Only One Draw

Washington, D.C., has always had a robust, well-defined, red-light district and, within that, a haven for exercise of the gay lifestyle. It just hasn’t stayed in one place. For most of the twentieth century it centered at the Gayety Theater and the corners of 9th and I Streets Northwest, nine blocks up from the Washington Mall. Then the assassination of Martin Luther King led to the April 1968 race riots and the porn entertainment center of the city was burned down. The gay district moved across the mall and toward the river to O Street in southwest Washington, and remained here, centered around the Follies and Ziegfeld-Secrets and a half dozen other gay men’s clubs and theaters on a short block not far from where the Anacostia River entered the Potomac. The “O” of O Street became sort of a cocksucking in joke in the active gay community. This area was leveled in 2006 for construction of Washington’s National’s baseball stadium, and once more gay life in the nation’s capital was seeking a center. That center has been found, if more loosely than in earlier incarnations, in the Dupont Circle area, in the northwest area, not far from its original center.

In addition to the usual theaters, gyms, dance clubs, and saunas catering to gay men and lesbians, a few new clubs have opened up catering to trans people and to those who have fetishes for trans people. One of these is Cherice’s on U Street, some ten blocks above Dupont Circle in the trending Adams-Morgan area. It was here, at 9:30 on Friday night, that the big, black Capitol Cab Company cabbie Dex, whose parents had immigrated here from the Caribbean, picked up an Arab, complete with white robe and head covering, and the young woman he was with, who, obviously to Dex, with a little trans fetish of his own, was a T-girl.

Dex didn’t often come into this area to cruise for taxi fares, as it aroused him in ways he knew weren’t good. He had a fetish for young men, and especially androgynous-looking ones who were more beautiful than handsome and were small and moved like a dancer. As fully transformed T-girls became more numerous, Dex’s interests went in that direction too, although he lusted for them in any stage of their pretense or transition.

The U Street area was known as a gathering place for trans people and Dex had a problem keeping his hands off them. He had just been on the other side of the Mall, picking up fares at that art place on D Street, Artechouse. He’d picked up a fare—an older guy and a younger one. The younger one wasn’t trans, Dex didn’t think, but he was a real honey, androgynous in several ways, and obviously he was gay, because the older guy had his hands all over him on the ride uptown to Farragut Square and they’d kissed. That had gotten Dex’s juices going, and the next thing he knew, he was cruising the trans club area over on U Street—and he was looking for more action than giving someone a ride to their destination. He wanted to ride a T-girl—hard.

Dex drove the Arab and the T-girl into the embassy area of Kalorama to the south and dropped the Arab off near the Syrian Embassy on Wyoming Street. The Arab paid his fare and that of the T-girl to take her back to the Dupont Circle area.

The T-girl had been going by the name of Nicola since her full transformation, having been Nick Ames in an earlier life. Dex didn’t drive her to the address given. He headed in the direction of Dupont Circle, but before getting there, he turned into an abandoned gas station on 19th street, drove around to the back of the building, and stopped the cab.

“This ain’t the Tanglewood Club, honey,” Nicola said from the backseat of the cab.

“No, it ain’t,” Dex said. “I want your fare in something other than money. Get out of the cab, stand against that wall over there, and lift your skirt.”

“I ain’t getting’ out of this taxi until you take me to the Tanglewood, like you were told to,” Nicola declared indignantly.

“Yes, you are. I don’t want the back of my cabbie messed up, and, like I said, we’re workin’ the fare out in somethin’ more than money.” Dex hopped out of the front seat, jerked the back door open, and pulled the T-girl out. Nicola went down on her knees on the pavement.

“Stop that; you’ll run my hose,” she squealed. Dex grabbed her under the arms, hauled her up, frog-marched her over to the back wall of the abandoned building, slammed her back against the wall, and forced her down her knees again.

She cursed and struggled against him, as he unzipped himself. He pulled his cock out and growled, “Suck it, bitch, and do it good, or I’ll beat the crap out of you.”

Nicola wasn’t terrified out of her mind—yet. This wasn’t all that unusual in her world—at least not yet. This wasn’t the first black cock she’d sucked. Whimpering, she took the big, black cock in her mouth and gave the cabbie head. Before she brought him off, Dex pulled out, lifted her, and turned her, face to the wall.

“Gonna collect my taxi fee now. Take it. Give me trouble and I’ll cut you,” Dex growled.

“Don’t hurt me. Be good to me, sugar,” Nicola whimpered, as Dex palmed her belly and pulled her pelvis and legs away from the wall. Nicola assumed a familiar stance, pressing her cheek into the bricks and raising her arms, palms against the wall, butt jutting out. She figured it was less of a hassle to let him fuck her than it would be to fight with him. Besides, he had a very nice cock and this was sort of an arousing situation for her.

The black cabbie ran his big hands up under the hem of her cocktail dress and moved them up her legs. He was surprised to find she wasn’t wearing panties. He fumbled around in his pocket for a moment, finding, pulling out, slitting, and opening a condom packet.

Nicola gave a little gasp when he penetrated her ass. He was big and thick—bigger than the Arab had been in the back room at Cherice’s. As, covering her close from behind and above, Dex fucked her in the ass, he let his hands roam around her body. In addition to being surprised to find she wasn’t wearing panties, he was excited to discover she had been fully transformed. Instead of a dick, he found she had a slit. A shiver of arousal went through him. His favorite. He didn’t encounter many of them.

“Ah, got me a real pussy boy,” he growled. He explored her folds and snatch with his hand, rubbing the vestigial penis at the top of the slit and getting his fingers inside her. Nicola moaned and shimmered for him, reverting to her rent-boy stance, not yet sensing the danger. He was just a big black body wanting to fuck her ass and play with her newly acquired pussy. Nothing new in that. She had a thing for big, black boys with monster cocks.

He turned her against the wall, putting her knees on his hips.

“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck,” Nicola squealed, as Dex penetrated her in the second orifice. For some reason this made a difference to Nicola. She fought him. “Not there. The ass is OK, but not there, you black bastard,” she hissed. “You’re too big. That’s just for finger play.” She lashed out at him with her long fingernails.

Giving her no heed, Dex held her close and pumped her hard and vigorously, stretching her snatch to the limit. She beat on him with her fists and scratched at him with her nails, to no avail. This not working, she buried her teeth into his throat.

Giving a howl of “You bitch!” Dex loosened his grip but didn’t give it up entirely. He drew his hand back and shot it forward, punching the T-girl in the mouth. Then, instinctively, having been a street fighter all his life, Dex sank his hand into a pocket again, pulled out a switchblade knife, and clicked it open.

It was all over in a matter of seconds. Dex was standing away from the wall, panting, and holding an open switchblade in his hand that was dripping Nicola’s blood. He was angry as all hell; he hadn’t even had time to shoot off yet.

“I told you not to mess with me or I’d cut you,” he growled. He stood there until he’s regained control. When he had, he rolled the condom off his cock. He hadn’t come; she’d denied him that. His need was still welling up inside him. He was about to throw the spent rubber down on the ground where he saw other used condoms were scattered, but then he thought better of it and jammed it into a pocket as he zipped himself up, closed the switchblade, and put that away.

On his way back the cab, he was thinking, “That’s why I didn’t do you in the back of the cab, bitch. I didn’t want to get blood on the upholstery.”

He was still keyed up, but he didn’t want to be seen back in the U Street area tonight. He decided to go back to D Street and see if there were any trans honeys leaving whatever was going on at Artechouse tonight. If there’d been one young bombshell gay guy there tonight, there might be some T-girls too—and maybe another one with a pussy for him to fuck. There were more and more of them showing up in the city.

* * * *

Toby Drake was given the personal tour of two floors of the Farragut Art Gallery by its owner, Corwin Case, that night, the two of them walking from one small gallery to the next, with Case turning on lights as they entered galleries and turning them off as they left. There was one large gallery in the front, directly off the street, but behind that were a series of smaller, theme- or artist-specific rooms. One of the rooms featured Griffin Gould’s techno-cityscapes. It wasn’t just wall art that was featured in the gallery. Case also dealt in oriental furniture, much of it antique, and oriental art objects. These were tastefully scattered around the gallery rooms.

They went up to the second floor.

“Galleries in front and my in-town apartment at the back,” Case said. “The art up here is more specialized to the tastes of my major buyers, and some of it, as you will see, isn’t shown to just anyone.”

Toby could see why. As they moved further away from the front, from one gallery to another, and Case turned lights on in entering and off in leaving, the art became more explicit and moved into the pornographic. At last they arrived at the male nudes and sex artwork. The room was about eighteen by twenty feet, the walls covered in a beige grass cloth. The plush carpet under foot was mauve. Track lighting highlighted each of the drawings and paintings. A brown leather-covered ottoman of a good size sat in the center of the room. The oriental furniture here appeared to be antique and went to the sexual torture theme. A rosewood prayer bench with stocks for the neck and wrists centered one wall. Opposite of that was an X-frame, the Chinese version of the Saint Andrew’s cross, the beams intricately carved. A stock-like contraption, Toby having no idea how it would work, centered on another wall.

The artwork was all of male nudes, some just in provocative poses, others of men fucking. The room before this had been what Case called his “pillow-talk art room,” presenting male versions of Shunga, the ancient Japanese woodblock art dating back to the fourteenth century, of men in a sexual embrace with other men. These weren’t nudes, but they were all the more provocative for that. They were prints in which billowy silk robing was used to accentuate areas of the body that weren’t clothed, focusing on men fucking other men. The effect was made more sensual than if the figures had been completely naked. Toby spent significant time looking at these in detail and, surprisingly, found them more arousing than the more graphic works of naked men fucking.

The room they now were in provided very explicit art.

“Please make yourself comfortable,” Case said. “There’s a chair over there where you can place your clothes.” This was an obvious indication that Toby was to strip here and begin to earn his rent-boy fee. Case specified just how far down Toby was to strip. “I wish to see you down to the lady bits. I’ll get us something to drink as we discuss the art in this room.” He had made a few comments on the art in every other room, but it was evident that the art in this room was to be discussed in more detail as a form of foreplay.

When he was gone and Toby had stripped down to the black lace bra and panties he had been told were part of the preparation for this assignment—with cross-dressing and cosmetics being about as far as Toby went into the trans world in his services—his first attention went to the sex equipment. They were antiques, but were they still in use? Would they be in use tonight?

If so, that was part of the service, with any damage done being added to the fee.

Next, he circumnavigated the room, looking closely as well as from a distance at the artwork. Some of it he suspected as being Griffin Gould’s work, not because he’d seen the man’s nudes before, but because he’d been told what to look for—finely lined drawings with colored charcoal shading, the focus being on the genital area. The signature was discreet. Whereas the landscapes downstairs were boldly signed “Griffin Gould,” his nudes merely had a “GG” worked into the edge somehow. The nudes were quite a contrast from his techno-cityscape oils. It was just as skillfully done, though, and, like the cityscapes, which had a built-in surprise of changing time of day depending on the angle in which they were viewed, the nudes had a subtle surprise of their own. They all gave at least a hint of being in the trans world.

All of the Gould drawings were of a single male—all young, androgynous males. Some were explicitly trans, the pose focusing on the surgically provided female genitalia. Some were more subtle, having the T-girl clothed in panties, bras, slips, or other lingerie. And some of it was more subtle yet, the pose only giving a hint of the androgynous but having a slip or bra in the frame. Even though these were of a single figure, Toby got a sense of a connection with the Shunga art style.

With a minimum of strokes, the artist had fully captured his model. Toby recognized Natalie, who he had just talked with at the Artechouse exhibition and who had told him she’d posed for Gould, so that didn’t surprise him. What did surprise him—and momentarily distress him—though, was that there were two Gould drawings of the T-girl Liam—Liam Hathaway—who Toby knew, but couldn’t reveal, had recently been murdered. Liam had started the transformation process, with the breast augmentation, but hadn’t gone farther than that—and the cross-dressing—yet. There was a third model of the Gould drawings who Toby recognized but could not identify. He was sure he’d seen the young man—or woman—and recently, but he couldn’t quite put a name to the individual. It wasn’t someone he knew well. Of that, he was sure.

Before he could dwell further on Liam having been one of Gould’s models, though, Corwin Case returned, carrying a tray with a martini shaker and two glasses on it and with the string of a shoe bag looped over an arm. He was wearing a blue silk robe with oriental designs over it—and, as far as Toby could discern, only the robe. He was a tall, handsome man, tending toward the flesh spread given to men of his fifties age bracket. But he was still muscular; he had good body tone at an age when most men were sagging. He didn’t hunch over; he stood tall and proud of himself. His robe opened enough as he walked for Toby to see that he was in erection. His cock wasn’t thick; it was on the distinctly thin side. But it was extraordinarily long. This came as no surprise to Toby. He’d seen it before. He’d sheathed it before. He been cross-dressed for the man before in a sexual encounter. That had been in a hotel room, though, not here, on the man’s home ground—not with the hint of something more kinky and demanding than cross-dressing and a doggie or missionary fuck on a hotel bed.

Case put the tray down on an antique credenza with phallic protuberances centered on the top surface of sides, which Toby had easily been able to imagine could be used as impaling dildos for someone stretched out on top of the credenza, held in place by the dildo up their ass, while a sex partner hovered over them, working them over in inventive ways. The phalluses were curved a bit toward the center of the table and Toby could well imagine how they would fit in either cunt or ass. He poured two drinks into the glasses, but before handing one to Toby, he extended the shoe bag.

“Here. Please put these on. I checked with the escort service on the size you’d need.”

Toby took a pair of red satin spike heels out of the bag and slid them on his feet. He stood there in the black lace panties and bra and slowly let his nearly platinum blond hair down to cascade to his shoulders. Case sucked in air. With slitted, lustful eyes, the gallery owner took the small, perfectly formed body of the rent-boy in, perpetually boyish, looking too young, too innocent to give a client what he wanted and demanded in both companionship and sex, but totally sexy at the same time. Case well knew that the young man would give him total, fully satisfying sex. While fresh looking, there was more than a hint of the young man’s leaning, in addition to his willingness to wear a bra, panties, and heels for a client. His fingernails and toenails were painted silver and he had hardware—a small ring in his eyebrow and one in his navel—and a tattoo of a gecko, a small lizard, on his lower belly above the right hip, peeking out just above the dipping waistline of the panties, making a man ache to slide his hand below the waistband.

“Gorgeous,” Case whispered. His hands were shaking as he handed Toby one of the glasses. Toby took a sip and almost immediately felt the effect of whatever had been added to mellow him out. He wasn’t pleased that he wouldn’t be in full control of his faculties, but he wasn’t surprised either. He had been similarly drugged in the hotel room on his first assignment with Case, and the man had totally used his body then, leaving him bruised and exhausted, but sexually satisfied. Toby just had to rely on the client fully understanding the limitations of what his contract with the escort agency permitted. If the client went beyond the limits agreed to, the client could wind up with broken legs or exposed to the public in some way that didn’t come back to hurt the escort agency.

Case reached out to touch Toby on the gecko tattoo, but Toby stepped back, whispering, “Not yet, I don’t think. Not unless you don’t want to savor a buildup.”

Smiling, Case said, “Of course,” just now remembering that the gecko covered the young man’s erogenous point and that touching it would initiate wild sex. And the young man was right. This hadn’t all been set up just for a quick, wild ride. Instead of going to the tattoo, the outstretched hand went to sliding into the fall of hair down Toby’s back and to cupping his head and pulling him in for a deep kiss. Toby didn’t resist this, opening his mouth to take the man’s tongue. His other hand slid down Toby’s back, under the waistband of the panties there, down through the crack, his finger reaching for, finding, and penetrating the young man’s anus. Rather than resisting, Toby rolled his buttocks up to give the man deeper access, which Case took. There was no question that Toby was his for the taking.

“Shall we examine the artwork more closely?” Case said, with a smile, when he pulled out of the kiss, satisfied that, although the young man had denied him a touch of the tattoo, he wasn’t denying surrendering to the man’s sexual lust. He picked up his glass from the credenza, tossed off the drink, put an arm around Toby, his hand pulling from deeper down the rent-boy’s back, palming one of the young man’s butt cheeks, and began guiding him around the room. A bit weak on his feet now, Toby was being supported in the walk as much physically as sexually.

* * * *

The three pieces of sexual torture equipment Toby had spied in the room weren’t the only ones there, and none of them were what Case used with Toby. Case did, though, use a piece of sexual torture equipment with Toby.

After they’d walked around the room, looking at and discussing the artwork, dwelling on the sensuality and sexual aspects of the pieces and pausing to kiss and fondle, including Toby running a hand into the folds of Case’s robe and fondling the man’s balls and stroking his long cock, Case guided Toby back to the center of the room.

Case sat on the ottoman and, taking his cue, Toby knelt in front of him, brushed the sides of robe open, took the man’s cock in his mouth, and as Case ran his fingers through the young man’s hair, gave him expert head.

At length, Case pushed Toby back on his heels and stood. “This ottoman is quite special” he said. “It’s from the palace of the Chinese emperors. Very inventive and sensual people, the Chinese of the Manchu Dynasty.”

As Toby watched, Case lifted off the top of the ottoman and set that aside. The platform under it was lower to the ground. “Happily set to my height,” Case said, with a low laugh. “I’m pleased to know that some Chinese emperor and I were the same height.”

It took Toby a moment to figure out what he was looking at in the configuration of what had been under the ottoman lid, but, when he did, he let out a little gasp and shivered. There were indentations in the wood at the bottom corners of the compartment where one’s knees fit, and there were velvet straps, with gold buckles to hold the legs in place there. At the other end of the ottoman, on the edge, at the center, there was an indentation for the chin to fit in. And there was another velvet strap and gold buckle there to hold the neck in place. Other velvet straps were set at the bottom from the lower corners of the ottoman. The wrists could be restrained here. Two footholds pulled out at the side of the ottoman. The figure on top could either just stand behind the bound figure, or he could put his feet into the footholds and be in the position of riding the bound figure high like a jockey would a horse.

“I’m sure this was made for the emperor to ride his favorite concubines, but it works just as well with young men, I would think. Of course, the Chinese emperor would be very refined. No doubt some of his favorite concubines were young men. Shall we try it out?”

Try it out they did. Toby was bound on it at his knees and wrists. Before his head was lowered and put into the restraint, though, Case came around in front of him and showed him the antique Oriental toy he’d had in his pocket—a carved ivory cock cage. It was a dildo, but Toby could see that it was of a special variety—that there was a grove on the top of it and red string loops. It wasn’t designed to extend the cock. Case had more than enough length. It was designed to thicken the cock. Whereas Toby had assumed the taxing the cock would give him would be in length, he now knew that it would be in girth too. He’d be stretched to the max. He gave a little moan, and Case smiled as he then gently pushed Toby’s head down to restrain his neck on the edge of the ottoman platform.

Toby saw the blue robe floating to the ground on one side of the ottoman and a slit condom packet on the other side right before he began to moan and writhe as he could, as Case’s tongue slid into the young man’s crack and he began to eat Toby’s ass out and prepare it for mounting.

Toby’s eyes widened and he emitted a yelp of surprise and slight pain as he felt the sting of the strap on his bare buttocks that he had had no idea would be employed. It wasn’t employed long or stringently, though—just enough for Toby to fully realize that he was totally vulnerable in this position for Case to do anything he liked with him. He was completely in the man’s control. Toby could only imagine what an all-powerful Chinese emperor could and would do with a slave in this position.

Case mounted and rode Toby in the jockey position for a good twenty minutes before coming. The black panties Toby was wearing had a slit down the back, so those didn’t need to be ripped off of him. As he rode, Case’s hands went everywhere on the young man’s body, and Toby gave him appropriate responses of pain-pleasure at the taking. Toby would have in any event, but this positioning was so unusual that Toby was fully aroused by it. Case didn’t remove the bra and panties, enjoying the feel of running his hands under them to fondle the underlying flesh.

It was as he freed Toby from the ottoman that he asked him to disrobe entirely other than the high heels. The bra and panties would go in the man’s souvenir drawer along with those of the T-girl who called herself Liam and who hadn’t been nearly as malleable as this one was. Of course Case had gotten a little carried away with the strap when he’d put Liam on this device.

As Toby was removing the panties and bra, Case, naked, walked to the far end of the room and slid the double pocket doors open. Revealed on the other side of that was one of the rooms of the gallery owner’s in-town apartment. It, like elsewhere in the gallery, was decorated with an East Asian motif. Prominent in the room was an antique, four-poster bed, with very sturdy, carved-wood pillars.

Toby barely had time to see that the pillars had velvet loops strategically hanging from them above and below, until he was being put into the restraints and spread-eagled at the foot of the bed, facing it. Case didn’t need to use the antique Saint Andrew’s cross in the nude male art room. He had this bed.

After Toby had been stretched out and restrained, a naked Corwin Case picked a leather strap up from a nearby chair and went to work. This time he applied the strap for a longer time and with more gusto, with Toby writhing as he could within the restraints and crying out in pain-pleasure with each snap of the strap. Case knew his limitations with this contract, though. He was limited to arousing himself for another fuck, not to dispense permanent damage.

When he was fully erect again within his ivory case, he moved Toby’s ankles from the base of the bed pillar to half way up the pillar, covered the young man close from behind, penetrated, reached around and rubbed the gecko tattoo, and then enjoyed the bucking ride of his life to be repeated later in the night with the luscious rent-boy riding him in a cowboy. A secret that had been revealed to him was that the gecko tattoo on Toby marked an erogenous point. When Toby was rubbed here, he went wild with lust. The T-girl Liam hadn’t given him sport even close to this enjoyable. Toby Drake was a luscious professional whore.

* * * *

Sam Shaffer, the art agent, took the empty glass of the T-girl, Natalie, he’d bought for the evening to hang on his arm at the Artechouse exhibit opening of the artwork of some of his client artists and went off to replenish the drinks. The two had been standing in front of one of the male nude drawings by Griffin Gould, which had reminded Shaffer that he’d paid for Natalie and thus he’d have to keep her out of Gould’s way at this exhibition. He’d already seen the two eyeing each other. Natalie hadn’t come cheap. He’s asked for a fully converted T-girl, as he wanted to try that out, but he was still undecided on whether to pay for a ride after the exhibit. Her ripe-melon breasts were certainly enticing. He’d love to get his hands and lips on those. He had wanted to see how it went between the two of them here. So far, it hadn’t been great, though. Gould’s interest and Natalie’s response to that had gotten in the way. And before them, where they stood, was the reason for that.

The Gould drawing they’d been looking at was of Natalie. She was kneeling on the bed and leaning back, an arm supporting her from behind. She was wearing a frilly nightgown in the drawing, and her other hand was pulling the hem of that up to show the folds of her slit and the tiny vestigial penis at the top. The index finger of that hand was extending down, the tip touching a labia fold. She was giving a coquettish smile with a dreamy quality that conveyed either that she was on drugs at the time, or had just been fucked or was about to be fucked.

Shaffer had made the mistake of asking which it was, to be answered, “Yes, all of it.”

“Gould fucked you?”

“Yes, of course. He’s a pro at it,” she answered, not seeing a problem. She was a call girl. Men fucked her. She shrugged. At that point, close to exploding, Shaffer grabbed her empty glass and headed for the bar.

Taking advantage of Shaffer leaving her side, and other than a short private discussion Natalie had managed with Toby Drake, the man had been hovering all over her throughout the evening, she took out her cellphone and tried to call Destiny to find out where she was and why her fellow trans escort, who said she would be here for Griffin Gould, hadn’t arrived. There still was no answer.

It wasn’t just concern for Destiny that had Natalie trying to reach her. Destiny had said she’d be here this evening to escort Gould. Natalie wouldn’t have agreed to come if she hadn’t thought the artist would be preoccupied with someone else. It was like a moth to the flame for Natalie where Gould was concerned. The man was a hunk and was overpowering, but when she’d modeled for him, he’d been cruel, and she hadn’t been able to work for a couple of days afterward. It wasn’t that he hadn’t satisfied her. It was that he had gone too far in doing so. Tonight, without Destiny being here, she’d sensed that the artist had been following her with his eyes. He said he wanted to do another sitting with her, which would mean another testing fuck. It was a good thing that much of his time this evening was taken up with trying to help sell his work to rich patrons who were attending the exhibition opening.

As she clicked off the cellphone, she heard his voice at her shoulder and felt his hand on her hip, and her eyes darted in the direction that Sam Shaffer had left her, but there was no help to be had from that direction yet.

“I’m glad you came tonight,” Griffin Gould said, as he saddled up to her side. He’d brought her a glass of champagne and she couldn’t avoid taking it and being pleasant with him.

“Thank you, she said.”

“Admiring the drawing of you?” he asked.

“Yes.”

“Quite a memorable drawing session.”

“Yes, it was,” she answered. She shuddered. She was sure that the two of them had had different experience levels of pleasure from that session. She couldn’t deny that she’d received pleasure—but at what cost? He gave a low laugh and touched her arm. She shuddered again. He couldn’t have avoided feeling that and knowing that he had an effect on her.

Like a moth to the flame.

“I’ve wanted to set up another session—to draw you again. Your escort agency isn’t forthcoming on arranging a date with me.”

“They aren’t? I’m sorry about that,” Natalie said. She knew exactly why that was. She hadn’t agreed to another hookup with him yet. She hadn’t made up her mind whether she wanted to be dominated and owned like she had been by him the first time. Now that he was here . . . that she was near the handsome, sexy, charismatic man again . . . it was like a moth to the flame. Now she ached to have him inside her, doing what he’d done to her before.

“I’ll call them and try to unblock the delay,” she said. And she would too. No matter how much he scared her and hurt her in sex, he also fully satisfied her in sex. Like a moth to the flame, she would pose for him again—and lay down for him again. And have him inside her, her bucking against him, crying out as he punished that spot at the top of her cunt again, however he wished to have her.

“Come,” he said, taking her still half-full champagne glass from her and setting hers and his on a nearby table, “there’s something I want to show you.”

Like a moth to the flame, Natalie let Gould take her hand and lead her through those milling around, drinking and grazing, and occasionally discussing the artwork in the exhibition. He led her to the back of the building and into a darkened store room, where he locked the door behind them. Perching her on a packing crate, he moved in between her legs and leaned in to capture her mouth with his. One arm wound around her waist to hold her in place. His other hand worked the zipper on the side of her long, satiny skirt, brushed the front of the skirt open, and exposed her to his searching hand. She wasn’t wearing panties.

Natalie moaned and rocked against the man’s hand as he worked his fingers on her tiny penis and through the folds and into her vagina. He stopped that long enough to produce a surgical glove from somewhere and pull it onto his hand. Natalie managed a groan and a “Oh, no, not that again,” this having been the roughest part of her experience with the man before, but he was too strong for her. He had her under his control. He went back to working her mouth with his and stifling all but her muffled objections, groans, and moans, as he slowly worked his hand into the snatch the doctors had made quite elastic and flexible to accommodate the profession of their patient. He buried himself in to her up to his wrist and engaged in one of his favorite fetishes of fisting her as her legs went to rubber and she panted hard and moaned in low tones.

At length, he pulled his fist out, turned her, belly down on the packing crate, penetrating her from behind with an erection he’d somehow freed and gotten a condom on, and fucked her from behind. His hands went to her newly minted pert breasts, pushing the bodice down and working the tits with his hands as he fucked her in the cunt from behind.

When he was finished, he kissed her on the neck, murmured, “Terrific; looking forward to our next drawing session,” and left her there, bent over the packing crate, panting and moaning, bruised and abused—but sexually satisfied in ways few men could do for her.

When she came out into the exhibition rooms, she looked for Sam Shaffer, but didn’t find him. Eventually, someone said they’d seen him leave—and not looking the least bit happy. Natalie decided to leave too, the evening bust now, the biggest part of her fee lost to her moth-to-the-flame reaction to the dangerous attraction to Griffin Gould. Well, she hadn’t been sure that Shaffer would engage her for the rest of the night anyway. He was a changeable and volatile man. She couldn’t read his moods well.

Outside, a Capitol Cab Company taxi driven by a tough-looking, big black guy, pulled over, and Natalie got in.

* * * *

“Why are you pulling into here?” Natalie asked, when, rather than continuing across the Mall, the cab pulled into the deserted parking area of the Sylvan Theater on the fringe of the circular lawn centered by the Washington Monument phallic obelisk. “This isn’t the way to the Dupont Circle area.”

“Just hang tight, sweetie,” Dex answered from the cab’s driver’s seat. “We’ve got to negotiate the fee first. You a pussy boy T-girl, ain’t you? You look like a pussy boy T-girl to me.”

Natalie reached for the doorhandle to bail out of the cab. The door was locked and she couldn’t get it open. Dex pulled the taxi to a stop, and got out. He was able to get the backseat door open from the outside.

And, yes, he found out quickly that Natalie was a pussy boy T-girl.

He was on top of her, the two stretched out over the backseat, one of the doors open, and he quickly had his hand up under her skirt and exploring her snatch. Then, pinning her to the seat with his much-heavier body, he was inside her, big and thick, almost immediately. She was built to take him, though. Astride her, inside her, he slapped her around a bit, as she struggled against him, even though he already was inside her. But when it was too late to fend off his cock and it was evident he was going to punch her in the mouth, she stopped fighting and said, “OK, big boy, show me how good you are at screwing. I’ve had the best. Show me.”

He was showing her, and he was very good at it—a regular black bull—big, thick, strong in his ability to hold himself over her, and vigorous in the long, deep strokes he was taking. Natalie’s weakness in defense was partially caused because he was fucking her so good. She liked to be fucked and she was used to being taken roughly. She had to struggle with herself to want to stop this—at least until he’d pulled an orgasm out of her.

He was wearing a rubber, careful, he thought, in not leaving evidence. A switchblade had fallen out of his pocket as he was slapping and mounting her. Natalie had seen it and kept it located with her eyes. She just hoped that Dex wasn’t aware it was on the floor of the cab.

Thrust, thrust, thrust. He was giving it to her good. Natalie became lost to the fuck. The black bruiser was big. She was built to take big, as she had managed Gould’s fist—as Destiny had told her she had managed Gould’s fist—but she also appreciated an extra thick, long cock—and she liked them black. Gould had been punishing and big inside her in the gallery supply room, especially with his fist, but whereas he had satisfied himself, he hadn’t gotten her off too. This black taxi driver was getting her off, and for several minutes she went with him, joining him in the rhythm of the thrusts and the withdrawals, taking his fucking and fucking him back, lowering his assumptions he was taking this by force. He was thick and vigorous enough that, in his slides and in the depth he was reaching, he could work both her vestigial penis at the top of her snatch and the reconstructed glans at the base of her new vagina. When a fully redone trans was worked in both of those places, she could climax with the best of them.

The taxi driver worked both of her nubs without even realizing or caring that he was, and he brought her to the brink before he got there. Shuddering and melting, she exploded again and again.

Dex laughed. “Know what to do with you pussy boys, don’t I?”

He had done it for Natalie, but not necessarily because he knew how to do it. Gould knew how to do it, but he hadn’t done it for Natalie this evening. It was left to a big, black bull’s assault in the back of a cab in a deserted parkland parking lot to get her off. She had taken it at first as assault, then like he was a paying client, and then as an act of her own release, praying that he would appreciate her going with it and wouldn’t hurt her—not believing for a moment that he was planning on letting her walk away afterward. In the end, she accepted it as arousing enough to get her off, which, in her business, she wasn’t always able to do. But, ultimately, she realized that timing was everything and her best chances here were to get him to his most vulnerable point—when he was concentrating on getting himself off—and then to act, to survive.

And, sure enough, as he was reaching climax, he put his gloved hands around her neck and started to choke her. This was where her defense training came into play. With what strength she had left, she reached up and grabbed his neck with her hands. At the same time, she began to buck with him, pulling him into an ejaculation. In the seconds in which he was jerking and coming and then jerking again and coming again, he loosened his hold on her throat, taking one hand away and searching in his pocket, no doubt trying to bring out his switchblade knife, but not finding it where he expected it to be. Natalie, in turn, found the artery under his chin with her thumb that controlled the flow of blood to his head, applied pressure, and Dex collapsed on top of her into unconsciousness.

Within a few seconds, Natalie was out of the cab, had taken her heels off, and was running toward the lights ringing the tidal basin while adjusting her clothes as best she could.

 

To be continued.