“Fuck, fuck, fuck,” I cursed as I gripped the metal handle by the folding doors, mentally chastising the bus for taking so long to brake and let me off. I hated being late. One of my most valued traits was my punctuality. Everyone said so. What would they say now?

The bus finally screeched to a stop, and the doors parted with a swish. I stepped down into a huge pile of slush.

“Fuck,” I cursed.

I waded through melting snow on the sidewalk, wondering for the fortieth time this season why I didn’t live somewhere—anywhere—else. Someplace warm, where they didn’t get snow or slush or freezing rain or any of the other things that assailed this godforsaken city between the months of November and April.

Icy water seeped into my leaky boots, and for the umpteenth time this winter, I told myself I needed to get new ones. I was saving up for quality footwear. Sure, I could buy a pair of supposedly waterproof boots at Walmart, and maybe they would work until the end of winter…but maybe they wouldn’t. I could wait another month until I had the money to buy half-decent boots that might last me three winters.

I liked my job, which was why I was pissed off that I was late. Sebastian would wonder where I was and might not have enough servers to manage the patrons who tended to fill the place on a Friday night.

I trudged down the sidewalk, shivering, although the temperature was mild, passing an imposing and ancient stone church, a boutique hotel and some small apartment buildings. The wind was picking up, and the temperature was falling now that dark had descended. When the front lights and imposing signage of Maverick Molly’s came into view, I sighed with relief.

Maverick Molly’s would be warm. It would be full of soft lamplight and Victorian ambience, and I couldn’t wait to get there. I could already smell the wood fire burning in the massive hearth in the gaming parlor.

I’d been lucky enough to get a job at Molly’s, serving snacks and beverages, dressed in a corset and pretty underthings like a Victorian molly boy. It was a goddamned dream job for someone like me, who didn’t mind getting dolled up for the particular clientele that Molly’s attracted. Plus, it was advantageous to get in on a good thing early on.

Jacob Moriarty, who ran the place, was a visionary. He’d gotten the idea for Maverick Molly’s while researching the Victorian sex trade for an article he’d written, and his partner, Sebastian, had done the hiring for the first group of servers.

I knew Sebastian from an acting gig we’d done together. He’d told me I’d be perfect, if I was willing to don some bloomers and a corset and bring food and drinks to kinky men who would rent the Bordello—the spacious and beautifully decorated back room filled with vintage kink furniture and accessories—to engage in X-rated games with their partners or hookups. We were also encouraged to perform in short burlesque skits or sing bawdy songs in front of the clientele in the public room where men gathered at tables to play cards and old-fashioned board games.

Molly’s didn’t run a sex trade. The servers were there as titillating décor and entertainment…and also as practical employees. We helped to create the ambience of a different time, when being gay was truly a counter-culture, and safe spaces were scattered through the underground for men to meet and enjoy each other. It probably wasn’t very romantic, especially when molly houses were raided and the men inside them taken by the police for having the audacity to be true to themselves and each other. But now that homosexuality was considered, by most, to be a part of the great quilt of human sexuality, the costumes and accouterments of the Victorian gay underground provided a change of pace to men used to meeting in modern hotels or bathhouses—or living their domestic married lives together.

It was a kink club, a cabaret and a gaming parlor, and Jacob and Sebastian raked in the cash most evenings. I was proud to be a part of that. But tonight, I was fucking late, and that wasn’t like me. I didn’t usually jaywalk but, fuck it.

I ignored the red light and dodged across the street, narrowly avoiding a tragic incident and causing one driver to yell out a curse as I ran in front of his car.

“Sorry, sorry. Shit, fuck, sorry,” I said, waving a vague apology as I made it to the sidewalk, my heart beating in my chest like a rabbit’s as I ran up the steps of the ancient stone building, pushing the heavy wood door open and slipping inside.

A plump young man with dark skin and deep brown eyes in frilly Victorian bloomers and a chemise with a vintage corset over the top, turned to me.

“Where the fuck have you been, then?” Robin asked, reducing the harshness of his words with a saucy sway of his substantial behind.

“Sorry, sorry,” I mumbled, taking off my coat. “Family issues.”

“Yeah?” Robin took a piece of half-eaten fruit cake off the plate he held in his hand and popped it into his mouth, chewing while giving me a fake look of sympathy. I was used to that, though. It was part of Robin’s schtick.

“Yeah. My mom’s on a rampage. I need to find a place of my own.”

“Bad luck,” he said, with mock gravitas.

I cackled at the look on his face as he attempted real sympathy. Robin didn’t have a sympathetic bone in his body, but he kept trying.

“Yeah, well, I’m here now,” I said.

“Better get changed. Can you check on the new guy? He’s been back there for ages, probably stuck in his corset.”

“Sure, sure. What’s his name?” I asked.

Robin’s face relaxed into an expression of genuine delight, and his eyebrows waggled. “Patrick.” Then he narrowed his eyes. “Hands off. He’s mine.”

“What the fuck? What gives you first dibs?” I asked. Kid must be something to get Robin all possessive on his first day.

Robin’s smile vanished. “I wasn’t late, was I?”

He had a point. I watched him carry the now-empty plate to the kitchen, his much-prized, bloomered rear end swaying as he walked. There was a black fascinator pinned into his short curls with a huge silver feather sticking out of it.

“Nice head piece,” I said, and it wasn’t sardonic. I did like it.

He turned back to me, the smile there again. One thing great about Robin… He never stayed mad.

“Do you like it?” He touched the tip of his finger to the edge of the feather. “Sebastian says it makes me look like a nineteen-twenties flapper.”

I nodded as I put my boots in the tray. “It’s cute.”

He threw me a saucy smile. “Like me?”

“Of course.”

“Ta-ta, then. We’ve got a good-looking crowd tonight, by the way.” He waggled his eyebrows again.

Robin Webb was British. Customers loved him because of his cheeky attitude, cockney accent and soft, plump curves. Robin was on the chubby side, and it totally worked for him. He could pull off innocent and diabolically perverse in one goddamned sentence. I alternately loved and hated him.

He looked incredible in a corset and stockings. That kind of self-confidence and the ability to feel comfortable wearing women’s underthings was an asset for any server at Molly’s. It was more important than objective good looks. Working the tables at Maverick Molly’s in Victorian lingerie all evening was not an easy way to make a living, but it was more amusing than working at a regular eatery. It still involved being on one’s feet for long stretches of time, fielding curious questions from the men who came to enjoy the ambience and pretending to be amused by suggestive jokes that had been heard countless times already.

We were also required to perform. By that I mean that over the course of an evening, two or more of us had to get on the small stage and perform bawdy skits, sing scandalous ditties and otherwise entertain the gents who were drinking, playing cards and engaging in other vintage games like backgammon and chess.

Most of the men who came to Maverick Molly’s behaved themselves. Jacob and Sebastian ran a tight operation, and the regulars—men who enjoyed the alternative types of entertainment Molly’s offered—knew what they could, and couldn’t, get away with. Occasionally, men who dropped in out of curiosity violated one of the set boundaries and were promptly and summarily dealt with. Rules of behavior were posted in several places, and there was rarely any real trouble. It was a safe and entertaining place to work.

I went past the door to the kitchen and through the one that led to the staff changing area.

“Heyo,” I said, in case of anyone in a state of undress who needed to cover their bits. But the only person in the room was still wearing his jeans and staring at the pile of vintage-looking undergarments before him with terror.

“You must be Patrick.”

He had a shock of red hair that would have made Raggedy Andy jealous and freckles that made him look like an adolescent. But what I could see of his slimly muscled body was all man.

“Yeah. Hi.”

I dumped my backpack on the hideously patterned settee. When Jacob and Sebastian had been looking for antiques to furnish their club, someone had donated this eyesore, and they’d found a place for it in here, where we needed something practical but customers wouldn’t be turned off by the unappealing aesthetic. Maybe they also figured we wouldn’t linger on our breaks, but honestly, we didn’t care what it looked like when we were exhausted and just wanted to sit down.

“I’m Toby. I was supposed to be here an hour ago, so I need to get moving. But I can help you with all that.”

Patrick seemed relieved but still overwhelmed by the task ahead.

“Um. You did realize you were gonna have to put on women’s knickers for this job?”

He swallowed. “I…yeah. But it just now hit me.”

“Yeah, it’s intimidating at first. You’ll look amazing, though.”

He blew out a breath and attempted a smile. “God, I hope so.”

I laughed. “Trust me… The customers’ll be passing you their business cards all night. Smile and pocket them but don’t say anything. All you have to do is bring them the food and drinks they ask for. Anything else is not your mandate.”

“Right. Sure.”

“Unless you want to follow up when you’re not at work. But it’s your choice. Jacob and Sebastian don’t want you serving more than they have a license for, if you get my drift.”

Patrick seemed to relax. “Yeah, I get it. Thanks.”

I grabbed the stuff off my shelf and threw it all onto the settee.

“Right. Strip,” I said to Patrick.

Patrick blinked. “Like, everything?”

“You can’t put this stuff on over jeans. It doesn’t work that way.”

Patrick glanced at the door.

“Nobody’s going to come in. Everyone’s busy as hell out there. That’s why we need to get changed and go help out, right?”

“Okay. Yeah.”

I had my clothes off in a moment and stood watching Patrick with silent appreciation. He was a good-looking kid with a swimmer’s body. He was going to look incredible in the Maverick Molly’s get-up. The confidence would come with time. That was the most important thing in this job, but it wasn’t always there at the beginning. Patrick definitely had the looks, but he needed an injection of chutzpah to have a chance at this gig.

I sifted through my things and found the black silk garter belt. I held it up and waggled the straps. “You should have something like this in your pile?”

Patrick’s gaze locked onto my crotch, so I glanced down to see if my dick was hanging out or something. But everything was tucked away in the neat little pouch of my lace panties. Oh…

“Wait! You’re wearing panties. Nobody told me I had to wear panties.” Patrick’s eyes had bugged, and his voice held a shrill timbre.

“You don’t have to wear panties. They just work well with the outfit, you know? And I like ’em.”

I loved panties. Why men got the short end of the stick on this one, I’d never understand. I, on the other hand, didn’t abide by many gender expectations. I’d worn men’s bikini underwear since I’d started shopping for my own clothes, which had been earlier than most kids, seeing as my mom wasn’t the best parent on the block, to put it mildly. Once I was brave enough, I’d started buying the prettier, lacier panties that were now available for people with penises.

“Your panties are”—Patrick swallowed—“really cute.”

“Why, thank you, Patrick,” I said, posing with one hand on my hip and grinning with contentment. “You have some in your pile. So do I. But these are my own,” I said, waggling my behind.

“Oh.” He smiled, and he went from cute to breathtaking in an instant. Yeah, he’d do.

I fanned my face. “My, my, you do have a lovely smile, Patrick. I think you’ll do just fine.”

I went over to where Patrick was standing and gestured to the pile of garments in front of him. “May I?”

He nodded.

I rifled through his ‘uniform’ and quickly found a pair of black lace men’s panties.

“Here.” I held them up. “Start with these.”

Patrick looked down at himself in his snug blue boxer briefs, then eyed me in my lacy red panties, and took the black ones from me. “Okay.”

I turned around politely while he changed his underwear and grabbed the garter belt from my pile before I turned around.

“Oh, hell. Yeah, those work,” I said, fixating on Patrick’s, ahem…package, now tucked tidily in the front pouch of his lacy panties.

“They’re so soft!” Patrick said, stroking the fabric as a giggle bubbled from his lips.

“Trust me… It’ll be hard to go back to boxer briefs after this.”

“What now?”

I helped Patrick get sorted out with the garter belt and stockings, which did take some getting used to. Then I showed him the frilly bloomers with a cheeky smile. “The guys love these…almost as much as they like the corsets.”

I pulled mine on over my stockings and fastened the buttons on the gusset. Wide pink ribbon weaved through the leg openings above the frilly fabric on mine, baby blue on Patrick’s. The bloomers and chemises were exact replicas of what would have been worn—by women, mostly—at the time, and that Sebastian had requisitioned from a local seamstress.

“Next—the chemise,” I said.

We pulled on the blousy cotton garments with their elbow-length sleeves that fanned out in soft frills at our elbows.

Patrick caught a glimpse of himself in the full-length mirror.

“Holy shit,” he said, checking himself out in several angles.

“I know, right? What a trip.”

I’d been a server at Molly’s for almost two years now, and it was all a part of my job. It was cool to see it from Patrick’s point of view—as something new, exciting and different.

“Now, shoes. The shoes are easier to lace up before you put on the corset. Trust me.”

We put on the light brown, kid leather ankle boots and laced them up.

“Do they fit okay?” They would have taken Patrick’s measurements and shoe size when they’d given him the job offer.

“Yeah. I look so fucking weird.”

“You look real cute. Just wait until you’ve got the corset on…and the choker. The choker pulls it all together.”

“Do all the servers wear the same thing?” Patrick asked, as I lifted the boned corset from my diminishing pile.

“This is the basic outfit, what we’re getting into. But sometimes you can find stuff at thrift shops and places like that. Robin has a gorgeous magenta kimono with gold dragons on it that he wears sometimes. If you want to, you can wear makeup and earrings—or other jewelry. Whatever floats your boat, really, as long as it goes with the overall vibe.”

“Which is?”

“Nineteenth-century male hooker?”

“Right.” Patrick laughed.

“Well, molly boy, actually. Hence the name.”

“Molly what?” Patrick said, screwing up his face. “I just thought it was named after someone called Molly.”

“Nah, you see, Patrick,” I said, wrapping the short corset around my middle and making sure my chemise was straight. I fastened the tiny clasps up the front. “In those days, the hustlers who worked at the whorehouses that catered to gay men wore the same outfits the girls wore at the other places. And they were called molly boys.”

“Huh.”

“It was a fascinating period in history, really. I wouldn’t want to have lived back then, but the stories of the men who defied convention and got up to mischief regardless are very inspiring. Imagine if you had to risk imprisonment or hanging every time you met a man for sex? Those guys were legends.”

“Wow. How do you know all that?”

“Well, Jacob gave me a rundown. And I’m a compulsive researcher. I’ve read some really good books about Victorian sex rebels,” I said. “You need help?”

Patrick was trying to put his corset on upside down. “Yes, please. How the fuck did they do this every day?”

“I don’t fucking know,” I said, taking the corset from Patrick and turning it the right way around. “You get used to it, though. And once it’s all on, it’s not too bad. Don’t lace the corset too tight or you’ll have problems. You want it to be snug but not constrain,” I said, pulling the laces tight enough to hold him securely. “The design is handy, because you only need to lace it once. Then you just use the little clasps in the front—unless you lose or gain a lot of weight or something.”

I tied the strings in a double bow and went around in front of him to fluff the chemise over his nipples. “You want to let it gape a bit so they can see them, but make it titillating, not blatant. Trust me,” I said, winking. “I’ve got this down to an art form.”

Patrick’s gaze swept along my body from the top of my head to my feet in the brown shoes. “You sure do.”

I might have preened a bit as I put on my velvet choker and glimpsed my reflection. But there wasn’t time to dawdle.

“All right. You look amazing, by the way. Let’s go.”

“Do I need to do something to my hair?” Patrick asked.

“Nah, it looks fine. I usually dab some gel on mine, but I don’t have time right now,” I said, taking the lead as we headed out into the hall and through the double doors of the gaming parlor.