The dice stop on a 4.
A faint chime echoes from the board—low, metallic, final.
The red traveler piece moves on its own. One. Two. Three. Four. It lands.
The symbol beneath it flickers once. Then again.
And then the board erupts.
It doesn’t just glow—it flares. The entire game pulses outward in a silent ripple of energy. The old cardboard peels back like skin. The table stretches. The game expands into something far more intricate—jagged tile paths weaving like a labyrinth, symbols changing in real-time beneath glowing glass, shifting with colors that shouldn’t exist.
Five decks rise from beneath the board’s surface, as if pushed up by invisible hands. They align around the edges like points on a compass, each marked with its own icon—claws, hearts, masks, spirals, arrows.
The one with the double arrow pulses red.
A card lifts.
Spins.
And flies toward Dad.
It lands face-down.
Everyone is staring now—but not at him. They're watching the board mutate, reshape, unfold. Emma gasps. Mom stands instinctively. Even Kayla stiffens, hugging her arms to her chest. No one notices the card except him.
His fingers close around the card.
Even before he flips it, there’s a pulse—low and quiet, curling under his waistband.
He flips it. Reads aloud. Slowly.
“When linen dances in daylight and satin’s wrapped in sun,
The stranger’s burden becomes thy own,
And choice, though offered, is understood by none.”
As the last word leaves his mouth, something below his stomach tightens. A seam draws itself across skin that was flat seconds ago—new, sharp, uninvited.
No one says a word.
Dad POV:
I stay still.
Something’s wrong.
It’s not sharp. Not painful. Just… there. Persistent. Down low.
The board is glowing. Emma’s whispering. But I can’t focus on any of it.
Because the fabric under my clothes doesn’t feel like mine.
At first I thought I was just imagining it. A reaction to the lights or the tension in the room. But it’s not fading.
If anything, it’s getting harder to ignore.
The waistband sits lower than usual—angled, almost feminine. I try not to think about that.
Instead, I shift just slightly in my seat. Adjust my hips.
The fabric responds—tightening. Not around my waist. Around my groin.
And that’s when I notice it.
The shaft isn’t hanging. It’s being held. Pushed sideways. Folded. Flattened.
It feels… wrong. Restrained.
I move again, a little more deliberately. Shift my weight back.
There’s no pouch. No support. Just thin fabric wrapped across the front—pulling my shaft down and in, like it’s trying to tuck me out of the way.
What am I feeling right now?
The pressure builds the longer I sit. My testicles are being nudged upward—not cradled, just squeezed softly between my thighs and whatever strip of fabric is riding too high. The seams don’t stretch. They close in. Every breath I take makes them feel tighter.
I lift one thigh, trying to ease the pressure.
It just shifts everything. My shaft drags inside the cloth, smearing against satin that wasn’t designed for this kind of friction. It’s warm. Slick. Responsive.
And too close.
I glance at the others—no one’s looking. Good.
I shift again, slower. Testing.
The shaft is forced to bend with the movement, pressing against the inside. The contact is smooth, unforgiving. I can feel the head outlined against the fabric now—pushed flat, slightly upward, pressed into the curve of my own pelvis.
I’m not aroused.
But I’m… responding. Reacting.
The nerves don’t care what’s going on—they just know they’re being touched. Constantly. Softly. Exactly where they’re most sensitive.
I press my legs together—just enough to stop the twitch.
That’s a mistake.
The material creaks. The seam rides higher. I feel the gusset pull between my cheeks, climbing inward. Not forceful—just thorough. Like it knows where to go and how to stay there.
It’s underwear.
But it’s not mine.
It’s too soft. Too fitted. Too small.
And now I can’t stop asking:
What the hell am I wearing right now?
Kayla POV:
I haven’t moved.
Not because I’m frozen in fear. Not exactly.
Because the second I move, I’ll feel it again.
More than I already do.
Everyone’s staring at the board, arguing. Emma’s on edge. The room’s humming with tension.
But I can’t hear any of it clearly.
Not over the fabric between my legs.
It’s thick. Too thick. Not soft like what I wear—this isn’t something that smooths across the skin. It sits. Hangs. Hugs in all the wrong places. And leaves the places I need hugged wide open.
It doesn’t touch me. Not where it should.
Instead, it surrounds me with absence.
I can feel the pouch—forward, low, sagging slightly. Made for something else. Something long. Heavy. External. But there’s nothing to fill it.
So the fabric just… floats. And worse, it pulls my body downward with it.
My lips don’t rest how they usually do. They settle—folding into the empty curve where something else was supposed to be. The cotton brushes lightly at the top, then opens wide below, leaving the most sensitive parts unsupported and unprotected.
And that’s the problem.
Because now I feel everything.
Every shift of my hips draws the material against me—but not close. Not tight. Just barely enough to notice. The edge of a seam grazes my inner thigh. The base of the pouch curves upward and drapes along the crease where my folds begin. Not pressure—just contact.
That’s all it takes.
The briefs don’t contour. They trap. But not me.
They trap air. And heat. And space.
I try to close my thighs. The fabric doesn’t resist. It bunches. Pushes inward. Slides into place—not snug, but aligned. The folds of my body part slightly, nudged by fabric that wasn’t made to rest between them.
I feel my labia settle downward, warm and exposed. Not because they’re open—because they’re unsupported. Left to rest inside cotton made for something else. Every breath brings a shift. Every tiny twitch of muscle sends friction down low, across the seam that divides me.
And that seam?
It’s not gentle.
It runs front to back, thick and blunt. It splits me, presses against the cleft with each slight motion, never giving, never easing—just existing. Too present. Too wrong.
I want to shift again.
But I know what will happen.
More friction. More folding. More of my own body moving against itself, unsupported, exposed, stimulated by cloth that doesn’t know how to hold me.
I’m not aroused.
But I’m responding.
Because the body reacts even when the brain doesn’t want it to.
I can feel myself warming. Moistening. Not from desire—but from pressure. From contact. From friction building in all the worst places.
And all I can do is sit here, still, quiet.
Pretending not to notice.
Pretending the underwear isn’t reshaping how I sit, how I move, how I breathe.
Because if I shift the wrong way…
I might feel even more.
Emma backs away from the board like it might bite. “Okay, what the hell is this thing?”
The lights dim around the edges of the room. The board glows brighter. Tiles realign, reshaping the path forward.
Mom’s voice cuts through the thick silence. “Did that thing… grow?”
No one answers.
Dad says nothing. His hand drops from the card. His jaw clenches once.
Kayla doesn't look at him.
You can feel it—something just happened. But no one saw it. Not directly.
All you know is: the board isn’t what it was. And it’s only getting started.