Bad Hand, Part 1 (TG, Multilimb) (Patreon)

Story Tier Prompt for TG Sorcerer

Darrell is on his last legs. His debts are mounting, but his addiction to high-stakes card games is something he just can’t quit, even though most venues have banned him. Thankfully, he’s been given directions to a new underground gambling establishment called The Bad Hand. But this game is unlike any other. The stakes aren’t the money you put down, but instead far more ‘physical’ assets.

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Bad Hand

This had to be the place. Darrell checked the note he’d been slipped after getting banned from the only remaining casino in town.

34 Decker St., Down the stairs beneath the smiling gargoyle. Knock 3 times and say that ‘Frank sent me.’

Darrell shrugged. If it was a hoax, it was a hoax, but he’d been banned from every other table in the state he owed so much money, and his addiction needed to be fed. Darrell didn’t need to gamble; he had a well-paying but boring office job in finance, and he’d been happily married for five years; though the happy part was likely because his wife had never found out about his ‘habit.’ He was a little shorter than average, but had a bulky body with impressive strength, a respectable goatee, and short dark brown hair.

“Just one win is all I need, then I’ll quit,” he muttered, and he stepped down the stairs towards the  heavy green metal door. He followed the instructions to the letter.

“Who sent you?” came a burly voice from the other side, the door slit opening to reveal two dark eyes.

“Frank sent me,” Darrell replied.

The door slid open, revealing a tall, dark-skinned bouncer in a professional suit.

“Come on in,” he said with a welcoming smile, gesturing down the hall, “and welcome to The Bad Hand.”

Darrell entered, still a little wary. The hallway was lit by a single globe, and the understreet structure didn’t look too sanitary. A red door with the same title - The Bad Hand - was at the other end.

“What are you waiting for?” the man asked. “The next game is about to start. You’re just in time; the stakes are meant to be juicy. We have Lady Carlyle visiting. Things are always exciting with her.”

Darrell turned, astonished. He’d heard of Lady Carlyle. She was a beautiful but reclusive woman who was one of the most accomplished poker players in the world. Darrell gave the man a nod of thanks and moved ahead, opening the door on the other side of the hallway.

The room on the other side of the door was a stark contrast to the dingy hallway that led to it. Perfume and fine cigar scents filled the air, greeting his nostrils, as did a slight red tinge to the old fashion lights that hung overhead. The room looked like an old-fashioned speakeasy; there was a fine mahogany bar with white-dressed server pouring vintage whiskey, a relaxing lounge area with warm leather sofas. The carpet was fine, red and intricately patterned, and oil paintings hung on the walls, artist’s depictions of what looked to be previous winners, judging from what he could tell of the year dates and names, though none of them appeared to be smiling. And of course, dominating the centre of the room was a table for eight individuals, most seats currently filled, an ominous deck sitting at the table’s centre. The people sitting at it were a strange mix; some looked rich, others as hounded by debts as him, and some others were odd, buried beneath trench coats or wearing overly tight and revealing clothing.

“Welcome to The Bad Hand, Darrell Pipson,” came a thin, reedy voice. The man turned and recognised the one who had slipped him the note in the first place. He was a very short man wearing a tweed suit and a beanie; a strange combination. “My name is Christopher. I’m sure you recognise some of these other players, but some are simply new to our club, like yourself.”

“So, this place was real after all,” Darrell marvelled.

“Indeed, it is real, more real than you can imagine. The wagers here are bigger, more impressive, more . . . unexpected, than elsewhere. We figured you would want to pursue such a course.”

Darrell frowned. “But, there is money involved, right?”

The man shook his head. “We do not gamble money, no.”

“Then forget it! I’ve got debts to pay, and those are the stakes I play.”

He turned to leave, but then Christopher said something very interesting: “The club is prepared to pay your entire debt. Debts, plural, if only you will pay. You will not even have to win. Consider it a first-time welcome.”

The offer nearly stumbled him, but he rebounded. He knew what a gambler’s trap was, even if he’d long fallen into it. “How can you prove this? I’d want guarantees.”

It was then that Lady Carlyle stood. She was a gorgeous woman with raven-dark hair, a substantial bosom hidden beneath her elegant blue dress, and she was surprisingly tall.

“I shall pay your debts right now, Mr Pipson, if only you will sit with us. Lukas, bring me my computer and I shall arrange the transfers.”

Darrell just about fainted when her manservant went and did exactly that. Just twenty minutes later, he was seated at the table alongside the other players, eager to play, and yet oddly nervous about what kind of game this was, where money was no object.

***

There were six players including Darrell. One had left, an ordinary-looking man who couldn’t cut it. The other five were as follows:

• Mr Wiggins. A rich older man with silver hair and an expensive business suit. He was the source of the cigar smell.
• Mr Newt. An appropriate name; this was the man who fidgeted beneath a trenchcoat, his face barely visible beneath his fedora.
• Mrs Carlyle. The wealthy gambler with beautiful looks and elegant curves, and an icy intelligence. Her skin was porcelain white, and flawless.
• Miss Hope. A young dark-skinned woman in her early twenties with long dyed-blonde hair. She had a buxom and curvy figure, and said ‘like’ a lot. Darrell got the impression she was probably a stripper or something.
• Mr Hopkins. A pudgy man in his mid-forties who sweated nervously, and seemed to be also down on his luck.

And of course, there was Darrell. In his thirties, with thick brown hair and goatee, he cut a fine figure, but his suit was a cheap brown two-piece with an ill-fitting green tie. Still, the table didn’t seem to object to his presence, or that of the others.

“So, ah, what’s the stakes?” he asked.

Christopher smiled. He was the one that ran the games, the dealer and overseer of the rules. He took the empty seat at the head of the table and began to explain.

“The game is Texas Hold’em, the vintage classic. No alterations to the base rules.”

Darrell looked around the table. “What, that’s it? We’re just playing poker?”

Lady Carlyle smiled. The trench-coated Newt chuckled softly beneath his coat. Miss Hope just gave a sour expression, shaking her head sadly.

“Not at all!” Christopher continued happily. “For it is the stakes that are most interesting. We do not bet something as base as money or assets at The Bad Hand. Well, we do bet assets in fact, but not as you know them. We do not care for luxury yachts or the latest Mercedes Benz. We care for essence, mental and physical, of the body and mind. We bet traits; a body part here, a pinch of age there, a submissive trait here, a skill there. The only thing we’re not allowed to gamble on is our gambling talent, though addiction are always on the table.”

Darrell couldn’t help but cough a little awkwardly. “I’m sorry, this all sounds a little . . . supernatural. Fake.”

Christopher just smiled. “You will see, Mr Pipson. For now, you have already signed the contract to play. And you may yet win. So please, take a seat.

He did so, seated opposite Lady Carlyle and between the coated Newt and sweating Hopkins.

“Very well, everyone, time to deal out. And remember, the stakes are higher than they’ve ever been. Winner gets to distribute their earnings to themselves and others as they see fit. Weakest hand is allocated what’s left. Got it?”

He dealt the cards carefully and professionally. Each took theirs, glancing briefly. There was a tense air in the room, especially for the young Miss Hope and pudgy Hopkins, but Lady Carlyle and the bespoke silver-haired Wiggins were not just calm, but seemingly excited. Darrell recognised that look all too well; they were chasing the thrill of risk, as he had many times. The covered-up Newt was impossible to read beyond his eyes, which were full of fierce concentration.

Darrell lifted his cards, and saw that he had two Aces. An excellent start. Too good, really. It was the kind of hand you wanted later, when things got tense.

“Okay everyone, what are your bids?”

Lady Carlyle spoke first. “A soft bid to start. My lovely ankles, to whoever wants them.”

“My taste in fine cigars,” Wiggins said. “A soft bet, as you say, my lady.”

“Um, my dancing ability, I guess?” Hope said. “Is that how this works?”

“It is,” Newt muffled. “I’ll go physical. A pair of my breasts.”

Darrell squinted. Was Newt female? The voice sounded more male.

“Um, I guess my fat? Is that how this works?”

“It is,” Christopher said. “You can wager parts of yourself that you like or don’t like, but keep in mind if you only do the latter, it may make you a target for other winners to target you with their worst traits also.”

The nervous man nodded. Finally, it was Darrell’s turn.

“Look, this all feels a bit hocus pocus to me, but fine. I wager my goatee.”

There was a series of rolled eyes. “Weak!”

“Fine, fine! I’ll wager my hair as well, how about that?”

He put forward a red chip, ostensibly meant to represent his wager, as the others had all done, and the game proceeded. The community cards were laid out, and to Darrell’s glee, an Ace was laid out. That made three Aces, a damn strong winning hand. He masked his glee behind a stoic expression, as the others also considered their cards.

One by one, the various figures folded, until only Lady Carlyle and he remained.

“You’re doing rather well, Darrell. I’m glad to see that paying your debts wasn’t for nothing.”

She placed down her cards, matching another at the table. Three Queens. Impressive, but it wasn’t three Aces. Darrell revealed his hand, and the Lady simply smiled. Well done, well done. The blessings and boons are yours to distribute.”

Darrell looked to Christopher, who explained. “Simply state which you would like to have, which you would like others to have. Miss Hope, poor thing, had the weakest hand, so she must be the recipient of at least one non-preferred trait.”

The gambler nodded. This was all total malarkey, but hell, his debts were paid, so he decided to go through with it.

“Okay, fine then. I’ll take the love of fine cigars from Mr Wiggins - I think I’d like to feel a bit more refined.”

“Damn,” the man muttered. “I really do love a good cigar.”

“And I’ll take Miss Hope’s dancing ability. I don’t think I’ll use it, but why the hell not?”

Hope gave a little gurgle in her throat.

“As for fat, well, I don’t want that, and Miss Hope is the loser, so she can take that instead.”

Tears brimmed in her eyes. Darrell felt a little cruel, but it was all make believe, right?

“As compensation, she can have Lady Carlyle’s lovely ankles.”

Christopher butted in at that moment. “I’m afraid that the weakest hand cannot gain any beneficial trait.”

Darrell just shrugged. “Fine, since this is all sorts of weird, I’ll take the lovely ankles, and the pair of breasts as well.” He gave a silly grin to the astonished players. “What? They’re good features, aren’t they?”

“Can you confirm your choices?” Christopher asked.

“I confirm them. That’s how this is played, right? What, do I get to wear a costume or something.” He laughed, but it died away from the tension of the table as the others looked at him. Newt laughed, and it was definitely a low, masculine laugh.

“It seems he doesn’t believe us. Perhaps, Mr Pipson, this will show you the folly of what you have done.”

Slowly, Mr Newt undid the buttons of his trenchcoat, and flung it open for all to see. Miss Hope gasped, Lady Carlyle and Mr Wiggins smiled, and Hopkins simply tittered nervously. Darrell, though, sat transfixed. On Newt’s form, impossibly, were two sets of sizable breasts, easily C-cups, the two pairs stacked atop one another. They were incredibly realistic looking, and even more for the way they rose and fell softly with each breath, contained within custom black bras. They perched atop a rounded mound that could only be a pregnant belly, and yet as Newt shifted, Darrell was astonished to see the man - or woman - had a raging erection in his or her pants. His skin was slightly sweaty from the strain of it all.

“I was the loser of the last game,” Newt said. “One of the biggest losers of all time, in fact. Big enough they let me come back just for amusement.”

Lady Carlyle smiled. “Well, it was wonderful to give away my unwanted pregnancy. Not to mention lose some of my breasts - I like my smaller size a lot more now.”

“And one of the players last time had a raging sex addiction,” Newt said, smiling sheepishly at Darrell, “so I ended up with that. I’m always horny. You wouldn’t believe the fetishes some people have for a figure like mine that I’ve had to fulfil.”

He pulled up his arms to demonstrate: all four of them. The other two were softer skinned, lithe like a woman’s, and had also been hidden in the folds of Newt’s coat.

“So you see, this is real?”

Darrell flung to his feet, and moved to escape this horror show, but the large bouncer from before was blocking the door.

“You signed a contract!” Christopher called, “you have to play, good man! Besides, the changes are about to begin! I can feel the magic on the cards.”

And with that, Darrell felt a strange trembling across his body, as did many of the others. Mr Wiggins spat out his cigar, looking disgusted, and annoyed at his disgust. Lady Calyle rubbed her ankles beneath the desk, complaining that they had lost their lovely shape, and had become, in her words, “crude and mannish.” Hope whimpered, clutching her head.

“Oh God, it was the only gig I had left. I know it was stripping, but it paid my bills!”

Hopkins, meanwhile, was utterly joyful as his fat dissipated from his form, leaving him much slimmer, albeit still an awkward-looking fellow. Hope burst into tears as her voluptuous young body experienced the same in reverse; she clutched her stomach beneath her tight shirt as it expanded, her entire body softening as extra jiggles of fat were added to it. It left her as a certainly plus-sized woman in far-too tight clothing, her large breasts now a consequence of her pudginess rather than fortunate genetics. She at least looked better than Hopkins had, with a bit of shape still to her. A little slimmer and she could be a plus-sized model, perhaps.

Darrell was overcome as the knowledge of how to strip and entertain men with his body flooded his mind. It was wrong, it was repulsive, and moreover it was clearly meant for a female mind, leaving him with the expert knowledge of how to press his cleavage together, despite the fact that he had none.

A pressure building in his chest would soon rectify that.

“Oh God! Oh God it’s real. Oh shit, I’m really growing breasts.”

“Thank you for - ahhh - that,” Newt stammered, as his additional breasts melted away. “That’s one pair down. A few more changes to go.”

Darrell cringed as his nipples expanded, lengthening and becoming larger, pink-topped nipples surrounded by a wide areola. He massaged his chest through his suit, trying to push the growth back down, but slowly and surely the tissue filled in, fat and milk ducts forming behind the skin, expanding their size. They continued to expand, him groaning from the experience, until finally he had a real, genuine pair of breasts. They were ample C-cups, but they felt much bigger on his chest, particularly unsupported. His new feminine nipples rubbed against his shirt, making him salivate from the sensation.

“Oh - ngggh - God! What the actual f-fuck!”

“Told you it was all real,” Wiggins said, passing the cigar box over. “Don’t smoke them all at once. I aim to win back that sense of taste as the stakes get higher. And get something else back as well.”

He looked to Lady Carlyle, who simply smirked.

“This - this is crazy! What the hell is my wife gonna say?”

“She may like them,” Hopkins said sheepishly. His recent weight loss was making him a little more jovial.

“Like them? She’s more likely to bring the house down. I’ve got bigger boobs than my own wife!”

The rest looked at him. Clearly three had already played before, but Hope and Hopkins seemed new. Obviously, they were given to believing in the reality of the supernatural more readily though.

“You have to keep playing now,” Newt said. “That’s how it works. You want to get rid of your breasts, but you also have to offer up something beneficial. That’s how I lost big.”

“Yes,” Christopher added. “You’re actually in a good position Darrell. The game still has four hours, and you’ve achieved some good victories. Moreover, since you offered something beneficial to yourself as collateral last round - your hair - now you can offer something negative instead: your recently acquired breasts. You can still do this.”

Darrell cradled his soft breasts. They felt heavier than he thought they might; he’d always loved a girl with big, soft tits, but now he was a little sympathetic as to how much strain they could put on a woman’s back. He slowly sat back down, reeling from the unexpected change.

“Okay, so I keep playing, I can better myself, get new skills and parts I like, while getting rid of things I don’t like. That’s right?”

“That’s the rules,” Hope said sadly.

“So . . . how do you knock out players?”

“That’s easy,” Newt said, “because I was on the receiving end of being knocked out. You withdraw when you have nothing left the other players want. It happens, trust me. When the stakes get high, you can throw in additional bets, and it gets dicey from there.”

Darrell considered this. So if he played aggressively, he could get rid of the boobs, get rid of the stripping talent - though that was a minor concern. He smirked. He could get a better liver; his was weaker from so much alcohol. Hell, he could get a bigger dick, or more muscles: certainly beneath his boobs and belly, Newt actually looked quite fit. He could even get knowledge on how to please a woman, preferably from Mrs Carlyle, and good business sense from Wiggins. And maybe, he could even buy attraction from the Lady or Miss Hope too - the latter only if she lost the fat - and make them available to him. Sarah wouldn’t have to know, it could just be a brief fling. And besides, he might be able to make himself taller too, or give himself a better reputation, and that would impress his wife enough.

Slowly, Darrell considered the possibilities before him, all the ways he could lose out - he could end up fat, pregnant, female, or hairless. He could have his intelligence lowered, or his will given to another. Christopher and the rest had been right. This was a high stakes game, in its biggest and best sense.

Newt extended something Darrell’s way, breaking his train of thought.

“Here, put this on.” It was a black lacy bra. “It will help with the support.”

“Don’t worry about us seeing, there’s no mores about that here,” Wiggins said. “Not when everything is up for grabs. Besides, I’d like to take a look at your youth and strength. I’d like to take some of that, I think.”

Darrell awkwardly removed his suit jacket and to, and with Hope’s help, affixed the bra to his chest. His new breasts settled comfortably into the cups; a feeling he never imagined he’d experienced. Then, he put his shirt back on, leaving the top buttons undone for comfort, but left the jacket on the seat. Maybe it would unnerve the others.

“Okay,” he said, sitting upright and looking at the players. “I think I get how this works now, and I’ve got a good idea of what I want to get, and what I want to give away. “Let’s keep playing.”

Christopher dealt out the cards, and each of the players made their next bets.

To Be Continued . . .