POV: Tyler
The board glows.
Not brightly—just enough to feel seen. Exposed. Like it knows something he doesn’t want to say.
The dice lift from their velvet pit. Tyler doesn’t move to touch them. He doesn’t have to.
They float.
Weightless. Controlled.
He watches them tumble midair—like someone invisible is shaking them just for him.
They drop.
Clack. Clack.
Eight.
The red token labeled TYLER starts to slide.
One. Two. Three... Eight.
It lands.
Tile 8 – Truth or Dare.
Marked with a theatrical mask and a sharp question mark curling behind it.
Tyler swallows. His body’s too small for this kind of fear, but it’s there anyway—hot and sharp and crawling up his spine. "I'm definitely not picking dare" he whispers.
A deck stirs. Cards flutter. One rises.
Then—
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POV: Rick
The bathroom door swings open fast—too fast.
Rick’s already upright—bare feet braced on the hardwood, arms tense at his sides. The lavender leotard hugs every line of him, pulled high between his thighs...molded against a shape he barely understands. The fabric feels slick now, almost intimate. Like it knows him better than he does.
As the door cracks open, he reacts without thinking—both palms flatten against his groin, as if to hide something still there.
But it isn’t.
His fingers press into the soft seam of the leotard—right where the new soft lips of his body meet. There’s no bulge. Just the warm, damp cleft beneath thin spandex.
And as his hands press tighter, he feels it—
A twitch.
Just response.
His body likes the contact.
The pressure sends a slow tingle upward through his core, curling somewhere inside the center of him. It’s subtle, but unmistakable. A female kind of sensitivity.
Heather steps out first, her ballet-pink leotard shining faintly in the hall light. She doesn’t stop when she sees him—just glances at his covered hands.
“You’ve gotta be kidding me,” she snaps, eyes moving straight past him. Her mouth opens. No words come. Then the anger surges forward—hot and helpless. “Who the fuck is playing the game?”
She assumes he’s covering himself to hid his penis.
He says nothing. Doesn’t correct her.
Emma follows behind, her tail swinging lightly behind her thighs. She pauses for half a second—eyes catching on her dad’s posture. On the way his palms are pressed so deliberately against the front of the leotard.
Her gaze lingers a moment too long. Embarrassed to see her father in such a feminine outfit.
Then she looks away.
Mortified, probably. Thinking she saw too much.
But she didn’t.
She saw nothing.
---------------------------
POV: Tyler
Tyler lifts his head.
And freezes.
They’re walking straight toward him—his mom and sister—like characters from a dream that got stitched wrong at the seams.
Mom’s leotard clings ballet-pink to every dip and fold of soft female tone, smooth and seamless. The tights shimmer softly across her legs, semi-sheer in the hallway light, drawing his eye downward to see the small lift of the crotch from her pussy mound before he can stop it. Her average chest shifts inside the fabric with each step—gentle, rhythmic.
Emma follows close behind. Baby blue. A smaller version of Mom. The tail trails behind her like a ribbon, swaying slightly from her hip, brushing the inside of her thigh. Her leotard rides higher in the back now—just enough that he sees the circular curvaton of her butt before she adjusts it the back end back down relieving a wedgie probably. The slit at the base of the spine frames the tail perfectly, but it’s the way the tights mold to her legs—every contour, every muscle—that makes him go still.
His stomach flips.
He looks away, but it’s too late. The image is already seared into his brain—color, shape, the impossible softness of a women's body and movement wrapped in tight, feminine shine.
Her voice cracks. “Tyler! What are you doing!?”
He jerks upright. “I didn’t—I swear I didn’t! It rolled by itself!”
He points at the dice. “It did Kayla’s turn. Then yours. And now it’s mine! I didn’t touch it—I didn’t even stand up!”
He’s breathing hard. His chest rises in the tight white leotard, the fabric stretching awkwardly over his bony frame.
Heather’s mouth opens to respond—
But the card reaches him.
It spins, golden-edged, and flutters like a paper dragonfly—straight into his lap.
It lands face-up.
TRUTH
The word burns crimson across the top.
His fingers hesitate.
Then he reads.
“What’s the one thing you’ve secretly wanted the most—even if you don’t understand why?”
Silence.
The lights don’t flicker. No fanfare. No buzzing or pulses from the board.
Just that one question, staring up at him.
His cheeks flush. His throat tightens. His tongue presses awkwardly to the roof of his mouth.
He should lie.
He wants to lie.
But something in his chest locks up—like the board is holding it shut. Like the truth is the only thing it’ll accept. Like it already knows.
His voice slips out thin and cracking.
“I—uh…” He swallows. “Sometimes I think about stuff that’s, like… not normal.”
Emma and Mom watching. He doesn’t look at them.
“Stuff that I know I’m not supposed to think about. But it just… shows up. In my head.”
The card vanishes.
His hands twitch at his sides. He sits the tights pull tighter over his lap when he does putting pressure up his rear.
“I think about people older Like... like Emma.”
A pause. His lips tremble.
“Or Mom sometimes.”
Heather’s breath catches. For a second, she doesn’t move.
Her hand lifts halfway to her mouth—then drops.
She stares at Tyler, not with anger... but something else. Something raw.
She blinks once. Then twice.
And it hits her.
The glow. The changes. The leotards. The board doesn’t just transform—it can do so much more...
Her stomach twists.
She looks away.
The silence is brutal.
He keeps going—because the card is still glowing.
“I like to think about what it would be like for them to guide me and help me… It’s… it’s more.”
The words come faster now. Like they’re being pulled out.
“Sometimes when I’m lying in bed, I think about them noticing me. Like... looking at me with desire to nurture and like grown-ups. And sometimes I think about being touched. Or touching them. Like... like being takin care of like I know nothing and them teaching me how to get off.”
Emma’s face drains of color.
Her hand—still gripping the base of her tail—falls slack.
She takes a step back. Then another.
“What the hell is wrong with you…” she whispers, but there’s no bite behind it.
Just disbelief. Disgust.
Her voice shakes.
“You’re my little brother. You’re not supposed to—”
Her arms wrap tighter around herself. The leotard creaks faintly as she breathes—too tight, too revealing. Her tail flicks once in agitation, like it wants to run.
She cuts herself off, jaw clenching, breath trembling in her chest.
She doesn’t know how to finish the sentence. Doesn’t know how to look at him.
That look on Tyler’s face.
Shame. Longing. Regret.
And somewhere, buried beneath her revulsion… she feels sorry for him.
That makes it worse.
She turns to her mom, blinking hard.
“Where’s Kayla?” she asks, voice quieter now.
-----------------------------
POV: Kayla
In the kitchen, Kayla freezes mid-step.
She’s been hiding behind the edge of the counter, arms crossed awkwardly over her leotard—trying not to think about the pressure between her legs or the way the tights keep hugging the wrong parts.
But Tyler’s voice pulls her eyes toward the room.
She hears her name.
And her chest tightens.
She shifts her weight—barely.
And feels it.
The hardness. The way it’s grown to full length without asking.
Pressed up toward her belly button, caught beneath the smooth stretch of fabric.
Thick and unyielding.
She can feel the tights pulling against it, shaping it. Framing it.
Every breath makes the pressure worse.
Every heartbeat sends a dull, throbbing awareness through the base.
What's worse when she can she is able to clench some type of weird muscle down there…
Her legs press together out of reflex—
but that only makes it worse.
The tension sharpens, sliding the tip against the spandex, dragging heat across skin that shouldn’t be there.
Her hand twitches—wants to adjust, to hide, to press it down—
But touching it might make it real.
So she stays Frozen.
“I’m in the kitchen,” Kayla calls out—low, tight, like she’s hoping they won’t come looking.