OK, so that was a mistake.

Never make a bet with an eldritch entity.

They're sore losers.

Of course, I didn't know he was an eldritch entity. Nor did I have any experience with them before.  But next time.  Honestly, I should probably just avoid bets entirely.

I won. I got my Wish. I am now immortal - a very high end version, I might add - and am on the path to ultimate power.  Currently first level, but I am assured I'm on the "fast" xp track. I got everything I specified, all the mechanics I wanted from the game. Spellcasting with options from the big lists? Check. Immune to all the negative effects of aging? Check. Immunity to poison, disease, and a host of other things? Check. Ability to rise from the dead? Check. Not yet tested, though. A very high intelligence score? Check. My old DM's very generous house rules for his Pathfinder 1 "kitchen sink" games? Check.  Very high Charisma? I look down, and take another drink. Double check.

So what's wrong, you ask?

Well, for starters, I'm female now. VERY female.  Folks can see my chest from behind, even squished into one of my old t-shirts as they are. I don't have any bras - I used to be male - so I'm sure the stretched fabric is giving the bartender quite the show. And yes, I tried a sweater. Unfortunately, the Perceptual Discomfort lesser madness from the oath system that I'm using to get a bunch of bonus feats prevents me from using an old sweatshirt. My waist is also small - not victorian-era noblewoman small, fortunately, but a guy could likely wrap his hands around me and touch his fingers and thumbs together. And of course, wide hips, and a caboose that's almost as big as my chest. I'm currently covered down there with some really stretched out underwear that fit before the bet, and an impromptu skirt. I haven't braved the mirror yet, but I can tell my lips are very pillowy and would feel great… if they were wrapped around my shaft. That I don't have anymore. Because that guy is a SORE LOSER. My lower lips are also a bit exaggerated. And apparently, constantly wet and ready to go. The bartender is going to need to mop the floor when I'm done drinking. I probably ruined the barstool, too. And my improvised skirt.

Wait, why do I smell spoiled milk?

Oh. Of course. My t-shirt is wet. Because why wouldn't I be lactating? So not only can I not use thick clothing to cover these monsters, but they're going to show themselves, their three inch spouts, and their two inch plates off at every opportunity.  All FOUR of them. Yeah, that's right. Polymastia. I have four massive milk factories, not the usual two. Two giant jugs about where you'd expect, and two more equally massive mammaries just beneath.

And that's not where it stops. Apparently, I'm African-American now. With a skin tone dark enough to reasonably be called "black" rather than the brown most folks from that corner of the world get after a few generations away from near nudity in the equatorial sun.

And my hair. Ugh. It runs all the way down to my ankles. I am going to need to get that cut, and soon. Not that 'to my ankles' is really all that far.  I am very short now. I haven't tried a measuring tape yet, but I'm guessing about four foot six?

I take another drink. At least they’re free, although I have to deal with guys hitting on me. And groping. Apparently it's a rule that everyone who buys me a drink needs to try and cop a feel. Ugh. I hate the rough hands on my skin, especially the skin I shouldn't have. I need to find a place with a good bouncer. This place doesn't have one.

But buying drinks would be awkward - I don't look anything like my ID anymore. So glad I didn't get carded at the door. At least the "Chris" on my cards could be a woman's name.

I can't seem to get drunk, though. I've had six beers, five shots, eight glasses of wine, and about a dozen fruity drinks. I'm tiny, and I'm not even tipsy. Why… ah. Alcohol is considered a poison, and offers a Fortitude save. Of course. I'm immune on two counts. So I can't even drown my sorrows.

I hear the bartender shout out, "Last call."

Must be closing time. Meh, this bar sucks anyway.  I picked it because they don't have a mirror behind the bar: I don't think I'm ready to face my reflection yet. I'll have to eventually, I know this. Too many reflective surfaces in modern society for me to avoid it, and it's not like I'm a vampire with no reflection. I am going to have to look myself in the eyes sooner or later.

Later. For now….

I walk away from the bar, and the bartender leers, his eyes glued to my cleavage like they've been all night, saying, "Please come again!" as he waves me off. I never actually ordered a drink, but he made a bunch of money off my presence.

As I step out, I find a drunk guy in my way. Stereotypical biker, leather chaps, leather jacket left open over his t-shirt, steel chains as decorative jewelry, beer belly, buzz cut, the works. He sways as he stands, obviously drunk. And he's got nail marks on his face. Mine. He didn't let go with just a slap earlier.

"You didn’t pay for those drinks," he accuses me.

"That's because I didn't order them," I inform him as I try to walk around. Ugh, my voice. I sound like I'm an actress in a bad adult movie, putting a "yes, yes" tone into everything, no matter what I try.

He doesn't let me, grabbing at me and catching my improvised skirt - which rips, showing the men's underwear I'm wearing. Sopping wet underwear. His other grabs my wrist.

"You’re supposed to be nice when someone's nice to you. You weren't nice. But you seem to be ready to be nice now…."

I struggle, and find I can't break his hold. Stupid of me, going with just seven strength and dexterity, I shouldn't have min-maxed that hard. I'll have that solved next level when I cheese in a synthesist's eidolon, but that doesn't help me now.  I take a breath to scream, but he’s too fast. Dropping the remains of my skirt, he grabs my neck, his thumb pressing into my trachea, preventing me from doing more than squeaking. I don't actually need to breathe anymore, so I'm not choking and won't black out… but I'm no longer sure that's a good thing.

He reaches down for my underwear as I try to kick his junk… unfortunately for me, his hand is right there, and intercepts.

"Oh, you like it rough, do you?" he says in a quiet voice in my ear, "I'm happy to ob… oblug… help," he slurs out.

He grabs my underwear and snaps it loose, balling his hand into a fist and crashing it up into my ribs like a wrecking ball. His other hand still around my throat, I'm unable to scream as I hear a prompt in my head: "Six damage."

I try casting a spell - I don't have much of an offensive loadout right now, so that's just Acid Splash - but I can’t concentrate well enough to make it happen this time.

He drags me into an alley and slams me against the wall, painfully. The prompt in my head confirms: "Four damage."

I try kneeing him again, but he catches on and makes my leg go wide. He answers with another punch to my gut, and I hear ribs crack. I can only squeak as the prompt tells me "Critical hit, twelve damage."

I only have six HP left. I try a spell again, and lose it, again unable to concentrate due to the grapple. Not knowing I just tried to think him to death, he grabs my shirt and tears it off, leaving me naked in his grasp.

I try kicking again, and connect this time.  He screams as my knee hits his junk, but he doesn't let go, my pitiful strength doing minimal damage. Heslams his fist into me, and the last thing I hear a prompt: "Five damage."

I basically give up at this point - yes, I can theoretically survive dying, but I really don’t want to test that. I cry as he yanks his pants down, and shoves his rod into my bruised and battered body. He goes in easily, and I cry through the pain, tears streaming down my face as all I can think is:

Why does it have to feel good? This is horrible. Why?

He doesn't last long, spewing his seed into my tunnel … and then he pulls a knife and slices me open, gutting me like a trout.

I hear a prompt saying "Seven damage" as the last of my HP vanishes, and I black out.