“It didn’t go like I expected.”

Larry snorted at the memory of his last Confession, but even a day later, he couldn’t do more than snort. He was just too tired: his body bruised from last night’s game, and his pride bruised even more. Larry had had two whole weeks to break a shrimpy little f- figure skater, but instead DeVere had half-broken him...and now he got the chance to finish the job.

Larry didn’t doubt the figure skater would try. Sure, he’d only mocked Larry in Detroit, but that was because he’d been lying low and taking notes while he waited for his chance to make the rules.

Larry wanted to feel angrier, but all he could manage was a sort of morose grumpiness. He’d gotten up at 5:00 to prepare for his flight; but the Life Swappers had still caught up with him before he finished breakfast, and he hadn’t had a moment to himself since then. They’d even flown with him.

Meanwhile, Jimmy had flown back to Boston last night Alone. He greeted them at his practice rink with his usual over-the-top enthusiasm and hugged Larry like a long-lost brother. Larry bore this with a grim, determined smile. It was the most physical contact he’d had with Jimmy yet, but he knew there’d be plenty to come.

DeVere ushered Larry inside, showed him around, and finally introduced him to his figure skating gear. It consisted mostly of skates: a really weird pair of skates. They felt too light; they weren’t stiff enough to protect Larry’s ankles; and what the hell did he need with curved blades, anyway? As far as Larry could tell, that just made them harder to balance on. Jimmy said you had to skate on the “sweet spots” of the blades, but Larry didn’t believe him at first. He thought DeVere was just trying to make a child’s sport seem harder than it was.

Then they got out on the ice. Between the sweet spots and the toe picks, Larry started to miss his hockey shorts pretty quickly. He could have used the extra padding when he fell—four or five times in the first hour alone.

Then DeVere started him on the spins and jumps.

Larry didn’t know much about figure skating, but he was pretty sure he shouldn’t be learning things called “flips” and “loops” and for God’s sake “death drops” on his very first day of practice. The names weren’t literal, but it didn’t take long for him to wish they were; he’d have felt better dead. His muscles ached from moving in new ways, and DeVere hadn’t even allowed him a proper warmup.

Yep, he’d been right in his suspicions. DeVere knew Larry had targeted him in Detroit, and now he was returning the favor with interest. Besides pushing Larry too hard, the kid never missed an opportunity to touch him, constantly adjusting his position and “helping him up” whenever he fell—as if Larry couldn’t do that much on his own. All the physical contact freaked him out, and it worried him that a guy half his size could pull him to his feet with no apparent effort. How did DeVere pack so much power into those puny little muscles?

By the time they broke for lunch, Larry’s own muscles felt as weak as Jimmy’s looked.

“I’ve ordered us some catering,” his host announced, leading him back to the break room. Larry groaned, imagining another round of low-fat salads; then smiled when he saw the table stacked with sandwiches, crackers, and energy drinks. “Thanks, DeVere,” he muttered, easing himself into a chair.

“No problem.” Jimmy sat opposite him, crossing his arms on the table and leaning in. “So, Szymanski, is this what you expected...from figure skating?”

Larry glanced up quickly and caught a bright, hard glint in DeVere’s eyes. He could almost believe the kid was mocking his Confession, but that was impossible. The Closet was soundproofed and the camera recorded to an encrypted file that could only be decrypted by the studio. The Life Swappers themselves couldn’t view it right now.

Still, damned if Jimmy didn’t look like he knew every thought in Larry’s head.

Larry glanced down at his sandwich, then cursed himself for breaking eye contact and looked up again. By now, of course, Jimmy had gone all friendly and innocent.

“Not really,” Larry said carefully. “But it’s all right. I’ll catch on in a day or two.”

“I hope you do,” DeVere’s expression never changed, but Larry caught the old, familiar hint of mockery in his voice. “I don’t want you to embarrass yourself—or me—when we skate our exhibition.”

“Wh-” Larry began, but Jimmy rode straight over him.

“I’ve always wanted to try pairs, but it’s against the rules for two men to compete as a team. Fortunately, I was able to arrange an informal event on short notice.”

“Now wait-”

“I’ve recruited enough friends to fill out an hour-long show, and the two of us will be the grand finale.” Jimmy smiled sweetly. “It’ll be a little like your pickup game, only with sequins.”

He had him. Goddammit, he had him.

Then he had him some more, back in the rink, when he began to teach Larry his lifts and throws. The only upside to this, as far as Larry could tell, was that DeVere wanted to skate the “lady’s role.” That was less embarrassing than the alternative, and it gave Larry the opportunity to fumble his moves on purpose and drop the little prick.

At least, that’s what he anticipated. DeVere turned out to be even better at figure skating falls than hockey falls. No matter what his position in the air, he always landed on his feet like a cat. And if Larry dropped him on purpose, DeVere managed to take him down even as he himself stayed upright.

The last time Larry pulled that trick, Jimmy used it as an excuse to take a break and show him the costume he had to wear for the exhibition. There were sequins, all right. They practically dripped off the shoulders of his—would you even call that thing a shirt? At least it was black, though; the skintight lime green pants practically singed his eyeballs.

“My costume is almost identical to yours,” DeVere said, patting the fabric appreciatively, “but the pants are hot pink. I thought that color would be a little much for you.”

Larry got the message: if he didn’t shape up, he would end up wearing hot pink, probably head to toe. The thought alone made him want to hurl. He stopped dropping DeVere on purpose and started paying more attention to his directions.

About mid-afternoon, Jimmy hiked the training up another level, introducing Larry to their full routine and running through short sequences of moves.

The first time he heard the music, all Larry could think was, Thank God it’s not Lady Gaga. DeVere had actually selected a rock track by a band Larry’s nephew liked. He would have spotted them a few points for that even if they hadn’t sounded all right on their own. Yeah, he thought he could deal with this music.

His only problem was with the opening lyrics. As the day wore on and Larry wore down, the words took on a whole new meaning for him: “I think I’m drowning, asphyxiated.” Larry did feel like he was drowning - in his own sweat—and he could hardly hear the music over his panting.

When DeVere finally called it a day, Larry slumped in the booth and pressed the heels of his hands against his eyes. He’d never let anyone else know, but he felt a tear or two back there. God, how humiliating.

A thump sounded beside him and Jimmy’s arm slid around his shoulders. “Hey there, Larry. Are you okay?”

Larry scrubbed his eyes as if wiping away tiredness, then turned to glare.

Jimmy looked every bit as sympathetic as he sounded, but that didn’t mean shit. He glanced at the camera behind him, turned back to Larry, and cupped his free hand beside his mouth. Then he leaned in so no one else could read his lips. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

Larry nodded warily and Jimmy dropped his arms.

“Tomorrow will be easier,” he said. “Your biggest problem today was that you’d gotten too used to moving like a hockey player; your body didn’t want to adapt. But you’ll get over that if you just stop resisting. Remember, Szymanski, Life Swap is all about learning something new. Let yourself open up a little. Put yourself in my hands, and I promise everything will turn out all right in the end.”

It was just the scenario Larry had planned for DeVere in Detroit: breaking him down and reducing him to tears, then comforting him and promising to make everything better. Either the kid had come up with an identical plan on his own or, more likely, he’d figured out Larry’s plan and was throwing it back in his face.

The sad thing was, it didn’t even matter which guess was the right one. DeVere was the tougher man, and Larry couldn’t deny it any longer. Now he had to play by the tougher man’s rules, and if he wanted to salvage even a scrap of dignity, he had to play nicely. “Sure, DeVere,” he muttered.

Jimmy slapped him on the back. “Great! Now let’s get some real food. There’s a fantastic Thai restaurant right around the corner; I eat there all the time.”

They got back to Jimmy’s apartment around 9:00. It was ridiculously early by Larry’s standards, but Jimmy said he needed plenty of sleep after the day’s workout.

The Life Swap crew stayed with them while he showed Larry around, no doubt hoping to capture Larry’s disgust at the neatness and all the frou-frou decorations. If that was their motivation, though, they were wasting their time. Larry was still determined to play nice, and he was honestly grateful to have a bedroom of his own. Sure, it had red silk sheets and Andy Warhol prints (Larry recognized them from a high school art class); but it was better than sleeping with DeVere.

Once they decided the day was over, the Life Swappers said goodnight and left for their hotel. They didn’t have to hang around all night because they’d installed corner-mounted videocameras in the bedrooms. It was just standard Life Swap procedure; they’d done the same in Detroit. Larry figured it was their subtle way of encouraging participants to get it on: “See? We’re not standing over your shoulders anymore. Do whatever you like!”

Of course, no one would be getting it on around here. Larry glanced up into the corner and was reassured to see the red “recording” light in place. DeVere would think twice about doing anything too funny as long as that light was lit. After all, anything they recorded could be used in court if necessary.

Unfortunately, Larry could think of a dozen legal ways for DeVere to bother him, and DeVere could probably think of a dozen more. Larry would punch him if he tried anything too disgusting, but he hoped he wouldn’t have to. That wouldn’t look good on TV.

One thing was for sure, he’d never get a good night’s sleep around here.

But suddenly it was morning and Larry could smell coffee and—holy Mother of God, bacon! Larry could overlook a thousand insults for a plate of pig meat.

He thought so, anyway, until they got back in the rink.

“Okay,” DeVere said as they skated to center ice, “yesterday you agreed to put yourself in my hands. Now it’s time to see if you meant that literally.”

Larry had seen this coming for miles. “I didn’t, dickbreath,” he snarled, and backed up in a hurry.

“Easy, tiger,” said Jimmy. He raised an eyebrow and smirked. “I didn’t mean it that way.”

Too late, Larry realized what he’d done. Even if DeVere had been flirting for real, it didn’t even matter now. He’d said he wasn’t, and Larry had just made himself look like an utter tool. He couldn’t think of anything else to say but “Huh.”

Jimmy skated closer. “Look,” he said. “don’t think I’m not attracted to you, Szymanski, but right now all I want to do is work on our lifts. I’ve been thinking about your timing problem, and-”

The rest of his explanation flew right over Larry’s head; he was too busy processing the “attracted to you” and ”right now all I want” parts, then trying to keep his fists to himself.

Suddenly, before he could work out how he got there, he was dangling sideways over Jimmy’s head supported by one scrawny arm. “There,” said DeVere, “do you see what I’m talking about?”

“Uh, wh-whoaaah!” Jimmy threw him into a controlled spin and Larry landed, miraculously, on his feet. He gaped at the smaller man, trying to think of a response that wouldn’t make him look any dumber than he already did.

DeVere saved him the trouble. “I thought you’d get a better feel for things if you experienced the lift from my point of view.”

Larry blinked. “Oh, right. Um, yeah. Thanks, DeVere.”

“No problem.” Jimmy chucked him under the chin. “And no worries, either. We’re not switching roles permanently, just long enough to work out your timing. I might try throwing you a little, too, after you’re more comfortable with your salchows.”

Larry wasn’t about to argue; he didn’t even remember what a salchow was. Besides, now that he’d been bench-pressed by a kid half his size - one-handed!—he realized arguing wasn’t the smartest move anyway. DeVere had been holding back in Detroit, all right. By at least a couple of miles.

The rest of the day passed more smoothly. Larry didn’t become a prodigy like DeVere had in Detroit, but at least his muscles were adapting. He even pulled off an ugly, two-footed Axel before they broke for the evening.

Jimmy cheered and clapped at that, then rushed toward Larry as though to hug him. Unfortunately, Larry still hadn’t forgotten the morning’s comments. He threw up a hand out of pure reflex, then remembered Jimmy tossing him like pizza dough all day and reluctantly dropped it. If the kid wanted to fuck around, there wasn’t a damn thing Larry could do to stop him.

DeVere laughed and backed away.

DeVere didn’t even try to steal a cheek kiss before saying goodnight; but strangely enough, that worried Larry more than flirting would have. He just knew the kid was up to something.

It was a long time before he was able to get to sleep.

Sometime after midnight, Larry was awakened by a faint creak. His eyes flew open and he looked down the length of the bed to see DeVere in the doorway: slim, pale and stark fucking naked.

Larry wanted to scream, but his mouth wouldn’t open. He wanted to jump out of bed, but his body wouldn’t move. His eyes (the only part of himself he could still control) darted toward the camera, and he saw that the ever-present “recording” light was off. The only illumination in the room came through the curtains: a murky gold ambience cast off by the nighttime city. It was just enough to let him see his attacker.

There was no way Larry could think of DeVere as a kid right now. The other man stalked toward him, crawling over the foot of the bed like some kind of giant cat. Even as Larry thought it, DeVere grinned and ran his tongue over his weirdly long canines.

Larry was so scared that for a moment he wondered if DeVere really could read his mind. He shouted at him from inside his skull: You drugged me, you sick fucking pervert! You drugged me! But drugs don’t last forever. I’ll either die or get over this, and either way, you’ll end up in jail with a bunch of rapists and murderers who looove little pretty boys like you!

Jimmy didn’t react at all; he just dropped his eyes to Larry’s body, frozen beneath the blood-red sheets. Then he curled his fist around the silk and, oh so slowly, began to pull....

Larry gasped and jerked upright. He was alone in the room, the door was closed, and the recording light shone red in the corner.

Larry didn’t believe in “gay cooties,” but he did wonder if gay pheromones might be real. That would explain how agitated he felt around Jimmy and, um, people like him. It would also explain the dreams he’d had for the last three nights running. In fact, pheromones were the only thing that could explain those dreams, since Larry wasn’t literally scared of DeVere (well, except of being groped by him - oh, and of looking like a fool because of him. That too.). So yeah, maybe his own straight body chemistry was reacting badly with Jimmy’s gay one.

It was a good theory, Larry thought. He’d have to bounce it off somebody else one day and see if they agreed with him. The Confession Closet wasn’t the place, though; he didn’t need Ronnie Chester to tell him that.

Damn the agent, anyway. He’d probably say Larry should feel flattered by DeVere’s attraction to him, but that was bullshit. How flattered would Ronnie be if someone who gave him the heebie-jeebies was attracted to him?

Larry sighed, checked his hair in the mirror, and slipped inside the Confession Closet. The recording light came on automatically. “Okay,” he said, “it’s day five here in Boston, and I still haven’t seen much of the city except from the Life Swap bus. DeVere had me in the rink all day again, and I’m sure it’ll be straight back to the apartment after dinner. He says it’s Moroccan tonight and they have belly dancers. I guess that means I’ll at least have one fun thing to do while I’m here.”

Larry smirked, then checked himself. A little complaining was fine as long as he stayed clear of Ronnie’s list, but too much complaining would make him look like a whiner. He paused to rearrange his thoughts, then continued. “Anyway, the figure skating is still getting easier. I pulled off a couple of combination jumps today, nearly perfect. Jimmy’s been a good teacher. I don’t know how many other people could get me jumping this fast or this well.” Suddenly Larry grinned. “Oh, and he hasn’t been too annoying today. That was a plus.”

There, he’d handed out his two daily compliments and managed a non-bigoted sideswipe at the same time. Larry hadn’t explained what made Jimmy less annoying: he’d kept the teasing to a minimum and hadn’t hit on Larry at all. Spelling that out really would make Larry sound bigoted, so he’d gotten his point across more subtly. That was how you played the reality game.

All in all, Larry thought, it was a decent day’s work. He opened the Confession Closet door and stepped outside.

It must have been the belly dancers, he told himself the next morning. The dream had been different this time, even though it began like the other three. Larry had lain helpless in bed while a naked DeVere stripped away his sheets. Each night he’d pulled them a little lower, and last night they came off completely.

That wasn’t what made the dream different, though. No, the difference was that Larry wasn’t completely paralyzed this time. His balls filled with a delicious, pumping, pulsing ache; and then as he watched in amazement, his dick began to rise. Every caress of the sheets brought it higher until they fell away and it sprang fully erect.

He still had the boner when he woke up.

Yeah, that had to be the belly dancers. Larry wasn’t afraid like he’d been in the previous dreams, and he sure as shit hadn’t pitched a tent for DeVere.

Still, he couldn’t help a few sidelong glances as they ran through the day’s routines. Jimmy didn’t know about the dreams, but for some reason he was acting differently today. He didn’t flirt or tease at all, but he kept shooting strange looks at Larry from the corner of his eyes. Larry didn’t know how to interpret them; all he knew was that they made him nervous.

When they broke for lunch, Jimmy studied him long and hard, absently running his tongue along his canines. By the time he spoke, Larry was almost ready to bolt. “What’s going on with you, Szymanski? You’ve been giving me funny looks all day.”

“What? No I haven’t!”

“You have. And you’ve been making strange noises in your sleep, too. I can hear them all the way in my room with the door closed.”

Larry bit quickly into his sandwich, holding it to his face to hide his embarrassment.

“That’s okay,” said Jimmy. “You don’t have to talk about it.”

Larry didn’t want to talk about it, but he didn’t have anything else to say, so they went back to their separate silences.

Then it was back to the practice rink and that relentlessly looping song. Larry hadn’t paid much attention to the lyrics before now because he couldn’t; it was hard enough just focusing on his routine and listening for his cues. The words were only background noise most of the time. It was just that every once in awhile, something would jump out at him like a message from outer space. Today it was the line, “You will suck the life out of me.”

Suck. Jimmy’s extra-long canines. His paleness. His unnatural strength and apparent invulnerability. Fuck, what if dream-Jimmy hadn’t been looking at Larry’s dick after all? What if he’d been eyeing Larry’s femoral artery?

Ohh, no. That was complete and utter bullshit. Vampires didn’t exist in real life, and even if they did, they had more interesting things to do with their free time than figure skating. Jimmy DeVere was just a weirdo whose mama hadn’t bought him braces.

Even as he thought it, he glanced reflexively at Jimmy. The kid’s back was turned, but his shoulders shook as if in silent laughter.

“Okay,” Larry told the Confession Closet, “things are getting a little weird around here.” He refused to make himself look like a crazy man, but he had to say something, didn’t he? He couldn’t keep everything to himself.

“That kid. DeVere. He’s just sort of...okay, no, I’ve been having these....” Larry scrubbed absently at the side of his neck, then took a deep breath. “Look, it’s just not normal.”

Oh, wait. That hadn’t come out right at all. “No! No, that’s not what I meant! It’s not his being gay that’s not normal-” Oh, isn’t it? -“it’s the other stuff he does, like how he’s so strong and....”

God, that was even worse. Now he sounded like he was attracted to the little fucker! Larry put one hand over the lens and the other over his eyes.

When he felt more in control of himself, he took his hands away. “Hey, listen, can somebody just edit that last part out? I absolutely did not mean for it to come out the way it did.”

Then he remembered a line in the contract he’d forgotten about: any footage shot could be used on the show unless both participants agreed to exclude it.

No way in hell would DeVere ever exclude this.

“I’m toast,” Larry sighed, and left the Closet.

The dream that night—if these things really were dreams - was both the worst and the best yet. He was still paralyzed, but this time he felt DeVere take hold of his ankles and push his legs far apart. Then the whatever-he-was crawled in between them and buried his head in Larry’s crotch.

Larry couldn’t tell exactly what DeVere was doing. All he could see was the back of the guy’s head, and all he could hear were wet sounds and moaning—some of which sounded like his own. As for what he felt - oh God! He couldn’t tell what or where or how DeVere was sucking because all of it just felt so fucking good. Larry imagined a thousand tiny freight trains pounding the rails between his knees and sternum, striking sparks at every tie.

Something burst out of him: maybe jizz, but there was just so much of it; maybe blood, but he didn’t hurt anywhere. His hips bucked even though the rest of him stayed paralyzed, and a whine slipped past his frozen lips.

It seemed to go on for hours, but at last Larry fell back to the bed. He was panting like a dog in August.

Then DeVere sat up. The whole lower half of his face was slick with...something; Larry couldn’t tell what it was in the murky light. He couldn’t even tell if DeVere had given him the best blow job of his life or just drained him half to death. Maybe it was both.

Jimmy leaned forward, pursing his lips, and Larry was so anxious to know what was on his face that he didn’t even think to worry. Smooth, cold flesh brushed against his chest; then warmer, softer flesh against his lips. But dammit, his mouth was stuck shut and he couldn’t taste anything. He’d have screamed if he could.

Thank goodness DeVere read his mind—if he really was doing that. He thrust his tongue between Larry’s lips, and Larry tasted blood...and something else. Maybe it was jizz; he wouldn’t know.

DeVere vanished, and after a moment or two, the red light blinked on in the corner. Larry hadn’t been dreaming about the camera, at least; it really had been off!

He glanced around wildly, but he was alone. He felt his legs and the sheets around them, but everything was bone dry. There was nothing to see in the murky gold light.

Larry remembered one thing, though: the sheets were red. It seemed to be Jimmy’s favorite color.

“You’re something beautiful, a contradiction”- those were the words stuck in Larry’s head today.

He and DeVere were practicing side-by-side triple toe loops, and the other man’s face flashed in and out of view. There really was something beautiful about him, Larry thought. Something in the slightly irregular planes of his face, the way his hair whipped around his head when he spun, the feminine grace of his movements.

Then Larry realized what he was thinking. He pulled up so suddenly that he lost his footing, and something popped in his ankle. “Ohfuckohfuckohfuck,” he groaned, not sure whether he was cursing the thought or the pain.

DeVere didn’t care either way. He just tucked Larry’s arm around his shoulder, swept him upright, and helped him over to the bench. “Don’t worry,” he said, pulling out a first aid kit. “I’ll tape this up and you’ll be a lot better in the morning.”

“Not 100%, though?” Larry asked hopefully. Any excuse to keep him from skating with DeVere.

“Not yet,” the no-he-can’t-really-be-a-vampire agreed.

Then the guy on the loudspeakers whined, “Yeah, you will be the death of me,” and Jimmy smiled to himself.

“This is Ronnie Chester. You’ve reached my cell phone, but I can’t take your call at the moment. Leave a message and I’ll get back to you as soon as I can.”

Dammit, this was no time to be stuck in voice mail. Larry had just woken up from his most unsettling dream yet, and he had to talk to somebody.

He was still half-living the memories: DeVere prying open Larry’s mouth, then pushing it down to his crotch; the feel of the other man’s dick in his mouth; the amazing taste of it....The moment it touched his tongue, Larry’s face unfroze and he began to suck, just like a kid with the world’s coolest lollipop. DeVere dug his fingers into Larry’s hair and pulled him closer, whispering instructions Larry was all too eager to obey.

He woke up from that one wondering how Jimmy’s cock would feel in his ass.

All right, that was it. This wasn’t gay cooties, or pheromones, or even just a really expert psych-out. Nope, Jimmy DeVere was a goddamn vampire, and Larry had to stop arguing with himself and start doing something about it.

He sat up and glanced at the camera in the corner. The recording light was still off, as though DeVere had dropped his bluff entirely. And why shouldn’t he? Larry was at least partly in his power now.

Only partly, though. Larry jumped out of bed and rummaged around in the dark. Finally locating his cell phone, he speed-dialed his agent’s number and began quietly to pray.

Ronnie claimed to sleep with the phone beside him, so he should have been able to pick it up. Unfortunately, Larry realized as the voice mail came on, sleeping next to your phone wasn’t the same thing as answering it. Shit.

Well, Larry really didn’t have a choice; he had to leave a message. A really fucking urgent message. He opened his mouth, not sure what he was going to say besides “Get me the hell out of here”...and nothing came out. He tried again, then again, then again, until at last the call disconnected.

Then he called his sister’s line. The same thing happened there, too.

At last the obvious occurred him: he should just get the hell out of the apartment: hail a cab, take a bus, walk if he had to. Just run the fuck out of there while he had the chance.

Still fumbling in the dark, Larry threw on a pair of jeans and sneakers, checked to be sure he had his wallet, and limped out into the hall.

He hadn’t gone three steps before DeVere’s bedroom door opened and the monster himself appeared. He was wearing boxers now and rubbing his eyes as though he’d just woken up. A red recording light shone mockingly behind him. “Larry?” he mumbled. “What are you doing out here? It’s the middle of the night. Go back to sleep.”

Larry didn’t even think about it. He just turned around and limped back to bed.

The smell of bacon woke him the next morning. Larry stumbled out to the kitchen, his mind still fuzzed by sleep, and saw Jimmy at the stove with a couple of cameramen on the other side of the counter.

The sight of the Life Swappers shocked him fully awake. He remembered everything about last night, including the way DeVere had sent him back to his room like a clockwork toy. The others could help him now, but he’d have to ask quickly. “H-” he began.

Jimmy raised a hand, pretending to wave, and Larry’s lips snapped shut. “’Morning, Szymanski,” he said. “Have a seat; breakfast is almost ready.”

Larry obeyed, not blindly like he had the night before, but fully aware of his situation and helpless to resist it. He sat down and felt something wriggle in his mind. Suddenly, to his horror, his mouth opened and he said good morning to the Life Swappers.

DeVere had made him do it, but this time he’d controlled Larry without saying a word or even making a move. The little fucker was just showing off now.

Even as he thought it, Larry felt a ripple of pleasure along his cock. That was probably DeVere’s way of saying “Good boy.”

It went on like that all morning. Every time Larry even thought about escape, Jimmy cut him off: sometimes aloud and sometimes silently; sometimes controlling his thoughts and sometimes controlling his body. Larry never knew what to expect aside from the rippling reward. He wished he could hate that as much as the rest of it, but the feeling was just too damn good.

The morning dragged by and Larry grew more and more desperate, even as the Life Swappers remained oblivious. At last he found himself on the bench beside the practice rink, resting his ankle after a couple of hours skating. He ignored the cameras with grim resolution, knowing it wouldn’t stop them but refusing to give up this last little bit of control.

Instead, he glared across the ice at beautiful, monstrous Jimmy DeVere and mouthed along to the music: “How did it come to this?”

TO BE CONTINUED....

The song I’ve (mis)appropriated for the backbone of my story is “Time Is Running Out,” by Muse. You can find the full lyrics here.

The band has nothing to do with the story, but I do recommend them. ;-)