POV: Shared (Room-wide)
The glow from the board hasn’t faded.
But no one’s looking at it.
Rick stands near the center of the living room—hairy legs pale under the hem of his skirt, arms still hanging at his sides. The skirt doesn’t quite cover the tops of his thighs. Every time he shifts, it shifts—just enough to flash more skin, to hint at the soft white cotton between his legs. The apron hugs his waist like it was tailored for his and butt. The frilly apron clings to his front. His male chest rises and falls once.
Emma’s near the couch, standing over the board table, arms crossed over her chest. Kayla stands a few inchs beside her, unmoving.
Heather hasn’t moved from where she knelt earlier, still crouched by the edge of the rug like she might spring up—or collapse.
Tyler sitting on the couch by himself, eyes flick from the board… to the skirt… then back again. He doesn’t blink much.
No one breathes. No one speaks.
All eyes soak in their father/husband still Rick…. They think?
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POV: Emma
He isn’t standing like Dad.
He isn’t moving like Dad.
The person in front of me is wearing a maid costume—black and white, short-skirted, with lace brushing his thighs like he belongs in a cartoon. And the worst part? He doesn’t even look uncomfortable.
His hands are folded neatly in front of the apron. His posture is straight and punctual.
My voice catches. I shouldn’t say that word. Not with how he’s standing. Not in that outfit.
“Dad?” I whisper. But it sounds wrong even as I say it.
He doesn’t answer.
“Rick?” Mom tries. “Are you okay?”
His chin lifts slightly. The voice that answers is smooth, dainty, and utterly wrong.
“Oui, Madame Heather. Zis one is quite well. Is there something you require, ma maîtresse?”
(Yes, Madam Heather. This one is quite well. Is there something you require, my mistress?)
Heather doesn’t respond. Her mouth opens, but no words come. Her knuckles tighten on the carpet as if trying to grip something solid—something normal. But there’s nothing. Just lace, and voice, and her husband calling her maîtresse.
Then, like something cracks just behind his eyes, he mutters—still in that same lilting French tone:
“Mon dieu... I cannot stop. Zis is not me. I did not mean to say zat.”
He swallows. “Why do I sound... like zis?”
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POV: Kayla
Oh god.
He’s not pretending.
That voice isn’t his. But the panic behind it? That is.
He’s in there.
Buried under lace and forced politeness.
And whatever’s taken hold of his tongue... isn’t letting go.
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POV: Emma
He turns toward me slowly.
“Or... Master Emma, perhaps?”
“Zis one awaits your command.”
His lips press together after the words. I see the flicker of something behind his eyes—regret, maybe. Or disbelief. Like he’s just heard himself say something disgusting.
“Zis one?” he whispers to himself. “I—I am not zis one. I am Rick. I am... your father.”
Then louder again—automatically: “But I am ‘ere to serve, Master Emma. Anything you desire.”
He says it like it’s true.
Like he’s been saying it his whole life.
But I can see his jaw twitch after. Like he wants to bite the words back.
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POV: Emma
I don’t even mean to ask.
It just comes out.
“Do you still... do you still have your...?”
I gesture vaguely toward his hips. I can’t say it.
He doesn’t hesitate.
He bends slightly, fingers dainty on the hem of his skirt.
He lifts it.
The fabric rises with a soft rustle.
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POV: Tyler
Tyler’s eyes don’t move. They stay fixed—wide, unblinking. His legs are crossed tightly now, moving a pillow awkwardly in his lap.
The frills catch the light.
What’s underneath isn’t graphic—but it’s intimate. The panties cling like a second skin, the seam pulling into a obvious cameltoe divide. Every fold, every absence, is outlined.
White ruffled panties. Seam drawn tight. Flat. Pressed. Empty.
No bulge. No weight.
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POV: Emma
My stomach flips.
“What happened to it?” I ask. “Where did it go?”
He exhales. The skirt’s still lifted in one hand. The voice that comes out is smooth, light, wrong.
“Zis one... does not know.”
“It was ‘ere. And zen it was not.”
“Zis in ze hallway, and...”
His brow twitches. “Zere was a....”
He shifts slightly, adjusting the hem.
“No bulge. No tightness. Just...”
He hesitates. “A slit. Between zis one’s legs.”
“Zis one does not know where ze original part went.”
Then, with sudden urgency behind the accent:
“I should not be able to say zis. Mon dieu—I did not want to say zat out loud.”
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POV: Kayla
I’m already looking at her when our eyes meet.
She doesn’t speak right away. Just… blinks. Swallows.
She moves right next to me, her lips part like she’s going to ask something—but she doesn’t.
Instead, she whispers, “You said the game gave you a dick.”
I nod once. Slow. “Yeah.”
Her voice is barely above a whisper.
“When?”
I glance down. Not at myself. Just away.
I don’t want to think about how it feels. The dangle, the direction, the presence. Connecting the dots my mind immediately tells me I might have a 40 year old wrinkly balls down there…
“…Right after I landed on his tile.”
That’s all.
Neither of us says anything else.
We don’t have to.
Her eyes flick once toward Rick.
Then to the floor.
Then back to me.
The air gets heavier. Thicker.
I feel it too. The idea settling in. Quiet. Heavy.
What I have now…
It didn’t come from nowhere.
And we both know exactly where it did.
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POV: Rick
“I did not choose this,” I say suddenly.
My voice still rolls the words with softness, but the core is flat. Me.
“Zis is not who I am. Zis... is not what I would wear, mon dieu.”
But then, like a cord yanked tight inside my throat, the script returns:
“But if Master Emma desires further clarification... I am ‘appy to demonstrate.”
He doesn’t move. But the offer hangs there—too real. He’s not even sure if he’d resist. Not if she asked.
God. I can’t stop.
Not unless they stop talking to me.
The glow shifts.
It sharpens.
EMMA
Her name etches into the board—deep and pulsing.
The dice lift gently into the air.
“Next player: EMMA. Please roll.”
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POV: Emma
I don’t want to.
I’m still holding my leotard tighter around myself like it’ll help me forget what he just said.
But the dice hover—warm, waiting.
I take them.
They hit the tray.
Bounce.
Land.
Tile 10 – Body.
The card rises before I can speak. Rounded edges, pale light, gold-etched back.
It opens in the air.
“That which towers shall now fall.
Your height is pride—now strip it all.
Let strength feel small, and scale recede—
Shrink to meet your deepest need.”
“What the hell does that mean—”
Then I feel it.
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POV: Shared (Emma Focus)
It starts in her knees.
Not pain. Not pressure. Just absence.
The bones shorten first—femurs pulling inward like cords tightening at both ends. Her kneecaps shift upward with each second. The muscle over them softens, bunches, and recedes.
Her thighs narrow. The volume drains out. Flesh slips loose inside her tights as the curves fade from behind her knees to her hips. She sways once, trying to adjust.
Her pelvis contracts. Hip bones draw inward. The taut waistband of her leotard loses its grip, sagging instantly at her sides. The V-cut that once nestled snugly against her flat pussy now droops forward, air slipping between her lips and the fabric that no longer touches her properly.
The tail flares for balance—still the same length, now exaggerated in scale.
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POV: Tyler
From the couch, Tyler leans forward—barely. Half an inch. Like he doesn’t mean to. His eyes aren’t on Emma’s face. They follow the leotard—the way it slips, clings, exposes. His thighs tense. He shifts a pillow into his lap. His face doesn’t change, but his ears flush red. He knows he shouldn’t be looking. He can’t stop. But he’s watching it slip.
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POV: Shared (Emma Focus)
The base shifts beneath the loose leotard, tugging it backward and exposing more of her pale and naked spine, even the start of her buttcrack.
Her spine collapses downward, one vertebra at a time. She gasps.
Her torso pulls shorter—ribs compress, the space between bust and waist shrinking by inches. The shelf of her breasts—already modest—shrinks beneath the leotard, causing the fabric to wrinkle, then loosen forward.
The armholes stretch wide, and the neckline slips off one shoulder, baring the top curve of her left breast and her now-visible pink nipple.
Her other nipple catchs faintly on the slick inside lining of the leotard—each movement dragging it in slow friction, making her acutely aware of her exposure. She grabs at the cloth to hold it up—but her fingers are shorter now, trembling, barely able to gather it.
Her tights have collapsed entirely. The waistband slipped past her narrowing hips seconds ago, now pooled loosely at her ankles. Her exposed lower half is nearly bare, save for the oversized leotard clinging to her belly and lower back like a crumpled towel.
Three feet. Maybe a little under.
Still Emma. Still human. But barely filling the clothes meant for her fifteen seconds ago.
Her tail curls instinctively around her thigh, wrapping to obscure what the tights used to protect. The fur brushes lightly across the bare skin of her inner thigh.
She looks up.
Kayla’s face feels miles away. Emma has to tilt her head back just to meet her eyes.
And for a moment—
Scared.
Angry.
And just small.
Exposed.
Breathing harder than she wants to be.
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POV: Heather
Heather doesn’t move.
She’s still on her knees, hands limp in her lap, watching her daughter collapse into something smaller, softer, more breakable by the second.
Emma’s leotard sags, her voice gone, her body barely filling what she wore minutes ago. And Heather can’t do anything but kneel there and watch it happen.
She should’ve thrown the board across the room. Should’ve pulled her daughter away the second the dice left her hand. Should’ve screamed. Fought.
But she didn’t.
Now Emma’s looking up, chest rising too fast, too shallow, eyes wide in a face that barely looks her age anymore.
Heather whispers it before she can stop herself—too soft, too late:
“I don’t know how to protect you.”
It feels like a confession.
Like a failure written in breath.
No one answers.
The board doesn’t care.
The glow shifts.
Another name appears.
“Next player: Kayla.”