The Mad Scientist’s Bet: Leon Draisaitl

The Edmonton Oilers’ arena thrummed with anticipation, the air thick with the scent of ice and sweat as fans poured in for a pivotal playoff game. Leon Draisaitl, the team’s German-born superstar, was the center of it all. At 6’2” and 209 pounds, his muscular frame moved with a predator’s grace, his broad shoulders and chiseled abs a testament to years of relentless training. His dark brown hair, swept back and slightly damp, framed piercing hazel eyes that gleamed with unshakable confidence. A square jaw, often dusted with playoff scruff, gave him a rugged, almost cinematic handsomeness. As he laced up his skates in the locker room, his cocky smirk was unmistakable. 

“It’s all mental,” he boasted to a teammate, tapping his temple. “Willpower and focus. This body? Just a tool. Anyone could do what I do if they adopted my mindset.”

The more seasoned of his teammates chuckled at his narcissism, but they couldn’t deny his brilliance—52 goals in the 2024-25 season, the Maurice “Rocket” Richard Trophy, and a legacy as one of the NHL’s greatest. His ego had been earned, to say the least, and there were more than a few guys in the Oilers locker room that were secretly envious of him and the wealth of success he’d enjoyed. The team’s rookies hung off of his every word, desperate to soak up any nuggets of wisdom he might bless them with.

Meanwhile, out in the arena stands, Henry, a 31-year-old fan, watched the team’s on-ice warm ups with an intensity that burned hotter than devotion. His frail 5’8” frame, sunken cheeks, and thinning blond hair made him invisible in the crowd, but his obsession with Leon was a dark, pulsating force. For years, Henry had devoured every game, every interview, memorizing Leon’s plays with a scholar’s precision. Something about the German athlete captivated him beyond belief, gripping him with the strength of a thousand men and only tightening its grip with every new thing Henry learned about him. It was as if Leon had somehow imprinted upon Henry; crazy as it sounded, he knew that he was destined to cross paths with his celebrity crush sooner rather than later.

His fixation had spiraled into something perverse months ago when Henry had bribed a janitor to sneak into the Oilers’ locker room, stealing a sweat-soaked jersey from Leon’s stall. Night after night since then, he’d bury his face in the fabric and breathe in deeply, inhaling the musky, intoxicating scent of his idol while stroking himself, whispering Leon’s name in a fevered mantra. He was wearing that stolen jersey tonight, silently relishing in the knowledge that while every other fan in the stands would be wearing a store-bought jersey, he alone could claim possession of the real thing. It was of course considerably baggy around his diminutive frame, especially when compared to its original broad-shouldered and barrel-chested owner, but it was absolutely his most prized possession. He’d even had apprehension about wearing it to the game, terrified that some other fan might spill their drink onto it and wash away Leon’s still-lingering scent. Still, the thought of being so close to Leon while wearing it was simply too arousing for him to resist. He’d been half-hard ever since entering the arena.

Henry’s envy and desire had become a twisted knot, and tonight, clutching a stolen VIP pass, he would be closer to the ice than ever, his heart pounding with a mix of adoration and resentment. He was already fantasizing about making eye contact with Leon and his crush - against all odds - being reciprocated. Sure, Leon had a long term girlfriend that he showed off at NHL red carpet events (she was probably up in the WAGs box at that very moment, waiting for the game to begin just as he was) but Henry never paid her much attention. He knew deep within his wretched soul that he and Leon were fated to be together, one way or another. The thought of him and Leon making it onto the jumbotron’s kiss-cam awoke butterflies in his stomach. He’d be the envy of every single girl and gay guy in not just Edmonton but Germany too!

Unbeknownst to both men, they were fated to become pawns in a sinister game orchestrated by Dr. Elias Voss, a disgraced sports scientist with a gaunt face and wild, sunken eyes. Exiled from academia for his persistent unethical experiments, Voss had become obsessed with proving that physicality and genetics, not mentality and willpower, shaped destiny. He despised athletes like Leon, who credited their minds over their bodies, and saw Henry (who Voss had found through a Leon Draisaitl fanpage Henry ran) as the perfect counterpoint—a pathetic fan with an obviously submissive mentality and whose devotion bordered on madness. 

In his underground lab, Voss had perfected a neural transfer device, a tangle of wires and glowing electrodes designed with a sole purpose: to swap consciousnesses. His scientist peers had told him that it couldn’t be done; they’d laughed behind his back and sometimes even to his face. Nobody had offered him support when the university he lectured at fired him and the research grants dried up. None of that mattered now though. They wouldn’t be laughing when he proved them all wrong. 

Getting the two men down to his lab was more of a challenge than the work that had gone into developing the neural transfer device. He’d eventually been forced to pay a quite large sum of money to hire two men off the dark web willing to kidnap the hockey superstar. They got their hands on Draisaitl as he attempted to avoid the crowds by entering the arena through a back alley, silencing his protests with chloroform and hiding him in a laundry trolley that they then transported down to Voss’ lab hidden through a secret door in the arena’s basement. Henry, loitering near the VIP entrance, had been much easier to capture through the promise of a fake “meet-and-greet” with his idol, only to feel a needle prick his neck the moment they were out of view of the public.

Now that all the pieces were in their correct places, Dr. Voss’ experiment could finally begin…

A short while later, in Voss’s dimly lit lab, Leon slowly regained consciousness. He knew immediately that something was very wrong: he was strapped down to a steel table and definitely not in the Oilers locker room where he was supposed to be. The German hockey player’s muscular arms strained against the restraints and his hazel eyes blazed with fury as he searched for the someone to blame for his current situation. 

Henry, trembling with a mix of fear and exhilaration, was bound beside him, his frail body dwarfed by the cold metal. Each man had part of the neural transfer device fastened to their skulls like harsh and unforgiving crowns. Their crowns were linked to each other by a series of wires, as well as to a computer terminal a short distance away.

Voss walked from his spot at the terminal to his patients and loomed over them. His voice was a venomous hiss when he finally spoke: “So good of you to join us, Mr Draisaitl.”

“You’re going to fucking regret this,” Leon seethed. He recognized the middle-aged man as a sports scientist that the Oilers medical team had consulted with on the regular some years prior. The last he’d heard there had been some scandal and the Oilers had cut ties with him. “You’re gonna spend the rest of your miserable life in prison!”

Voss just laughed. “Maybe,” he admitted. “Maybe not. You don’t know what I have planned for the pair of you yet.”

“The pair--” The crown on Leon’s head severely affected how much he could twist his neck to the side, so he could only just make out the fact there was somebody beside him, also strapped down and clearly panicking. “You must be fucking stupid if you think you can get away with whatever it is you’re planning. I’m a goddamn NHL superstar, people will notice if I go missing!”

“Ah, there’s the ego! Yes, the self-made superstar. We should all bow down before you, hm?” His cruel laughter echoed around the room. Leon’s blood boiled. Henry, meanwhile, was attempting to shuffle on the metal table to get a better look at his idol, to absolutely no avail. He couldn’t believe he was finally so close to Leon, alarming circumstances be damned! 

“You, Draisaitl, think your mind makes you a god,” Voss continued in sneering fashion as he leaned in close to adjust the neural transfer device around Leon’s head. “You claim anyone could match you with your ‘willpower.’ Let’s test that. I’ll put this wretched fan’s consciousness in your perfect body and see who wins tonight’s game.”

Leon laughed, his square jaw tightening, his voice dripping with disdain. “You’re deranged. Do you hear yourself? Talking about-- what, switching our bodies? You’re absolutely insane.” Voss didn’t say anything, instead pulling his thin lips into a tight smile that sent a shiver down Leon’s spine. The hockey player didn’t believe there was any truth to what the mad scientist said - how could there be? Body swaps? C’mon, that was the stuff of trashy sci-fi books! - yet there was the slightest seed of doubt springing to life inside him. “This loser can’t touch me, even if he’s in my body. He doesn’t have my mind. He’ll choke under pressure. I’d bet my career he can’t outplay me or win the game.”

Voss’s lips curled even further into a sadistic smile, his eyes glinting with malice. “A bet, then. If the fan wins, you stay swapped—forever. If he fails, I’ll reverse it. I’ll even turn myself into the police. Do we have a deal?”

“You’re fucking insane,” Leon repeated. There was the slightest hint of fear in his voice, which was a rarity for the typically brash and boastful hockey player.

“Ah, not feeling so confident all of a sudden?” Voss challenged. He knew precisely how to get under Leon’s skin and was more than happy to take advantage of it. “Perhaps you don’t believe your own words. You know that I’m right: that it’s your genetics that make you great, not your mind.”

Leon’s gaze flicked towards the silent party in the room. He still couldn’t see much of the other man, just enough to identify that the fan was staring at him with unsettling intensity. “Fine, you have your deal,” Leon spat out, his arrogance unshaken. “He’s got no chance.”

Henry’s heart raced, his sunken cheeks flushing. While many of his fantasies had been about dating Leon, he also harbored more unusual desires, ones that actually excited him even more. He’d spent years dreaming of being Leon, of feeling that power, that body. The thought of inhabiting his idol’s form sent a shiver of perverse thrill through him, his arousal barely concealed. Leon was right, Dr. Voss did indeed sound insane with his proclamations of being able to switch their bodies, but if there was even a chance that it was possible, he was on board. He didn’t care about the stakes; he only wanted to be Leon, to live inside that perfect physique, even for a night.

Satisfied with getting confirmation out of Draisaitl (not that it would have stopped him from going through with the experiment anyway), Voss returned to the terminal and did his final checks on the neutral transfer device. It was the most complex piece of technology ever invented and he’d only ever tested it once before, on two homeless drug addicts. It had worked, although both individuals had spent considerable time vomiting in the immediate aftermath and one had suffered a heart attack and died an hour later. Voss had performed considerable tweaks to his invention since that trial run and he had full faith that he’d successfully ironed out those bugs, but you could never have 100% certainty when it came to experimental science. 

Voss whispered a quiet prayer and activated the device, sending a surge of electricity tearing through their minds. Leon’s vision blurred as his consciousness was ripped from his athletic frame, sent hurtling through the wires of the neural transfer device, before finally slamming into Henry’s frail, wheezing body. His muscles felt like jelly, his lungs tight, his joints aching as he struggled against the restraints keeping him pinned down against the cold metal table. Beside him, Henry gasped as his mind flooded into Leon’s body, every nerve igniting with strength and vitality. 

Then, both bodies suddenly went limp. Voss waited with bated breath. His hired help, hidden further back in the shadowy corners of the room, watched on in curiosity. Finally, after ten long seconds of complete silence, the neural transfer device let out a singular sharp beeping sound and information began flooding onto the monitors in front of the scientist. Voss didn’t need to check any of it though. He already knew what it would tell him: it had been a success.

The swap was complete.

Henry opened his eyes—Leon’s eyes—and marveled at the world through his new form. Dr. Voss was already beside him, staring intently at him as he carefully lifted the metal crown away. Henry gave the older man a hesitant nod of confirmation before casting his gaze south at the body he now occupied. His arms were thick with muscle, veins pulsing under taut skin. His chest was broad, his abs a sculpted masterpiece. He flexed his fingers, feeling the calloused strength of hands that had scored 50 goals. Voss set about undoing the straps that had kept Leon’s powerful body pinned down, continuing to eye his patient carefully as he did so. Henry didn’t pay the man much attention, he was far more interested in getting a look at his new flesh.

As he sat up, Henry peered into the cracked mirror that Voss held aloft for him. It reflected Leon’s face: chiseled jaw, piercing hazel eyes, dark brown hair slick with sweat. Henry ran his tongue over his teeth, savoring the slight German accent as he whispered, “I’m Leon Draisaitl.” His voice, deep and resonant, sent a jolt of arousal through him, his new cock twitching in his pants. He could already tell it was bigger. There was so much Henry wanted to do to familiarize himself further with Leon’s body, but he remained conscious of the other two men in the room. Checking out his new junk could wait for when he had some more privacy. Instead, he lifted a muscled arm high above his head, inhaling the faint musk of his own sweat, and nearly moaned. It was the scent he’d worshipped in the stolen jersey, but now it was his own, raw and overwhelming. His fingers traced the contours of his biceps, lingering on the heat of his skin, the power beneath it. Every movement felt electric, his body a symphony of strength and grace. It was like nothing he’d ever experienced before!

Voss undid the shackles on his feet, finally giving Henry full range of motion in his new body, before shoving a hockey bag into his arms. “Game’s in two hours,” the doctor barked. “Prove me right, or you’ll be back in that pathetic husk.” He jerked his head towards Henry’s former flesh, where Leon continued to thrash violently against his restraints. 

Henry nodded, barely listening. He was much too consumed by exploring all the sensations his new physique was providing him. As he dressed in Leon’s gear - first the tight compression shirt that perfectly hugged all of his new muscles, then the bulky padded pants, and finally the blue and orange Oilers jersey, complete with the “A” patch identifying him as one of the team’s alternate captains - he paused to bury his face in the fabric, inhaling deeply, his erection straining against the protective cup.

Meanwhile, Leon, trapped in Henry’s body, finally gave up his futile attempts to wrestle himself free from his restraints. Horror washed over him as he understood what had happened. His limbs were weak, his breathing labored, his vision blurry without Henry’s glasses. “This is a fucking nightmare,” he muttered, his voice reedy and unfamiliar. He attempted to fight back as Voss finally unshackled him from the steel table, only for the two hired thugs that had abducted Leon in the first place to reappear and put a stop to his weak flailing. They looked like they could break the new him in half! He was utterly helpless as they forced him into a wheelchair. His hands, small and bony, trembled as he had a brief moment to touch his sunken cheeks and his thinning hair before his wrists were once again strapped down, this time to the arms of the wheelchair.

Flanked by his goons (although they were less useful now that Leon was trapped in such a weak body), Voss pushed the wheelchair into an elevator that would take them to a hidden viewing room above the arena with a one-way glass offering a perfect view of the ice. “Let’s see your ‘mind’ triumph now,” Voss taunted, locking the door.

On the ice, Henry was an absolute revelation. His years of obsessive study were paying off: he knew every play, every feint, every angle Leon favored. The puck felt like an extension of his will, and his new body moved with a fluidity he’d never known. His skates carved the ice with precision, his powerful thighs propelling him forward. He’d been a subpar skater at best in his own body (not for lack of trying - the lessons had almost bankrupt him) but as Leon, he moved across the ice like he was in his natural habitat. He was as smooth as a knife through butter or a ballet dancer on stage. The combination of his meticulous studying of how Leon played the game and the genetically superior body he was now in drove Henry to heights he had never anticipated he could be capable of.

Leon’s teammates, unaware of the swap, shouted encouragement as he weaved through defenders, his stick-handling flawless. Adrenaline surged, his muscles rippling under the sweat-soaked uniform, the scent of his own exertion driving him wild. Between shifts, he’d duck his head, pretending to adjust his gloves, and steal another whiff of his armpit musk. The heady mix of sweat and testosterone made his head spin. That was his musk - for now, at least - and he was obsessed. His erection throbbed, but he channeled the arousal into his play, each goal a release of his pent-up desire.

Leon watched from above, his frail hands clenched into fists, his heart sinking with every minute that passed. “He’s… better than me,” he whispered, disbelief turning to rage. Henry wasn’t just mimicking him; he was outperforming him, landing impossible shots, outskating opponents, and racking up three goals and two assists. The crowd roared “Draisaitl!” and Leon thrashed about as best as he could in his wheelchair, his weak voice drowned out by the arena’s din. “That’s my body!” he screamed, tears of frustration burning his eyes.

In the final minute, with the game nail-bitingly tied at 4-4, Henry stole the puck from a clumsy opponent and charged down the ice at full speed. Once he had a clear lane to the goal, he unleashed a blistering one-timer—Leon’s signature move, but sharper, more precise. The puck sailed past the goaltender, and the arena erupted. The whistle blew: Oilers win. 

Henry’s teammates mobbed him, dousing him with Gatorade, their hands rough and admiring as they slapped his back and shoulders. Henry grinned, his hazel eyes glinting with triumph and a darker, malicious glee. He caught a glimpse of his reflection in the rinkside glass—Leon’s face, slick with sweat, radiant with victory—and felt a surge of power unlike anything he’d ever known.

All of this was officially his to keep.

As the crowd dispersed, Voss wheeled Leon, still in the wheelchair, to a secluded hallway near the Oilers locker room. Henry was waiting there for them, one hand under his jersey and pads to feel up his abs which were glistening with sweat. Henry had never had abs before and right now he couldn’t get enough of them. 

At the sight of his body, Leon was overcome with rage and desperately attempted to lunge forward, temporarily forgetting about his restraints. His weak limbs betrayed him; there was no way he could get free. “Give me back my body, you fucking creep!” he spat, his voice cracking.

Henry laughed, the mocking sound making Leon flinch. The hockey player’s body swaggered closer, towering over Leon, his hazel eyes gleaming with cruelty as he leaned down to come face-to-face with his idol. 

“Your body? Oh, Leon, this is my body now.” He flexed his arms, the biceps bulging underneath the layers of his hockey gear, and lifted an arm to inhale deeply, his lips curling into a smirk. “God, you smell so good. I used to jerk off to your sweaty jersey, but this… this is heaven.” He ran a hand down his abs, lingering near his crotch, where his erection was visible even through all the tight pants. “Get a load of this power, Leon. Every muscle, every inch—it’s mine. And I’m better at being you than you ever were.”

Leon’s face twisted with rage and despair. “You’re nothing! You’re a parasite!”

Henry leaned in, his breath hot against Leon’s ear. “I’m the star now. I crushed your game, just like I’ll crush every aspect of your life. Your girlfriend, your teammates, your legacy—they’re all mine.” He took his time to undo one of the straps around Leon’s wrist and then grabbed hold of the frail limb, forcing the other man’s hand against his sweat-slick pecs. “Feel that. That’s what you lost. What you’ll never get back.” 

“Please! You can’t do this to me!” Leon croaked through a sob, unaware that Voss was stepping closer behind him, syringe in hand.

“You lost the bet,” Voss said, his voice triumphant. “I was right: the body indeed molds the mind.” He jabbed the needle into Leon’s neck, and the world went black for the former Edmonton Oiler.

When he returned to the locker room, Henry was pleased to discover that he was alone, the team having apparently gone off to celebrate somewhere. He stripped off Leon’s uniform slowly, savoring the reveal of his new body. The jersey came first, peeling away to expose his broad shoulders and sculpted pecs, glistening with sweat. He ran his hands over his chest, fingers tracing the hard ridges of his abs, the heat of his skin electric under his touch. His pants followed, revealing thick, powerful thighs and a large, heavy cock that pulsed with arousal and begged for his attention. He stood naked, the air cool against his sweat-damp skin, and inhaled deeply, the musky scent of his exertion overwhelming. It was the smell he’d worshipped every night in the jersey, but now it was his own, raw and primal, a drug that made his head spin.

He stepped to a mirror, marveling at Leon’s face—his face. The chiseled jaw, the hazel eyes, the dark hair plastered to his forehead. He smiled, the slight German accent making his cock throb as he murmured, “Ich bin Leon Draisaitl.” He’d learned German back in his old body (another aspect of wanting to be closer to Leon) but it had never flown forth from his lips so naturally. He would make it a mission now to advance from conversational to fluent; he had to embody every bit of Leon Draisaitl, Germany’s favorite hockey player, after all.

His hands roamed lower, cupping his balls, then finally stroking his cock, the sensation amplified by the power of his new body. It was every bit as joyous as he’d anticipated it to be. He took his time, teasing himself, imagining Leon’s despair as he worshipped the body he’d stolen. The musk, the strength, the perfection—it was all his, now and forever.

In the shower, hot water cascaded over his muscular frame, steam rising as he lathered his body, his hands lingering on every curve and contour. He massaged his pecs, his thighs, his ass, each touch a sensual act of possession. This body, this beautiful body, was so much bigger than the meagre shell Henry had been confined to before the experiment. Thirty-one years in a body that had never quite fit right and now here he was, making himself comfortable in the flesh he would be spending the rest of his days in. He could feel the power in each of his muscles as he ran his hand over them, utterly entranced by the sensations as he tensed and flexed experimentally. It would definitely take some time to get used to, but at least he had already proven that he’d be able to operate the new machinery without any issue. His achievements out there on the ice were beyond anything Henry had thought he could ever be capable of; being in Leon’s body had unlocked something inside of him. 

With all the exploration he was doing of his new body, it was hardly surprising that his cock begged for attention and Henry was more than happy to give it. He gripped it, stroking slowly, then faster, his moans echoing in the tiled room. He pictured Leon’s girlfriend, Celeste, her curves pressed against him, and his teammate Brett Kulak, a rugged defenseman whose rough hands he craved. The thought of claiming them both - maybe even at the same time - pushed him over the edge, and he came hard, his seed spilling into the water, a perverse consecration of his new life.

In the weeks that followed, Henry leaned into his role as Leon with hedonistic abandon. On the ice, he was unstoppable, breaking records and earning adulation. Off the ice, he indulged in excess—parties, alcohol, and sex, anything that would allow him to revel in the power of his gorgeous new body. His obsession with his new form never once faded; he’d spend hours in front of mirrors every day, flexing his big muscles, sniffing his own musk, and jerking off to his reflection all while whispering to himself in carefully practiced German. His new deep voice and subtle accent was a constant aphrodisiac.

His bisexuality fueled his conquests. He seduced Celeste first, showing up at her apartment with a bouquet of roses and Leon’s charming smile. She melted under his touch, begging him to fuck her almost as soon as he pressed his lips to her neck and began kissing down to her collarbone. Blissfully unaware that the man in her apartment wasn’t actually her boyfriend, Celeste let herself get carried bridal-style into the bedroom, where her hands worshipped his muscular body before they fucked long through the night on her silk sheets. Henry reveled in her moans, knowing he was stealing Leon’s love, his cruelty masked by Leon’s hazel eyes. 

“I don’t know how, but that’s the best you’ve ever fucked me,” she whispered once they’d finally finished after hours of passionate lovemaking. She’d settled into his arms without even a moment of hesitation, feeling safe in her man’s strong embrace. Henry just laughed. Hearing such high praise was music to his ears. It was yet another triumph he could hold over the Leon he’d so easily replaced.

Next came Brett, the defenseman, whose rough kisses and calloused hands thrilled him. Henry hadn’t even had to work to seduce Brett: it had emerged pretty quickly that his teammate had been secretly crushing on Leon for some time. Their encounters were raw and so much more physical than what he had with Celeste, fueled by Henry’s malicious delight in defiling Leon’s legacy. As soon as they were alone in the team’s sauna, Henry pinned Brett against the wall, their sweat-slick bodies grinding together. Henry murmured filthy promises in the other man’s ear, the German accent driving Brett wild. “Fuck, Leon, you’re unreal,” Brett growled, and Henry smirked, knowing he was rewriting Leon’s life with every thrust. He hooked up with others—teammates, rivals, models—each conquest a middle finger to the real Leon.

Even Leon’s best friend and Oilers team captain, the legendary Connor McDavid, didn’t seem to notice anything too amiss. He’d briefly commented upon “Leon’s” extra dash of confidence but easily accepted the justification that Leon was riding the momentum of his record-setting season. The pair of them got beers after every game and trained together every morning, all without Connor ever suspecting that his friend had been replaced by an obsessive fan neither of them would have been able to pick out of a crowd even if their lives depended upon it. Henry had even managed to get Connor drunk enough one night that the other man no longer laughed off the flirtatious comments and instead responded with shy interest. That night had ended with Connor on his knees between Henry’s legs, sucking Leon’s cock for the first (and certainly not the last) time.

While Henry was living a charmed life in his new flesh, Leon’s fate was far crueler. Voss, thrilled by his experiment’s success, kept him prisoner in the lab, Henry’s frail body a living tomb. Sedated and malnourished, Leon’s mind began to fray, his once laser-sharp focus dulled by pain and despair. Voss taunted him daily, showing him clips of “Leon” breaking records, seducing Celeste, partying with teammates. Henry even stopped by on a few occasions to further torment the athlete he had replaced, sometimes flexing his muscles and jerking off, other times regaling him with wild stories about the parties he’d been hosting at the new mansion he’d just moved into.

On one particular occasion, Leon broke down in tears the moment Henry entered the room. Rather than showing any empathy, Henry just laughed. “Please,” Leon begged. “You gotta get him to reverse this. I can’t live like this any longer!” He actually got down on his knees, bowing his head in total submission. Seeing him like that, Henry was struck by just how low the hockey superstar had sunk. What an almighty fall from grace!

“Sorry, bud, that’s not in the cards,” Henry replied dismissively, speaking through a cruel smile. “Now, I thought you’d like to know that Celeste told me how much better I am in bed than I used to be.” Leon flinched, the words as wounding as a slap to the face. “Yeah, she’s a real keeper. I can see myself marrying her. We’ll have a big ceremony, of course. I hope Brett and Connor don’t get too jealous.” The mention of his best friend prompted Leon to snap his head up in surprise, meeting Henry’s gaze finally. “Oh yeah, I’ve got Connor hooked on this as well.” Henry grabbed at the bulge in the front of his pants, more than happy to have an excuse to grope his thick cock. “He’s still a bit of a rookie when it comes to sucking cock but don’t worry, I’ll train him well…”

It wasn’t only Henry that contributed to the deconstruction of Leon’s mind; the scientist responsible for their switch in the first place was just as culpable. “In the end, your mind really was worth nothing,” Voss sneered at Leon on a daily basis. “The body won, just as I knew it would.” Leon’s desperate defiance grew weaker over time, his fighting spirit eventually left in tatters.

One night, soon after Leon had given up fighting, Voss finally grew bored and decided it was time to bring the experiment to an end. It had been long enough that he knew none of the side effects from his trial run were present; swapping Leon and Henry had been a complete success and now that he knew his neutral transfer device worked, he was already drawing up schemes of what to do with it next. A new, younger body for himself, perhaps? With no more need for the former Leon Draisaitl, Voss injected the utterly defeated man with a lethal dose of barbiturates, watching as Henry’s frail body convulsed, then stilled.

“A fitting end for a failed mind,” Voss muttered, dumping the body in an unmarked grave. Nobody would ever miss him. The new and improved Leon Draisaitl was still very much alive, after all. It was Henry, an easily forgotten loner with an obsessional crush, who had instead perished, with nobody ever to become aware that it was actually the undignified end of a man who had once been a bonafide NHL superstar…