Only One Draw Ch. 04

"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.