GILFs Are The Best F*cking Thing Ever

June 18, 2019. Vancouver, Canada.

The heat in the room was stifling, a stale aroma of sweat and cheap perfume permeated the air. Mrs. Cooper's round, pale ass bumped noisily against my pelvis, her buttocks quivering with each thrust as my cock plunged into her wet, slippery vagina. It was obvious that this pussy had been used by thousands of men throughout her life; the flesh yielded with ease, as if she knew the way by heart. I caressed her smooth ass, the wrinkles of her skin sliding under my fingers, and let out a guttural moan, "Ah, fuck! So this is what it feels like to fuck a 76-year-old woman. It's spectacular."

You didn't read that wrong, readers. Yes, I was fucking a 76-year-old, married GILF in her own home. On the nightstand, her husband's picture lay face down, a silver frame that seemed to moving silently as I enjoyed his wife. The bed creaked under our weight, the old mattress groaning with every movement, and the headboard banged against the wall with an insistent rhythm. Mrs. Cooper, her gray hair in disarray and her limp but still voluptuous body, moaned softly, her hands clutching at the yellowed sheets.

You may be wondering who is this creepy, perverted young man who is fucking a woman who could be his grandmother. Well, first of all, the author writing my story is probably more twisted than I am, but let's put that aside. Let me introduce myself: my name is Luke Jonherson, a 26-year-old Canadian with scruffy brown hair and sunken eyes that reflect a lifetime of repressed desires.

Ever since I was mature enough to understand my sexuality, I knew something about me was different. I have a fetish for GILFs, sexy grandmothers, a desire that was born as a child. The first naked woman I saw was my grandmother, an image that was etched in my mind like a tattoo: her big, wrinkled tits hanging like ripe fruit, her pubic hair gray and thick like a wild forest. From that day on, young women left me indifferent, my body unable to respond to their firm curves and smooth skin. My cock was only aroused by ripe flesh, wrinkles and experience.

And now, here I was, fucking Mrs. Cooper, a former burlesque dancer I had seduced with an excuse as simple as it was pathetic: offering to help her with the plants in her garden. She, her eyes tired but still flirtatious, had invited me in after a couple of cheap compliments and a crooked smile. It wasn't long before I had her naked on her bed, her sagging tits swaying as I penetrated her hard.

"Luke, you're a bad boy," she murmured between gasps, her voice hoarse from years of tobacco and liquor. My hands sank to her soft hips, and I felt her body shudder beneath mine. She turned her head, looking at me with those age-clouded eyes, and smiled weakly. "I've never been fucked like this since the '70s," she said, and her comment pushed me over the edge.

I imagined her in her youth, dancing on a stage, seducing men with her curves, and now here I was, claiming her in her old age. The sensation of her old, experienced flesh squeezing me was too much. With a roar, I cum inside her, filling her with my hot semen as my body trembled with pleasure. She moaned softly, her body relaxing under mine, and for a moment, silence filled the room, broken only by our heaving breaths.

I dropped down beside her, staring at the cracked ceiling, as the reality of what I had just done settled in my mind. Mrs. Cooper turned to me, her trembling hand caressing my chest. "You're a good boy, Luke," she whispered, and I could only laugh, knowing that this was just the beginning of my life as an outcast guided by my darkest desires.

The air in the room was still heavy with the smell of sex and sweat, Mrs. Cooper's naked body next to me breathing heavily, her wrinkled skin glistening with a thin layer of perspiration. My heart was still pounding from the climax, and a nervous chuckle escaped me as I stared at the cracked ceiling, thinking how fucking twisted this all was.

But then, the unmistakable creak of the bedroom door opening shattered the silence like a hammer against glass. My eyes turned to the doorway, and there stood Stan, Mrs. Cooper's husband, an old man with a weathered face and sunken eyes that exuded pure fury.

"Stan!" cried Mrs. Cooper, her hoarse voice cracking with surprise as she tried to cover herself with the yellowed sheet. I startled, panic hitting me like a bucket of cold water. My cock, still wet and flaccid between my legs, twitched in fear as I scrambled for my boxers on the messy floor.

I found them among the disheveled sheets and clumsily pulled them on, my hands shaking. But then I saw it: Stan was holding a shotgun in his hands, an old but lethal relic, with the barrel pointed straight at me. His arms, though aged, had the steadiness of a man who had carried guns all his life. Ex-Vietnam serviceman, I suddenly remembered, a piece of information Mrs. Cooper had mentioned in one of our previous chats while pruning her rose bushes. Shit, I was screwed.

"Luke, run!" cried Mrs. Cooper, her voice mixed with terror and something that sounded like regret. I tried to move toward the window, the only possible escape in this second-floor room. My legs wobbled, the wooden floor creaking under my bare feet as I reached for the frame.

The glass was dirty, but I could see the backyard below, a fall that would probably break something, but better that than facing a loaded cannon. My hands gripped the latch, and just as I opened it, a deafening boom filled the room.

The shot rang out like thunder, and time seemed to stand still for a split second. I felt a searing heat in the back of my head, a blinding pain that spread like lightning before everything went black. The shotgun bullet had ripped through my skull, shattering bone and brain in an instant.

My body slumped against the window, the glass shattering under my weight as I fell to the floor like a rag doll, blood and gray matter splattering the walls and frame. In zero comma, as if someone had flipped a switch, Luke Jonherson, the 26-year-old Canadian with a fetish for GILFs, was dead.

.....

A stabbing pain shot through my head, as if someone had flipped a switch in my brain again. I opened my eyes, expecting to see the cracked ceiling of Mrs. Cooper's house, or maybe Stan's furious face with his smoking shotgun, but I wasn't in any familiar room. The air was cold and damp, permeated with a metallic smell of blood and rotting wood.

I was lying on the floor of what looked like a rustic shack, with mud walls and splintered wood. I blinked several times, trying to focus my vision, and then I noticed: my hands, stretched out in front of me, were small, thin, with childish fingers. My body had shrunk, my arms and legs were frail, and as I touched my chest, I felt the smooth, bare skin of a child, barely covered by a dirty rag hanging from my waist. Panic hit me like a hammer: I had transmigrated, as in my favorite novel, Lord of Mysteries. But what kind of world had I arrived in?

I looked around me, and horror froze me. A few meters away from me, lay a man and a woman, completely dead. Their bodies were mangled, blood forming dark pools on the dirt floor, their faces frozen in expressions of terror and pain. The man's skull was split open, an axe still stuck in his head, while the woman was naked from the waist down, with marks of violence on her thighs and a deep cut on her neck. The blood was still dripping, thick and hot, and the stench turned my stomach.

I couldn't process what I was seeing; my mind, still reeling from the death and this new body, refused to accept the scene. Before I could move, the door of the hut opened with a violent creak, and a group of men burst into the space. They wore the ancient clothes of Norse warriors: tanned hides, worn leather armor, and bloodstained cloaks. They carried axes and swords in their hands, the blades still dripping with fresh blood.

Leading the group were a man with long, braided white hair, a scar running across his cheek, and a woman with deep blue hair, holding a round shield with runes engraved on it. Their faces were hard, war-tanned, and their eyes glowed with a mixture of ferocity and determination.

One of the men, a warrior with a thick beard and fetid breath, spoke in a deep voice: "All the men in this Christian village are dead." Then he pointed his axe at me, his gaze boring into me like a dagger. "Except for that pale-skinned, white-haired boy." It was me. My new body was that of a boy of about ten, with snow-white hair and skin so pale it seemed almost translucent in the dim light.

The warrior raised his axe, ready to split my skull as he had done with the others, and my heart raced, my little body trembling with terror. "Stop!" the white-haired man commanded, his voice ringing with authority. The warrior lowered his axe immediately, albeit with a grunt of frustration.

The white-haired man approached me and looked me straight in the eyes. His gray pupils were cold, but there was something else in them, a spark of recognition. He turned to the blue-haired woman and said, "That boy looks like our late son Asvald, don't you think, Líf?"

Líf, the blue-haired woman, approached and watched me closely, her eyes roaming my face. "It's identical," she replied, her voice trembling slightly with a mixture of awe and hope. "I think we've finally found him, Ragnar."

The white-haired man who called himself Ragnar nodded, his expression hardening with resolve. "Tie him up," he ordered his men. "Take him to the ship. When we reach Veøy, this boy will be known as Asvald Ragnarsson, the next heir of the Black Sea Tribe."

Before I could react, a burly warrior grabbed me, his rough hands encircling my small wrists. I put up no resistance; my mind was still in shock, unable to process what was happening. My hands were bound with a rough rope that cut into my skin and I was hoisted over the man's shoulder as if I were a sack of grain.

As I left the hut, the cold air hit my face, and what I saw chilled my blood even more. The village was in ruins: mutilated bodies lay strewn on the ground, men with their throats slit, children with their skulls crushed, and naked women, some still alive, being brutally raped by the Norse warriors.

Screams of agony and moans of pain filled the air, mixed with the sound of the cruel laughter of the attackers. The smell of blood, shit and burning flesh was overwhelming. I was carried through this hell to the shore, where six long, dark boats, with prows carved in the shape of dragons, awaited in the water.

I was unceremoniously thrown into one of the boats, my small body hitting the wet wooden floor. The oars began to move, and the boats sailed away from the island, leaving behind the smoldering remains of the Christian village.

As the icy wind whipped my skin and the waves crashed against the hull, my mind whirled in a whirlwind of confusion and fear. I had died as Luke Jonherson, killed by a gunshot to the head, and now I was alive again, trapped in the body of a child in a savage and brutal world.