Striker of The Gods

When he arrived there, he got hugged by Keyla, wondering why she would do such a thing. As he stepped back, still taken aback by the unexpected warmth of her embrace, he searched her eyes for an explanation. ”Is everything okay?” he asked, sensing an unusual urgency in her demeanor.

 “What is going on in your mind, my overly sweet marshmallow? You got me worrying about you despite knowing that you would take a run to El Bernabeu. Come on, you need to stop scaring us that way,” says Keyla, wearing her green tulips maid outfit, covering her DD-cup breasts. Her stride was seductive, unconsciously so, and her physicality was sharper—long legs, toned arms, and a chest that made more than one guest forget their reason for visiting. Her playful tone masked the underlying concern she felt for him, and as she approached, the tension between them grew palpable. He couldn’t help but admire her confidence, even as he grappled with his own thoughts swirling around in a mix of admiration and anxiety.

“Keyla is right. There should be something going on with him we are not aware of. If we get to know about it, we will give you a little punishment,” says Michaela, winking at Caos, who moved with the grace of a ballet forged in marble. Her body had the symmetry of a Renaissance sculpture—waist slender, hips poised, her posture always immaculate. Her figure carried a timeless allure, and though she often wore the traditional blue-rose maid dress, it did little to conceal the generous curves she bore with quiet confidence. Her bust—full, commanding, and perfectly framed by the lace neckline—was the kind of beauty whispered about by the younger players, though no one dared speak it aloud near Caos. Bust 110 cm (G or F cup, ~85D), waist 54 cm, hips 89 cm.

“It is time you appeared, Caos. You should have told me about your run to El Bernabeu,” says Vesta.

Caos shifted uncomfortably under the weight of her gaze, feeling the heat rise in her cheeks. ”I didn’t think it was worth mentioning,” she replied, her voice barely above a whisper, as she tried to divert attention from the unspoken tension in the room.

“My apologies, my little shwa…” As Caos tries to finish his sentence, Vesta looks back and walks back to the manor before saying

“We have to talk, Caos.” Says Vesta, in her fiery pajamas that were as hot as her curvy, furious figure. Caos knew he was in hot water as he walked back in the house.

“Oh, my dear. His little girlfriend got mad at him, so Christ help him,” says Michaela, feeling a mixture of amusement and concern. She watched as Caos entered the house, his expression a blend of apprehension and determination.

 ”This should be interesting,” she muttered to herself, anticipating the dramatic conversation that was about to unfold.

“It should be fine. My little cannonball is a bit fussy about these things, though he is still so young that it makes him clueless about women,” says Keyla, playing with her lips.

To be continued…