Some people are just fucking born lucky.

They hit the Powerball jackpot while half-as drunk on Fireball shots. They find crisp hundreds fluttering across the parking lot like the universe is their personal sugar daddy. They swipe right at 2:17 a.m. and wake up next to soulmate-level head game and zero emotional baggage.

Margaret Thompson? She was one of those golden-bitch lucky ones.

Maybe the cosmos owed her. Big time. For pushing out a literal angel like Charlotte. For staying soft-hearted even after life tried to curb-stomp her soul. For still holding doors for strangers, tipping 40%, and choosing to smile through the kind of pain that turns most women into walking vinegar.

Kindness like that? In this timeline? That shit deserves cosmic compensation.

And compensation arrived in the filthiest, most decadent way possible.

Four hours ago Margaret Thompson—sweet, church-potluck Margaret, Charlotte's mom with the gentle laugh and yoga-toned ass she still rocked in high-waisted leggings—became the very first woman on planet Earth to taste my upgraded, system-blessed, Sex-God-tier cum.

Not Madison. Not Luna. Not Isabella. Not even Mom—who's been gargling my soul out of my balls since day fucking one.

Nope. Sweet, unsuspecting Margaret got first dibs.

I almost nutted again just thinking about the cosmic prank of it all.

When the system pinged me with the update I legit cackled like a villain in a hentai. Turns out the new flavor profile is straight-up customized per woman. Whatever she craves most in the universe? That's what my cum tastes like when it hits her tongue.

Madison's gonna swear it's that ultra-sweet vanilla bean ice cream she cries over. Luna's probably gonna moan it's the salted-caramel dark-chocolate truffles she hoards. Mom? Bet it's gonna taste like the peach cobbler she used to make when I was still pretending I didn't want to bend her over the kitchen island.

But Margaret?

When I finally pulled out, gave it in her mouth and watched the first thick, pearly rope paint her trembling lower lip… her eyes rolled back and she whimpered,

"Ohmygod… it's… it's my grandma's strawberry shortcake… exactly… the real one… with the fresh whipped cream…"

She was already licking it off like it was the last dessert on earth, cheeks flushed, pupils blown, thighs shaking.

That was just the appetizer.

Because the real upgrade? The part that makes me feel like I should come with a warning label?

Every single load I pump deep in a woman's dripping, greedy pussy starts rewriting her.

Age rewinds. Beauty multiplies. A mid-forties MILF slowly melts backward until she looks like she's twenty-one again—except better. Tighter. Plumper lips. Higher cheekbones. Ass that defies gravity. Tits that sit like they're photoshopped in real life. Skin so flawless it glows under club lights.

And it's not just youth.

It's amplification.

Pretty becomes jaw-dropping. Jaw-dropping becomes heart-stopping. Heart-stopping becomes literal goddess walking among mortals.

Imagine the hottest girl in your senior class… then imagine someone turned the saturation up to 300%, gave her infinite money for fillers-that-don't-look-like-fillers, and then sprinkled actual divinity on top.

That's what my cum does now.

Permanent. Compounding. Slow-burn, pussy-flooding goddess manufacturing.

And Margaret—sweet, trembling, already-moaning Margaret—was patient zero.

After shower after the sex, I had her bent over the edge of the bed again, night dress shoved up around her waist like a crumpled halo, panties shredded somewhere on the floor. I fucked her slow at first—deep, deliberate strokes that made her gasp and claw the sheets—then harder, like I was carving my claim straight into her soul.

Every thrust sank deeper. Every time she came, her whole body seized and she screamed my name like it was the only word left in the English language. Every time I unloaded inside her—hot, thick ropes painting her walls—she didn't instantly transform.

No Hollywood flash.

No instant snap-back to twenty-one.

It was slower. Greedier. More torturously delicious.

The changes crept in like a drug hitting the bloodstream.

First load: nothing you could see yet. Just this deep, molten heat blooming inside her, spreading slow like honey through her veins.

Her pussy clenched harder around me, walls fluttering greedy and alive, like every cell was already sipping me in, memorizing the taste.

She buried her face in my neck, shivering hard, voice all wrecked and whispery: "It feels… so warm… so deep… like it's melting into every part of me…"

Second load: still nothing dramatic. But under my hands her skin felt… different. Smoother. Softer. Like the first velvet touch after a long, rough day.

That tired shadow under her eyes—the one that showed up after too many late nights worrying about Charlotte—eased just a fraction, like someone had dimmed the lights on every tiny sign of wear.

When I kissed her, her lips felt plusher against mine, a tiny swell that wasn't just from the spit-slick frenzy. She pulled back gasping, eyes wide and hazy: "I feel… something shifting… already… inside…"

Third load: that's when the real promise started whispering. Her breasts—those full, heavy, perfect mom-tits—pressed against my chest with just the barest hint of new lift. Not swollen, not transformed.

Just… perkier.

A subtle firmness creeping back in, like gravity was starting to forget its claim. Her nipples tightened into darker, needier peaks, scraping my skin with every breath she took, begging without words.

Where I gripped her waist it felt a whisper narrower, hips a breath rounder, ass cheeks subtly tauter under my palms. Nothing a stranger would clock. Nothing even she could see in the mirror right now.

But I felt it. Deep in my bones. The slow, filthy clock had started ticking.

By the time I finally eased out—cock still slick, her cunt a warm, creamy, leaking promise—she was still just Margaret. Beautiful, soft, forty-two-year-old Margaret. No instant goddess glow-up. No sudden twenty-something snap-back.

Just the hum.

The low, electric thrum under her skin. The quiet certainty that every drop I'd pumped into her was already working. Patient. Inevitable. Hungry.

She lay there trembling, fingers drifting absently over her stomach, her breasts, her thighs—like she could sense the tiny seeds taking root. Her breath hitched every few seconds, eyes glassy with something deeper than the afterglow.

"Thank you…" she kept murmuring, soft and reverent, like she was praying to the thing growing inside her. "Thank you for… starting this… making me your woman."

She whimpered, "Thank you… oh god, thank you…" over and over, voice wrecked and reverent, thighs trembling as she rolled onto her back. When our eyes met, hers were brighter, pupils blown with something more than lust. A spark of freedom and satisfaction.

The changes wouldn't rush. They'd creep. Day by day. Week by week. Load after greedy load.

In a few days her laugh lines would start to vanish like whispers. In a couple weeks her tits would lift, swell, sit high and proud again.

In a month her ass would round into something obscene, her waist would carve itself sharper, her hair would thicken and shine like she'd never missed a night of sleep.

Months from now—regular, deep, worshipful creampies later—she'd step out looking twenty-one going on divine: flawless skin, impossible curves, beauty so potent it would stop traffic and break hearts without trying.

Every future flood of my cum would push the promise further.

Tighter skin. Smoother lines. Fuller lips. Higher tits. Firmer ass. Brighter eyes.

Until the day she became undeniable—a living, breathing, walking wet dream no filter could fake.

Lucky didn't even scratch the surface.

She didn't just get fucked. She got the world's slowest, dirtiest, most addictive cheat code to eternal youth and supernova hotness… drip-fed straight from my balls in hot, strawberry-shortcake-flavored pulses.

And me? I stayed pressed against her for those last lazy heartbeats, cock softening inside her, feeling her pulse around me like she was already holding onto the promise. Already mine. Already on the long, delicious road to becoming something no mortal should be allowed to look like.

Some people win the lottery. Margaret Thompson? She got railed into the slow, inevitable ascent toward literal goddess status by the God of Lust himself.

And that was just the first dose.

The rest of the harem still hasn't tasted it.

Gods help them when the upgrades finally start stacking.

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