POV: Tyler
The room feels off.
Not just quiet—wrong.
Emma’s tail is curled around her thighs, like it’s trying to hug her, but her arms are tighter. She’s crying. Not loudly. Just… constantly. A leak that won’t shut off. Her leotard is too big now, she looks like a small creature with the tail attached. The left strap is off her shoulder, exposing soft, flushed skin and the edge of her nipple. She doesn’t fix it.
Mom’s kneeling on the floor, hands limp in her lap. Her legs are trembling, but she doesn’t move. The soft pink leotard clings to her.
Dad's stands stiffly, lace apron rising and falling with his breath. One hand starts to lift… reaching out to Emma but then drops.
And Kayla?
She’s staring at him like she’s about to burn him alive.
POV: Shared (Room-Wide)
Kayla’s breathing hard now.
Her fists are clenched at her sides, knuckles pale. Her leotard clings to her like it was painted on, and the thick bulge in front is no longer subtle—it’s impossible to ignore. Her legs shift once, and the tights pull tighter, dragging the shaft sideways.
She flinches.
Then glares.
“This is all your fault.”
Her voice cuts through the silence like glass.
Rick doesn’t answer. His hands twitch near the hem of his skirt.
“You brought the game,” she says. “You set it up. You said it’d be fun.”
Her eyes flash toward Emma—curled up, tiny, sobbing into her knees.
“She’s three feet tall, Rick!”
Emma’s head lifts slightly. Her eyes are red. Her tail twitches.
“You did this to her.”
Kayla’s voice cracks, but she keeps going.
“You’re the reason everyone turned into a ballerina doll. And you gave me this!”
She grabs the front of her tights, yanks the fabric outward.
Everyone sees it.
The shaft. Thick, flushed, bent against the inside of the leotard. The tights outline everything—the head, the veins, the curve up toward her belly button. Beneath it, the tight stretch of balls straining against the gusset.
She lets go.
The fabric snaps back. The shaft twitches.
“That’s not just any dick,” she says. “That’s yours.”
Rick stumbles back, hands lifting slightly, like he’s trying to defend himself—then freezes when he hears his own voice whisper back, too soft, too automatic:
“Zis one… did not mean for zis to happen…”
“You have mine,” she says, voice shaking with rage. “You’re walking around in a skirt with my vagina under it. And I’m stuck with your... your old man thing.”
“Zis—zis one does not know ‘ow it works,” Rick says, his voice trembling as the accent warps each word. His hands pull the front hem of his skirt down, as if covering the truth might make it unspoken. “Ze game… it.. I did not choose your part, mademoiselle—I do not even know ‘ow to….”
She points at him. Her whole body is trembling now.
“How am I supposed to live like this? What happens when we leave this house, huh? I can’t hide this!”
She grabs herself again—clutches it through the tights, the shape shifting under her palm. Her eyes shine with humiliation.
“This isn’t just a change. This is a theft. You stole part of me. And I didn’t even get to say no.”
Rick opens his mouth. Then closes it. A second later, words spill out—not by choice:
“Zis one… zere is shame, oui, but I cannot undo what ze board ‘as assigned. I am… I am sorry.”
He clamps his lips shut. Swallows. Then whispers, in his real voice:
“I didn’t want this.”
Kayla shakes her head, breathing hard. Then something behind her breaks.
A sharp gasp.
Emma.
Her leotard sags, her nipple now fully exposed, and her tail is twitching violently against the floor. She stares at Kayla.
And the look on her face—horror, heartbreak—undoes something in Kayla too.
“I can’t stay here,” she mutters.
She turns.
She walks straight to the door. Opens it.
Cold air floods the room.
Heather stands suddenly. “Kayla—no—”
“I don’t care what the board wants,” she snaps, one foot outside. “I’m not playing.”
Rick takes a step forward. “It’s not safe—”
Kayla spins.
“I don’t give a shit. You’re the last person who gets to tell me what’s safe.”
She points at her leotard again.
“This is your dick, Rick. You gave it to me. So I’m taking it for a walk.”
She hesitates. Just a breath. Like she might break down or turn back.
Then her voice drops, low and bitter.
“I don’t know if I’ll come back.”
She steps outside. Bare feet hit the porch. The night swallows her.
The door slams.
No one follows.
No card flies.
The board glows.
Waiting.
Emma shifts.
She doesn’t say anything—just rises slowly, wobbling on her feet, the sagging leotard hanging off her frame like it might slip at any moment. Her tail drags behind her in a limp curl.
She stumbles across the room in silence.
Heather is still standing—arms at her sides, frozen where she tried to stop Kayla. Her breath is shallow. Her eyes unfocused.
POV: Heather
The door is still vibrating in her ears. Kayla’s gone. Just… gone. Into the night, with Rick’s body parts and a rage no one could stop.
Heather hasn’t moved. She doesn’t think she can.
She’s still wearing a leotard. Still on display. But none of that matters now.
Emma’s tiny arms are lifting toward her.
And Heather—she can’t breathe. She can’t think. She should have stopped this sooner. Should have screamed. Fought. Burned the board. Anything.
But she didn’t.
Now her daughter is kid-sized and barely dressed. Her husband doesn’t have a penis anymore and Kayla has one she never asked for.
And Tyler—God, she doesn’t even know what’s going on behind his eyes. He’s been so silent since they teleported back to the board.
All she knows is Emma is asking to be held. And she doesn’t know if she’s strong enough to do even that.
But her body moves before she can decide.
POV: Shared (Room-Wide)
Instinctively.
She bends and scoops Emma up into her arms—one arm under the legs, one across the back, pulling her close in a motion so practiced it breaks something inside the room.
Emma’s face presses into her mother’s neck. Her arms circle around Heather’s shoulders. One of her breasts presses soft against Heather’s collarbone, barely covered.
The tail curls upward and around her mother’s back, slow and protective.
Heather holds her close. Tight.
Not like a partner.
Not like a peer.
Like a daughter. Like her baby.
She doesn’t say anything.
But she doesn’t let go.
POV: Tyler
I shift.
The tights pull tighter.
My shaft twitches. I feel it against the leotard—hot, restrained, present.
But my brain?
It’s somewhere else now.
What if I got soft instead?
What if I had to sit like Rick does—legs together, nothing between them?
What would that feel like?
The question disgusts me.
But it also sticks.
Like the board already heard it.
Like it’s already thinking about how to answer.
My fingers dig into the couch cushion. The leotard presses against me. My thighs clench.
And the words slip out.
I don’t mean to say them.
They just happen.
The thought twists in my gut. It feels wrong. But it also feels… easy. Like giving up would feel good.
“What if I liked it?”
For a second, no one breathes.
Then—a sharp click.
The dice lift from the tray.
Float.
And roll.