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.

“Yes, by all means. I’d enjoy the company. I’m in Duck alone this weekend.”

I sat. “Would you like to buy me a drink?” I was putting the rush on him, making him commit to an interest in me. “I haven’t brought a wallet. I hadn’t planned to stop at the bar, but I saw you sitting here and found you very attractive.”

“Yes, sure, why not?” he said. I told him what I wanted to drink and he went to the bar and came back with two of them, one for each of us.

“Do you come here often—to Duck?” I asked.

“A couple of times a summer,” he answered. “I come here to get my head back on straight. I have a demanding job. I often get too close to a lot of issues and they get jumbled up. I come here to get them untangled.”

“You don’t come here to seek entanglement too?” I asked.

“I’m not sure what you mean.”

“I saw you this morning—on the terrace of that bungalow on the beach. You were watching me being fucked. You knew what I have to offer and still you remained there, watching.”

“Ah.” There was a pause while he seemed to be deciding whether or not to go with it. He did. “And did you enjoy it—the fuck?”

“Yes, very much. You are attracted to people . . . like me?”

“Yes.” His interest in trans was out in the open. This was the key element in why it was me—why I was the one here, doing this. “Was he someone you know?” the man continued.

“No. A complete stranger.”

“From the way he went to you and just took you forcibly, I thought that he might be sexually assaulting you.”

“And yet you just stood there and watched,” I said.

“Yes. It was just so . . . so—”

“I found him attractive . . . and he fucked very well. Not all men could keep it up, knowing they were fucking a trans. That part of the beach is for casual encounters.” This established that I’d let complete strangers screw me if I found them attractive—and I’d just told him I stopped at the bar because I found him attractive. “But presumably you can, since you stayed around and beat off to me being fucked.” I gave him a pointed look.

“Yes, I can . . . with a trans.”

“And that’s another reason you leave your usual life and come to Duck alone?”

“Yes.”

I was putting the rush on him. Don’t give them time to think up why they won’t do what they clearly want to do. Hook them fast. It had worked for me in the past. I reached across the table and touched his right nipple through the material of his T-shirt. He responded with a jerk and a discernible tremble.

“Do you want to fuck me?” I asked. “We can drink up and go back to your place. I know where you are staying, of course. Do you want to fuck me?”

“Yes, I want to fuck you.”

Victory.

“You want to put it in my pussy.”

“Yes.”

“And you want to fuck me in the ass too.”

“Yes.”

“You want to do everything to me that the hunk who came up from the sea did to me?”

“Yes.” His voice was thick with lust.

* * * *

I didn’t just let him fuck me at the bungalow; I let him master and ravish me in both holes. He surprised me in just how experienced and serious a player he was. He knew what to do with a trans. Of course, I’d known he would.

“It really turned me on to see you taken so forcibly,” he said when we got to the bungalow.

“It turns me on too,” I answered, and then to anticipate where he obviously wanted to go—where I’d been briefed he liked to go—I said, “Do it. Take what you want. Do what you want.”

He put me on my back on a lounger by the small pool on the terrace and he had touched and fondled me everywhere with his hands and tongue and, holding my legs raised and spread, had eaten me out. He started by worshiping my body like I was a goddess, until I was begging for the shaft before he crouched over me, between my thighs, captured my lips with his, slid his tongue into my mouth and his cock into my pussy and fucked the shit out of me. Then he turned me and did the same in my other channel, all the time working my man clit with his fingers.

He showed me that he could prepare a trans to melt for him and plead for the cock; and he showed that he could be a lover, melding with me, the two of us working together for the pleasure of each other.

Going into the climax, however, he slapped me around, thrust up hard and violently inside me again and again, and showed me that he was cruel and a power top, treating me like the whore I was and totally wiping me out. I struggled against him, as I knew he wanted me to do, and tried to roll out from underneath him. But he punched me in the face and I fell back on the lounger, sprawled and spent. In the end I was just lying there, collapsed, completely docile, while he took his pleasure of me. I’d been told he would become that way with a trans, but he didn’t seem to be the type that would—until he did.

At the last, he didn’t want us to be working together. He wanted me exhausted and docile—vanquished—just lying there, open and vulnerable, while he ripped his pleasure out of me. I went with so many men that I found this fulfilling.

I was panting and moaning, my arm thrown across my eyes when he rolled off me, sat on the side of the lounger, stripped the condom off his cock, and reached for the pack of cigarettes on the patio table next to the bed. When he’d lit up, he moved the heel of his free hand to press in under my cunt, his thumb in my pussy and a finger snaked its way into my hole. I raised my tail and rocked on the digits, possessed both ways at once.

“Did that do it for you?” he asked.

“Oh, yes,” I murmured. “It’s still doing it for me.” I was rocking on his fingers and thumb. He laughed.

“Who are you? Where did you come from?” he asked. “I like to know something about the T-girl I’m taking to my bed tonight.”

“I’m sleeping with you tonight? Here?” I asked. It certainly was what I had been aiming for.

“Yes, unless you have someplace else you need to be. I haven’t finished with you yet.”

“I feel like you finished me,” I said.

“You are a great lay. So flexible, so responsive and at the end, just lying there and taking it. Do you dance a pole in a club here? You’re a prostitute, aren’t you? No one can go with a fuck like that who isn’t a pro.”

“You ask a lot of questions.”

“Not many. Just enough to know whether I will risk fucking you again. The first time I just couldn’t resist. I take my pleasures like this at great risk. That’s why I come to places like Duck to indulge them.”

I needed to continue this, to stay the night, to perform in the bed as well as here. “Not a pole dancer,” I said. “A ballet dancer—in Washington, D.C. I’m here for the weekend to have fun away from prying eyes.” I’d said that because I knew he’d understand—it was pretty obvious that was why he was here too. He was a master with T-girls, but he was letting me know that that was on the sly and on the side—that he had another, more public life he got away from from time to time. “No, I’m not a prostitute, at least not full time. I go with men who turn me on. You turn me on.”

“A name?” he asked.

“Kyle,” I answered. I could have given him a fake name, but I didn’t. I didn’t ask him for a name then, and he didn’t provide one then. I didn’t want to push it. We needed to make it in the sack a few more times here at the bungalow.

“Well, Kyle, are you going to stay the weekend? I’ll pay you $1,000 for full privileges. I came to Duck to unwind. No ties. Casual. You’re a great fuck.”

“I don’t have any of my clothes here. I’d have to—”

“No, nothing away from here. No calls to anyone. No time on the Internet. No watching the TV. You won’t have much need for clothes, but we’ll go out. You’re close enough to my size. You can wear some of my clothes. You can go naked.”

“Are you a gangster? On the lam, in hiding or something?” I asked.

“Do you care? Will it make a difference in you sleeping with me, letting me have my way with you, using you as I like? Fucking you in cunt and ass?”

“No.”

“Do you play tennis?” he asked, obviously satisfied with my answer and moving on.

“Yes,” I said. His deflection was so that I wouldn’t ask why he was so secretive. It reminded me that I recognized him from somewhere. I was being paid to screw him—here in the bungalow. They had made quite clear that the fucking was to be done right here. I knew who was paying me—a Chinese lobbyist and a big-time conservative senator—and I presumed this guy was being rewarded for something. I wouldn’t ask, but after the weekend was over, I certainly would research. And the interest wasn’t political. I wanted to know if there could be something more regular with him. The man was a fucking fuck god. I wanted more of him—beyond this weekend. “Yes, I play tennis.”

“Well, we’ll play tennis tomorrow. For now, go shower, look in my closet for something to wear to a steakhouse. Tonight be a young man. And then it’s back here to find if you are as good in any position as a woman other than the missionary in the cunt and a doggie in the ass.”

We were quite good together in other positions after dinner and into the night, with a doggie on the dining room table, and a side split and a cowboy on the bed.

As he was nodding off to sleep, he murmured, “I can believe that you’re a ballet dancer.”

I’m much more than that, I thought. And I wondered just who he was other than a master dominator.

The next morning, Sunday, we fucked and then had breakfast. Then we fucked and went to a beach and tennis club that went with The Beachcomber resort and played a vigorous tennis match. He played skins, and watching him across the net, Mr. Built Movie star, revved me up and we vigorously fucked by and in the pool when we went back to the bungalow. We went to a seafood restaurant, and I went as a woman this time, we having gone to where I was staying and picking up my things. He seemed to like that he would be seen not just with a man or a woman, but with both.

“If anyone’s watching me, that will confuse them,” he said.

I said nothing, knowing someone, indeed, was keeping track of us.

We returned to the bungalow and fucked on the sofa with porn films on the TV, using the athletic positions from the films as a guide for our own coupling. We bathed together in the jacuzzi and fucked in the water.

After that, in the bedroom, I lay, naked, on the bed and watched him pack.

“I have to go back tonight,” he said. He didn’t tell me where “back” was. “You can stay the night. The bungalow is paid for until 11:00 in the morning.”

I, of course, assumed the Chinese lobbyist was paying for the bungalow. There I was wrong, as I eventually found out.

“That’s it? No more after this?”

“God, I wish,” he said, giving me a look that told me more than I think he wanted to show. I did believe he wished. He’d managed to go this entire time, though, without revealing anything about himself. It just made me think that there was a lot to reveal. Earlier I’d almost brought an identity for him into mind. It was just about there. There was something screwy about this whole setup.

“Look, I’ll give you my cell number,” I said, reaching over to the nightstand, where there was a small pad of notepaper and a ballpoint pin. I scribbled the number down—my real number—and extended it toward him. “You can use it or not. This is a private number. I don’t give it out to very many.” I wanted to say that this gesture was far out of the limits I had been given, but I didn’t. “We don’t have to talk money anymore.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea,” he said, his voice full of genuine regret. But he took the number anyway and slipped it into his wallet.

When he was standing at the door to the bedroom with suitcase in hand, I started to get out of the bed to go to him for a kiss good-bye, but he said “I don’t think that’s a good idea either,” and he left me.

It was while I was driving back to Washington that it hit me who he was.

* * * *

“I want to see you again, Kyle.”

“Whatever you want,” I answered into the cellphone. I was surprised and yet I wasn’t, not really. It had been a week. I hadn’t forgotten Richard Blake, the liberal congressman from California, who lived in the exclusive Kalomara section of D.C., with a wife, two children, dog, and cat. I finally had remembered who he was from TV coverage of the U.S. House Committee on Foreign Affairs on recent hearings on U.S. China policy, where he was making waves as a progressive voice. I, of course, didn’t tell him I now knew who he was in this telephone call.

“You checked out. You really are a ballet dancer—with the Washington Ballet. Your photo is on their Web site. And your name really is Kyle.”

“Yes, that’s right,” I answered, tamping down the urge to flare up at him for checking me out. I’d checked him out too. “I wouldn’t lie to you,” I said, fully realizing that that wasn’t the same as not telling him the whole truth.

“Any chance of tomorrow at three, meeting in the food court of the Roslyn Metro station?”

“Every chance,” I said.

“Do you think you can find that OK?”

“Sure, no problem.” And it wouldn’t be a problem. I lived not more than four blocks from there, on Colonial Terrace, in an old studio apartment I shared with another Georgetown University student. It was just across the Key Bridge from Georgetown. I biked to classes. I hadn’t told Blake I was a political science student at Georgetown in addition to dancing in the ballet.

When we met, he handed me a small, cheap-looking cellphone. “Here, can you use this to call me on? It’s a burner phone. I don’t want phone calls to be—”

“Sure, no problem,” I said again. “Anything you want. I told you back in Duck that you could have anything you wanted from me. I meant it.” This wasn’t on the books. This was for me. I’d already struggled with who he was and that he had a family. I decided I didn’t give a shit. He did me too well. Any guilt in that realm could be his to bear. I wouldn’t be charging him either.

We chatted for a few minutes in the food court, although he kept looking around to see if anyone was paying attention to us. I had dressed as an unassuming male university student. He needn’t have worried about being seen with me. Some of the talk was political. He seemed happy that I was a progressive and fell in with his public stances. I still didn’t tell him I knew who he was, though.

“I have a room here. In the Rosslyn Hyatt Centric Arlington. I hope I’m not assuming—”

“Anything you want,” I said.

He wanted it all and I let him have it. At the finish I was on my belly on the bed, one hand grasping some inlaid work in the headboard to hold myself in place and elevating my pelvis enough with my knees dug into the mattress to be able to get my hand under my belly to rub myself off, while he straddled my hips, pressed the palms of his hands into my shoulder blades, and rode me hard in the ass in long, deep thrusts.

That, in the heat of the passion of coming together, is when I slipped and made the mistake. I cried out, “Shit, yes, I’m coming. Ride me, Richard, ride me hard!” which he did and I came.

When we had turned from each other and come down next to each other on our backs and were panting, working on cooling down, he said, “You called me Richard. I haven’t told you my name.”

“You’re Richard Blake, the congressman,” I said.

“How the hell did you—?”

“This is Washington. Your face is all over the TV news.”

“You knew. You knew who I was back in Duck.”

“No, I didn’t. It only dawned on me when I was driving back.”

“You checked me out.”

“You checked me out too—you checked to make sure I was in the ballet.” I had him there, and he knew it.

“So, you know I’m married . . . have kids.”

“I don’t care if you don’t. Let’s not talk about that. Let’s just—”

“Yes, let’s just,” he said, rolling over on top of me, parting my legs, putting me in the missionary position. He surprised me by backhanding me across the face and then back the other way, making me go limp and, moaning, collapse back onto the bed. He mounted and thrust up inside my pussy, and fucking the hell out of me. I lay there, vulnerable and completely open to him and let him have his way with me—in any hole he wanted in the moment.

* * * *

“You little shit.”

“Excuse me, Richard.” My grip on the burner phone I held to my ear tightened.

“You fucking bastard. You sold me out. It’s entrapment, that’s what it is, you little whore.”

“I don’t understand what you mean. Entrapment?” My blood went cold, though. I wasn’t stupid. I’d been thinking for some time that something was wrong.

“Photos. They showed me photos. Photos of you and me, at the place in Duck. Having sex, all over that house I rented. You a naked trans; me fucking you in both the cunt and the ass, making love to your tits. They’ve got me by the balls.”

“Duck? Lu and Crawford are blackmailing you? With photos of us?”

He nearly exploded down the line. “Yes, you fucking little shit. They’ve given me an ultimatum to vote their way on China legislation or they’ll expose me. They’ll . . . you little bitch. You are working with Crawford and Lu. How do you know those assholes?”

“Crawford’s a U.S. senator and Lu is a China lobbyist,” I answered. “I know them because I’m studying political science at Georgetown University.”

“You told me you were a ballet dancer.”

“I am.”

“And you’re T-girl whore too. You helped set me up.”

“OK, I work for an escort agency. It isn’t all sex. But some of it is, yes.”

“But you immediately knew this was about Crawford and Lu and setting me to make me vote their way on the foreign policy bills.”

“Not all of that, no, Richard. At the time I didn’t even know who the hell you were. It’s not like you told me. Listen to me, Richard. I now understand what happened. But I didn’t know they were setting you up. I thought they were rewarding you for something. They hired me—or rather Robert Lu did. I only saw Crawford there incidentally.” I didn’t tell him that I’d auditioned for Crawford as a crossdressing maid before they hired me. “I didn’t know what they were doing, though. They had that bungalow right before you took it. They must have set hidden cameras up. Have you rented it before?”

“I rent it every time I go to duck.”

“Every time you go there to fuck a trans for the weekend? Every time you leave your wife and family and come to the beach to fuck a young T-girl like me?”

“That was the first time I landed a T-girl. It was never that intense before.”

“It’s not my fault you have a trans fetish, Richard.”

There was nothing being said on the other end of the line.

“Listen, Richard, they are blackmailing you because they can—because of choices you made. I was just someone they hired through an escort agency to let you do what you have set a pattern doing. Everything that came after that weekend in Duck was because I wanted to be with you and had nothing to do with Lu or Crawford—or the escort agency.”

“I’m fucked,” he said, his voice sounding defeated. “There’s no telling what will get passed in the House now.”

I was a progressive. I agreed with the stands he’d taken. I also had fallen for the guy—not head over heels, but I had a ball being balled by him.

“Hold on, Richard. I should have thought this one out better and maybe avoided it. Don’t do anything yet. Don’t do anything until you hear from me. Don’t give them what they want but play along with them like you will. There must be something we can do—something I can do—to make this go away.”

“You think?”

“If this goes public, and there’s always the threat it will, that’s me in those photos too, Richard. They know what I am at the ballet, but not at the university. Trust me, I’ll try to do something to make this go away.”

And then, after we clicked off, I began to plan.

* * * *

The Washington Ballet was scheduled to put on a performance in one of the theaters at the MGM National Harbor Hotel and Casino venues anyway and the Nijinsky production of Afternoon of the Faun, choreographed to the music of Claude Debussy, was in the ballet’s repertoire anyway. I was in the understudy cast in the role of Faun, but it was just a periodic local gig in Washington, so I didn’t have any trouble getting cast in the part for the MGM Hotel performances. The director of the ballet had been eyeing me for some time. He was intrigued with how it could be with a trans—how it felt to put it there. I let him find out. A night of sex with him got me in the production.

I also made sure that the escort agency’s twentieth-story room in the hotel wasn’t booked that night. I had a couple of copies of the key card.

The rest was easy—invitations sent to Senator Crawford and Robert Lu from the escort agency, without Cheryl knowing about it, inviting them to take up front-row seats for the performance and private time with me afterward in gratitude for their high-paid contract in Duck the previous month. The rest was getting the ballet’s costumer to help me get made up in a sexy costume for the ballet that was sure to make Senator Crawford’s tongue hang out.

That part of the plan worked a charm as well. Other than a form-fitting flesh-colored leotard that smashed my enhanced breasts down, I was in body paint. Forrest greens and browns that covered the leotard provocatively, blending the edges of that into the body paint in splotches of color covered in sparkles that picked up the lighting from overhead and from the footlights. I dazzled, seemingly naked, androgynous, gliding across the stage in a sexy rendition of a forest faun that would have given Nijinsky an erection.

I danced for the two men in the front row, their tongues hanging out.

Afterward they fucked me separately and together for over an hour in the escort agency’s twentieth-floor hotel room. We put on quite a show, the three of us. The senator loved the faun costume as much as he’d loved the maid outfit. And both of them delighted in the standing double penetration fuck in the center of the room, with the faun dramatically dying between the two naked men, Crawford fucking my pussy and Lu fucking my ass.

Everything else aside, I rather enjoyed the fucking.

After they had gone, I showered and dressed in street clothes and went downstairs to the surface parking lot behind the hotel. I opened the back door of a black van and encountered the grinning face of Stan, the escort agency’s recording technician. He was in the process of packaging up the video, with audio, recording he’d just taken from the escort agency’s hotel room. I’m sure Cheryl planned to judiciously use these recordings made in the room, with embedded cameras and microphones that covered the room from all angles. It likely was both her protection if the agency got in trouble with the authorities and needed to enlist its clients for help or maybe it was Cheryl’s retirement policy. In any case, it was helpful to me at the moment.

“That was one steamy performance,” Stan said, a big grin on his face. “I busted a nut twice just getting it all on tape.”

“If you want to go for a third time, you can come upstairs with me, Stan,” I said.

“Shazam, I’ve been waiting for you to say that for months, Kyle.”

“With conditions,” I said.

“What conditions?”

Then I told him, he agreed to it, and we went up to the twentieth floor and I let him do whatever he wanted with me, which included him finding that my pussy was just as good as any woman’s he filled was. Stan had some kinky ideas for sex, including one that involved his fist, but I went with it to get what I needed, which included him not telling Cheryl about it.

* * * *

“Hello,” Congressman Richard Blake said tentatively. It may have been the only call he’d ever gotten on his burner phone, and he might have been leery about who had the number if it wasn’t me. But it was me.

“It’s me,” I said. “We need to meet. The same place as last time, same day and time?”

“OK,” he said and clicked off. We both were being very antsy at this stage.

I was sitting at a small table in the food court of the Roslyn Metro building, my coat folded over the chair of the table beside me, a package on the seat, when Blake came over, with a vanilla milkshake, and sat in the chair facing me at that table. We both spoke straight ahead, not looking at each other. We’d both been careful about not being followed and had each had given the people at the food court close scrutiny before coming this close.

“The package,” I said. “You can use it to counter what they have from Duck. There are two videos of C, both pretty kinky and steamy. L is in one of them too. They are every bit as useful as what they have on you.”

“You think this will work?”

“As well as their plan did, I’m sure,” I answered.

“Kyle.”

“Yes?”

“I guess we should close this down now—not get together again.” I could sense the regret in his voice and I shared it.

“No, we shouldn’t meet—not for a while, at least,” I said. “But I’ll keep my burner phone if you keep yours.”

“Thanks, Kyle.”

I wasn’t thinking of him. He would be the one burned if this didn’t stop. I’d be ten minutes of titillating news and then forgotten. Everyone already thought that male ballet dancers were all gay—or bi at least. It wasn’t much of a stretch to accept that they were trans. Richard had made his own choices. But I couldn’t see giving up a master cocksman that easily. I knew, though, that what I was giving him would do the trick this time.

I had had Stan burn me a copy of not only the tape of the night of the faun in the hotel room with Crawford and Lu but also to go back and find the tape of the maid session with the senator from the previous month and make a copy of that as well. Crawford and Lu were now in a balance of power situation in the national capital. They undoubtedly wouldn’t give Blake the Duck tapes, and would retain copies even if they did, but now they couldn’t use their tapes on Blake without him using the tapes with the two of them and me in retaliation.

“That’s entrapment too,” Blake said.

“Yes, it is,” I said. “This is Washington.” We both laughed, turning our heads away from each other but in a direction that would look to anyone nearby like we were amused by the same something—which we were.