Only One Draw

“Comfy?” Griffin Gould asked, and then when Toby Drake didn’t answer, he said, “It’s OK if you talk. You’re facing away from me.”

Indeed, Toby was facing away from the artist in his studio while Gould was drawing him. Since he wasn’t a trans to any degree and the series of drawings Gould was doing were of T-girls in various stages of transformation, Toby was posed on the bed on the platform, stretched out, naked, with his back to the artist. He was propped up on an elbow on top of a satin pillow and his bare rump was prominently turned to Gould. His body, of course, was beautifully proportioned—downright willowy and feminine from behind—and his long, nearly platinum-blond hair was loose and cascading to his shoulders. It was his nicely formed rump that was the focus of this drawing.

To get more of the feminine, trans quality from the pose, he was wearing red satin spike heels and a red satin bra was seemingly carelessly dropped between his elevated side and the tussled silk sheets. Gould said that the only coloring in the drawings would be the red heels and bra. One’s eyes would be focused there before going to the lines of his back and buttocks, and the viewer would just assume that Toby was trans.

The gecko tattoo on his right hip was hidden in this pose, but Gould had already said that he wanted to do a pose showing that, and he’d highlight that in green as the only color in the drawing. The trick to that pose would be to ensure that Toby’s dick and balls wouldn’t be on display. Gould had already said he wanted to have Toby pose for him a second time. His assistant, Luigi, had been roaming around the studio when Gould said that, and he left the room in a snit.

“I’m fine,” Toby answered the artist’s “comfy” question. “It’s a little cold in here, though.”

“Don’t worry,” Gould said, “after I’m done with the drawings, we’ll see that you get heated up.” Then he chuckled at his own joke.

I just bet you will, if you can, Toby thought. He knew what services the man had paid the escort agency for, and they included penetrative, rough sex. That was fine with him. Gould was a hunk and a half, and Toby was sure he could handle the man. The assistant, the Italian guy not any older than Toby was, was something else. Toby could feel the vibes of hostility coming off the young man—the jealousy of him. Toby didn’t know why. If the assistant was warming Gould’s bed—and he no doubt was—Toby didn’t care. This was just an assignment for him. He suspected Gould didn’t care either.

“If you give me everything you’ve got, I’ll give you one of the drawings I’m doing of you. I usually do two—one to sell at Corwin Case’s gallery, and one for me to keep for future sales—sort of my retirement plan. You’re such a honey, though, that I’ll do a couple more and I’ll want you to come back for another sitting.”

“You paid for anything goes, so you’ll be getting everything I’ve got,” Toby said.

Gould’s eyes slitted and he felt himself going harder than he already was in the shorts and sandals he was wearing—all that he usually wore when doing his trans series drawings. He wanted to be ready for action at the moment the wish for action occurred to him. One thing of this project—he fucked them all, and he took everything from them when he did. High-class escort or not, Gould wasn’t sure Drake was prepared for what he’d be giving up soon enough.

Gould’s assistant, Luigi, appeared at the studio door and gestured to Gould. “Just a minute. Hold that pose,” Gould tossed out to Toby. When he returned, he wasn’t alone. A movie-star handsome man in his mid-thirties came in with him, and Gould toured him around the room, looking at the collection of trans nudes the artist had on display. The man didn’t fail to notice Drake. He looked at the nude model from all angles as he circled the room and gave him an appreciate smile.

Toby smiled back. The man was a hunk and a half, with Toby’s initial impression being “Florida” and “nautical.” That impression came from his looks and what he was wearing. He was ginger-haired—almost copper—with green eyes. His hair was tussled engagingly as if he was tacking into the wind in a sailboat. He was built solid, but on the slender side. His clothes were definitely not Washington, D.C., but he brought them off well: an off-white linen suit, with well-cut trousers and jacket giving a casual, tropical vibe; a copper-colored athletic T-shirt in some soft weave; and brown, tasseled loafers, with socks. The man exuded money and self-confidence. Toby termed him the Florida Millionaire in his mind. He could be forgiven not to know that the man was a billionaire, and he came from beyond Florida—from someplace where he could hide both his money and his activities from the U.S. authorities.

The two men conversed and headed for the studio door. “I’ll be gone a little longer now,” Gould said to Toby. “I’m nearly done with this session of drawing with you. We can move on to the next phase of this session when I return. Feel free to break the pose and move about the studio, if you wish.”

The “next phase of the session” would be sex. Toby knew that. When the men were gone, he moved off the bed and padded around the room, looking at the artwork. There were several models he was able to identify, including nearly all of the trans prostitutes he knew to be represented by escort agencies. There were the cross-dressing, not-yet-transformed ones, like the murdered Liam, who Hardesty had sworn Toby not to mention as murdered yet, and the fully transformed ones, like Nicola, Destiny, and Natalie. All of them had their sexual reality shown in the drawings, even if subtly. He went and looked at the drawings Gould was doing of him. Yes, he’d fit in the series, the subtility of it giving a false impression of his sexuality.

He looked up from there and saw a couple of drawings he hadn’t noticed before—another fully transformed T-girl. It took a moment to realize who the model was, but when he did, and got over the surprise that this was a transformed T-girl, what he had be wondering about was made clearer.

He didn’t have an opportunity to think further on this, though, because Gould was returning. He was pulling a surgical glove on his right hand as he walked into the room. “Right. Let’s move on to the fun and games now,” he said. “Back on the bed, please.”

Gould used restraints to tie Toby’s wrists together behind his back and other restraints to tie the rent-boy’s ankles together. Toby was stretched out on his belly on the bed. He panted heavily, groaned, and cried out at the pain-passion of the fuck, as Gould crouched beside him on the bed, his right hand greased up, and worked his hand up inside Toby’s anal canal up to the wrist, and fist fucked the slender blond, all the time working Toby’s body with the free hand and whispering about how nice and smooth the young man’s skin was and how well his narrow hips were taking the fist—and how much Gould was enjoying ravishing him. From time to time he slapped Toby’s butt cheeks with his left hand, reddening the orbs up. Toby was being taxed to the limit, but this was what he was paid the big bucks to endure—and to a great extent the sex had to be this challenging for him to be aroused enough to dance on the clouds.

He was dancing on the clouds from Gould’s attentions.

Gould moved on to a greased-up Mr. Ed Horse Penis dildo at a whopping twenty inches in length and three inches in girth that had Toby’s eyes rolling up into his head and him up on his knees, trying to spread himself open as much as possible.

After an interminable period of torture, Gould had had enough of the hand play and wanted to move on to cock-in-hole. He untied Toby’s ankles, but left the wrists tied behind Toby’s back. Toby was exhausted and totally cowed and let the artist manipulate his body at will. After rolling a condom on his cock, Gould went on his knees, pulling Toby into his chest, Toby’s back to Gould’s front, the rent-boy’s arms trapped between their bodies. Toby was on his knees too, his calves streaming around Gould’s hips, the red spike heels still on his feet. The artist was naked now, his cock in full, cruel, upturned erection.

Gould lifted Toby’s body and lowered him on the artist’s cock, penetrating the young man’s ass channel deep. One hand cupped Toby’s chin, pulling his head back into Gould’s chest. The other hand encased the young man’s cock.

“Fuck yourself,” Gould growled into Toby’s ear, and the rent-boy dutifully used the leverage of his calves and knees to rise and fall on the deeply buried cock.

The young rent-boy was in his element now. He loved the cock-in-hole phase of his work, especially when the man fucking him was as well endowed as Gould was. Toby loved the feel of the thick, hard shaft inside him, sliding in and out, stretching his walls, fully possessing him, a hard-bodied man embracing him close. At this point of the coupling, he was fully into this, moving on the cock and moaning for the man.

Toby wouldn’t continue as a rent-boy if he didn’t like the rough anal fucking that came with it.

He opened his eyes to see that the Florida Millionaire was back in the room, sitting across the room on the stool where Gould had sat to do his drawings. He was watching the fuck. He had unzipped and extracted his shaft and was stroking himself off while he watched a closely embraced Toby rising and falling on Gould’s shaft. The Florida Millionaire was hung, as Toby assumed he would be. He was perfect in every way. His eyes slitted and there for a few minutes it was Toby and the man connected in a fuck, rather than Gould. The Florida Millionaire understood that too, holding Toby’s gaze with his own, stroking his cock to the cadence of Toby’s rise and fall on Gould’s cock.

The millionaire understood that Toby wanted to be covered by him—perhaps even more than by Gould, who was paying for this.

Gould’s hands went to Toby’s throat, controlling the rent-boy’s breathing, starting a challenging phase of breath play that, in Toby’s experience often led to blacking out, and for some—worse. He had experience with this. Without ceasing the rhythm of rising and falling on the cock, Toby relaxed his body, went into cadence with the seconds he was given to refill his lungs, and didn’t fight against it. At this point he concentrated on staying alive and conscious and gave himself wholly into the control of Gould, hoping that the man knew and respected the limits of this dangerous form of sex.

The three were fully invested in the fuck and doing what they could to come together. They managed it rather closely. Toby’s cock, being stroked by Gould, shot off onto the floor beyond the edge of the bed. Gould ejaculated inside Toby’s channel, and shortly after, the Florida Millionaire splattered the floor in front of the stool.

Gould let Toby slowly descend to the floor by the bed and lay there, panting and shuddering, in a heap, while he rose from the bed, leaned down to tell Toby he did well and that Gould definitely wanted to schedule another drawing and sex session and then guided a zipped-up Florida Millionaire out of the studio.

When Toby was able to recover, he took a shower in the adjoining bathroom, dressed, and saw himself out of the house. As he was leaving the house, he saw the Florida Millionaire and Gould’s assistant, Luigi Finelli, with their heads together at the street corner.

Toby was a bit disappointed that his sexual connection with the Florida Millionaire had been from across the room. He was walking a bit gingerly, but he couldn’t say that the client hadn’t given him a good workout—and an ejaculation that didn’t have to be faked. A fist fuck wasn’t something he hadn’t been conditioned to manage. Being able to watch a hunk like the Florida Millionaire bring himself off watching Toby being fucked was an added-benefit arousal. When what he’d make from this was added in, this had been a good session. He wouldn’t turn down a second one.

He regretted he hadn’t given the Florida Millionaire the escort agency’s card, but maybe he’d ask for a contact number from Gould himself.

* * * *

Hardesty didn’t get back to the apartment in Alexandria, across the Potomac River from Washington, D.C., in Virginia, until late in the afternoon. It wasn’t unusual for him to come home late—sometimes three days late when he had a tough case going—but this was Sunday, a day he thought he’d have off to catch up on the laundry. He found himself on a case that was increasingly tough going. There was that laundry, which couldn’t hold off for another day, though, so when he got finished in Rock Creek Park, he’d scooped all of the files on what was becoming known in the unit as the trans knocked-up murders and brought them home.

Rock Creek Park was a broad ribbon of lush woodland that ran all the way up the District from south to north in the Northwest quadrant of the city. It had come into play because the body of the fourth, fully transformed T-Girl prostitute, had been found there earlier that morning and Hardesty had been called in and formally handed the team head position on the case. The victim hadn’t been identified yet, but she quite clearly was a T-girl and she was dressed the part of one you’d rent by the hour. Glen Whitehall was off now to track down the escort agency that handled the other three victims thus far discovered. It would take him a while. Tracing rent-boys and trans wasn’t his normal beat. The phone numbers for the agency didn’t change, but their actual physical location was kept on the move.

A new murder wasn’t the only issue bugging Hardesty as he moved quickly around the apartment, turning off all of the alarms as soon as he entered—the ones he wasn’t able to disarm from his cellphone. He was also worried about his roommate and frequent bedpartner of nearly six years, Toby Drake, and not as an entirely separate matter. In interviewing the victim who had gotten away the previous night, the former Nathan Little and current Natalie, he’d found she’d known and worked with all three of the departed T-girls and that they all had something in common recently—they’d all posed for an artist named Griffin Gould. He also found that Toby knew and was planning to pose for Gould. That made all of this more than a bit too close to home for Hardesty.

If he could, he’d just tell Toby not to see Gould until this case was solved. But that wasn’t the sort of relationship they had. They were still together because, though Hardesty dominated Toby in bed, he didn’t dictate to the young man how he lived his life.

The two of them had an admittedly exceedingly strange relationship. Hardesty was considerably older than Toby. Hardesty was a Vice cop and Toby was a high-drawer gay male prostitute—really a courtesan, Toby said, because of his high-end clientele and the ways in which he served them. What they had in common was rough, kinky sex—Hardesty in giving it and Toby in taking it. Hardesty was the man, not paying for it, who Toby could totally enjoy having sex with—and rough sex at that. In this way they fit like a hand and glove and this was the glue that held them together.

Hardesty had saved Toby from a murderous client situation six years earlier—and he’d done so on a few more occasions since then. He had such a deep relationship with the young man, something he dare not name as love because that would give him a vulnerability that he had been determined to avoid, that he now saw so many ways that Toby was putting himself at risk and he was doing everything he could to prevent tragedy from happening. The one thing he knew he couldn’t do was to ask Toby to stop being a high-priced male prostitute. He knew if he did that Toby would leave him. He was waiting it out. Surely at some point Toby wouldn’t be as highly desirable to men as he now was and he’d have to give it up and the possibility would be there for a new relationship stance between them.

But here, yet again, there was the sign of a connection between Hardesty’s cases and Toby Drake, and once again Hardesty had reason to be worried sick. He could only go so far to show it, though. He could do no more than watch out for Toby and to drop hints as far as the young man was concerned. He could do even less in being protective of the young man in terms of his professional standing with the police department. There were those who knew of his attachment—his partner and, although they didn’t speak of it, his captain, Crane, and a few others—but it hadn’t come out in official channels. If and when it did, Hardesty would be forced to make a decision and a choice. Then he’d have to face what Toby really meant to him.

For now, in this apartment, it meant that Hardesty lived in the lap of a rent-boy’s sex office and where he, as a D.C. cop, shouldn’t be living for a couple of reasons. The first reason was easily dealt with. It was a D.C. law that D.C. cops had to live in the District. A good many didn’t and the system turned a blind eye to that—or had done so far. You simply couldn’t live in anything decent in the District on a cop’s salary but D.C. had continual problems keeping its police slots filled.

Hardesty was safer than that. He was single and didn’t require a big house. Also, he had inherited a small brick rambler in a middle-class section in Northwest D.C., and he carried this on the books as his official residence. The mortgage on the house was long retired. The department benefited from this, because the house was sometimes used to stash away endangered witnesses in their cases. A retired policewoman lived next door to it and was able to help in these instances. Only a few in the department knew about the house, and Hardesty and these few wanted to keep it that way. For this reason he was avoiding declaring it as his legal residence. But it was there to be pointed to if push came to shove on the requirement.

The other issue was that of a Vice cop living with a male prostitute who was using the apartment sometimes for tricks, with the apartment being subsidized by the prostitute’s escort agency. They lived in Alexandria’s Crystal City, in a high-rise apartment house overlooking the Reagan National Airport runways, because Toby wanted to live there and it was a snazzy place he could bring johns to, if he chose—and Hardesty could still have a room of his own separate from Toby’s business. Toby didn’t often bring a man home, but once was too often for Hardesty’s situation. The advantage to this, though, was that if Hardesty was there, he could provide some protection to Toby.

It was a showcase two-bedroom, sleek, all-glass-walls apartment. At least the living area and Toby’s master bedroom and bath were elegant and sleek. Hardesty was nested in the second bedroom, which also had a bath, but which was more “homey,” with furniture from his parents’ house, than sleek. But it was home and it was where Toby usually slept as well when he didn’t have a john to entertain in the rest of the apartment. The apartment also was purpose outfitted—with alarms and peepholes and everything needed for Hardesty to be both unknown if Toby brought someone home and also to be there johnny on the spot if Toby needed him. A person couldn’t even get through the door into the apartment without Hardesty or Toby knowing it even if they were in their separate bedrooms. The place was laced with spy cameras and alarms, starting from the elevator lobby on their floor. Even the doorman at the street entrance was locked into surveillance for them and in direct contact with their apartment.

The contrast in the two men showed in the apartment they shared as well. Toby’s slice of the apartment, which was used as his place of business, as needed, was sleek and elegant. The upholstery was chrome and easy-to-clean white leather. Hardesty’s one room, the smaller of two bedrooms, was tacky, thrown together from furniture moved from his parents’ house in the District. But his bed, equipped with restraints and a good, strong set of box springs mattress, was where they exercised their sexual desires and needs more than any other place in the unit.

Hardesty dropped his laptop on the dining table, pulled the background material he brought home out of his briefcase, fanned them out on the tabletop, and moved to his two highest priorities before going to work: he took a shower in the bathroom off his bedroom and padded back to the living area in just athletic shorts, and he went to the refrigerator and liberated two cans of cold beer.

It was time to review what they knew. Four murders of T-girls were four too many no matter what anyone thought of T-girls. He arranged the notes and photos on the four victims separately on the table and opened his laptop.

The first e-mail was from Toby, from that morning, saying that he had an assignment to go to in the afternoon—a modeling session, “with benefits” for an artist, Griffin Gould, at a given address in the Dupont Circle area. This was standard procedure for Toby, as far as he had been willing to go to let Hardesty monitor and backstop his escort work. Whenever he could, he let the Vice cop know where he was going on assignment. It wasn’t so that Hardesty could say he couldn’t go—it was to give the cop a reference point in case Hardesty had to come save him. He’d had to do that on more than one occasion already. If he hadn’t done it on one occasion Toby would probably be dead now. But that hadn’t stopped Toby from continuing with his risky business. The phrase “with benefits” told Hardesty that sex would be included.

This note set off Hardesty’s “concerned” buttons. The name Griffin Gould was known to him. In his interview with Natalie, the T-girl who had had a close encounter with the rapist, Gould’s name had come up as an artist for whom the first three T-girls had posed for drawings. Hardesty didn’t like such consequences. He had a note to check on whether the fourth victim, whoever that was—she hadn’t been identified yet—had also posed for Gould. And now Toby was posing for him as well. The one difference was that Toby, although androgynous looking and willing to cross-dress, when required, was not, physically, a transformed T-girl like the others were. Regardless, he’d have to have a talk with Toby on the dangers of contact with Gould. Gould wasn’t a black sex-crazy cab driver, as Natalie had escaped from, but he was somehow a link in all of this. Again, Hardesty didn’t like consequences.

The second e-mail to pop up was from Natalie, saying, “I’ve remembered something else—something important, I think, about my assailant. Let’s set up another meeting.” That she didn’t just tell him what she knew in the e-mail indicated to Hardesty that she was just teasing him—angling for another fuck. She might have another tidbit, but he’d wager that it was nothing more than a tidbit. That one could wait, he thought.

The third e-mail was one he’d been expecting one of these days and dreading. It was from the police department’s internal affairs chief, DeLong Black, a big, hulking black man who every cop in the department stayed as clear of as possible. The e-mail began with, “It’s come to my attention that your principal residence isn’t in the District and that you’re living with a male prostitute.” It continued with giving Hardesty an appointment to appear before the man the following Thursday to explain the situation.

Hardesty barely had time to absorb this message when Toby was entering the apartment. He saw Hardesty at the table and gave him a wan smile. He went directly to the refrigerator, pulled out a can of beer, popped the top, and started drinking it as he came back to where Hardesty was sitting. He put one hand on Hardesty’s bare shoulder while swigging the beer with the other, and looked at the laptop screen, seeing the e-mail and who it was from before Hardesty blanked the screen. Then he looked over at the four piles of crime material on the table.

“Oh, shit, Hardesty,” he said. “Have there been more?”

“Yes. You looked bushed. Was it a difficult assignment?”

“It was ravishing, yes. I’m whopped. The man is building quite a collection of unusual drawings. I didn’t think I’d fit in with them, but . . . hey, wait, I’ve seen the photos of Liam before, but these other three. I think I know them all. And all of them have posed for Griffin Gould. I’ve seem paintings of them on his studio walls.”

“I’m not surprised you know them. I think you may be too close to . . . this fourth one? You know this T-girl too.”

“Yes, that looks like Shawnda. She was Shawn Stafford before transforming down at the University of Virginia hospital a year ago. She just started escorting recently. It took her a while to fully recover. She isn’t . . . is she . . . but she must be . . . from these photos.”

“Yes. Found in Rock Creek Park this morning. That’s where I spent my morning—why I wasn’t here when you got up. Give me a minute.” He picked up his cellphone, called his partner, Glen Whitehall; and passed on the identification.

“Yes, yes. From Toby. I know. I’ll do what I can there.”

Then he turned back, and said, “It’s disturbing that you’ve had contact with all four of these—and that your john this afternoon, Griffin Gould, has too, I’ve been told—at least with the first three victims. I think you may be too close to this, Toby. You need to be careful.”

“I’m always careful, buddy,” Toby responded, a bit of warning in his voice. “And I don’t run with these girls. They’re in a different world from me, but, with this art series—it’s focused on T-girls. I’ve seen them all on walls—all four of them, both at Gould’s art studio and at the Farragut Art Gallery, where they handle his work. And they were at that exhibition at the Artechouse I went to.”

“All of them? This fourth victim too?”

“Yes. This Gould guy is into trans people. I thought it was just for this art series, but I saw, from the art on his walls this afternoon and from what else I’ve gathered, that it goes further than that. He likes to fuck them too. His assistant, a flighty Italian guy—very good looking, of course—who is all over the place at Gould’s house, is a fully done T-girl too. That surprised the hell out of me. She dresses and looks like a guy, and she wanted to be called a ‘he’ whenever I talked with her, but I saw that she’s modeled for Gould for this series too. She’s a fully transformed T-girl, breasts and all. A real knockout that way.”

“OK, could you check around and make up a list of who might be in danger by being a transformed T-girl and posing for Gould? Identify, if you can, others he’s drawn at least once. He may—or may not—be our perpetrator, but he certainly seems to be a catalyst for whatever is going on.”

Toby laughed. “You want me to stay out of it but to build you a list of possible victims?” He opened his cellphone to make a note of that and found there was a message from the escort service. Some rich john by the name of Erick Royal—not likely, Toby thought—wanted to book him for an evening and night, with benefits, on the following Wednesday. Big bucks were involved. When the client had specified “with benefits,” he meant nearly the works. Toby was to dress male for a good restaurant, but with slip, bra, and panties underneath. And, more expensive, he was to come with a medical clearance dated that day. That meant barebacking and that would be very expensive indeed. It wouldn’t be a logistical problem, though. The escort service had a twenty-four-hour access contract for its male prostitutes with a clinic. Toby could be checked again after the date—all at the escort service’s expense, coming out of what the client paid. The clinics also now had wonder drugs to clean up any STD problems. The after-date clinic visits usually came into play when whip work was involved, which also was extremely expensive for the client. It wasn’t unknown for Toby to take such assignments, though.

Toby pressed OK, not knowing the name or having other plans, made his note about asking around the trans community, and returned his attention to Hardesty.

“I’m sorry. I know how it sounds.” Hardesty said, knowing he was walking on eggshells here. “It can’t be helped, though. You could give us a leg up on preventing the next murder. Just do it very discreetly, please. I don’t want you getting hurt.” He almost said more, but he didn’t. Toby could tell that he wanted too, though. Hardesty wasn’t the only one with feelings for the other in this unusual and delicate relationship. They were reciprocated and it tore Toby apart both to want to build something with Hardesty and also to be his own man.

“Yeah, I can do that,” he said, as Hardesty stood and went back to the refrigerator for another beer. He leaned over and brought the screen back up and scanned the message from the police department internal affairs chief before Hardesty returned. He turned the chair Hardesty had been sitting in and, pulling his trousers and briefs off, sat down on it and raised his legs in a V.

“Toby,” Hardesty said as he walked back. “I know you’ve had a rough afternoon. We don’t need to—”

“I know you’re keyed up and we haven’t had a chance to do it in days. Just get rid of the tension. Nothing rough. But I want you inside me.” He wasn’t really in the mood for this, but he’d seen that Hardesty had gone hard as soon as he returned home. He could tell the other signs. Hardesty needed to lay someone.

The Vice cop didn’t raise any more objections. He slipped his athletic shorts off and was now fully naked—and, as Toby had seen, in full, magnificent erection. Toby handed him one of the condom packets and the small tube of lube he always carried around with him. Hardesty crowned himself with the Magnum—thinking that maybe someday they’d be able to go dedicated and never need rubbers with each other again—lubed up his cock, reached down with greased fingers to play briefly with Toby’s hole to prepare him, and then crouched down, and mounted up.

Toby began to pant and arch his back, as the biggest cock he’d ever taken—and he’d taken a whole lot of them—moved up inside him and began to pump him in long, deep, stretching slides. They didn’t kiss; Hardesty wasn’t a kisser. But they put their foreheads together and looked deeply into each other’s eyes, as Toby hooked his knees on Hardesty’s crouching hips and raked his fingernails along the big man’s shoulder blades, and they fucked in a long-perfected coordinated rhythm of the dance of the primeval coupling.

This wasn’t ravishment. Toby had had enough of that for the afternoon and had to recover from that before he could enjoy it again. But the rough, demanding sex was what he enjoyed the most. Thus, late that night, after he’d had a long sleep, he climbed up on Hardesty’s bed in the cop’s bedroom. He brought restraints, condoms, a Mr. Ed Horse Penis dildo, a ball gag, and a hand whip with him.

“Do me totally, Daddy. Ravish me. Take me to heaven,” he murmured to Hardesty as the big man came awake.

Hardesty, ever ready, complied. Although whip work was involved, Hardesty knew how to do it to maximize pleasure and minimize damage. Toby wouldn’t have to go to the clinic afterward. He’d know he’d been fully used, however.

* * * *

Natalie didn’t notice the Capitol Cab Company taxi idling outside the Farragut Art Gallery that evening as she entered and the gallery owner Corwin Case letting her in and then closing and locking the door behind her, but Dex, sitting in his cab, saw her.

“Gotcha,” he mumbled as he saw the T-girl hand Case a piece of paper—a medical clearance she’d just obtained at a gay man’s clinic, and led her to the stairs to the upper level. Dex had been cruising the Dupont Circle area for a couple of nights, hoping to see the T-girl again. He had unfinished business with her. As the T-girl and the gallery owner reached the bottom of the staircase, clearly in view through the front glass wall of the gallery, Dex’s dispatch phone rang, and he was called to the Embassy Row Hotel to pick up a fare.

Case took Natalie up to the special gallery with the nude T-girl artwork displayed around the walls. Another man was in the room, a handsome ginger-haired, green-eyed man. He was taking the white linen jacket he’d been wearing off and hooking it on the back of a straight chair with a strategically placed wooden phallus rising from the seat. It was part of the ancient sex-tool furniture that lined the walls of the room. A tape was stretched across the seat of the chair to save anyone from a nasty surprise if they thought the chair was there for them to sit in. It was one of Case’s collection of ancient Chinese sex torture apparatuses. It was sturdy enough to still be in use and there were occasions when Case put a trans on it, either her ass or her cunt impaled on the phallus and enjoy sitting and watching her ride the chair.

Case didn’t introduce Natalie to the man at that point. He just nodded to the man and said, “She’s certified clean, Erick.”

The man, dressed now in a tight copper-colored athletic T-shirt showing his muscularity off to perfection and white linen trousers, walked over to where Natalie and Case were standing in front of the ottoman in the center of the room. Case backed off as the man took Natalie into a close embrace, kissed her on the mouth, and then turned her toward the ottoman. He’d gotten instructions from Case on how to use the ottoman for sex, but for now he would just use it as an ottoman.

He pulled the side zipper down to the black satin cocktail dress Natalie was wearing and slipped the garment to the floor. Natalie moved for him as needed; she’d known the dress would be coming off.

He moved slowly, sensually in working with the T-girl’s body. Next, he slid her panties down and she stepped out of them. He bent her over the ottoman, unzipped himself, pulled a formidable erection out, moved the head of it to her surgically provided slit, penetrated her as she mewed and panted, held her hips in place between his hands, and fucked her bareback in long, slow, deep slides over the ottoman.

If she was surprised to be taken so quickly, Natalie held it back. She was an experienced professional. There wasn’t much she hadn’t experienced before.

The man hadn’t said a thing to her. Case had engaged her services—for two—from her escort agency and had told her that she was auditioning for someone important for a possible lucrative permanent sugar daddy position, and that had been enough for Natalie. It was a pleasant surprise to find that the john was movie-star handsome and appeared to be in his mid-thirties. He certainly knew how to fuck and was hung.

As the man fucked her, Case came around to the other side of the ottoman, unzipped himself, took out his hard cock, and pushed it between Natalie’s lips, forcing her to give him head as the other man was fucking her in the cunt. The man was hitting and working the glans at the top of her manufactured vagina, and she exploded into an orgasm. Highly experienced, the man sensed when she was going to climax and he joined her in that. He held her in a close embrace and she shimmered and whimpered, as virile and hung, he tensed and released, tensed and released, flooding her cunt with shot after shot of hot cum, until it was dribbling down her thighs.

When they let Natalie up from the ottoman, they’d both taken off their shirts. Both were presentable—Case particularly so for his age—but the other man was an Apollo. Natalie hoped he wasn’t finished fucking her, and she didn’t really need to worry about that being the case.

Case handed her a glass of wine—he and the man had one as well—and he introduced the man to her as they circled the room, looking at the art, most of it Griffin Gould nude T-girls.

“This is Erick Royal, owner of the Royal hotel chain,” he said, and Natalie was dutifully impressed. She knew of the hotel chain. “He’s creating a special island resort hotel featuring T-girls. He’s been here for three weeks testing the supply of suitable girls for his resort. He’s come here because Georgetown University Hospital here in Washington, and the University of Virginia hospital a two-hour drive to the south, specialize in SRS surgery to transform young men into T-girls. He’s been auditioning, concentrating on the specialized escort agency you belong to. If you are interested in possibly becoming a sex worker at his resort, stay. If not, you may leave and you’ll still receive the fee we agreed to with your agency—but no tip, of course. If you stay, you will have to be challenged much more to see if you qualify for what Mr. Royal seeks. He will test your endurance more—much more—than he has done thus far.”

Natalie didn’t leave. She was more interested in whether the ginger stud would fuck her again this evening than in whether or not she wanted a permanent T-girl job on some remote island. She wondered how often Royal would be visiting that island and covering his T-girls. She continued circling the room as the two men discussed the artwork. She got the impression that Royal wanted to buy some of it for his new resort.

“This one is of you,” Royal suddenly said as he stopped in front of one drawing.

“Yes, it is,” Natalie acknowledged.

“Lovely. The surgeons did an excellent job. You’ve made me go hard again.”

Natalie took that as a compliment. While Royal was moving his fingers over the body in the drawing without touching the artwork and telling Natalie what aroused him so much about some of the features she’d been given and Natalie blushed in appreciation of his assessment, which was as good as the surgeon’s had been in explaining what he could do to enhance her, Case was over at the ottoman, removing the top and revealing the carvings created to aid sexual enjoyment. Natalie realized that the ottoman was yet another ancient Chinese sex torture apparatus.

Natalie hadn’t left when given the opportunity. Royal walked her over to the ottoman, and case strapped her onto it, in a kneeling position, wrists restrained at the sides, head restrained at the top end, knees set into the wells provided, tail raised. Royal stripped off his trousers and briefs, mounted her on top, with his feet in the stirrups provided at the side, penetrated her ass channel, and rode her high, like a jockey, to his second ejaculation. This time he did so with more vigor than before and had her writhing and moaning under him. Meanwhile, Case crouched behind her, a graduated flared mushroom cap dildo in hand, and fucked her cunt with the dildo while Royal rode her ass.

Pulling her off the ottoman device, Royal carried a collapsed and burbling Natalie over to the ancient wooden side board that had the two greased-up phallic protuberances in the middle of the side edges on either side. Not liking the look of this piece of torture equipment, she turned away from it, but now Royal was becoming more assertive. He slapped her around a bit, telling her, “Behave, bitch,” and, surprised at the turn of his mood, she surrendered.

He lifted and lowered her onto the top of the credenza at one side, facing him, sliding the greased phallic protuberance up into her cunt. Her legs draped down the side, finding that curves carved into the side of the credenza fit to her thighs. Grabbing her waist between his hands, and leaning over her, taking the nipples of her surgically augmented breast into his mouth and sucking on them hard, he raised and lowered her on the wooden phallus, fucking her on it. The cap of the wooden phallus pounded against the glans at the top of her vagina, and with a cry she climaxed. Once more he held her in hard embrace, his hips jerking, as yet again he filled her to overflowing with his cum as he joined her, the two rocking together, in an ejaculation.

After a few minutes, he reversed her, belly down on the top of the credenza, her cunt still sheathing the wooden phallus. While he was doing this, Case restrained her wrists together and stretched her body out on top of the ancient sideboard so that her wrists were pulled over the phallic outcropping on the other side and held in place. Royal came up on the top of the credenza on his knees, mounted on top of Natalie’s hips. Leaning over her and penetrating her ass again, deep, with his thick, long cock, he rode her, thrusting hard and fast now, moving her body so that the wooden phallus would fuck her in the cunt simultaneously.

Natalie cried out in pain-passion as her body was being worked once again, but she held, giving the men value for their money.

Did the man have another cum dump in him? Yes, he did.

While Royal fucked her, Case put the ottoman back together, stripped off so that he too was naked, and then went to the other end of the room, opening the two pocket doors to reveal the four-poster Chinese-style bed that dominated the room behind. Then he helped Royal take a whimpering Natalie off the credenza and carry her into the bedroom. Case went down on his back on the bed. Natalie was pulled on top of him, facing the canopy above them, Case’s cock forced itself up into her ass channel. Royal mounted her from the front, sliding into her cunt. He grasped her ankles, raising and spreading her legs, her feet still in spike heels, and fucking her in the cunt while Case fucked her in the ass.

An hour after they had finished with her, let her go to the adjacent bathroom to shower, clean herself up, and recover as the two men went back to discussing and negotiating over the artwork in the other room, Natalie dressed and with a “We’ll be in touch with your agency” from Case, left the art gallery. Right at the end, she’d been shaken. It was something small compared to what else they’d done with her that evening. What it was was that Corwin Case wouldn’t give her her panties back and she had to leave without them. He’d said he collected them. She’d found that creepy and thus everything about this off center.

She was so rattled that, in the darkness of the night, when a cab pulled up to the Farragut Square gallery door—a Capitol Cab Company taxi—she didn’t, as Hardesty had admonished her to do, check to see what the cabbie looked like.

 To be continued.