Not girls my age, not the tight-bodied college chicks with their perky tits and smooth skin. No. I craved women who had lived—women whose bodies told stories. Full, heavy breasts that swayed when they walked, nipples dark and thick from years of life. Wide hips that promised they could take everything I had to give. Thick asses that jiggled softly under dresses or jeans, begging to be gripped, spread, claimed. And between their thighs—god, that dripping, pink, mature pussy. Swollen lips framed by soft curls or shaved smooth, slick with need that had been ignored for too long. The kind of cunt that clenched like a vice when you finally buried yourself inside, milking you with years of pent-up hunger.
I worshipped them.
Every day on my way home from my dead-end office job, I'd scan the streets. The curvy divorced mom pushing a stroller, her tits straining against a thin blouse, sweat beading in her cleavage on hot days. The thick-thighed receptionist at the coffee shop, bending over to grab pastries, her ass rounding out perfectly in those yoga pants. I'd imagine pinning her against the counter after closing, hiking up her skirt, feeling her wet heat soak my fingers as she whimpered my name—some name I didn't even know yet.
At night, alone in my cramped apartment, I'd lose myself in MILF porn. Not the fake stuff. The real amateur videos—wives in their 30s and 40s, moaning as younger cocks stretched them open. I'd stroke myself slowly, edging for hours, picturing their faces. The way their eyes rolled back when they came, bodies shaking, pussies squirting in messy arcs. I wanted to be the one making them feel that again. Filling them up, breeding them deep, watching their bellies swell if they let me. I didn't care about consequences. I just wanted to worship every inch of those mature, needy bodies until they were ruined for anyone else.
That obsession was all I had. No girlfriend—too fixated on the unattainable. No real connections. Just endless fantasies of burying my face between thick thighs, tasting that tangy, experienced nectar, hearing them beg for more as I pounded them senseless.
It was a rainy evening in late autumn when it ended.
I was walking home, headphones in, mind replaying a particularly hot video I'd watched at lunch: a busty 42-year-old widow riding reverse cowgirl, her massive ass clapping against some lucky bastard's thighs, pussy lips gripping his shaft visibly as cream dripped down. My cock was half-hard in my pants just thinking about it. The crosswalk light turned green. I stepped out.
I never heard the truck.
They call it Truck-kun in those isekai stories I binged sometimes— the ironic killer that sends losers to fantasy worlds. Mine was a delivery truck, hydroplaning on wet leaves, horn blaring too late. Impact was instant. Pain exploded through my body—ribs cracking, skull slamming asphalt. Then nothing.
Blackness.
Cold.
And then... warmth.
I opened my eyes—or whatever passed for eyes in this void—to a space that wasn't space. Swirling pinks and reds, like being inside a heartbeat. The air hummed with something primal, thick and sweet, like the scent of aroused woman amplified a thousand times. Musk and honey and salt. My skin prickled. My cock—somehow whole again—twitched involuntarily.
Before me floated a woman.
No. A goddess.
She was everything I'd ever craved, magnified into divine perfection.
Tall, curvaceous beyond reason. Skin like warm cream, glowing faintly. Hair cascading in crimson waves down to her hips. Her face was mature, timeless—high cheekbones, full lips painted deep rose, eyes smoldering with ancient knowing. Late 30s? Early 40s? Impossible to pin, but undeniably a MILF archetype made flesh. Her body... fuck.
Breasts like ripe melons, heavy and full, barely contained by a translucent veil of silk that clung to every curve. Dark areolas visible through the fabric, nipples thick and erect, poking insistently. Her waist nipped in before flaring to hips that could birth nations. And her ass—gods, that ass. Two perfect globes, thick and plush, shifting as she hovered closer. Between her thighs, the veil draped teasingly over a mound that looked swollen, inviting. I could swear I caught a glimpse of pink, glistening.
She smiled, and my knees would have buckled if I'd had knees.
"Mortal," she purred, voice like velvet dragged over bare skin. Honeyed, throaty, the kind of voice that made cocks leak pre-cum instantly. "I am Lyssara, Goddess of Love and Lust. You've arrived at my threshold."
I stared, mouth dry. Up close, her scent was overwhelming—heady arousal, like a pussy freshly fucked and still dripping. My phantom cock throbbed painfully hard.
"I... died?" I managed.
A soft laugh, breasts jiggling enticingly. "Yes, sweet boy. Crushed beneath iron wheels. But death is not always the end. Sometimes, it's an invitation."
She drifted closer, a hand trailing through the air. Where her fingers passed, sparks of pink energy danced. I felt it on my skin—warm, tingling, like teasing fingertips ghosting over my shaft.
"I've watched you," she continued, eyes gleaming. "Your desires are... pure. Intense. You don't chase fleeting youth. You worship maturity. Experience. The ripe, aching beauty of women who've been neglected too long. Big, heavy breasts begging to be sucked. Thick asses made for gripping. Dripping, pink cunts starved for worship."
My breath hitched. She was describing my fantasies perfectly.
"You want to bury yourself in them," she whispered, leaning in until her breath—hot and sweet—brushed my ear. "Taste their nectar. Feel them clench around you as they cum harder than they have in years. Fill them until they overflow. Breed them if they beg. Leave them glowing, satisfied, forever marked by your devotion."
"Yes," I rasped, voice thick. "God, yes. That's all I've ever wanted."
Her smile widened, predatory and affectionate. "Then you are exactly what this world needs."
She waved a hand, and visions bloomed around us— a medieval realm of stone castles, dense forests, warring kingdoms. Villages huddled against monster threats. Armies clashing on blood-soaked fields. But woven through it all: women. Mature, beautiful women. Widows mourning fallen husbands. Neglected wives of cruel lords. Battle-hardened female warriors with scarred, curvaceous bodies. Innkeepers with flour-dusted cleavage. Hedge witches brewing potions in secluded huts, bodies lush and lonely.
All of them aching.
All of them untouched for far too long.
"This world is drowning in hate," Lyssara said softly. "War. Feuds. Betrayal. Cold nights with no warmth. I am weakened by it. Love withers. Lust starves."
Her hand cupped my cheek, thumb brushing my lip. Electricity shot straight to my groin.
"I need an apostle. Someone to spread what I embody. To remind them of pleasure. Of connection. Of raw, carnal release."
My heart pounded. "Me?"
"You." Her eyes bored into mine. "I will send you there. Reborn. Stronger. With a gift."
"What gift?"
She pulled back slightly, expression turning serious amid the sensuality. "Power drawn from one of the Ancient Sins. Lust itself."
The air thickened, charged. A crimson glyph flickered into existence between us—seven interlocking rings, pulsing like a heartbeat.
"But not yours to own," she warned. "You borrow it from me. A fragment of the true Sin. Use it sparingly at first. Tease desires awake. Heighten sensations. Make a woman's body burn for you with a glance, a touch, a whisper."
I imagined it: a lonely MILF villager, her pussy growing slick just from my proximity. Nipples hardening under rough homespun. Thighs rubbing together as unspoken need built.
"With practice," Lyssara continued, "you'll wield it deeper. Stoke multiple flames. Drive them to madness with pleasure. Fuck for hours without tiring. Make them squirt, scream, beg for your seed."
My cock ached at the thought.
"But beware." Her voice dropped, grave. "Draw too deeply, too often, without mastery—and the Sin will consume you. You'll become its vessel. A mindless demon of endless rutting, draining life with every thrust until nothing remains but ash and ecstasy."
A chill ran through me, mixing with the heat.
"You must grow into it," she said. "Understand Lust not just as taking, but as giving. As worship. Only then can you wield it safely."
I nodded, throat tight. The risk only made it hotter. Walking that edge while buried balls-deep in some thick-assed widow, feeling her milk me as the power surged...
"I accept," I said firmly. "Send me. Let me spread it."
Lyssara's smile returned, radiant. She leaned in, lips brushing mine—soft, full, tasting of sin itself. Her tongue flicked teasingly, and I groaned as phantom hands seemed to stroke my length.
"Good boy," she murmured against my mouth. "Your mission: travel this broken world. Find the mature beauties starving for touch. Seduce them. Worship them. Fuck them until they remember joy. Five times, six—until they're utterly spent. Then move on, carrying my blessing to the next."
No harem. No ties. Just endless conquest. Endless MILFs.
Perfect.
"One restriction," she added, pulling back. "To keep balance, the power is limited. Overuse brings corruption faster. And the world itself will drive you onward—conflicts, quests, dangers. You'll never linger long."
I grinned. "I wouldn't want to."
Energy surged then—crimson light enveloping me. Lyssara's form began to fade, but not before she pressed her body against mine one last time. Breasts crushing to my chest, hips grinding slowly, letting me feel the wet heat between her thighs through the veil.
"Begin in a remote village," she whispered. "Miller's Ford. A place rotten with hate. Start there. Spread my love."
The light swallowed everything.
Pain.
Cold mud against my back.
Rain pattering on my face.
I gasped awake, body whole—better than before. Muscular, vital. Cock thick and heavy in rough wool trousers. I sat up slowly, taking in the surroundings.
A muddy riverbank. Thatched roofs in the distance. The slow creak of a watermill wheel turning nearby.
Miller's Ford.
And somewhere in that cluster of hate-soaked homes... the first MILF awaited.
My blood sang with borrowed power. A faint crimson tingle in my veins.
Time to begin.