Only One Draw Ch. 01

[This Hardesty 7 mystery is completed and will post in eight chapters by mid May 2024.]

The first charcoal drawing the artist Griffin Gould made of the fully converted T-girl prostitute, Destiny, in the third-floor, high-ceilinged studio of his Dupont Circle brownstone mansion, was in the nude. The sheets on the bed were tousled, and Destiny lay on them in a languid, post-coital pose that had not yet happened. Her reconstructed genitals, the folded slit, with the tiny reduced penis at the top, were prominently displayed. A silken slip lay beside her, the hem brushing her thigh. This was not Destiny's first session with the artist. It was the second, and Gould did two drawings this time as he had done before.

The model had been eager to pose for the artist the first time, having been recommended to Gould by his agent, who had engaged Destiny's services and been pleased. He had also told Destiny of Gould's reputation, interest in trans girls, and methodology. Destiny had found this intriguing.

But Destiny had found the first time more taxing sexually than she had thought it would be, so she wasn't as eager to take the assignment for a second time when it had come her way. He had to pay her more above the escort agency fee than he did the first time to make it happen. Gould was a rough and demanding dominator, making the sex that came after the posing more memorable than the modeling. Gould had had to contact Destiny separately and offer her something recreational as well as money for Destiny to agree. Her escort agency gave the prostitutes final say on whether they'd take an assignment, and they turned their eyes away on any inducements or extra-generous tips that were involved. They did express concern, though, if the escort wound up in the hospital and not available for assignments for any length of time.

Nude drawings were not Gould's publicly known specialty, although he did them very well and they were very much in demand among select collectors. The artworks strewn around his studio weren't charcoal nudes. Those hung in another room on the same floor, a studio set up for sex as much as this one. Gould kept one artwork of every two he did of a model, and many of those were displayed in the other room. What could be seen in this room were the luminous, detailed cityscape oils that he was most noted for, many of which were set in the Washington, D.C., area.

Gould, in his early forties, both self-confident and self-possessed, ginger haired, fit, and hirsute, with a close-cropped beard on a model-handsome face, was perched on a stool facing the foot of the bed, the wall behind him being all mirror, and worked quickly in the drawing. He was wearing athletic shorts and nothing else. He knew he was a sexy man and he flaunted it.

The session would include a fuck. Gould had paid well for the beautifully androgynous T-girl's time and body.

The first drawing done, Gould picked a small bundle off a nearby table and walked it over to Destiny at the bed.

"Oh, baby, you remembered," the T-girl cooed, taking it up, unwrapping the heroin fix supplies and starting to prepare it. The promise of this was all that had induced her to come back for a second sitting. Gould could be brutal in sex.

"It was part of the deal. This is just a taste of it, though. I wish you didn't use this shit, and I don't want your mind to go off wandering for the second drawing," Gould responded. As Destiny shot up in the hollow of one of her knees, Gould went over to the table and snorted up the two lines of cocaine he'd lined out for himself on a piece of parchment.

After they were both done, the artist directed Destiny to put the slip on and kneel on the bed, facing him. The artist walked over to adjust the model into the pose he wanted, but when he reached the bed, he first leaned down and ran his hands through the long, platinum-blond tresses on the T-girl's head to cup the prostitute's head and pulled her into a kiss. The other hand went under the hem of the slip and up to glide over the slim body and fondle the pert little breasts the surgeons had given Destiny. Then, while still in the kiss, the hand glided down to the T-girl's sex, fondling and exploring there. After testing the reconditioned vaginal channel for opening and depth with long, elegant fingers while the T-girl writhed and groaned in his grasp, his fingers went to the vestigial penis, rubbing and toying with it as Destiny panted and rocked against the roaming hand.

Destiny gasped and squirmed--and then, aided by the effect of the drug she'd shot up, moaned deeply--as Gould increased the taxing of the surgically created vagina by pressing his hand in even further and then, as Destiny sobbed, breaching to the wrist and fisting the T-girl for a few moments before saying, "Well, shit," and extracting his hand. "Who would have thought they would have built it to take that much stretch?"

Destiny moaned low in her chest and then gasped and groaned as Gould went down on his knees on the floor at the foot of the bed, wrapped his arms around Destiny's waist, and attacked the model's sex with his lips and tongue.

Destiny panted and rocked on the artist's searching tongue. "Oh, baby, baby," she murmured through ruby-red lips.

"There. That is the look I want on your face," Gould said, as he rose and adjusted the silk slip as he wanted it. One strap was pulled off the model's shoulder and that side of the slip dropped to show Destiny's pert left breast. "Left hand touching your belly please, and your right in the hair at the back of your head and lifting it onto the top of your head. Your face in that 'I'm being sucked off good' expression, please. Yes, good."

The artist went back to his stool and worked feverishly with the charcoals.

Done with the drawing, he stood, slipped off his shorts to reveal a proud, upturned, erection rooted in a trimmed ginger bush.

"Oh, baby, is that all for me?" Destiny whispered coquettishly in a low, husky voice. Her observation wasn't just proforma. He'd rank in the upper 10 percent of all of the cocks she'd taken in her job.

Gould didn't answer. He just smiled, walked back to the bed, cupped the back of Destiny's head again, running his fingers into the long platinum hair, and pulled her face down to his crotch. Destiny took the artist's cock in her mouth and gave him head, smearing red lipstick on the sides of the throbbing cock.

After a few minutes, Gould, in full erection, pulled out and climbed up on the bed, moving behind the kneeling T-girl. He closely covered Destiny from behind, kneeling as the model was doing. He drew Destiny's legs behind his hips on either side. Reaching down, he lifted the T-girl's pelvis and put his upcurved erection in place. Destiny gasped and groaned as Gould's cock penetrated and the T-girl's cunt channel sank on the shaft.

"Oh, baby! Fuck! Shit! You're huge. Be good to me, Daddy!"

The artist's left hand cupped Destiny's chin, holding her head back into his curly haired matted chest. The right hand went under the hem of the slip, lifting it up to show in the mirror across the room Destiny's surgically provided snatch with the root of Gould's shaft buried in it. He barked the "Camera" instruction programmed into the cameras trained on the frame the mirror reflected, and shots of Gould fucking Destiny were clicked off to be used as guides for later charcoal drawings. The artist palmed Destiny's belly and lifted and lowered the smaller T-girl's body on the shaft in a languid fuck that increased in speed as Destiny moaned and panted and Gould watched the fuck in the mirror. *Click*, *click*, *click* went the responses to the repeated "Camera" command.

"Fuck yourself on the shaft," Gould growled, stopping the thrusting of his pelvis, and the prostitute dutifully took over, using the leverage of her knees pressed into the mattress beside Gould's to rise and fall on the cock. Both of them were staring into the mirror, watching the inches of thick cock lengthen and shorten in Destiny's miracle snatch.

"Camera!" *click*. "Camera" *click*.

Destiny was built, the surgeon knowing she was a prostitute, to take the big boys, and Gould was a big boy indeed. Destiny was also built with sensitivity both in the vestigial penis at the top of her slit and the relocation of the original glans at the base of the new vagina. Thus, there was friction at both points when Gould's glans reached Destiny's and the two rubbed together. The artist growled deep in his throat and Destiny sobbed in ecstasy as they both steamed toward orgasm.

"Oh, Daddy, Daddy, yes! Seed me! Breed me!" Destiny cried out and exploded, as Gould tensed and jerked, shot his load--"Camera!" *click*--tensed and jerked--"Camera!" *click*--and shot another one--"Camera!" *click*.

Destiny's body relaxed and collapsed back into the man's chest in a whisper of "Oh, baby, baby," as Gould's cum dribble around his still-buried cock and onto the sheets. Gould released her, and the T-girl slowly fell forward at the foot of the bed into a heap on the floor.

"Camera" *click*.

The artist stepped over her and walked back to where he'd left his art supplies.

Destiny lay there, trembling and whimpering to herself. The supplies back in order and having recovered his erection, Gould walked back to the bed, pulled the prostitute off the floor by her long, platinum hair, and laid her on the edge of the bed on her back. He grasped her ankles and spread and raised her shapely legs in a V. The hem of the silk slip rode up onto her belly, putting her reconstructed sex on display again. Gould nestled in between her spread thighs, rested the head of his cock at the entrance of her cum-slicked slit ever so briefly, moving the cap of the shaft on her folds and on her little penis, rubbing and teasing them, and then, as Destiny gave out a little cry and reached for the man's pecs with her long fingernails, Gould thrust in and up, and fucked her again.

A rustle at the door revealed that someone had been there, observing them, silently, before withdrawing.

At the dressing table later, Destiny was reapplying cosmetics, lightly, as when she was walking in public, it was hard for others to immediately tell whether the T-girl was a he or a her, which resulted in precisely the attention Destiny wanted. She was in a bra and silk panties, which is what she'd wear under the androgynous look of designer jeans, sequined sneakers, a billowy cotton shirt and a tailored jacket.

Griffin Gould was working on a cityscape canvas in oils over by the nearly wall-sized window at the back of the house that permitted natural light to flood into the studio.

"Will you want me again?" Destiny asked, looking down at the wad of cash he'd dropped on the dressing table where she was working on her own form of artwork.

"Probably," was all he said. His mind now, however, was focused on getting the light, being applied to the paper on the drawing board, just right as well as on the business meeting that had been going on down in his first-floor study while he was drawing and fucking Destiny.

"And I'll see you tonight at the art exhibition?" Destiny asked.

"Yes, if you don't forget. Don't take any more of that shit today. You've stood me up before."

"I won't. But then afterward? You paid for the night. Maybe after I can have--"

"Yes, I've planned for you for the night. And, if I'm in the mood and you've been a good girl at the exhibition, there will be some more candy."

"And you'll be good to me? You'll put it in my pussy again?" Destiny reached down, ran fingers under the leg opening to her panties, and worked her recently acquired folds with her long, scarlet-painted fingernails. Her sex play enticed Gould away from his work and he came up close behind her at the dressing table.

"Yes, I'll fuck your snatch into tomorrow." He leaned over her, reached down, brushed Destiny's hand away, slid the panties off her legs, and worked the T-girl's slit, as Destiny leaned back in her chair, splayed her legs, and moaned her pleasure. She reached around, unzipping the artist's shorts; pulled his cock out, giving a little squeal of pleasure in find he was in erection; and stroked him as he let his fingers play in her folds.

With a little groan, Gould turned her around in her chair. He lifted a leg over Destiny's legs, facing her; positioned his cock head at her slit; and thrust up. She gasped and began to pant, as he reached around, gripped the long, platinum blonde hair at the back of her head, arching her head back, and buried his face in the hollow of her neck. She flinched when he bit her there. Destiny dug her long, scarlet fingernails into the man's shoulder blades as he fucked her in long, deep slides.

Downstairs, Gould's assistant and bedwarmer, Luigi Fellini, appeared at the study door and informed Gould's business agent, Sam Shaffer, and the Dupont Circle art gallery owner, Corwin Case, that Gould would be with them momentarily to sign whatever they had agreed on. Gould had been in his studio the whole time the two had been discussing his business. They both knew what he'd been doing there. Neither cared that or why he had been making them wait, their time in the study far less than their business required, as Gould's sex-laced charcoal drawings of male nudes represented more money in the bank for each of them than his more famous cityscape landscape oils did. They hadn't been trapped in the study. Both men worked closely with Gould and had the run of the mansion. He had a lot of artwork and kept it rotating on the walls, so both Shaffer and Case had taken extensive breaks in their talks to roam around and seek out and appraise new art.

As the three men stood at the door to the study in anticipation of Gould's appearance, Destiny tripped down the stairs into the foyer, turned a saucy smile on the men, and strutted out the front door. Each of the men enveloped her disappearing figure in an assessing look. Fellini went as far as to follow her to the door and watch her get into a Capitol Cab Company taxi, with a big black bruiser at the wheel.

* * * *

"What do you think? Do you have a trained eye?"

"It's trained for some purposes," Toby Drake said, turning to look at the distinguish, in-command-looking man who had saddled up beside him in front of a line of cityscape oil paintings at the Artechouse exhibit hall on D Street, near the D.C. end of the 14th Street bridge. The assessing look Drake gave the man easily conveyed that the young man had put a trained eye to the older, tall, and trim man, appearing to be in his forties, with the wavy ginger hair and Van Dyke mustache. He assessed the man both as a dominant and a player. The man put a hand on the small of Drake's back, indicating he had a trained eye for young men--and the particular type of young man Drake represented--himself. Drake confirmed both of their assessments by letting the hand remain there. "Alas, it's not trained all that well for art," he added. "I can appreciate innovation, though."

"And you find these paintings innovative?"

"Yes," Drake, a high-end male prostitute, small and slender, twenty-five-years-old, looking five years younger, Minnesotan blond--almost platinum blond, his hair falling to his shoulders when he let it down--answered. Tonight he had his hair in a tight bun at the back of his head so that its length was hardly noticeable at all and he was conservatively, if elegantly, dressed all in black--tailored trousers and a pleated shiny black silk shirt, with long, loose sleeves and big, round, silver cufflinks that someone in the know of the gay lifestyle could see were of a stylized design of two interlinked male sex symbols. The front of the shirt opened enough to be both provocative and sexy.

Both Drake's movie-star, nearly platinum, blond looks and the cufflinks set against the blackness of his attire drew attention to the jewelry. The man had looked there--and perhaps understanding the gay symbolism of the cufflink design made the man comfortable enough to palm the young man's lower back. He also observed that Drake's fingernails were painted silver. Everything spoke of a young man progressing toward trans and made the man wonder how far Drake had gone on the road. It, of course, piqued his interest.

"At first I couldn't understand why an exhibit of landscape oils was opening at the Artechouse this evening," Drake continued. "This gallery is dedicated to the marrying of art and technology, but now I understand. Very clever. You look at these paintings face on and you see the cityscape in the daylight. But, when you look at them on the slant, like those over there, you see a nightscape with luminous lighting. I have no idea how the artist does that, but obvious technology is involved for the paintings to be on display here."

"You do seem to have a trained eye for art," the man said, "and looks can certainly be deceiving. What looks like one thing on the outside might be hiding something entirely different underneath." Again he wondered if this handsome young man was more woman under his stylish clothing. If so, he was very interested.

The man's hand drifting a bit lower on Drake's waist to the top of the curve of his buttocks. Again, Drake didn't move away. He looked at all men as possible clients and he didn't move away from those who he found attractive or intriguing. He felt both about this man, and Drake had no aversion to men older than he was. Indeed, this one looked to be in his forties, and Drake was here for a client in his fifties--but still a virile and vigorous fifty-four. This wasn't Drake's first escort date with the man he was meeting here.

"You picked up on the artists' technique with these paintings," the man continued, leaning in close to Drake. "Not everyone attending this showing tonight will do so, unless someone points it out to them. Are you an artist as well?"

"No, I'm not an artist," Drake said with a little laugh. "I remain on the other end of the brush at all times."

"Ah, then, an artist's model, perhaps. I would believe it. You are a beautiful young man."

"I've done some modeling, yes."

"Including nudes?"

"Upon occasion," Drake answered, giving the man a saucy little smile.

"Excellent. I do drawings of nudes. Perhaps some day--"

"I don't come cheaply," Drake answered.

"I didn't think you would. But I do think you come for a man--for a man who knows how and where to touch--and with what. Am I wrong in that thought?" They both knew the man had his hand possessively virtually on Drake's buttocks and he hadn't been rebuffed.

"I don't try to hide it," Drake said, "for a man who can afford me."

"If I am interested, is there some way I can contact you?"

Drake dug out a business card and handed it to the man.

"Ah, an escort agency. Very high end."

"You know of this agency?" Drake asked.

"Very well. You could say intimately."

"I can be hired for many purposes," Drake said. "Since it's what we're discussing, though, I'll just say that I do modeling. I know how to pose for an artist."

"And if the artist wants you to lie down for him as well?"

"As I said, it's all a matter of being able to afford it."

"Perhaps, then, we might discuss what other purposes you may be hired for from this agency."

"If you wish."

The man laughed and changed tack. "You seem to be here alone," he said, as he tucked the card away. "I know that young men in your business have other pursuits as well. Are you, by any chance, an art critic from one of the papers? Which one?"

"No," Drake laughed. "I'm meeting up with someone here. My date works with the artist."

"Perhaps I know your date. What's her name?"

"His name. My date is a man. But I highly suspect you knew that."

The laugh again. "Ah, yes, of course. I was just teasing. I think we have already established that I would like to fuck you and that I could for a price." The hand dropped onto Drake's butt cheek, and he flexed, squeezing slightly and releasing. Squeezing and releasing. They already were having sex.