Emma's POV
Emmas expression confident but curious, brushing a few strands of blonde hair back toward her ponytail. She’s in her usual team gear—black Nike shorts hugging her toned legs, that familiar grey “Falcons Volleyball” tee loose around her shoulders, and her zip-up hoodie already unzipped and bunched at her waist. Her socks barely peek over the edge of her slides.
Tyler glances at her without meaning to. She looks like she always does before a match—composed, athletic, focused. In control.
The tile under my token lights up—orange-gold, like a flicker of flame. A new deck rises from the board’s edge, smooth-backed and marked with a paw print.
One card floats up.
It twirls in the air and lands in front of me, gently.
I hesitate.
Then I read it aloud.
“When balance shifts and instinct grows,
A part once lost begins to show.
Embrace the curve, the pull, the bend—
The beast in you will find its end.”
I blink.
“What the hell does that even—”
The pain hits low.
A sharp pressure punches into the base of my spine. Not like a bruise. Not like a cramp. It feels… crowded. Like something’s inside me, building outward. Curling around nerves that weren’t there before.
I straighten instinctively.
Mistake.
The pain follows me up. A twisting pressure right above my ass—burning, flexing, stretching. It’s deep. Too deep.
My legs shift apart. I reach back without thinking.
My shorts are tight.
Not tight like fashion.
Tight like they’re in the way.
Whatever’s pushing out from my lower back is hitting the waistband. Hard.
I grab the elastic.
Try to shift it.
Can’t.
The pressure builds. Presses. Like a bone trying to push through fabric.
And it’s not stopping.
I gasp. “Shit—hold on—”
I tug the waistband outward and down, trying to ease the pressure.
But it’s too late.
The pressure wins.
Something under my skin lurches.
The black shorts get shoved by the motion. The thong beneath them—thin, smooth, already strained—tears straight down the back.
The waistband slaps my thighs.
My ass is bare to the room.
But I don’t care.
Because something is growing out of me.
It pushes harder—curling, threading out from the base of my spine. It’s not a growth. It’s a limb. It knows how to move.
I whimper. My knees buckle slightly.
I’m standing in the living room, bent forward slightly, shorts around my thighs, hoodie bunched high, panties ruined.
And something alive is moving between my cheeks.
POV – Tyler
He doesn’t move.
He can’t.
Emma’s standing directly in front of him, bent slightly forward. Her black athletic shorts are halfway down her thighs—caught, clinging. They didn’t fall; they were pushed. From the inside. Bunched up like fabric caught in a drawer.
And above them—nudity...
Her ass is fully exposed—pale, smooth, tense. The muscle is held tight, and beneath the curve, her legs adjust slightly. Not a full move—just a shift in stance for balance.
That’s when he sees it.
A glimpse, clear and unguarded.
Between the backs of her thighs, where the cheeks part and drop, just slightly—the soft folds of her pussy. Not exaggerated. Not staged. Just there, open from the angle and the way her weight is distributed.
The thong is gone. The shorts are too low to cover anything. There’s nothing between her and the room.
A faint glisten catches the light. Inner skin, flushed from pressure or heat. Visible. Vulnerable.
She doesn't notice. Her hands are still on her knees, breath shallow, eyes forward.
But Tyler sees.
And it doesn't go away.
But that’s not what locks his attention.
It’s what’s coming out of her.
Right above her tailbone—right where the spine should end—there’s something else now. Flesh. New. Alive. A tail.
It’s thick at the base, pale brownish-pink, the skin still slick with whatever came from inside. There’s a sheen to it, like sweat or fluid. The texture looks soft, but too smooth. Too foreign.
It flexes. Once.
Then again.
Slow and testing—like a muscle learning its range.
Tyler’s throat tightens. Not from fear. Not from desire. From something else entirely—fascination. He knows he shouldn’t stare. That this moment should be private. That Emma probably doesn’t even know how exposed she is.
But the movement keeps drawing his eye.
The tail curls upward, shifting side to side, like it’s testing the air. Like it has its own instincts. Its own intent.
And the skin around it—her lower back, the top of her rear—moves with it. Tensing, relaxing. A ripple of motion under skin that shouldn’t be moving like that.
Her ass twitches slightly. Not enough to shift position. Just enough to register that she feels it too.
Still, she doesn’t cover herself.
And neither does he.
He stares—because it’s real. Because he saw it grow, emerge, take shape. And now it’s here.
Attached to her.
Moving.
Alive.
No one speaks.
Not at first.
Emma is crouched forward, hands braced on her knees. Her black shorts are tangled around her thighs, pushed down—not pulled. Bunched like they were shoved there by something internal.
The tail is still moving.
It twitches again—soft, careful. A fluid curl through the air, like it's testing the space behind her. Still slick. Still raw-looking, the color somewhere between flushed skin and pale brown velvet.
Her bare ass shifts slightly with it. Every time the tail flexes, the small of her back tightens. Muscle responds involuntarily. Her breath catches, just audible.
Across the room, Kayla is frozen.
She hasn’t blinked. Her hand is gripping the table edge, knuckles white. Her mouth hangs slightly open, like she meant to say something but never got past the inhale. Her eyes are locked not on Emma’s face—but lower. At the point where human anatomy has ended, and something else now extends.
Behind her, Mom stumbles.
Just one step back. Not a fall. Just… distance. Her hand lifts reflexively to her chest, fingers trembling against her collarbone. Her eyes are wide—not in anger. In shock. Processing. Trying to map what she’s seeing against everything she’s ever known about her daughter.
And failing.
Dad doesn’t speak.
His lips part, but no sound comes out. His brow twitches once—trying to frown, maybe, but stopping short. His gaze moves up and down, as if searching for something normal in Emma’s shape to latch onto. But there’s nothing normal about the twitching, muscular tail growing out of her lower back.
The room is still.
Silent.
The only sound is Emma’s breathing—tight, shallow—and the faint rustle of her shorts as the tail brushes against them.
She’s not hiding it.
She hasn’t even stood up.
She’s just… letting it happen. Right there. In front of all of them. And no one can look away.
Because no one—not her best friend, not her mother, not even her father—can deny what they’re seeing.
The game changed her.
And now they all know it.
I feel the air across my skin—bare, flushed. The tail sways slightly behind me, anchored deep in my lower back, its base shifting with each breath like it’s tied to my diaphragm. I don’t know where it ends and I begin.
Still growing, maybe. Or maybe just adjusting. I can’t tell where it ends and I begin.
I tug my hoodie down instinctively.
It doesn't reach.
I’m standing in full view of the room, unsure whether to cover myself or scream.
The game doesn’t care.
The tile beneath me dims.
The next deck begins to rise.