The forensics reports weren’t helpful—at least yet. The victims were T-girls. There was all sorts of DNA on their bodies. Yes, some of it matched from body to body, but there was just too much of it. It was still being tracked down, but finding out who had contracted and gotten their DNA all over a T-girl in Washington, D.C., could quickly get into political or diplomatic danger zones.
Three of those dead had been strangled. Nicola had not; she’d been stabbed. That could be explained by her death against the back wall of a closed gas station seeming to be spur of the moment. The other three deaths showed no evidence of struggle at the crime scene. They may have been killed elsewhere and dumped. The attack on Natalie was more like that on Nicola than the other three—although she reported that she too had been choked during the attack.
“It's maddening not to have any more evidence with all these bodies,” Glen said.
“In most of the cases, the victims have friends and relatives who can help. With T-girls like this, no one wants to step forward,” Hardesty said. “Give me that file on the artist, Gould, again. Something tells me it all centers there. All four of them modeled for him. According to this, he has a guy living with him. Anything on him?”
Whitehall rummaged around a bit. “Yep. His name’s Luigi Finelli. He’s listed as Gould’s assistant. Italian. A lot younger than Gould.”
“A T-girl?”
“It doesn’t say.”
“Italian, eh. Let’s run a backgrounder on him. Include Interpol. Let’s see what Gould keeps under his roof.” Hardesty returned to the case review. “The details of the Nicola stabbing differ somewhat from the other three, but she had modeled for Gould. All of them had posed for him more than once. Natalie, our only living witness—or living after the attack, at least—was attacked by a cabbie, not Gould, which points to the cabbie as doing them all. But there are just too many connections back to Gould. We need help.”
At that moment, help arrived. Hardesty’s cellphone rang.
“Natalie? Where the hell have you been? We’d put you on the missing list. You told me you had something and then you fell off the face of the earth. We were afraid . . .” He didn’t want to fill in what they were afraid of for Natalie—not when she was on the other end of the line now and quite alive. He didn’t want to scare her into clamming up.
“Sorry, hon,” she said. “I’m in Chicago. A sudden private booking. Marty is a real party boy. Hasn’t given me a moment to myself. And I lost my cellphone—and your number. Marty’s letting me use his phone. Well, he’s drunk on his tail, so I’m using his cellphone. I just called Toby and got your number from him. I tried at police headquarters and they just gave me the fuckin’ runaround.”
“I’m just happy to hear you alive. You’d told me you had—”
“Yes, I remembered something about the cabbie. I remember seeing his taxi service photo ID hanging on the dashboard—that the number was 1493. Do you think that will help?”
“Bingo. That’s just the thing, Natalie. Let me go off and pursue this. We have him if you’ve remembered the number correctly. Keep in touch.”
“Would love to be touched by you again, sweetie. Marty, he’s good in the sack, but he doesn’t have the talented dick you’ve got—or the nasty moves.”
“Just keep out of trouble, Natalie, and let me know when you’re back in town. You’ll be needed.”
“It’s good to be needed, honey. Will you do me again when I’m back in town.”
“Yes, if you promise to let me know you’re here—as soon as you are.”
He got on it immediately. If the number was good, they had the bastard. The Capitol Cab Company would have the name attached to the cabbie number readily at hand. They did.
“Dexter Johnson.” This was followed by his address and telephone number, along with a supervisor coming on line to report that they hadn’t heard from him in two days, that this wasn’t the first time he’d gone AWOL with one of their cabs, and that, when/if the police get hold of him, they could tell him he was fired from the Capitol Cab Company and they wanted their taxicab back.
It was getting late in the workday. Hardesty and Whitehall took a Hummer H3 ride out to Kingman Park, near the old RFK stadium, to Johnson’s address on E Street Northeast.
They were met at the door by Johnson’s mother-in-law, who informed them that the family hadn’t seen the man since Tuesday morning, and that the last two days without him had been the happiest she and her daughter, Jasmine, had had in a long time.
“If you find him, you can keep him. He’s a creep,” she said as she closed the door.
So, the agreement all around was that Dexter Johnson was a creep. But he was a missing creep, and Hardesty and Whitehall wanted to find him before another T-girl got offed. All focus was now on tracking Dexter Johnson down.
* * * *
Toby Drake was surprised when he entered the Loggia Bar at the Fremont Hotel that the man he had a date with, Erick Royal, was, in fact, the handsome, ginger-headed Florida Millionaire who had watched Griffin Gould fuck him in his art studio. If he had thought about it, though, he probably would have come up with that likelihood. It solved the mystery of why someone named Erick Royal had known to ask specifically for Toby for very expensive services.
When Toby entered the bar and had no trouble putting the connections together on who he was meeting there, Royal wasn’t alone. There was a young, cute, willowy man there of early college age, but when Royal saw Toby at the door to the bar, he said something to the young man and the youth rose and brushed by Toby as Toby moved to the cocktail table in the dimly lit bar.
“You’re Toby,” Royal said as the rent-boy approached. It wasn’t a question.
“Yes. So, the mystery is solved on who this Erick Royal was who has engaged my services for the evening. Was that your son or your younger brother?” he asked, “although he looked too old to be your son.” Indeed, the young man who had brushed by him had been even more reddish blond than Royal was.
“He’s a young man I’m sponsoring for an operation here at Georgetown University.”
“Oh, sorry, I didn’t mean to pry.”
“You haven’t. In fact, you moved directly into a proposition I have to make to you. I could have waited until after dessert at dinner, but perhaps it’s as well to get it over with here—so we are completely free for pleasure later.”
Your pleasure, at least, Toby thought. He’d hold judgment on whether it would be his pleasure as well. The chances were good, though. On the surface, at least, Royal was a dreamboat.
Royal motioned to the bar’s waiter, who came over and took drink orders. Royal didn’t say anything else until the waiter had left. His eyes were assessing Toby, though, and Toby was relieved to discern that they did so with favor.
“You haven’t engaged me just for a pleasant evening?” Toby asked.
“No that’s not the primary reason for this meeting.” He smiled then, though, and added, “but it will be, I hope, what makes the evening memorable—for both of us. I’m sorry if that sounds arrogant, knowing you are an escort. But I don’t intend on treating you like one. I think I need to say that in view of our only other encounter thus far.”
He meant while he sat in Griffin Gould’s art studio and watched the artist ravish Toby roughly, all the time masturbating to the show. Toby had been fisted by Gould. He had to admit when he’d seen that the man buying his time had seen that that he wondered if that’s why Royal had engaged his services—that it was what he wanted, as well.
“As you wish; whatever you wish,” Toby said, letting his eyes go downcast to signal that he would be a submissive to the man’s desires.
“In a way, that young man’s—Noah’s—visit here leads into my proposal. The surgery I’m underwriting for him is sex reassignment surgery. Noah wants to become Nona.”
“A fully transformed T-girl? You are paying for the transformation of Noah into a T-girl. Is he your boyfriend who you wish to make your girlfriend?” It was clear now why the man had specified Toby was to wear a slip, panties, and a bra under his evening suit of a well-cut suit and a black silk polo shirt. Having gotten the instructions, he’d add spike heels himself, which he was carrying in a cloth bag.
“Not a girlfriend, no,” Royal answered. “A future employee—one that I hope you will supervise someday. But, if you are asking if I’m paying for the change so I can fuck him, the answer is no. I already fucked him, this afternoon. Just now. I fucked him as a man and I’ll be just as happy to fuck him as a T-girl after the transition. I hope I’m not being too bald for you.”
“No, I appreciate total honesty in a man.”
“Good, because, as I’m sure you know, I’m going to fuck you too. But I’m also interested in employing you.”
Toby didn’t jump on that declaration. He waited the man out. Royal smiled and continued. “I own a string of hotels.”
“You’re the Royal of the Royal Hotel chain?” Toby couldn’t hold back from asking, in surprise. But of course he was. Toby’s estimation of the man’s financial worth skyrocketed. There were a lot of hotels in that chain. They rivaled hotels like the Fremont here in luxury.
“Yes. Some of my hotels are specialty resorts tucked away here and there. Some of them specialize in amenities that require them to be completely private—for their offerings to be close held among wealthy patrons with special needs. For instance, I have a desert resort outside of Reno, Nevada, that caters to wealthy women establishing Nevada residency to secure a divorce but who wish to have the companionship of young men while they do so—who seek either assurance or pretense that they still have it as they return to the dating scene. At the resort they have classes available to them in fitness, cosmetics, dress, and navigation of Internet dating sites to put them at best advantage for returning to the available pool.”
“I’ve heard of such resorts,” Toby said. “But not connected with the Royal name.”
“And I’ll bet you heard of them because someone tried to recruit you to work at one—but that you declined because your preferences go in another direction.”
Toby inclined his head to acknowledge Royal surmised correctly but he didn’t say anything. The waiter brought their drinks, which provided them both a moment to gather their thoughts about what they were discussing here.
“Well, I wanted to see you to make a similar pitch. I own an island down in the Bahamas. I’m developing a resort hotel there for male patrons who have a fetish for T-girls, everything from cross-dressers—which I understand you dabble in—to fully transformed T-girls.”
“And you are offering surgical transformation to young men like the one who was just here in exchange for them working at your resort for a certain amount of time?”
“Yes. I’ve been here for three weeks interviewing, seeking young men like Noah. Some of the best SRS transformation procedures are done here at Georgetown University Hospital and the University of Virginia down in central Virginia. I’m setting up some employees for the resort from the beginning of their journey. There is a community of T-girls, many of them escorts, like you, here, operating over near Dupont Circle. I’ve been doing some interviewing of them too.”
“And the interviewing includes fucking them?”
“Of course. How else am I going to know they are good enough to work for me?”
“And you’ll got to your resort on a regular basis and fuck the T-girls yourself.”
“I like fucking T-girls. I can’t wait to fuck shy little Noah when he becomes Nona.”
“I’m not a T-girl, and I have no desire to transform into one. Cross-dressing is a bit of fun, but I have no desire to go further. I only cross-dress when it’s being paid for.”
“Nor would I want you to. I’m interviewing T-girls for business purposes. I like fucking T-girls, but I much prefer androgynous and gorgeous young men like you. I suppose you could say I’m more anal than fake vagina. I know too much about this business to want a T-girl managing a stable of T-girls. No, I want someone who will understand them but not be too much like them. What I would like you to consider doing—and you could take your time deciding; the resort is still being built, although it’s partially finished—is managing the stable of T-girls. Recruiting them; training them, as necessary; managing them; and then helping them move on as they age. That would include caring about them and helping them to save for an independent retirement. Someone else would manage the hotel and other amenities save of the T-girl service business.”
“You want me to be the madam and pimp for your resort?”
“I wouldn’t put it so crudely, but yes. And, since we’ve into bald talk, let me ask you how old you are—and how much longer you will be able, and wish too, work on your back for a high-end, and demanding, escort service? I understand you take rough clients. How much longer are you going to be able to manage that? Isn’t retirement in this business forced fairly early? Have you plans for what you do after that? Isn’t that how brothel madams are created—if they are lucky? They get too old to be prostitutes themselves?”
Toby looked away. He couldn’t say he hadn’t thought about that issue. If he had to say something about it now, it would be something about growing old with Hardesty. He had enough money saved up now not to have to work at all for the rest of his life if he didn’t want to do so.
“It’s something to consider. Perhaps you could come down and look at what we have thus far. I don’t want to rush you.”
“Thanks for that.”
“What I would like just now—we have more than enough time before our dinner reservations—is for you to come up to my hotel room with me. I don’t want to rush you, but I do want to fuck you.”
This was the high-paying client. That might have sounded like a request, but it wasn’t one. He had paid for the privilege of being obeyed.
* * * *
Royal fucked Toby on the bed in his hotel room. He was trying to be affectionate, as he also wanted to recruit the young man. He easily could go rougher, though. He often fucked his prey, when he wanted to be in the “victory over prey” mode, on the floor or up against a wall.
As others had learned, the man could be Jekyll and Hyde with sex. He wanted something from Toby, so he was smooth and proper Jekyll rather than cruel and evil Hyde with the young rent-boy. When they entered the room, Toby saw that the bed was a bit tussled, more than a hotel of the caliber of the Fremont would normally tolerate, and this confirmed that Noah had already started paying interest on his surgery sponsorship on his back here before Toby arrived, but he didn’t have time to think about it. Royal wanted sex and he wanted it right now. Toby was a pro. The man had paid big bucks to get what he wanted when he wanted it.
Off, at Royal’s command, came Toby’s outer, male clothing—“But I’ll fold them up so they’ll look good when we’re stepping out later,” Royal said—and Toby barely had time to slip the spike heels on his feet before he was on his back, on the bed, with Royal, stripped down to his briefs, half on top of him. Royal’s hands were all over him, under the slip and the panties and the bra too, which were only there for arousal atmospherics. The hands were moving slow, though, savoring the touch for both of them. Royal was covering him with kisses, stripping him of the slip, bra, and, eventually the panties, as he worked his mouth and hands down from Toby’s face, throat, chest, and belly, the lips spending time on the gecko tattoo, where Royal discovered it was an erogenous zone and, moving on, marked it in his mind for more attention later.
Kissing up the inner surfaces of Toby’s calves, which, Royal was aroused to find Toby had covered with net stockings, the man spread and bent the legs and placed the spikes of the heels flat on the surface of the bed. He then went for sucking Toby’s cock and balls and eating his ass out at lengths that few clients went to with the high-end rent-boy being paid to be doing this to them, in preparation for the fuck. Toby was panting and sighing, and undulating his body under the worshipful attentions of Royal. He wasn’t used to being made love to by a client.
When Royal came up over Toby’s body, kissing up to his lips again, positioned himself in a Missionary, and slowly slid up inside Toby’s channel, the two plastered their foreheads together, reveled in the mutual sensuality of moving their bodies in a smooth, fully mounted, barebacking, big-cock stretching fuck, and settled down for a long spiraling up into the clouds, and a shared climax—and then another—and then yet another. Toby learned that Royal had the cum of a small army of virile men to give.
They showered together and barely made their 8:00 p.m. reservations at Morton’s Steakhouse on Washington Square. They touched on the resort job offer only a couple of times, with Toby saying he wasn’t ready to move on to anything else, while both asking a question indicating continuing interest from time to time and, in his mind, running through all the fears and frustrations that his current life and the situation of living with a D.C. Vice cop tightened up.
They discussed art, specifically what Toby was doing when Erick first saw him—posing in the provocative nude for the series of Gould drawings that Royal had an interest in buying to decorate his Bahamas island resort with. And they talked about sports, each of them playing tennis much more than anything else and Royal noting that the island resort would have several tennis courts—and two holes of a golf course and a putting green. The island wasn’t big enough for more than that.
They didn’t talk sex again. Royal didn’t boast that he’d be able to fuck Toby again at the hotel after doing some clubbing, although Toby, who usually was happy with the john getting the minimum services for the maximum money, was hoping for more from Royal. The man had paid for the night. How often could he manage in a night, Toby wondered. The man was a gusher too. Could he keep that up. There was something very, very special about barebacking with a desirable man—a man with a formidable cock and who was a gusher.
It wasn’t often that Toby kept thinking of the next time a john would bed him during a date, but that kept going through his mind with Royal.
If Toby took such a job as was being offered and saved himself only for one man, could he look forward to a life of barebacking? But who would that man be? He and Hardesty had talked now and again of reaching a place where it could be just them—and they could bareback. But this particular job was in the Caribbean. Hardesty was a cop in Washington, D.C. Was he ready to follow Toby somewhere else?
After dinner, they took a cab to the trans show club, Martina’s, on Q Street, near Dupont Circle. Toby was impressed that the host seemed to know Royal. He wasn’t aware that Royal had been there earlier in the week and had dropped memorable tips all around.
The show was a parade and lip-synching of Judy Garland, Carol Channing, and Bette Midler standards by busty T-girls with nothing but feathers applied here and there. When the bustiest of them, a voluptuous creamy-chocolate-skinned beauty, came down in the audience rather than into the wings and went to a table, with a spotlight following her the whole way, Toby and Erick for the first time realized that the artist, Griffin Gould, was in the club. The showgirl sat down at the table with Gould.
The last act they watched was a T-girl in a bathtub, perhaps naked, perhaps not, but what did it matter, singing a medley that included “I’m Gonna Wash the Man Right Outa My Hair” and “Singing in the Rain.”
“This is getting hokey,” Royal said. “Let’s move on.”
“Let’s go back to your hotel room,” Toby said. Royal flashed him a smile. Again, it wasn’t often that it was Toby who was the one to suggest more sex.
At the hotel, Royal ran a tub full of water and got in. Toby got into the tub with him. They spent an hour finding out how many fuck positions were possible for two randy men in a tub. Later Toby found that Royal, in fact, could fuck in the bed through the night—and could gush cum each time. But Toby lost count of how many times he could do it. Each time was as lovers, though. Toby wasn’t being shown Royal’s Mr. Hyde side.
That wasn’t without testing Royal’s restraint. It wasn’t like Royal didn’t want to take Toby hard and do nasty things with him. But Royal could bide his time for that.
* * * *
The Martina club T-girl review headliner, Pammy, had her own dressing room at the club, which was convenient for her and the artist Griffin Gould. It meant they didn’t have to go off premises to have sex after she’d done her last show.
They were in her dressing room, Gould sitting on the side of a narrow divan pushed up against a cinderblock wall, screened from view from the door into the dressing room from the corridor by her portable feather-dominated costume rack. Pammy was on his lap, facing away from him, her surgically created cunt being stretched by his sheathed cock, her creamy-chocolate-colored legs streaming back around his hips, her feet pressed against the back wall and leveraging her fucking herself on his cock. Her torso was cantilevered out over the floor beside the side of the divan, and Gould was maintaining her arched-back ship-figurehead stance by cupping her ample breasts and squeezing them to the rhythm of Pammy’s rocking on his cock.
Other than the glowing, light-brown tone of her smooth skin, Pammy’s most arresting features were the perfectly round, firm breasts the best of plastic surgeons had provided her. The reconstruction there was possibly more magnificent than the new vagina, complete with puffy wings, she’d been given. Gould was making full use of both, his hands worshipping her breasts as he held her in place and his cock deeply rooted in the folds of her cunt and she fucked herself on his thick shaft.
When the coupling heated up further, Gould rose and moved them three steps over to the dressing table, lowering Pammy’s chest to the dresser on top of her haphazard supply of cosmetics and makeup paraphernalia, and changed his approach to burying himself up her ass. He took over the stroking, one hand cupping her chin, which raised her face up to stare at herself in the mirror, showing her attitude of grimace-pleasure as Gould fucked her in the ass—with more vigor and depth than had been achieved on the divan in her cunt. Her arms raised above her head, her long, ruby-red fingernails tapped on the mirror at either side of her face, drumming out the cadence of the sheathed thrusts up her ass.
The fingers of his other hand went to the vestigial penis at the top of Pammy’s folds, and Gould expertly worked her there. When his fingers slid down from there into her folds, Pammy began to pant hard and to move in and against his embrace, without effect. He held her firmly with the arm encircling her torso and the weight of him crouched over her. He reached down to the dressing table, picked up a thick dildo she’d left there, worked and worked her cunt with it for a few minutes while he fucked her in the ass before pulling it out and working her with his fingers again. She rocked on the fingers and his cock and moaned in low tones for him.
“Oh, baby, baby,” she murmured as his fingers went deeper inside her, up to the knuckles. His other hand, cupping her chin, held her tits crushed against the surface of the dressing table.
Tammy gasped, panted hard, and ineffectually writhed in Gould’s arms as the knuckles breached her opening and he penetrated up to his wrist.
“Oh, shit. Oh, fuck, baby. I know what you like. Give it to me! Make me come!”
Gould fucked her with his buried fist in her cunt and with his shaft in her ass as the two built up to and then overflowed into fired-off mutual explosions.
Afterward, as Gould sat on the divan and Pammy perched on the dressing table chair and the two passed a joint back and forth between themselves, Gould said, “I enjoyed your show.”
“More than the fuck?” she asked.
“No,” he answered. “I want to draw you again—in one of the feathered costumes, but with your magnificent breasts and cunt showing. I wanted to have a second art session with you, but I didn’t get that.”
“Then you should have called, darlin’. I’m up for more modeling for you—and what comes after.”
“I thought you were called and didn’t respond. My assistant was taking care of that.”
“Didn’t hear from nobody, lover. If I had been I would have been there. I enjoyed the first session.”
“Well, then, let’s set up a date,” Gould said. “Maybe as early as next week? I don’t know why Luigi didn’t get in touch with you. For some reason, he doesn’t seem to like me setting up second modeling sessions.”
“Maybe you need a new assistant.”
“Oh, I couldn’t do that. Luigi is my everything.”
To be continued.
