Entrapment

The scene unfurled with military precision. I entered the casino at the MGM National Harbor Hotel. The glittering Las Vegas-style skyscraper was set in the commercial and hotel complex fairly recently having been constructed on the Maryland shore of the Potomac River just downriver from Washington, D.C., at the point at which the Capitol Beltway crossed the river from Virginia into Maryland on the eastern side of the capital. I was dressed in a sleek tuxedo and I must admit that I was looking good. I saw the roulette table that was my goal, and, just as rehearsed, a man stood up at the table as I approached and I took his place.

The man I was focusing on was now sitting to my left. He was old, probably in his early sixties, but he exuded power and position. He was heavy, but there was muscle of steel underneath that padding that belied him beginning to lose his grip on nature if not on himself and whatever situation he was in. He had a mane of wavy white hair, steely blue eyes that pierced and dominated, and rugged facile features that spoke of what once had been a handsome and mesmerizing man. He still clearly was in control, and he was known here. The man's tuxedo was as spiffy as mine and probably cost twice as much, even given that it most likely required twice the material that mine had. His hands were manicured; there were diamonds in his rings and in his cufflinks. Everyone within his sphere in the room was being deferential to him. I was as well, establishing with him, I hoped, that it was based on my recognition of his personal charisma rather than a knowledge of who he was.

He gave me a welcoming and assessing smile when I sat down beside him, but then his attention went back to the spinning roulette wheel. The play continued, not having paused for me to join the table. For the next fifteen minutes, all attention went to the slow, dramatic play of the game. Three times the man next to me placed his chips on his chosen numbers. He was a high-stakes player. Each time, after he had done so, I placed one of the few chips I had on the same number. Twice we lost. Twice we won, but he won far more than I did, because he risked far more.

But I was establishing something with him. The third time we set our chips down, I quite obviously slipped mine under his on the table. The symbolism of that conveyed to him, I was sure, as his fingers touched my wrist and he gave me a sly little look when I pulled my hand back. After the fourth time we'd played the same number, the man next to me certainly being fully aware that we had, I slipped a hotel room key card beside the half-full glass of scotch at his right hand; rose from the table; placed my remaining chips, the same number I had walked in with, on the mat for tips in front of the dealer; and left the casino.

It was only then since I'd first joined the table, other than when he'd touched my wrist, that I got the sensation the man I'd sat next to had any interest in me. He turned slightly when I pushed off from the table, and I felt his eyes boring into me--into my buttocks--as I walked away and I turned to look. Yes, he had turned his head to look at me too, if only briefly. And, if only briefly, I saw the interest and lust in his eyes. I would say that I'd guessed right, but it wasn't a guess.

The hotel room was in the upper, more private floors, on the twentieth floor. It was nearly all windows, giving the impression of floating over the Potomac River with a view of the I-95 Woodrow Wilson Bridge traffic, which was always at least steady, a moving ribbon of start-and-stop sequenced red-dot lights in the dark, with the lit-up monuments of the D.C. Mall in the distance beyond.

I had time and I took my time. I stripped off the tuxedo and took a shower, cleaning myself out well and powdering myself. After I'd dried and folded the tuxedo and tucked it away--neatness counted--I opened a drawer in the bureau across from the foot of the bed, the bureau having a huge mirror above it, and took out the maid costume. It was minimal: a black dress, cut low in the bodice and with a frilly miniskirt; a black lacy demi bra; a white, frilly "almost not there" apron; a blonde wig, with white maid's cap attached; sheer black thigh-high stockings, with a black garter belt; and black stiletto heels. I took my time putting these on and then in making up my face over the bathroom sink, skillfully applying mascara and lipstick.

The costume did not include panties. Another drawer in the bureau contained sex toys, lube, and condoms. I extracted a black rubber dildo, a red silicone tear-drop butt plug, a bottle of lube, and two condom packets. The implements went on a nightstand next to the king-sized bed, positioned parallel to the full-wall of windows overlooking and seemingly floating above the river. I greased up the dildo and butt plug well, as well as my butthole, and I lay on the bed on my back, my legs raised and spread, and my stiletto heels pressed into the mattress. I had stuffed two pillows under the small of my back, elevating my pelvis. My ass was pointed at the door from the corridor.

When the door opened and the man entered, I was working the greased dildo in my surgically provided pussy. The man who had been sitting beside me at the roulette table downstairs in the casino stood there for a few minutes watching me work myself. It was clear to him that I wasn't really a female maid--that I was someone transitioned, a trans, a T-girl, neither wholly here nor there, the best, I thought, a sexual person could be. The best of both sexual worlds. Perhaps he thought this as well, considering what he had requested. I was stroking the small cock that had been restructured for me at the top of my cunt with the hand that wasn't moving the dildo inside my passage. It was all on clear display. The lighting in the room wasn't strong, but it was strong enough for the purpose. The depth I was reaching with the dildo as he watched me assured him that I could take him in the cunt as well as I could in the ass.

At length, he came over to the bed, going first to the nightstand to pick up the red butt plug, and then sat beside me, put an arm around my waist, brushed my hand away from the handle of the dildo working my cunt, and worked it himself for a few minutes, being careful to extract it enough to rub it against my tiny shaft. I arched my back and moaned deep in my throat in welcoming response.

I reached over, unzipped him, took his cock out, which wasn't anything special but would do the job once I'd worked it up, and stroked him. He had entered the room in partial, anticipatory erection, and, with my help, he would attain a full erection and maintain it so for the time we were there. I was operating from knowledge, not supposition, of what kept his motor running and of his fetish for T-girls. He had a cock ring at the base of his cock and it wouldn't have surprised me a bit if he'd taken drugs to ensure he kept the erection.

Neither of us said anything. Both of us were breathing heavily. He extracted the dildo, and I moaned for him as he pressed the red tear-drop butt plug into my ass. He lifted, turned, and pressed me down on my knees on the carpet in front of him and between his spread thighs. He was a much larger and stronger man than I was. I took his cock in my mouth and gave him head. He lengthened more under that attention. Crouching over me, he palmed the crease in my buttocks and made the butt plug inside me move back and forth and in and out. I groaned at the effect of the large-diameter tear drop and he groaned at the head I was giving him.

When he pulled me up from my knees, I reached over for the lube and a condom packet, prepared him, and, leaving the butt plug in, descended my cunt on his now reasonable-sized erection, facing away from him, taking him deep inside me. My knees were bent and placed beside his thighs, and my stilettos, spikes up, pressed in behind his buttocks. I rose and fell on his cock as a woman.

He remained fully dressed, only his dick projecting out of his fly. It projected enough when he slid inside me to go deep. His hands came around my chest, pulling the bodice of the maid's uniform down and running under the cups of the bra and working my chest, with it's enhanced small, but distinctive breasts. He did this well, working the nipples hard. He found the clasp between the cups and got that undone, so the sides of the bra fell away. I was using the leverage of my knees to rise and fall on his cock as he worked my tits with his hands, thumbing and pinching the nipples. I reached around and down with a hand and rubbed the base of his cock with my fingers as it moved in and out, in and out, of my cunt, causing the man to moan deeply.

All of this was done in silence save for our heavy panting, moans, and groans. There had been no greetings, no negotiations, no introductions, no instructions or demands. He'd simply entered into an unusual scenario and taken what I was offering.

We were facing the large bureau mirror across from the foot of the bed, and both of us watched in the mirror the maid being bully fucked and her tits being squeezed and worked from behind by the man in the tuxedo. I gave him a thrill but playing up to the scene, leaning my bewigged head back into the hollow of his chest, giving "I'm being royally fucked" expressions on my face, jutting my chest into his squeezing hands, and moaning deeply.

When he wanted to change positions, he went onto his back on the bed, still fully clothed, and, butt plug still in position, I rode his cock, facing his head, in a cowboy position. He was still obsessed with working my enhanced breasts with his hands.

I warned him when I was about to come, the only thing either one of us said to each other during the fuck, although we both did a lot of moaning, grunting, and groaning and a bit of unintelligible babbling, and he pushed me off to the side and rubbed my vestigial cock off with his hand. He'd already come in the bulb of his condom during the cowboy ride.

He rolled off the bed, pulled the condom off, and cleaned off his cock with a tissue I handed him. He folded himself back in and zipped up. He brushed the tuxedo down with his hand and it was a tribute to his prowess and to his tailor and expensive material that it looked none the worse for wear. He'd emptied his pockets on the dresser, and in putting everything back in, he extracted ten fifties and left them on the bureau--the only indication that he'd enjoyed the fuck. The session had already been covered.

At the door, he turned, smiled, saluted with a hand, and was gone. Again, another barely acknowledging-me hint that he'd had the good time he had anticipated and that a lobbyist, I was told, had paid for.

I took the costume off, folded it neatly, and put it back in the bureau drawer. There were other costumes in other drawers. The escort service rented this room permanently. I picked the used condom up off the floor, impressed that he'd been able to produce so much cum at his age, and disposed of it in the bathroom wastebasket. The other condom packet--not needed, but sometimes they were--the bottle of lube, and the cleaned dildo and butt plug went back into their drawer along with the other toys and restraints.

I pulled on the tuxedo--that was going home with me--and gave the room a last check to ensure there was no evidence that I--and, more important, he--had ever been there. I rode the elevator down and exited the front door of the casino. Cheryl was standing just outside the entrance.

"That went well," she said, more of a compliment than the man had accorded me. It normally would be odd that she'd know whether or not it went well, but of course she knew.

I nodded to her in passing, not pausing long enough to reveal we knew each other, and entered the backseat of the black Lincoln Continental that would drive me back into the District, to Georgetown.

It had all gone with military precision. It was a high-class escort agency and it paid very well.

* * * *

I came out of the Atlantic onto the North Carolina barrier island at Duck, north of Nags Head. Although not private, the beach off the exclusive bungalow resort, The Beachcomber, was isolated, and this was an area gays were known to frequent, so the straights tended to stay away. Although not sanctioned, there was considerable nude sunbathing here.

I was the only one on the beach when I came out of the surf. I moved--more strutted--up to where my towel was laid out below the pool terrace of one of the bungalows. The bungalows, each with its own small pool, were aligned so that they were oriented away from each other, each very private. Three people were sitting at the railing of the terrace of the bungalow facing me. They had a clear view down onto the beach, although they were half turned to at least pretend they hadn't seen me come out of the ocean. At one side sat Cheryl, monitoring what was really a rehearsal, if everything worked as planned, for the next day. At the other side of the terrace sat two men, both of whom I recognized even though they probably didn't realize it.

In my résumé with the escort agency, I was identified as a dancer with the Washington Ballet, which I was, but it neglected to say that, at twenty-one, I was a third-year political science student at Georgetown University as well. I recognized the tall, muscular Asian man as Robert Lu, head of a China lobbyist firm. The other man was the man who had screwed me in a maid's costume in the MGM National Harbor Hotel two weeks previously. He was a powerful U.S. senator, Mason Crawford. I had known who he was then even though no one had given me a name.

I posed for them for a few minutes, having stripped off my bikini top to free my small, enhanced breasts that didn't reveal as female until I'd taken my top off. My movements were designed to make it plausible that I was stretching out the muscles from the swim I'd taken in the ocean, but of course they knew why I did it. When I slipped off my bikini bottoms and continued to pose, there was little question what I was doing--showing that I was trans. Nor was there question when I laid down on the towel on my back, in full view of the elevated bungalow terrace, spread and bent my legs, and, arching my back and moaning, rubbed myself off to an ejaculation.

When I was done and had come up to my knees, facing the terrace, Cheryl and the senator were gone. The muscular Asian lobbyist, Robert Lu, was still there, standing at the rail and openly watching me. He was naked and in magnificent erection. He followed me with his eyes as, slinging my bikini top and bottom and the towel over my shoulder, I climbed the stairs up to the terrace.

Lu fucked me in the bungalow pool, taking his time, putting me through my paces. He was methodical, taking me both in cunt and ass. This was part of the vetting process for the operation that was to come. He was powerful and cruel, but he maintained his erection while putting me in several positions, and his grunting and the prodigious come he produced, fucking me bareback, spoke to him enjoying the fuck. He initially fucked me in the pool, my knees hooked on his hips, my arms stretched out along the edge of the pool, Lu fucking me in the ass. Then he turned me and fucked me in the cunt from behind as I clutched the edge of the pool, reaching around and working my vestigial cock with his fingers. When he came, after I had, I was lying on my back on the edge of the pool, my ankles on his shoulders, my arms stretched out along the tiles in a sacrificial pose, as he gripped my waist and pulled my pussy on and off his monster cock.

I figured I'd passed the audition because the next day I found myself coming out of the surf again at the same point, while a man stood at the railing of the same bungalow and watched me move, naked, showing my altered sex, to my towel.

* * * *

The next day started the scene off in the rehearsed pattern. I came out of the sea in front of The Beachcomber resort bungalow in Duck and walked to my towel on the beach below the pool terrace of the bungalow. A man was on the terrace--mid thirties, movie star handsome, great body, wearing a Speedo--but he withdrew behind the incomplete screening of an oleander bush. I pretended I didn't see him. I pretended that throughout the contrived scene. I could see what he was doing when I looked.

As I did the previous day, I stripped off my bikini top, stretched my muscles, and posed, standing, when I got to the towel. I slipped the bikini bottoms off and did a bit more posing, still pretending I was limbering up. Then I went down on the towel, on my back, arched my back, spread and bent my legs, and let my fingers play in my surgically supplied slit. I left no doubt what the man would be getting if he showed interest in me. This was the crux of the scheme here.

That's where the scene changed from what had been rehearsed the previous day, though. Robert Lu had spiced up the script--"Just to be sure," he'd said.

While I was fingering my vestigial penis erect, another guy came walking out of the surf. He was a hunk and a half, in his late thirties, a bodybuilder type and thuggish looking. He was the same guy who had given up his seat for me at the MGM National Harbor Casino. His Speedo barely held him in. He walked up the beach to where I was lying, still slowly fingering myself off, watching him approach. He stood over me, looking down for a full minute. Then he stripped his Speedo off, gave his erection a few shakes, and came down on his knees between my thighs.

I cried out, when he grasped my waist in his hands, thrust up inside my cunt, without notice or preparation, and fucked me for fifteen minutes of deep-thrusting sport. I arched my back and produced moans and groans that carried up to the terrace and to the man watching us from behind branches of pink-flowered oleander bushes. His face was more covered than his midsection, though. He had the waistband of his Speedo hooked under his balls and he was stroking himself off as he watched us. He clearly was a player and was playing the voyeur role of a threesome at this point. I'd been instructed to hook him, and I'd call this hooked.

The man withdrew from my pussy, turned me onto my hands and knees, mounted my ass, and resumed fucking me, this time in the ass, doggie style. I quite willingly went with the fuck, elevating my pelvis and swaying to the thug's thrusts. I fingered myself with a hand while we fucked, although the impression given to the voyeur was that I was being taken forcibly no matter how much I was cooperating with it. He turned me again, thrusting up into my cunt, and finishing there. With a mutual shudder, we came close together and the thug just stood up from me, turned, picked up his Speedo, and walked back into the surf. After a while, I rolled over, moaning, onto my hands and knees, struggled to stand, picked up my towel and bikini pieces, and walked out of sight up the beach.

Later that afternoon I made an approach from the beach to the beach bar where the "behind the oleander bush" guy from the bungalow terrace that morning was sitting near the railing and drinking alone. That was to wedge in his memory that he'd seen me on the beach that morning. He looked a bit confused as I stepped up onto the back porch of the bar, but he gave me a little smile of recognition and welcome when I asked him if he was alone and, if so, would he like some company? I had him at an advantage. He didn't know at that point that I had seen him watching me being screwed on the beach.

Going for the androgynous look, I was wearing a diaphanous, billowy, long-sleeve pristine-white shirt over my bikini bottoms and sandals on my feet. I undid two buttons of the shirt when I sat, letting it open to show him my slim, tanned, lightly muscled dancer's torso and the swell of my pert little enhanced breasts. He was in a T-shirt, showing muscles at the pecs and biceps; shorts; and sandals. He looked as much the movie star up close as he had at a distance. Up close showed how captivating his smile was. I couldn't help but have the sensation I'd seen him before, but I couldn't place him, and, with the task I had at hand, I couldn't afford the effort to try to do so right now.