Only One Draw

Deputy D.C. police chief DeLong Black came off the eighteenth green of the Army Navy Golf Club in Arlington, on the Virginia side of the Potomac from Washington, on Monday afternoon. He adjourned to the Stars and Strikes Café with the rest of his foursome to gloat over shooting the lowest score and cooling off with a beer before going back to work in the District. Toby Drake waited until Black’s three golf partners had left before he walked over to the table and sat down across from the big, black bull.

“OK, I guess you win if you just leave Hardesty alone,” he said.

“You saw the e-mail I sent him?” Black said.

“Yes. You can fuck me if you pull that back and leave him the fuck alone—if you leave us alone.”

“Until I want you again, whenever that is,” Black said, it wasn’t a question and he gave Toby an “I own you” look.

“Yes,” Toby admitted, already considering who and what he knew to get Black transferred to some other city. He and Hardesty had managed that with someone making too many demands on them before. It was getting to be a habit, though, and Toby knew Hardesty would take it hard if he knew what Toby was giving up to keep their relationship out of police department scrutiny.

“You would have let me fuck you anyway. I’ve shown it to you. You can’t get enough of big black cock.”

“You’ll never know now,” Toby said. “I’ll never be giving it to you willingly now, and I won’t let you forget it. Now it isn’t pleasure; it isn’t even business. Now it’s blackmail.”

“Whatever,” Black said.

The men’s locker room at the golf club had private changing cubicles and Tuesday wasn’t a busy golf day. The cubicles had locks on the door, which the police officer put into use. Black sat on the bench, naked, and Toby, also naked, sat in his lap, legs bent and feet flat on the bench seat on either side of the big black’s hips, using his feet for leverage to rise and fall on the black bull’s long, thick, jet-black cock, while his torso was arched back and Black leaned over him and feasted on the young man’s nipples.

Just another john, Toby kept telling himself, although he saw no need not to let his contempt be shown. At least this man was a built black bull. Toby could take pleasure in this black cock inside him wielded by a very fit-bodied man, without showing it to the man.

Toby was just doing the minimum, not giving more than was necessary for the friction of the cock-in-hole being there—until Black, having heard about the erogenous point on the young whore’s body that was marked by the gecko tattoo, encircled the young man’s narrow waist and began rubbing the tattoo with his fingers. What was rumored to be true was true. Toby melted and began riding the cock like a rodeo cowboy, and Black, as big cocked as he had claimed, grasped the young man’s waist and bucked with him to a mutual, explosive ejaculation.

Afterward, as they were putting themselves together, Black laughed and said, “There, I knew you were dying to ride my cock.”

“I’d rather die than do it again,” Toby hissed as he unlocked the cubicle door and disappeared. “Just fix it with Hardesty,” he growled over his shoulder.

Black laughed. He’d gotten what he wanted. Anytime he could get fingers on that gecko tattoo he knew he could get it as submissively again.

This would solve the problem for now in Toby’s mind, but Black would continue to make demands that Toby would have to meet without Hardesty knowing about it. Hardesty would call the man’s bluff and take the consequences. And who knows what others among the big brass in the police department would hone in on Hardesty and Toby’s arrangement and demand that it cease? It was only a matter of time, Toby knew. There weren’t that many police officials who a male prostitute could buy off in services.

But, god, the police officer was built and had a cock to die for. To his disgust, Toby couldn’t get the feel of the big, black cock working him out of his mind as he drove back to his nearby apartment. He was a prisoner to his sensuality. Yes, once having seen the man’s body and what was swinging between his thighs, Toby would have laid down for him anyway. Now he just wanted to get the fucker out of town.

* * * *

The taxi picked her up at a place that was familiar to the Capitol Cab Company driver and deposited her at the Fairmont Hotel on 24th Street, near Rock Creek Park. Dex recognized her as a fare he’d driven before, but then as a man. He’d looked foxy and effeminate before, but Dex hadn’t realized that he was at least a cross-dresser and able to pull it off with most people. Dex knew his trans people, though. They were a fetish with him and he paid close attention to his fetish. This one was gorgeous—dark and sultry . . . compact, trim, and obviously fit, with wavy black hair, sensual smile, and flashing dark eyes. He—or she now—was dressed in a slinky black, ankle-link gown, with no back and with sparkles on it. Spike heels, of course. She definitely had breasts now—maybe fake, pushed up by a specially formed bra, but firm, ripe, rounded melons now. That wasn’t something Dex had noticed when taking this fare before. God he’d like to get his hands on those ripe melons and the thought of sucking those nipples he could see pressing into the material of her dress while fucking a doctor-made cunt had Dex going hard.

She was met at the front entrance of the Fairmont by a good-looking, copper-haired dude in an expensive-cut evening suit. He must have been waiting for her.

Dex did a turn and brought the cab back around. He lucked out, pulling up as the couple needed a cab. One of them definitely was a trans. She sure did have melon-firm breasts. Dex was getting harder. He drove them to the expensive Rakuya Japanese restaurant above Dupont Circle. He took short-distance fares around there for a couple of hours, hoping that he’d see where they’d go from there. The “she” turned him on. He’d like to get his cock into that.

He was in luck, catching them come out of the restaurant. He let another cab take them on. They’d probably recognize him if he pulled the fare again, and he didn’t want that. He didn’t want anything to do with the dude—just with the trans. The other cab took them to a trans club, Martina’s, on Q Street, just a few blocks down the same street from the Rakuya. That clinched it for Dex. The honey was trans. He’d add her to the “to have” list. He knew where she had originated. He had a good idea where she was going for a good part of the night. He’d pull her down one of these days.

A fare flagged him down to take them to Hank’s Oyster Bar on the southwest waterfront across from Hains Point. He’d be out of area for possibly the rest of his shift. That was OK. The hunt was almost as much fun as catching them and fucking them.

Melon-firm breasts and a doctor-made cunt—the trans folded, helpless under him, his dick in the pussy boy’s snatch, moving in and out, stretching that pouch, while he sucked on the nipples of the melon-firm tits. Fucking, fucking, fucking. Maybe cutting them up afterward if he was in a blood lust. They deserved it. Not natural for a boy wanting to be a girl.

Shit. He’d creamed his shorts. He’d have to stop somewhere and clean himself up. He had a change in briefs and pants in the trunk of the cab.

* * * *

Erick Royal didn’t hit Luigi Finelli, appearing as Layla this evening, with the possibility of a job offer until they were nearing the end of their dinner at Rakuya. It caught Layla by surprise. She was flattered that Royal had recognized her in the drawings Gould had done of her and were hanging in his studio the other day when Royal had been there and watched Gould draw and fuck that flashy little Toby Drake. Before that, she thought Royal just wanted to fuck her, and he was so good looking that she wanted to fuck him back.

He had asked that she come as Layla on their date. She had pulled out all stops to impress him in that guise. She’d been more than a little surprised he had recognized the double life of Luigi. As Luigi, Layla had managed to pull off being a man. Of course, whenever Luigi was around Griffin Gould, that’s who any visitor was focused on. Luigi was just part of the furniture.

Still, she was apprehensive about this date. Since coming to America, her concentration had been on Gould. Royal was such a hunk, though. She’d been flattered when he asked her to go out with him—as Layla. She knew then that the man wanted to fuck her as Layla too. The way Gould had been acting lately—being so much into drawing and fucking trans T-girls, it served him right if Layla gave it to someone else as well.

Royal had specified that she be medically checked before the date. He had paid for it and had had the appointment made. But she didn’t bareback even with Griffin Gould, and hadn’t done so since she arrived in the States from Italy. The appointment was a nuisance, but the prospect of having sex this way had her keyed up. One thing was for sure—it meant Royal did plan to fuck her.

“Griffin tells me you have a university degree—in hotel hospitality—in Italy,” Royal said, as the dessert plates were being taken away and coffee and cognac were being served. That was unusual for a Japanese restaurant, but not for one that charged the prices this one did. She had extended an arm on the table, and Royal was touching it with his fingers. Later he’d be touching her inside her sex—and not just with his fingers. She was trembling from anticipation. This had been what she had lived for when she’d transitioned. She was possessed with the image of being stretched out beside a hunk like Royal, who was turned to her, both of them naked, and being able to look down between them and see the root of a thick cock buried in her lady slit, moving in and out.

“Yes, I do,” Layla answered.

“That must help you run an efficient house and studio for Gould.”

“Yes, I think it does.” Layla wasn’t being forthcoming in the conversation, but she’d already put her hand high on his thigh under the surface of the table a couple of times, signaling “Yes, you may fuck me, if you wish.” She had found the curve of his cock inside his trousers and was rubbing his cockhead with her index finger. The response she saw in his face was that he couldn’t wait to be inside her.

She was devoted to Gould, but not necessarily uninterested in other men. Royal had had his cock out, stroking it, while Gould was fucking Drake. Layla could respect—and be interested in a good, plump cock. Royal was hung as well as being gorgeous. It would serve Gould right—fucking his models more than once if he had the notion to—if Layla did some fucking around too. And, if she did, it might as well be with a high-test male like Erick Royal. She could feel him going harder at her touch.

“But is there really enough to do at Gould’s to fully utilize your talents?” He had marvelous control, being able to maintain a business conversation while being stroked below the surface of the table. But then, he knew as well as she did that this date with end with them in a bed somewhere and him doing pushups on her. This assuredly would happen no matter how she reacted to his employment recruitment spiel.

“Serving Griffin Gould is enough for me,” she answered. And there it was. That was the truth. She was head over heels for the artist and “just watch out” for anyone who might come between them. Her dilemma seemed to be that Gould didn’t reciprocate that sort of devotion.

“And servicing him too?” Royal asked.

“Yes, and servicing him too.”

Royal could see the honesty in her answer, and he wasn’t under any assurance that he could pry the woman away from the artist, but there was no reason why he shouldn’t try. In any case, she was signaling that she would open her legs to him, he had a fetish for fully and expertly transformed T-girls, and thus he could come away from the evening satisfied. If there was hope of winning her over, though, he would have to play the sex differently. He was somewhat of a Jekyll and Hyde there. If he continued to want something from someone, he could be an attentive lover. If they had nothing other than the sexual encounter and release to give him, he could use them cruelly and totally. In fact, there was a difference between courting someone and winning them. He could be charming in wooing them. When they surrendered to him, they were just a vessel to assuage his lust. He’d used the T-girl Natalie cruelly, of course, but that was in testing her as a possibility for his stable at the island resort he was putting together. He had something else entirely in mind for Luigi Finelli, or Layla, if that was what she preferred being called.

“Why did you leave Italy?” he asked. “Do you have hopes of going back there, or are you determined to remain in the United States?” His resort island wasn’t in the States. She’d have to be willing to go back abroad.

“I’m determined to be anywhere Griffin Gould is,” she said.

There it is again, the barrier to the plan, Royal thought.

“And I don’t think I can go back to Italy ever again.”

Ah, that was interesting information, he thought. He’d have to have that researched if there was any hope to employ her.

“Is your devotion to Griffin such that there’s no reason for us to continue this evening?” he asked.

“Grif fucks around,” she answered. “It would be good, I think, for him to receive some of his own medicine.”

Ah, so he was to be the revenge factor. That was fine with him, as long as it didn’t cause Gould to up his prices. Purchasing thirty or so of the man’s nude trans drawings to put on the walls of the new island resort was part of Royal’s mission here in Washington, D.C. He didn’t really care what the drawings would cost beyond no one would like the thought that they had to pay double simply because they fucked the artist’s girlfriend.

And he was going to fuck the artist’s girlfriend. Layla had just confirmed that.

“What I wanted to propose this evening is that you come work for me. I think you know I own a hotel chain and I’m putting together a special island resort for men who have a fetish for transformed T-girls. I have in mind you, with your hotel hospitality credentials, managing that hotel for me at least until it gets off the ground. You wouldn’t develop and manage the stable of T-girls. I have someone else in mind for that. But you’d manage the resort as a whole.”

This took Layla by surprise. She’d had no idea the man had that sort of interest in her. “Grif is here,” she said after a pause to absorb the idea.

“Gould can do his art anywhere. And if he wants to continue drawing T-girls, he would have a large offering of them right there at the resort. I’d build a separate house and studio for the two of you if you took up the offer. There’s already a cottage for whoever is in that position. I can have an art studio added.”

Layla said nothing. She had been taken completely by surprise and she was used to being totally in control of her actions and schemes. Royal saved her by saying, “Nothing has to be decided for some time. The resort is still under construction. You can think about it and either you can broach the subject with Gould or I can. In fact, it might be good if I did—if I pitched it as wanting him there and you just coming along with an attached job to get him there.”

“Yes, probably,” Layla said, with some bitterness. The man had found the tender spot—Grif’s arrogance in thinking it was all about him.

“Let’s let it lie for a while,” Royal said. “I heard there’s a show club called Minerva nearby. How about we go there for a while . . . and then back to the Fairmont?”

There it was. Watching T-girls in various stages of undress strut across the stage and then back to his hotel for a fuck—or two . . . or three. The man looked like he could give her that many orgasms in one bedding.

“That sounds like a plan,” Layla said.

Not long after midnight, they arrived at Royal’s hotel room at the Fairmont. Just inside the door, with just the side lights at the bed turned on, Royal came up close behind her and embraced her from the back. She turned her face to his and they kissed. Their lips still locked, he pulled the zipper down the side of her clingy, black satin evening gown, and it floated to the floor. During more lip work, he found the hook of her lacy bra, which was between her melon-sized breasts and that came away.

Layla sighed and lifted one hand to cup the back of his ginger-hair head, while the other covered the hand he was working and squeezing her breasts with. The fingers of his other hand snaked under the hem of her panties and up, into the folds of her restructured cunt, finding the vestigial penis at the top of the folds and working that with his fingers. Moaning, she arched her back, pushing her buttocks back against his erection, and murmured, “Fuck me, fuck me now.”

Taking the hint, he pushed her panties off her hips and she stepped out of them, keeping her spike heels on. He unzipped himself and let his trousers and briefs join her dress on the floor. He unbuttoned and removed his shirt with one hand while holding her to him with the palm of the other on her belly.

He fucked her first right there, barebacking her, just inside the hotel room door. And he fucked her first in the ass—and she let him—while the fingers of one of his hands were driving her crazy by working the vestigial penis at the top of her folds.

“Now, now,” she cried out eventually. “In the cunt. Now!”

Neither had come yet. He changed channels, still fucking her from the rear, but entering her cunt from the back, being long enough to still bottom in her and pound the glans at the end of the vagina. He grabbed her under her knees and raised and spread her legs directly out from her body. Her torso flipped down and she was supporting herself by palming the carpet in front of them. She was completely his captive now, and he continued pounding the back wall of her surgically created vagina until, with a cry, she experienced her first orgasm.

He came almost immediately thereafter. He was a gusher, ejaculating again and again, filling her cunt, the cum dribbling onto the floor below. He let her legs down while he was still erupting and reached around for and latched onto to the vestigial penis at the top of her folds, working her hard, each of them having a secondary flow. She’d never experienced anything like this before. Gould didn’t pay this much attention to her needs. Royal let her slowly collapse to the floor at his feet, and he stood over her, panting and shuddering for a few moments, before picking her up and carrying her to the bed.

My god, she thought. He’s going to fuck me like that again. Well, more than once again, actually.

He gave her another orgasm on the bed, covering her in the missionary position, feeding on her breasts, and thrusting, thrusting, thrusting and then shooting off one load after the other. None of it was done cruelly. It was all like expert dancers, all of the moves smooth, but Layla totally taken. He didn’t take her hard, or even as he would have liked to use her—because he wanted something from her. If he’d taken what he wanted, she might have not survived it.

She engineered her third orgasm herself, with Royal on his back on the bed, and her riding his cock in the cowboy position, luxuriating in what he still could produce, firing off repeatedly and giving her a rolling orgasm.

Both of them spent, they lay there stretched out along each other’s bodies, he behind her turned to her. Looking down, along the line of her body and past his arm wrapped around her, his fingers lightly thrumming one of her nipples, she could see the root of a thick cock buried in her lady slit, moving in and out. She sighed, with contentment. The ride wasn’t over yet.

She didn’t leave the Fairmont until almost four in the morning. Royal would have been happy for her to stay all night—for the taking to continue on, the orgasms building up, until she said she’d be happy to manage his island resort hotel. But Layla eventually said she had to leave, that she had to be there when Griffin Gould needed his morning coffee and that the artist was an early riser.

Royal recognized his defeat, at least for now. Gould still came first with Layla—no matter how many times Royal made her come—no matter how well he fulfilled her sexual fantasies in ways that Gould didn’t even attempt to do.

When she walked out of the entrance of the Fairmont, a taxi—a Capitol Cab Company taxi—turned on its lights and rolled up beside her.

* * * *

“This isn’t the direction to where I said—”

“No, it isn’t, pussy boy,” Dex said from the front seat of the cab as he pushed buttons that locked the backseat doors of his Capitol Cab Company taxi and rolled the bullet-proof glass up between the front and back seats.

Layla beat on the partition and windows, to no avail. The streets were deserted. It was 4:00 in the morning.

Dex drove the taxi down L Street and turned into an alley at the end of which was a large garage door off its hinges enough for him to drive through and into a rarely used storage building, rarely used because the door was off the hinges and needed to be fixed. Dex spent a good part of his time while cruising in the cab on nights he’d collected his cab fee average early looking just for such opportunities as this.

Stopping the cab in the shadows, he climbed out and opened the back door. Layla was at him, fingernails flashing. He busted her one on the cheek, and she fell back, sprawling on the seat. Grabbing her by the throat, he lifted her up and shot her another one between the eyes. This time when she fell back, she lay there, in shock and momentarily seeing stars.

That gave Dex all the time he needed to hike her long skirt up to her waist, pull her straps off her shoulders and her bodice down to her waist, and pull her bra open and rip her panties off. He already was crowned with a rubber. He’d done that before picking her up at the Fairmont. He’d planned all of this.

“Shit, you’re one dynamite pussy boy,” he exclaimed as he came down on top of her, encased her thighs between his, thrust his erection up inside her surgically provided vagina, and, grabbing her throat with one hand and working her melon-shaped breasts with the other, fucked her in long deep thrusts that punished the glans at the top of her vagina cruelly.

Gasping for breath, Layla came out of the shock of the shots to her face enough to think about what was happening. She was a fighter and a survivor. She had been raised on the streets of Milan. This wasn’t the first time she’d been brutally assaulted, and she had survived. She gathered up her assessment of what was happening and what she could do about it—and when.

Part of the “when” calculation was that the big black guy was a bull. He wasn’t just fucking her; he was giving her a master pounding with a monster cock, punishing her G spot to a cadence that was sending her up into the clouds. Royal had given her three orgasms. This black dude was going to give her a fourth. That was inevitable. If he kept at it—if she lived that long—he’d give her a fifth and sixth one too.

With a cry, she exploded. Number four. Dex laughed and fucked on, giving it to her hard and fast. He pulled his hand away from her throat to pull his T-shirt over his head. He was magnificently built. She couldn’t help it; her knees went to hook themselves on his hips and her fingernails dug into his big guns. He laughed and pounded her. She moved her hips with his thrust, telling him that she had surrendered to him.

It was partly involuntarily, her giving in to him, taking the pounding and moving her hips with it, moving in the rhythm of the fuck. But it also was partly planned. She decided that she must drain the anger from him. She needed to make him think he was such a great stud that she wanted what he was giving her. Well, he was a stud, and, under other circumstances, she’d be quite happy getting what he was giving her.

But she had no illusion that this was life and death.

She felt him building to an ejaculation. She was about to orgasm herself again too—number five. But she held it, going with him in the fuck, helping him to rise to the heights. At the same time, she realized that he was fumbling around in one of his pockets now, and she instinctively knew what he was fumbling for, and if she had a chance, she’d have to take it in the same moment as he took his.

He was going to do it as he ejaculated. She climaxed first, knowing he’d feel her go and it would distract him, if only for a second. As he tensed and jerked, and started into what, with him, would be multiple shots of loads, the flickblade came out of his pocket and flashed open. With adrenaline pumped strength, Layla grabbed his wrists, which surprised and weakened him. The struggle with the blade was brief, the Italian brought to bear more time on the streets than Dex had had, and when the thrusts went home, it was Layla who pulled herself out of the backseat of the cab, uncut, and after a few moments of pulling herself together, started the walk out, through the damage door, through the alley, and to L Street. She had the presence of mind to move over a couple of streets before flagging down another cab to drive her home.

She was disheveled, but the cabbie just wrote that up to a fine-looking broad having had a bender in the Georgetown bars.

She wouldn’t be reporting anything. She didn’t want anyone to look into her background as a woman, which was why she was a man most of the time at Gould’s house. She had been a woman in Italy when she’d sent a rapist to hell—the son of a prominent family—and she’d escaped that so far. She didn’t want to have anything to do with the police.

She’d killed before. It wasn’t that hard after the first time.

* * * *

The first thing Hardesty did that Tuesday morning, after nudging Toby off him and releasing the young man’s wrist restraints—well the first thing after then taking a piss and turning the coffee pot on—was to find his cellphone and to try to call Natalie. It had kept bugging him that she said she had some vital information on her assailant. Maybe it was just to get together again with him to be fucked, but there wasn’t anything wrong with that that Hardesty could see and any information she might have would be helpful. And he’d enjoy a good fuck of Natalie as much as she would. He was beginning to appreciate having two holes down there on a full trans to fill and work.

He’d tried to reach her several times on Monday but hadn’t gotten a call back. He didn’t reach her this time either. He was standing at the dining table, where his laptop was set up. He was here, so he might as well check his e-mails, he thought.

The first one was from the department’s chief of internal affairs, DeLong Black.

“Yeah, yeah,” Hardesty mumbled. “Thursday, I know. The day of reckoning.”

But it wasn’t going to be such a day on Thursday at all. This e-mail from Black told him just to forget Thursday’s meeting and to forget “for now” that there was any issue with where he was living and who he was living with—although Black would revisit that when he had more time to look into it.

“Fucking strange,” he thought, but he decided not to think any more about it now. He figured he was just on borrowed time on this—someday the summons wouldn’t be cancelled and he’d have to make a decision, take a stand. But not this Thursday. Maybe they decided that he needed to concentrate on tracking down this T-girl serial killer. He wasn’t all that worried about it, though. If push came to shove he’d change his official residence to his D.C. house. He wouldn’t mention any of this to Toby—neither that he was being hassled about his residence or that all he had to do was reveal he had a house in the District and change his registration to there. Toby had enough on his mind; he didn’t need to be involved in this issue as well.

He would let all of that hang and concentrate on the T-girl serial killing issue. While the coffee was perking, he’d go take a shower and get his ass into the department and pumping away on solving the T-girl murders. But he’d been thinking of fucking Toby again before going to work. A morning fuck would be just the thing to perk him up and sharpen his mind for later in the day. And after that, before leaving for work—and while drinking his coffee—he’d give Natalie another call. Yes, it occurred to him, not for the first time, that he was just a randy teenaged boy at heart—and in his gonads.

How would he fuck Natalie the next time? How would he ring her chimes real well? Those snatches these guys were having made now—so realistically fashioned—intrigued him. They were well worth further exploration. Not that he wanted Toby to do that, of course. But Natalie’s had been just like a woman’s. It took and hugged all of him. These transformation surgeons were getting better and better in what they could and did provide. He fancied that it even had muscles in the wall that caressed him. And the ass channel was then so conveniently near to finish in. He’d think about that on the way to the office. For now, he had business to do in his bedroom. Good thing that’s what he decided. Just thinking about what to do with Toby and Natalie had given him another erection.

 To be continued.