Pay 4 tokens for two draws

Lucky Draw Booth, Madame Lilith's Midnight Carnival, at 12:15 AM on Wednesday November 1, 2024

You fish four brass tokens from the velvet pouch, your trembling fingers nearly dropping two of them before they clatter onto Celeste's counter. She scoops them up with those deft hands, dropping them into a slot that swallows them with a hungry clink-clink-clink-clink.

"Two draws, double the fun," she says, and there's something almost apologetic in her voice. She fans the deck face-down across the counter. "Pick two, birthday boy. Left to right, wherever your gut tells you."

Your gut tells you absolutely nothing useful. It never does. You jab your finger at a card near the middle, then—after a moment of agonizing indecision—grab one from the far right.

Celeste flips the first card. The illustration shows a woman on her knees, mouth stretched wide around a glistening purple tentacle, her eyes rolling back. "Mouth card," she announces flatly. "Three tickets."

Your stomach drops. She flips the second. This one depicts a woman bent over a counter, her back arched, thick tentacles plunging between her spread thighs while translucent eggs bulge beneath her belly. "Pussy card," Celeste breathes, and you catch it—that flicker of something hungry crossing her face before she smothers it. "Five tickets. That's your winner."

She sets both cards aside and reaches beneath the counter, producing a small brass dispenser. Five tickets spiral out—shiny, gold-foiled things with little tentacle motifs printed on them. You snatch them up and stuff them in your pouch.

"Now," Celeste says, untying the front laces of her corset with practiced efficiency, those massive tits spilling free—heavy, round, nipples already hard and dark pink. "Both cards means both things happen. Rules are rules, sugar."

The counter before her splits open with a wet schlick, and from the darkness beneath, tentacles emerge—purple, glistening, thick as your wrist and covered in raised ridges that catch the carnival light. Two of them slither upward, one thicker than the others, its tip blooming into a flared head that drips something opalescent.

"Mouth first," Celeste says, opening her lips wide. The thinner tentacle slides between them, stretching her jaw, those painted lips wrapping around the ridged shaft as it pushes deeper. She gags—a wet, sloppy sound—and her throat bulges visibly as it works its way down. Drool runs down her chin, dripping onto those exposed tits.

Then the thicker one finds her cunt. She's already wet—you can see it glistening on her bare thighs where her skirt has ridden up. The tentacle doesn't hesitate. It pushes past her pussy lips with a deliberate, obscene squelch, spreading her wide, those ridges catching and dragging against her inner walls. Celeste moans around the one in her mouth, the sound muffled and guttural.

"That's it," a voice purrs from nowhere—Lilith's, you think. "Feed her full."

The tentacle in her pussy begins pumping—long, brutal strokes that make her whole body rock forward. Each thrust sends ripples through those heavy tits. The one in her mouth matches the rhythm, fucking her throat in syncopated counterpoint. Celeste's eyes are glazed, tears streaming down her cheeks, but she's pushing back against the one between her legs, her hips rolling.

The thick tentacle bulges. You watch, transfixed, as something moves through its length—spherical, translucent, the size of golf balls. Eggs. They travel up the shaft and deposit themselves one by one into Celeste's womb, each one making her belly swell slightly, her muffled screams turning to something that sounds horribly like pleasure.

Then the breeding begins. A second appendage emerges from the same tentacle—slender, pulsing, unmistakably cock-shaped—and drives itself deep alongside the eggs already packed inside her. It thrusts with mechanical precision, pumping thick ropes of white-hot seed directly into her stuffed cunt. You can see it—the way her belly rounds out further, the way cum leaks around the shaft, dripping in thick strings onto the sawdust below.

Celeste shudders through her orgasm around the mouth-tentacle, her whole body convulsing, eyes rolling white. The tentacles withdraw slowly—the mouth one first, leaving her gasping and drooling, then the breeding one with a wet pop that sends a gush of cum and viscous fluid splattering across the booth floor.

She slumps against the counter, panting, her belly visibly rounded, those massive tits heaving. "Five... tickets..." she manages between ragged breaths. "You did... good, birthday boy..."

The booth begins to shimmer at its edges, the paint seeming to run like wet ink.