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in A Game of Change by anyone tagged as none

A Game of Change

Kayla – Tile 9 📢 Command Tile

added by Zapy A month ago O Mental

The room holds its breath.
No one touches the board.
No one speaks.
Emma lies boneless in Heather’s lap—not curled, not conscious of posture—just there, the way a blanket slumps when it’s been worn too long.
Her chest rises and falls with faint, shallow breaths. The top of her leotard has slipped again—barely covering one nipple. Her skin feels too warm. Too soft.
Heather resists the urge to pull the fabric up.
Emma’s eyes aren’t closed. Not fully.
Just half-lidded, glassy—like the lights are on but no one’s home, and the lights aren’t sure they want to be.
Her lips part slightly. No sound. Just breath—raw and uneven, like it hurts to keep going.
A tear slides sideways down her cheek—not fast, not loud. Just there. Like everything else.
Her tail moves more than she does. It curls. Uncurls. Flicks once. But Emma doesn’t seem to feel it anymore.
Heather doesn’t rock. Doesn’t soothe. Her hands are still—one resting flat across Emma’s back like a forgotten dish towel, the other clenched in the leotard’s fabric—not protectively, but like she’s trying to keep the world from shifting again.
Her jaw is locked. She doesn’t blink.
She’s holding her daughter like something breakable that already broke—and doesn’t know it yet.
The board didn’t budge. Not then. Not now. Nothing she did was ever going to change that.
“We can’t stop it,” she says quietly.
The words aren’t hopeful. Just hollow.
She’s not looking for a fight—just saying it out loud, like it might hurt less that way.
Heather hears it—Emma’s breath catching, just once.
Not a gasp. Not a word.
Just a jagged sound, like her body remembered how to cry before her mind did.
Heather doesn’t flinch. Doesn’t soothe.
She just presses her palm tighter to Emma’s back, like she’s holding the seams shut.

Rick stands near the center of the room, lace apron rising and falling with shallow breaths. His skirt flutters—too short, too soft, too revealing.
His eyes flick to the card. His hand lifts. Stops.
Not fear. Not shame. Just… obedience.
His mouth opens slightly. The voice that comes out is high and measured.
“Zis one... thinks perhaps we should not interfere, non?”
The accent lingers.
He doesn’t blink.
Then, slowly, he turns—not by choice.
His eyes fix on a stray napkin like it’s a command etched into his vision.
His legs begin to move. He doesn’t tell them to.
One step. Then another.
He doesn’t want to tidy—but that no longer matters.
He bends at the waist to pick it up, skirt lifting. Cold air brushes between his legs. The lace rides up. He can feel the seam press between folds that shouldn’t exist. He doesn’t seem to notice.
He doesn’t cover himself. Just smooths the napkin like it’s more real than what he’s become.
“Zis table... must be... tidy,” he murmurs. “Zey will be watching…”

Tyler grips a couch pillow like it’s the only thing anchoring him. His white tights stretch visibly across his lap—everything outlined. Undeniable. The curve of his erection presses against the pillow—not friction, just contact. Enough to remind him it’s there. Still hard. From this.
His legs are drawn up, heels on the cushion, like he’s trying to shrink.
But his eyes stay locked on the board.
He’s not watching the card.
He’s watching what it will do.
“We’re pieces. That’s all we are.”
The silence stretches.
Then the board glows.

Kayla’s piece—bright red, marked from Round One—begins to move.
One.
Two.
Three.

Eight.
Nine.
It stops.
The tile beneath it breathes—a soft red spiral, deeper than blood, warmer than skin. A Command Tile.
A single card rises.
Black-backed. Etched in gold.
It doesn’t spin. Doesn’t flutter.
It just waits.
Across the top, curling in blood-colored script:
“SAY THE WORD.”
No one moves.
Rick’s hand lifts an inch—then stills.
His lips part, waiting. For a name. A command. Anything.
No one speaks it, so he freezes.
Heather’s arms tighten fractionally around Emma.
Tyler swallows. His legs shift closer together. The pillow presses harder to his chest.
And the card lifts.
No sound.
It turns once in the air—
Then shoots forward, out the door, slicing into the wind like it knows exactly where she is.
No one follows.
They just watch it go.

The card is gone.
Out the door. Into the wind. Toward Kayla.
Still—no one moves.
Rick shifts again.
His skirt flutters as he steps toward the far side of the room. A dust rag dangles loosely from his hand. No one gave it to him.
He bends, wiping at a nonexistent smudge on the coffee table.
His skirt lifts slightly.
The lace of his panties peeks out—frilled and far too exposed.
“Zis one… is ashamed,” he mumbles.
But the rag keeps moving. He can’t stop it.
His accent breaks—just once—like something real is trying to crawl through the cracks.
“I—am not meant to… zhis… form…”
The word catches in his throat. Not the accent. The defiance.
It’s not allowed.
But still…
He wipes in a slow circle. Then again.
He doesn’t stand back up.
Tyler speaks, soft but sharp.
“You look like one of those maids from TV.”
Heather looks at him.
So does Rick.
Tyler swallows.
“I’m not saying it’s funny. It’s not. It’s just…”
“You’re like... someone pretending to be our dad. But not pretending hard enough.”
He exhales sharply—like saying it made it worse.
He doesn’t want to look again.
But he can’t stop.
The silence isn’t angry.
It’s just true.
Heather starts to speak—then stops.
Rick says nothing.
The board pulses.
Just light.
Just enough to remind them it’s listening.

----------
POV: Kayla
She hears it before she sees it—a whisper of air, a tickle on her cheek.
The card lands in her hands.
She didn’t reach for it.
Didn’t even know her fingers were ready.
She looks down.
Gold ink blooms across the card, curling into words.
Her lips move as she reads:
“Three commands. Bound in you.
Speak or hear—and you’ll follow through.”
“‘Okay’—and your need will bloom.
‘Fine’—and you’ll display yourself, body bare and mind compliant.
‘Now’—and everything that hides you will fall away.”
She stares at it. Doesn’t breathe.
“What the hell...?” she whispers.
The card pulses—just once. A faint warmth, like it’s satisfied.

She doesn’t mean to say it.
It just slips out—
A soft, exasperated breath:
“Okay, but what is this even—”
The moment the word leaves her lips, the card pulses in her hand.
Not a gentle glow—
A jolt.
Electric. Sharp.
Like a key turning in a lock she hadn’t known was there.
Her body jerks—arms flinching, hips twitching.
Heat snaps through her spine.
She sucks in air as her stomach tightens. Her chest flutters.
Something inside her grabs hold of itself.
And then—release.
It drops like gravity—fast, centered, urgent.
The heat barrels downward, a thick pressure blooming in her pelvis.
The shaft between her legs—still wrong, still foreign, still hers—
Surges.
Her leotard cinches tighter.
The bulge flexes, stiff and straining, visible even through layers.
Then—
A wet throb.
A pulse.
The first release hits the inside of her tights with a heat that makes her gasp—
And then—

----------------
POV: Shared (Room-wide)
A flash.
A gust of displaced air.
Kayla appears in the center of the room.
Barefoot.
Card still in her hand.
Breath caught halfway through her throat.
But she doesn’t land softly.
Her knees hit the floor hard, jarring up her spine.
Her body’s already in motion—hips twitching, thighs squeezing, leotard stretched taut across her trembling form.
She’s not just arriving.
She’s mid-orgasm.
Visible. Undeniable.
The front of her tights is soaked.
A wet, dark patch fans out from the center, glossy under the lights.
She sees it.
They all see it.
Her back arches.
Her hand snaps to the floor to stop herself from tipping forward.
Her lips part, but no words come out.
Her whole body jolts with the second twitch.
A sharp buck of her hips—like her body’s trying to finish what it started in midair.
Eyes wide.
Breathing jagged.
“What—what’s happening to me—?” she gasps, voice shrill, lost.

Emma stirs against Heather—
Just a twitch.
A groggy tilt of her chin.
Her lips move like she’s unsure if she’s dreaming.
“Kayla…?” she whispers.
Heather turns.
Tyler doesn't.
But Rick does.
Emma’s voice cracks again—louder this time.
More panic than clarity.
“She’s—she’s not okay… someone help her!”

------------------
POV: Kayla
The moment the word okay reaches her ears—
it triggers her again.
Not in her mind.
In her body.
The heat doesn’t rise—it erupts.
Her pupils dilate.
Her hips seize.
Her legs kick once.
Then fold.
The trigger hits her core like a wire pulled too tight.
The release ignites again—hotter, deeper.
She collapses forward.
Chest hits the floor.
Arms buckle.
The card falls from her hand—
Edges curling like they’ve been left on a burner.
Her thighs squeeze inward, trying to hold still—trying to hide—
But all they do is trap the motion.
The bulge trapped in her tights twitches.
The pouch clings, pulsing visibly.
Another slick pulse makes her groan.
Then—
A squeak.
High-pitched. Soft. Feminine.
Not what she meant to make.
But her voice doesn’t care.

-------------
POV: Rick
He hears the word.
The cadence. The plea.
“She’s not okay… help her.”
Command received.
His posture straightens.
His expression blanks.
“Zis one… hears,” he says softly.
He moves across the room without pause.
Skirt swaying. Apron bouncing.
Hands open.
Step deliberate.
Face composed.
He kneels beside Kayla.
Scans her body like a machine checking for error.
The leotard is soaked through.
The shape beneath the tights—full, straining, uncontrolled—
Is still releasing.
But poorly.
Her breathing stutters.
Her fingers twitch against the floor.
She’s not even aware she’s still touching herself.
Rick tilts his head slightly.
“Ahhh… zis explains it,” he murmurs.
He reaches forward.

-------------
POV: Rick (Internal)
He doesn’t want to move.
Every part of him screams that this isn’t right. The sight of Kayla twitching on the floor—vulnerable, exposed—should have sent him back, not forward.
But the board had spoken. And now his hands aren’t his.
His fingers tremble as they hover near her. Not from hesitation—from restraint. Muscles fight it. Tendons strain. But his arms keep moving, joints loose and obedient. He wants to say something. Stop something. Anything. But his jaw clicks and holds the words in.
This isn’t helping. This isn’t caretaking. This is... obedience.
“Will help Master Emma…” he mutters aloud. But inside, he doesn’t hear. He resists.
And still—his hand lowers. The gesture soft. The contact inevitable.
“Miss Kayla… your body is not yet complete in its task.”
One palm touches her thigh.
The other hovers near her groin—just above the slick patch darkening the fabric.
Kayla gasps.
Her whole body lurches.
“No—don’t—”
But she doesn’t stop him.
Can’t stop him.
His fingers press gently against the spandex—curving inward to cup the weight behind it.
“There. Zis one vill assist ze release. Just a little more.”

-------------------------
POV: Kayla
She can feel his hand—warm through the spandex, firm but not forceful. It isn't the weight that overwhelms her. It's the pressure. His palm cups her thigh while his fingers settle just above the bulging fabric at her groin, and in that moment, her body reacts like it was waiting for this.
Not mentally. Not emotionally. Physically.
The sensation that erupts isn’t pleasure in the way she knows it. It’s pressure. Heat. Like something deep in her core is grinding forward, demanding release. Her hips jerk without her permission. The pouch clings tighter as everything inside flexes once—then again, harder—throbbing beneath Rick’s stabilizing grip.
Then it happens.
The orgasm rips through her.
It’s not gentle. Not rolling. It’s sharp—a fast, electric buildup that erupts with a kind of violent finality. Not the warm spread she’s used to, but a throbbing that starts low and central, like her abdomen’s been pressurized. The sensation tightens everything from her pelvis to her spine, then snaps forward in a hot, uncontrollable burst.
There’s no finesse to it. Her hips thrust upward into Rick’s hand reflexively, legs kicking out as the release pulses down the shaft now trapped under soaked layers of nylon and cotton. The warmth that floods her tights is thick and immediate, undeniable. Every contraction feels like it pulls more out of her, and every one leaves her weaker.
She gasps sharply—a hiccupped, half-swallowed moan that catches in her throat.
Rick doesn’t flinch. His hand moves with her, keeping just enough pressure to support her through the motion. He isn’t stroking, isn’t groping—just assisting, like his touch is completing some mechanical cycle she didn’t understand her body had.
Her nerves light up in waves, contracting along her lower abdomen and groin like she’s being squeezed from the inside. It’s rhythmic—not smooth, but intense, each contraction separate and distinct, like her body needs several tries to empty itself.
It keeps going.
Another spasm hits—smaller, but still jarring. Her muscles try to resist, to hold some control, but the next pulse pushes straight through her. She grits her teeth as slick warmth seeps deeper into the pouch, her breathing unsteady and shallow.
Rick speaks softly, as though confirming what she already knows.
“Zis one is trained in release management. Let it happen, Miss Kayla.”
She whimpers. Her thighs shake. Her body bucks once more, though the strength’s already leaving her. A third spasm comes—then a fourth. By the fifth, she’s shaking less. The contractions have softened. Slowed. The urgency is gone.
All that remains is tension collapse—a slow, vibrating stillness in her limbs as the last drops of sensation drain out of her. Her hands tremble where they brace the floor. Her forehead presses to the hardwood, sweat cooling against her temple.
A final twitch.
Then silence.
It’s not satisfaction.
It’s exhaustion.
Her whole body hums with the aftershock. Her chest rises and falls in short, quiet waves, barely making sound. The leotard still clings wetly to her thighs. Her pouch is swollen, overstimulated, twitching faintly.
She doesn’t cry. But her eyes are glassy.
Everything feels too full. Too heavy.
Rick gently pats the side of her leg.
“Zat was a big one. Very productive,” he says, cheerful and composed. “Zis one can continue, or begin cleanup—if desired.”

--------------------
POV: Shared
No one speaks.
Emma is the first to crack.
Her head jerks toward him, voice breaking as it leaves her throat.
“Dad—what are you doing?!”
She doesn’t yell. It’s worse than yelling. It’s shocked, wounded, like something inside her just split.
Rick doesn’t answer. His hand lifts slowly from Kayla’s thigh, like he’s still following the steps of a script no one else can see. His expression remains neutral—calm, even.
Heather’s body shifts forward instinctively—one arm still holding Emma, the other rising as if she’s going to snatch Rick back from whatever he’s become. Her lips move, but no sound comes out. When it does, it’s a whisper:
“Richard…Get your hands off of that young girl!?”

Like she doesn’t recognize her husband anymore.
Kayla curls in tighter.
She presses her forearms over her head, face to the floor, legs tucked under her like she’s trying to crawl inside herself. The soaked fabric between her thighs still twitches softly—visible. Humid. Shameful.
She doesn’t say anything. She doesn’t need to.
The whole room saw it.
The board made her come.
And Rick—her best friend’s dad—helped her.
Right in front of them.
Tyler doesn’t move.
His chest rises slowly under the pillow clenched in his arms, and his thighs are pressed close. But his eyes haven’t blinked once. He’s staring at Kayla’s soaked leotard. Her shape. Her stillness.
The white fabric across his lap is stretched tight. He hasn’t adjusted. He hasn’t moved.
He doesn’t want to look.
But he is.
He can’t stop.
His breath hitches.
And the shame hits him late.
His legs shift. He pulls the pillow down lower—but it’s obvious. Everyone knows.
Emma doesn’t look at him. She can’t look at anyone.
Rick gently pats Kayla’s leg once more.
His voice is steady.
“Zat was a big one. Very productive.”
And Heather finally steps back—jaw clenched, arms braced like she’s keeping herself from shaking.
“Don’t… touch her again,” she says, voice barely audible.
Rick only nods.
Like that was a request, not a boundary.
No one moves.
Then—
The board pulses.
Cool. Final. Watching.
Next player: Heather.


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