror as he felt the writhing creatures change direction, their countless legs now scrabbling for purchase on the slippery surfaces inside his mouth.

In a grotesque ballet of desperation, the centipedes began their descent, their segmented bodies slithering over his tongue and down his gullet. Each movement was a fresh assault on his senses, their jagged legs raking against the tender lining of his throat, tearing at his flesh as they wriggled deeper.

The sensation was beyond unbearable; it was as if shards of glass were being driven into his oesophagus with every inch they descended.

His body reacted instinctively to a violent urge to retch, to expel the invaders. He gagged and convulsed, his stomach heaving in a futile attempt to vomit the centipedes out. But Kafka's iron grip clamped down harder, forcing his jaw shut and muffling any sound that might escape. The man's silent screams grew louder in his mind, each one a voiceless plea that went unheeded.

Kafka's face remained impassive, almost serene, as he watched the man's suffering with an unnerving calmness. The man's eyes, now bloodshot and wild, begged for mercy, for release, for anything but the agony that was consuming him. He would have offered his entire fortune—every ounce of his privilege and wealth—to be spared from the infernal torment.

But Kafka's gaze held no pity, only a cold, detached interest as he observed the convulsions and contortions of the man's throat.

The venom from the centipedes coursed through his throat, each droplet a new lance of fiery pain. It felt as if molten metal was being poured down his oesophagus, searing his insides with a relentless, burning agony. His throat swelled and tightened around the intruders, the muscles spasming uncontrollably in an attempt to expel the venomous scourge.

The centipedes, driven by their own instinct for survival, continued their horrifying journey downward, burrowing deeper into the man's body. Each movement was a fresh torture, their armoured bodies scraping and puncturing the delicate tissues of his throat. He could feel them wriggling and twisting; with each inch, they travelled an eternity of suffering.

The man's world shrank to a singular, overwhelming focus on the agony within. His consciousness flickered on the edge of darkness, but cruelly, his body refused to surrender to the oblivion he so desperately sought. The fiery venom continued its merciless assault, and the centipedes' relentless progress became a macabre dance of death within him.

Kafka's expressionless face reflected none of the horror of the scene. To him, the man's agony was a mere curiosity, a spectacle to be observed and pondered. He watched with morbid fascination as the bulges in the man's throat moved lower, tracking the path of the centipedes as they ventured deeper into the darkness of his body.

Shhh~

As the man writhed in agonising torment, Kafka's cold demeanour was disrupted by the faint rustle of curtains behind him. His expression shifted ever so slightly, a flicker of curiosity breaking through the mask of indifference. He turned his head towards the window by the main door, where a pair of wide, terrified eyes stared back at him from beneath the curtains.

It was Bella, her face pale and frozen in horror as she witnessed the sadistic scene unfolding in the garden.

Caught off guard, Kafka's lips curled into a sinister smile, as if he had just discovered a hidden playmate in a twisted game of hide and seek. Bella's heart pounded in her chest, her breath hitching as she realised Kafka had noticed her. The cruel amusement in his eyes sent a chill down her spine.

Her immediate impulse was to yank the curtains shut and retreat into the house, praying that she wouldn't be the next victim of Kafka's monstrous whims.

Before she could fully hide, Bella saw Kafka raise a finger to his lips, a silent command for her to keep quiet. His smile deepened, and a knowing gleam in his eyes promised proper punishment if she disobeyed.

Trembling, Bella nodded frantically, her terror palpable. She pulled the curtains closed and bolted to find her mother, seeking the comforting embrace of safety, her mind racing with fear of what she had just seen.

Satisfied that Bella was subdued, Kafka shifted his focus back to the man sprawled on the ground before him. The man's agony was palpable, and the centipedes were now venturing further into the depths of his body. Kafka's grip had kept him pinned, but a decision stirred within him.

He had intended to end the man's life right here, relishing in the slow, excruciating death that his cruel plan had set into motion. Cleaning up the aftermath would have been trivial; Kafka had dealt with the consequences of his deeds many times before.

However, the sight of Bella's horrified face lingered in his mind. The prospect of taking a life in front of her, even inadvertently, seemed to weigh on him. It wasn't remorse or guilt that stayed his hand, but a calculated desire to avoid staining her innocence with the unnecessary bloodshed.

Perhaps, in some twisted way, he sought to protect her from the nightmares that witnessing a murder would surely bring.

With a cold, deliberate motion, Kafka released his grip on the man's mouth. The sudden freedom jolted the man's senses. The overwhelming pain was eclipsed by a desperate, primal urge to survive.

Gasping for breath, he staggered to his feet, adrenaline surging through his veins and overpowering the venomous fire that raged in his throat. The two centipedes, still burrowing deeper, drove him into a frenzy of panic.

Ignoring the searing pain and the slick, nauseating sensation of the creatures crawling down his oesophagus, he broke into a desperate run. His body trembled and his vision blurred, but the need to escape overrode every other instinct. He fled from Kafka like a man pursued by death itself, his legs propelling him towards the only sanctuary he could think of.

Reaching his car, he fumbled with the keys, his shaking hands slick with sweat and blood. He managed to wrench the door open and collapse into the driver's seat. With a frantic turn of the key, the engine roared to life, and he sped away, tyres screeching against the pavement.

The house and the horrors it contained receded into the distance as he drove, with reckless abandon, towards the nearest hospital.

Every second felt like a race against time. The venom coursed through his veins, and the centipedes' relentless progress turned his throat into a living inferno. He didn't dare look back, fearing that any glance over his shoulder might reveal Kafka's malevolent form, ready to drag him back into the abyss.

His only hope was to reach help before the venom claimed his life...