Head to the Fortune Teller booth and play Dahlia's game—you need tickets desperately, and it's your only option.

Fortune Teller Booth, Madame Lilith's Midnight Carnival, at 3:15 AM on Wednesday November 1, 2024

You walk. Each step is a negotiation with a body that isn't yours anymore—your hips roll with an involuntary sway, your massive tits bounce heavily against the thin strip of fabric that passes for your top, and between your thighs that wet heat throbs with every movement. Your tiny cock rubs uselessly against the damp crotch of your shorts, leaking a steady trickle of precum that soaks through the material. You feel like a bitch in heat. You feel like meat.

The purple curtains part as you approach, billowing outward as if the booth is exhaling. Inside, the air is thick with incense—patchouli and something underneath, something that smells like sex and copper pennies. A crystal ball dominates the center of a velvet-draped table, its surface swirling with fog the color of infected bruises. Candles flicker in glass holders shaped like open mouths.

And behind the table sits Dahlia.

She's stunning in a way that makes your new body clench. Hair cascading past her shoulders in four thick streaks—emerald green, burnished gold, deep violet, and stark white—each one distinct as a painted stripe. Her face is sharp-featured and beautiful, with full lips painted black and eyes the color of old pennies—brown shot through with green. She wears a sheer purple robe that does nothing to hide the generous swell of her tits or the dark circles of her nipples pressing through the gauzy fabric. Her legs are crossed beneath the table, bare feet visible.

"Well, well," she says, her voice low and smoky. Those copper-green eyes travel over your transformed body with knowing recognition. "Another almost-finished one. How many games did it take you, sweetheart? Three? Four?" She uncrosses her legs, leaning forward so her robe gapes open, revealing the inner curves of heavy breasts. "Sit down. You look like you're about to fall over."

You sit. The chair is velvet, warm, and it seems to grip your ass as you settle into it.

"I'm Dahlia," she says, tapping one long-nailed finger against the crystal ball. The fog inside swirls faster. "Two tokens to play. Three tokens if you want the high-stakes reading—bigger wins, bigger losses. Here's how it works: I show you three visions inside the ball. You predict what happens next in each one. Get it right, you earn tickets. Get it wrong..." She smiles, those black-painted lips curling. "Well. The visions are of me. What happens to me if you guess wrong is... educational."

She leans back, letting the robe fall fully open. Her tits spill free—heavy, round, with dark nipples already stiffening in the candlelight. Between her thighs, you can see a neatly trimmed pussy with hair matching her four colors.

"So what's it gonna be, birthday girl? Standard reading or the full spread?"