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Quadruple Flip--mm romance/erotica novel - The Rainbow Lounge

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“I think, perhaps,” Irina Mischen said, “we put you on the ice together. Milo is not much bigger than your partner back home.”
Though Milo was much shorter than Tom Alan, definitely lighter, he still had a good sixty pounds on Erika. To Tom Alan, that was much bigger. He doubted he could lift the guy over his head with just a hand on his crotch. Looking at Milo’s crotch, however, he was willing to give it a try.
“If we harness Milo,” Mrs. Mischen said, as if partially reading Tom Alan’s mind, “we can hoist him up there. You can do that with Milo, yes?”
“Do what with Milo?” Milo asked, skating over, slightly out of breath.
“Lift you up there.” Mrs. Mischen pointed skyward.
“Um,” Milo said, looking up, “don’t we usually vote on things like this in America? Ain’t we a democracy over here? Don’t I get a say about something like that?”

“HOLY shit!” was what Milo did say. He squealed it, more accurately, from eight feet in the air—six-six of it Tom Alan Baranowski, the rest of it Tom Alan Baranowski’s outstretched arms.
“Language, Milo.” Irina Mischen did not allow cursing on her ice.
“Sorry, Coach. But, dang it! Holy something!”
Milo and Tom Alan’s lift was assisted by a vertical steel cable that ran up to a “running wagon,” wheels that moved back and forth across another taut horizontal line. It was standard safety equipment for learning figure skating jumps and lifts. There was a handheld model as well, a pole harness, but they were using the ceiling one that day, which made Milo feel a little safer. The harness part had straps that secured around his legs. The fit reminded him of the assless and crotchless leather briefs he’d once ordered from a BDSM website shopping page.
“Not liking this.” Milo balked. “Why can’t we be artistic on bloody mats—me looking on from a distance, without this guy’s huge hand on my naughty bits?”
“Release your left hand, Thomas.” Irina Mischen fluttered hers to show him how. “Release your left hand.”
“Say what?”
“She’s an ice dancing coach,” Milo stated softly, looking down. “Big mistake!” he said louder. “Don’t look down. Don’t look down!”
“Don’t look down,” Tom Alan repeated.
“Should we, um, really be following Coach Mischen’s lead on pairs lifts, mate? It’s not exactly her wheelhouse.”
“The harness will hold Milo just fine.” Irina Mischen seemed confident. She soothed Thomas, not poor, frightened Milo. “Left hand,” she said. “Release it now, Thomas. Let it flow. Bill will not let Milo fall.”
Bill, introduced to Tom Alan as “the redheaded hockey goon who runs the Zamboni,” tended to the loose end of the contraption in which Milo was allegedly secure.
“You hear that, Hockey Brute?” Milo asked.
“Perfectly fine,” Bill answered, as if he could care less. He was just there earning extra money for school, Milo had said.
“I’m heavier than Jenn, mate,” Milo reminded him. Dancers did lifts too, but Milo was only allowed to lift Jenn to shoulder height. Plus, she’d be the one in the harness during practice. He would always be safe and secure on the ground.
“Ain’t never let no one fall yet,” Bill reminded him.
“Thomas, sweep your free arm as if catching a breeze.” Mrs. Mischen demonstrated the move, her arm like an eagle’s wing as she skated right beside them. “Don’t force it, allow it.”
Tom Alan swatted at flies.
“More elegant,” the coach suggested, as they circled around and around, “like it’s floating on a current.”
He swept crumbs from his chest.
“Allow the briefest pause between each continuous, smooth movement.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” Tom Alan said.
“It does to the eye, just not to the brain.”
That doesn’t make sense either.
“Let’s debate the fine points later,” flying Milo suggested. “I don’t like it up here.”



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