No one moves.
No one speaks.
But the room tilts—subtly, like breath has left it.
Heather – Mom
She’s the first to act.
Heather moves first—crossing the living room in quick, certain strides, her bare feet silent against the hardwood. She rests a hand on Emma’s arm—soft, anchoring—and leans in, voice low but urgent. “Come on, sweetheart,” she whispers. “We need to see how bad it is.” Emma flinches at the touch but doesn’t pull away. Her eyes stay wide, unfocused—like her body’s here, but her mind isn’t. Heather tugs the blanket tighter around Emma’s waist—though the tail still twitches beneath it—and gently guides her toward the hall.
Rick – Dad
Rick follows—but stops short of the bathroom.
The satin still clings. Tighter now.
The friction hasn’t eased—it’s made things worse. His erection has thickened—uninvited. A slow, insistent pressure building downward against the satin. Half-hard and caught at a downward angle, it presses into the fabric, bent sideways and low, like the panties are trying to fold it out of existence. When the bathroom door clicks shut, he exhales. Alone for a second.
His hand dips—quiet, fast. Just enough to slip beneath the waistband.
The lace bites at his knuckles. The fabric is slick. Smooth. Undeniably feminine.
He grips himself, trying to unbend the shaft upward, trying to make space. It doesn’t work. The pouch is too shallow.
There’s nowhere to go.
As he lets go, feeling the tip nestle back into warm, soft compression.
It’s not going away. Not like this.
Waiting outside the doorway, one hand bracing the frame like it’s the only thing keeping him upright. His other hand rubs at his mouth, then drags back through his thinning hair—slow, mechanical.
The door clicks shut.
He doesn’t need to see what’s inside.
He saw enough.
He saw it move. The tail looked like it wasn’t a prop, but a real live monkey tail…
Kayla
Kayla stands.
Not from decision—just instinct. Like her body wants distance before her mind catches up.
She takes a step backward. Then another.
She drifts into the kitchen without thinking.
Leans back against the counter, palms braced behind her on the cool laminate. Her hoodie stays up—armor she hasn’t taken off.
Her weight presses into the laminate edge. She doesn’t notice the way her thighs tremble until she tries to breathe through it.
She stares blankly at the backsplash tile.
“I’m not doing this,” she whispers.
No one hears her.
No one needs to.
The fabric down there still feels wrong. All wrong.
Alone in the kitchen, finally out of sight, she dares to check.
She shifts her hips—slowly this time—and lifts the front hem of her hoodie.
What she sees isn’t hers.
The waistband is thick—wider than her normal underwear—and the fabric’s not soft cotton. It’s rougher, more rigid. A faded waistband, too masculine, too square.
The pouch bulges outward. Empty. But still shaped like it’s expecting something to fill it.
She frowns.
“Wait…” she whispers, barely audible.
A pulse of realization hits her.
Did the game… do this to me?
Without me even knowing?
She pushes a finger into the waistband and peeks lower.
Her panties are gone.
Gone.
She didn’t feel them vanish. She didn’t feel these arrive. But they’re there now, hugging her hips in the wrong way, her folds awkwardly resting in a space never made for them.
“Where are my…?” she doesn’t finish.
She yanks the hoodie down, arms crossed tight over her stomach.
And freezes—like moving might make it worse.
Tyler
Tyler hasn’t moved.
He’s still planted at the edge of the table—same spot, same grip, same breath held in his chest.
One hand gripping his knee. The other curled over the table’s edge.
The board is in front of him.
Still glowing. Still alive.
But something’s changed.
The red lettering at the top—KAYLA—flares again. Deeper now. The light doesn’t brighten, it thickens, like it’s pushing outward from the board’s core.
And then the letters shift.
Below her name, new words carve into the board—slow and deliberate, like something cutting from the inside.
“Refusal is not permitted.”
“Roll, or be rolled.”
Tyler leans in, blinking slowly.
“Kayla…” he breathes.
But she’s not looking. She hasn’t turned around. She’s still in the kitchen, head low, arms crossed now across her stomach like she’s holding herself together from the inside.
He looks back at the board.
The die is lifting.
No sound. No signal.
Just motion.
It hovers above the velvet tray, spinning in midair—no hand touching it.
Then it drops.
It hits the wood once.
Bounces.
Spins.
And lands.
Kayla
She doesn’t hear it land.
But something changes in the air.
The temperature, maybe. Or the weight of the silence. Like the board just exhaled.
A tingling sensation climbs her lower spine—like a string being drawn tight just above her hips.
She straightens. Slowly.
Something is beginning.
She doesn’t know what.
But the game just took her answer as no.
And rolled anyway.