A Meeting of Mollies

Erotic fiction. Sequel to Fashioning a Fop.

Image drawn by the author

Sequel to Fashioning a Fop

Cis M/trans M (currently closeted/questioning so occasionally refers to himself as a woman). Vaginal and oral sex, roleplay, references to homosexuality/cross-dressing being illegal.

Note: I’m not a historian and this is a period setting for fun rather than accuracy! Errors are very possible.

Mr Crosby ended his stay with us a day after our dalliance. I was a little grieved to hear that he had left but I could not deny my relief over it; he had taken my secret away with him, or so I assumed. I carried my memories of our encounter with me, a private token held to my breast like a sweetheart carries their billet-doux. As a beau might tuck a lock of their lover’s hair beneath their pillow to aid sweet dreams, I called up details from my memory of being dressed in silks by knowing hands; lying in bed where nobody could see my blushes, my own urgent hand working between my thighs, I remembered how it had felt when he had called me a ‘good boy’ with his length buried inside me.

I was busy at work collecting empty plates of the evening stew my mother had served to all who paid for a meal when I felt somebody brush past me, and a subtle yet pointed tap on the shoulder. Before I even had time to respond, a hand delicately slid a note into my apron pocket- done so deftly that I was aware of the process but nobody around us would have been. I watched the man walk away: it was Mr Flinn, of course, he who owned the suit I had spent such a pleasant afternoon in the presence of. Perhaps he truly had been a cutpurse once. He certainly seemed to have the requisite skills to flourish in such an occupation.

As soon as I had the opportunity to make a pretence of visiting the privy I leant against the wall and unfolded the slip of paper. There was just a single line written in a simple unfussy hand: ‘req your presence my room sundown’. He wished to meet with me, after sundown, privately. The need for discretion on both of our parts need not be said explicitly. I disposed of the paper down the bog and did not write a reply, instead contriving to pass him on my way back to the fireside and, under the cover of refilling his mug, caught his eye and gave him a small nod.

I tried to put it from my mind while I went about the rest of the day’s work. As it happens, people rarely pay me much attention so it was unlikely that any variation in my behaviour would be noticed, but I have an unfortunate tendency to fixate on uncertainties and I truly had no idea exactly why I had been summoned. For once I was grateful to be kept busy so that I had no time to allow my mind to wander into speculation.

At last I was free to return to my chamber, theoretically to sleep. I did strip off my working clothes down to the shift that I wore to bed and then wrapped a shawl around my shoulders to give myself the appearance of somebody who had been roused from sleep to investigate a strange sound, which I had decided would be my story if I was discovered. I was not too concerned: my aunt, with whom I shared a room, was a notoriously heavy sleeper aided by drink and never stirs when I move about the space. I have previously knocked over heavy candlesticks, dropped books, even accidentally kicked the wooden screen we use as a divider so that it fell and actually struck my sleeping aunt on the leg and she merely let out a snore in response.

I knew the corridors and halls of the building without the need for sight so forewent even a taper to light my way, creeping along in my stockings and avoiding the planks that creaked. I had waited until every respectable patron would be abed, and the ones remaining downstairs would be too drunk to care about my movements. When I reached Mr Flinn’s door I hesitated: the correct thing would be to knock, but I was attempting to avoid any unnecessary sounds whatsoever. In the end I settled on a method of entering without warning, but deliberately slowing the brass handle with my hand, opening the door so slowly that I would be giving out a clear announcement of my arrival.

The man inside was lounging on his side, seemingly reading through some small pamphlet or chapbook, although I suspected that was merely for the sake of appearance. Flinn was wearing a banyan, or what they call a morning gown: a long satin robe that fell in loose folds around his body. The fit around his chest was precise and flattering while the sleeves were voluminous, draping over his side as he turned over the leaf of his miniature book. I had seen this manner of gown before, usually paired with a cap or with the hair covered in some sort of handkerchief or wrap, but Flinn was wearing his hair loose. Soft, long tresses that shone bright chestnut tumbled over his shoulders: it was astonishing how much the dressing or rather undressing of hair could change one’s overall appearance, and he seemed younger and with a sort of ethereal beauty.

With a soft click, I closed the door behind me. Flinn took his time in placing a ribbon to mark his place and tossed his book to one side, finally looking up at me with a warm smile.

“I was unsure if you’d come. I’m thankful you have. I feel we have matters to discuss.”

“Is that so, sir?” I asked warily, continuing to stand with my hands tucked neatly behind my back, my shoulders squared.

“I feel that I must apologise for any… impropriety caused by the misunderstanding of my associate.”

I continued to stare, uncomprehending.

“I beg your pardon, sir?”

“You see, he and I have a certain… unusual friendship. We enjoy play acting, and may sometimes surprise each other with a new game to play. When he walked in to find you in my room, he made an assumption that you and I were more closely acquainted and that I had arranged the situation as a diversion.”

The thoughts were whirling around my poor brain, and I set my face as a blank so that it would not betray my confusion. So I was to understand that these two men had an established partnership that included organising sexual capers for each other; not only this, but their encounters were varied enough that Crosby had seen me in Flinn’s fine gentleman’s suit and interpreted it as within character for the sort of scene that Flinn might orchestrate.

Naturally, the wisest response would have been to graciously accept the man’s apology. It would perhaps have been appropriate even to imply that I had gone along with the entire thing out of politeness. Then I would bob at the knee and remove myself from Mr Flinn’s chamber and blot the entire sordid affair from my history. You may well have gathered from my previous account that I am not wise.

“Mr Flinn,” I addressed him boldly, “I appreciate your candour, and your kindness in offering me an exit. I fear I must exonerate Mr Crosby entirely in his actions. I am no naif, sir, and my participation was entirely voluntary. Indeed, if I may say, the seduction was mutual. I enjoyed myself immensely.”

The man stared at me, and for the first time I felt that I saw the proverbial mask slip. It was very clear that I had not said what he had been expecting. In fact, I felt as though everything he said up until now had been carefully scripted in his mind and he was now off-book entirely. I felt I perceived the confused aspect of an actor playing Hamlet who, having thrust his bodkin through the arras, had been confronted with a Polonius who proclaimed himself to still very much be alive and well and who expected to participate in the remainder of the play.

“I’m grateful for your honesty,” Flinn said upon rediscovering his voice, “Crosby will likewise be much reassured, I am certain.”

I nodded to him, holding myself taut and upright rather than dipping my gaze appropriately. Perhaps at a later date I would return to being a deferent servant but for the moment I felt that I could maintain the illusion of equality.

“I would appreciate you assuaging his concerns when possible.” I said.

He was looking at me now in a most curious manner, as though attempting to analyse my behaviour and finding something in it that surprised him. I held my resolve, refusing to wilt under the blaze of his attention.

“You are not required to answer this question,” he began, “Nor is it an accusation. I merely wondered what incited you to put on my suit.”

Much as he insisted I was not in trouble, I did feel as though there was a wrong answer. However, I could not quite puzzle out which response was expected from me. I glanced over in the direction of the trunk where the clothing had been kept. It was a question I had wondered myself since it had occurred.

“I suppose it must have been curiosity,” I said slowly, “As I had never seen such a fine suit before. The material, the embroidery, it was all so beautiful. I felt that I wanted to see for myself how it felt to wear such fabric.”

“Your curiosity was the fineness of the garment, then?” he asked, and there was a coaxing gentleness to his tone, as though cajoling a reluctant hound to drop a ball it has formed a possessive liking to.

“Yes, that was it.”

“I see,” he said pleasantly, settling himself back into his reclining position on the bed and looking down at his fingernails, and I hesitated, recognising that this was the moment where I should take the opportunity to make my adieus.

Yet for some reason I cannot comprehend, I felt as though it was imperative that I continue to explain, to give as full an account as possible. What I had told him was not a lie, and it had been the version of the truth that I had even been telling myself, unwilling to vivisect my mind to interpret the raw meaning of its viscera. It was safer that way, and if I was not yet ready to examine that hidden volume of my own soul then it felt truly unwise to reveal it to another person. Yet I felt compelled, in the manner of a papist kneeling in the dark cabinet giving confession to their priest, to allow my thoughts to pour forth.

“Perhaps there was also an element, an aspect of my curiosity, that related to how it might feel to wear the raiment of a gentleman. When I was just a little child, I remember asking if I might wear breeches as my brothers were permitted to do, and was told I may not, for a lass could only wear skirts. I had almost forgotten but I suppose that curiosity persisted.”

Flinn had returned his gaze to me, brow drawn down slightly. I felt, from his renewed interest, that I had at least given an answer that intrigued him. I was unsure why exactly that was something that I was hoping for, as in most situations I preferred to give as little genuine information about myself as possible and extricate myself from most situations as soon as I was physically able to do so.

“And were you satisfied?”

I hesitated, unsure how I could answer that question when I did not know the answer to it myself. I had enjoyed the experience more than I could have known, but equally I felt that I had been allowed a small peek at a world I had never realised I was missing and now it was difficult to return to my ordinary life. I was like one who had eaten the most delicious meal only to finish hungrier than before. Surely I could not answer that I was fully sated when I knew that I craved to taste that forbidden fruit once more.

“I suppose,” Flinn continued when I did not answer, “That I should refer to what you told me earlier. You enjoyed yourself, I believe I remember you saying, ‘immensely’. I take it that part of the pleasure of the experience for you was being able to step into manhood. To take up the mantle of masculinity and to become the emperor of your own flesh, perhaps for the first time.”

He picked up the candle that stood on its table in its holder, moving to lift it to look into my face. I closed my eyes, fully aware of the creeping deep blush that had spread across my cheeks, down my neck. It seemed, however, that he refused to merely take the clear answer that was written across my countenance.

“Yes,” I whispered, keeping my eyes shut, feeling as though I had taken a journey from the confession booth to the executioner’s block and any second would feel my judgement whistle down.

“Would you be noticed if you left home for perhaps three hours at this hour tomorrow?”

I stood there like a statue. I understood the question, although I had no idea what possible relevance it could hold. Ordinarily I would have asked for clarification before making any commitment so that I had the opportunity to make some excuse if it sounded unpleasant.

“I believe I could get away without anybody knowing,” I told him instead, daring to open my eyes again and seeing him still peering at me in the flickering candlelight.

“There is a certain kind of club which I am a member of and to which I am allowed to bring guests if I choose. It’s only for a select group, however: a very secret sort of meeting place that’s only for… people like us. Are you interested?”

That was very little information to go on. I did know that secret societies and clubs were beginning to become popular for men in the cities, although I was under the impression that they were largely just taverns for men who thought themselves too elite to mix with the lower classes. Yet, even though I would not go so far as to say that I trusted Flinn… I was deeply curious, particularly given the questions he had asked me before making this offer. I reasoned that I could always change my mind later and would give it more detailed thought over the following day. He was still watching me closely, and I got the sense that it was important to him that I honestly admit my curiosity.

“Yes.” I answered simply, and he smiled.

“Good. Come to me as soon as you can tomorrow night. I will provide clothes and have you back before sunrise.”

He took my leave with a modest bow, as though he were the servant waiting on me rather than the reverse, or as though we truly were equals, and I dipped slightly in automatic response. As innocent as our meeting had been, I knew that it would not be perceived that way if anybody saw me removing myself from a young bachelor’s room in the middle of the night, and was careful to make my way as softly and quietly as I could back to my own room, not relaxing until I was between my own sheets.

I feel there is little reason to go into detail about my return to work the next day and my rumination on what I would do, particularly since my eventual decision on whether or not to meet Flinn that evening must seem obvious: there would be no point in sharing this account had I decided not to attend. It would have been a very dull narrative if it had ended here.

Thus, I waited impatiently for as long as seemed necessary before creeping to our rendezvous. My heart was fluttering against my ribs like a frustrated caged bird snatched from its home to be a lady’s plaything. In part I believe I still feared that this was all some jest and at some point I would find the rug pulled from beneath my feet and find myself in the midst of a crowd of laughing jeering faces. It did not help that I could not, at this point, articulate what exactly I was taking part in, other than that it certainly felt to have an emphasis on the erotic that I had heretofore not even truly known existed.

I let myself into Flinn’s room to find him completely transformed from the last time I had seen him. Today he wore a dark brown thigh length coat over a matching waistcoat and cream shirt with a rust coloured scarf, his hair tied back neatly underneath a cocked hat in the same walnut shade. He seemed somehow taller as well, which I realised after a moment’s scrutiny was because he was holding himself more upright, the long column of his spine pulled up like the mast of a ship, whereas I remembered that yesterday his posture was much more loose, languid. When he moved towards me, his movements were less deliberately slow and smooth. At a distance, even having spent time in his presence, I would not have recognised these two characters as the same man. I truly found this man fascinating. I could not keep myself from watching him as he moved, gesturing me forward and indicating something lying on his chair.

Reluctantly, I dragged my eyes from the way he puppeted his long limbs, and looked down at the clothes he was pointing at.

“I can give you a little privacy to dress…” he began to say, but I held up my hand to interrupt.

Once again I was surprised by my own boldness, by my assertion of a need I did not even previously know that I possessed.

“I would appreciate you staying. I may need some help.”

I believe that we both knew that I needed no help. It was clear from the small pile of garments chosen for me that this was a significantly more simple undertaking than the suit of his in which I had previously dressed myself without any issue. Indeed, it was likely much easier to put on than my own daily clothes, although naturally I had far more experience with gowns.

“Of course. Then you ought to undress.”

He did not take his eyes from me and, likewise, I kept my gaze fixed on his, only broken for a moment as I dragged both my gown and shift over my head and dropped them to the floor. This time I was wearing a pair of stays I had deliberately laced tight around the chest, pressing the soft flesh as flat as it would comfortably sit, more supportive in that endeavour than the simple jumps I had worn the last time I dressed in boys’ clothing.

Slowly, Flinn sank to his knees at my feet, and I was deeply aware of his pretty face being close enough to me that I felt I could feel his warm breath lightly billowing through the soft curls of my nethers. With the tender care of a lady’s maid he eased my stockings down my calves, one by one, as I obligingly lifted each foot to assist him. Together, we rolled a pair of men’s stockings up my legs, the fabric of which felt very similar to my own, although slightly less darned at the heels, and a warm shade of sandy brown in comparison to my own stained white hosiery. It occurred to me that there was little point in women’s stockings being dyed attractive colours as they would most often be hidden beneath long skirts: meanwhile, men had their legs on display much more brazenly- and they have the gall to call us sluts!

I found myself holding myself very still as Flinn carefully used a length of ribbon to secure each stocking above my knee, his smooth bare cheek brushing against my thigh. I felt I noticed a flush creep over his complexion as he pulled back, which mysteriously diminished my own discomfiture. There was an odd sensation of strength that fortified my body, a phlegmatic calm composure, which I had previously associated with wearing the costume of a gentleman yet now was creeping through me while I was standing in a state of immodest undress.

The shirt was of a thick, practical cloth, and as it was draped over my shoulders I felt it mould around my shoulders and chest, soft from being worn countless times before I was certain. I imagined the strong arms that had previously flexed their muscles in these sleeves; I pictured the callused fingers which worked these sturdy horn buttons through their waiting apertures. My own fingertips were similarly rough from my own work, quickly taking charge of buttoning my front from collar to belly. The material fell in a pleasing way over my chest, appearing from my perspective to be flat enough that it did not hugely distort the intended shape of the garment.

In the meantime, Flinn had been straightening out the short brown trousers and held them wordlessly ready for me to step into, one of my hands braced on his shoulder for support. The fit was loose and comfortable but the waistband fit securely. With practised dexterity, Flinn slid both hands around my back and underneath the layer of trouser to tuck in the tails of my shirt: I felt I must have come out all over a quiver as I felt his fingers smooth the material down over my arse, and my fingers tightened their grip on his shoulder when he pushed the shirt flat over my stomach and down over my thighs, covering the mound of my cunny with the modest fall of fabric.

I held the trousers up to my hips while he secured the row of buttons that made up the fly: a simple, practical closing as opposed to the bib-like dropping flap that I had seen many fashionable men wear. Still, despite the rustic ordinary style, I still felt a deep thrill of pleasure to find myself in men’s clothing again. In fact, perhaps there was an additional, or at least separate, quality in the knowledge that this was the mode of clothing I would be wearing on a daily basis had I been born a boy. This was the kind of thing my male relatives wore, that I had helped to scrub and beat the dirt out of, to stir in the boiler and peg out to dry, handling each article with an odd sort of deep yearning that I had never known how to interpret until now, when I felt it shift and ease itself from its heavy grasp on my heart.

Flinn pushed himself gracefully to his feet, and I realised that he was once again watching me most intently with the air of van Leeuwenhoek studying one of his minuscule creatures under a microscope. He apparently was satisfied with what he saw as he looked away, turning to his clothes press and searching through for something or other before turning back with a long length of russet cloth. Upon straightening the small collar of the shirt to stand upright, he carefully began to wind the long neckcloth around my throat: once, twice, thrice, and secured with a neat bow. I was reminded by the similarity of sensation to when Crosby had tied a different cloth around my neck, when I had felt frightened and uncertain with a gut roiling with guilt and shame, and yet on this occasion I felt nothing of the sort. And yet there was still a frisson of some kind, a thrill, not necessarily of the joy of misbehaviour but something else. I also found that I was much less intimidated by Flinn, not merely because of his smaller stature, and not even necessarily because I had entered into this scene with more foreknowledge, but because of another aspect of his personality. He was more gentle, more charming, and I had to regularly remind myself that his silver tongue also seemed equally capable of falsehoods and I ought not be too complacent in doling out trust.

Next there was a brown leather weskit, a little large around the armholes but pleasingly weighted and with an odd sense of security as it was buttoned close around my torso. It was a well oiled piece of hide, made seemingly from one large piece rather than patchwork, and did not creak or complain as I experimentally twisted my ribs beneath it. The final layer was a short jacket that was the same shade, yes, perhaps even cut from the same cloth as the trousers. It buttoned all the way up to the breast but Flinn left it open, perhaps so that the rest of the clothing would be visible beneath.

“Almost finished,” Flinn murmured, “Try these.”

A pair of sturdy leather shoes, clean and buffed ready for me, were produced with a flourish and laid in front of me. They looked a little large, but as I eased my foot into one it felt surprisingly snug. I quickly realised that they had been pre-stuffed in readiness with what seemed to be wads of raw wool.

“A little tight? I had to estimate,” Flinn interpreted my expression correctly, taking the shoes back to remove a little of the padding and then returning them for me to try again.

This time the fit was much more comfortable, although the shoes did feel more unwieldy and clumsy than if they had been my true size. They didn’t add much in terms of height, having very little heel in their solid wooden sole, yet did seem to help me to stand with more self-possession. Flinn knelt again to tighten the old fashioned leather thongs and I wondered once more who had owned these clothes before or whether they had been kept by Flinn throughout his life. The shoes seemed well worn, as though they had walked many miles before today, and I did feel it was possible that they could have done so on Flinn’s feet from what little I knew of the man’s habits. I found that this was the narrative I preferred to believe: it added a touch of intimacy- sharing not only secrets but clothing.

Finally, my co-conspirator helped me to pile my hair on top of my head so that he could pull a thick cloth cap over the top of it. This was finally the point where he ushered me over to the looking glass so that I could take in my entire reflection at once. I felt my heart pound, heavy as a lump of lead as it seemingly wandered up into my throat. My first impression was of a boy or at least a young lad, a labourer or farmer, some ordinary working man I might see in the inn or the street and not look twice at. I did not feel the same feeling of dizzy fantasy as when I had previously outfitted myself with the wardrobe of a fop, but this felt somehow more dangerously enticing as it seemed more real, more attainable. You heard of men, didn’t you, who were unmasked as women who had lived in a masculine state for years and even participated thus in society, gaining employment and actually marrying. I had read Henry Fielding’s pamphlet about such a case, but I hadn’t thought at the time that I had any particular urge to join their number: merely a sense of some pity at the poor creature’s punishment of whipping and a prison sentence for what seemed to me to be a very little crime.

“You make a pretty piece of a man,” Flinn commented, standing beside me and seeming to add credibility to my costume: two men standing shoulder to shoulder.

He patted me on the arm genially, appearing genuinely pleased both with how my appearance had coalesced into a vision of manhood with his assistance and with how entranced I was with myself. As I dazedly extracted myself from my own reflection, Flinn was busying himself with opening the window.

“Hark: I will be a journeyman cabinetmaker and thee my apprentice. We ought not meet trouble- least until we get to town where they may have a watch. Most likely no trouble at all, but best be prepared.”

“Aye. Understood.”

Without intending to, my own voice had shifted slightly deeper, my accent more pronounced: not enough to seem unnatural, as though putting on the mockery of a man’s timbre, but certainly the depths of my speech, seeming to emanate from somewhere around my stomach. I was unsure if it was noticeable to anybody else and my companion made no mention of it.

We descended through the open casement, he first, seemingly so that he could offer me an assisting hand onto the stable roof, but I waved him away with a gracious duck of the head. He wasn’t to know that I had been climbing out of windows since childhood, and it was significantly easier in trousers than skirts, although I did need to slip off my shoes for the moment both to get better purchase on the wooden tiles with my toes and also so that the clunky soles did not clatter loudly on the roof and alert anybody to our presence. I was less concerned about my parents being roused than any guest with a propensity to meddle.

Flinn’s small bay mare had been saddled and loaded ahead of time and I wondered absently as we began our journey if he had somehow trained the beast to walk with the softest most ginger steps I had ever seen a horse perform. I even glanced at the hooves to ascertain whether they had been wrapped in velvet. Not a whinney nor nicker came from the good creature as we walked down the lane, as silent as the grave. We mounted up at the corner where a shaggy yew hedge hid us from sight of the house. I did allow his assistance on this occasion, making his knee my upping-block to clamber onto the saddle. I had ridden astride before but not since childhood, having been forced at the age of ten to learn the sidesaddle posture which I enjoyed much less, although I seldom had much opportunity to ride in any case as we had little time for recreation and had no galloper for travel. I occasionally was permitted to go with one of my brothers to borrow a neighbouring farmer’s horse in order to deliver messages to nearby settlements or to fetch a doctor if somebody took ill, but those opportunities had also diminished since my brothers left home. Still, I had always been fond of horses and enjoyed when my duty was to see to the ones in our stables, regardless of whether I could actually make use of them myself.

With only a little less of his usual grace, Flinn stepped up onto the stirrup and swung his leg over the saddle, waiting for me to lock my arms about his waist and tuck my ankles behind his calves to be held more securely against the horse’s flanks, before clicking his tongue and flicking the reins. I had always argued fervently that the claim that an astride seat was immodest were utter nonsense: however, I could not deny that there was something lewd in the way that my pudendum pressed hard against his posterior and particularly in the way that the horse’s trot caused our bodies to gyrate and bounce against each other. I was suddenly rather aware of how low my arms were looped around his waist, how easy it would be to drift one of my hands southwards and caress the length of his prick through his trousers. The thought of that made me throb deliciously between the legs, but I did not act on it.

The waxing moon was high in the dark sky, looking like a shiny silver shilling that an overly zealous coin clipper had taken a noticeable nibble from one edge of. This was our only source of light to canter along by, but Flinn seemed completely unconcerned, navigating easily away from the whippy low branches that threatened to beat our faces or good-naturedly warning me to keep my head down when required, and I supposed that he had likely ran this route on many occasions since staying with us. There was something reassuring in the anonymity of darkness cloaking us from sight, especially as we drew closer to town and the tall hedges were replaced by low stone walls. It wasn’t until after we had passed a whitewashed border stone, fields and farms falling away and houses and the busy press of buildings drawing into sight, that we met our first human being: an old sot vomiting over the side of a bridge into the murky river below.

More characters were visible as we slowed to a walk and began to make our way purposefully through the streets. A cluster of harlots looked our way as we passed, and Flinn tipped his cap in their direction, but they lost all interest when it was clear we were not in the market for their services. Another drunk lounged on a doorstep, gin bottle in hand, and we saw a hobbledehoy furtively scurrying down a tight ginnel between houses with the air of a thief on his first errand. Nobody seemed to show us the least interest or suspicion, seeing as I assumed exactly as we had intended: a man and his boy, on a journey of very little importance or excitement.

We turned from the main road into a less well maintained street. A large building had a peeling paint sign declaring it as ‘Mdme. Cleo Boarding House’, although I was canny enough to recognise that it was certainly more of a bawdy-house. We passed at least two other barely concealed bordellos before turning into a mews where there was a small row of hitching posts aside from the main stables. I dismounted hastily without assistance, landing a little awkwardly in my borrowed shoes, while Flinn shot me an amused but not unkind expression.

“It is not unmasculine to accept help. I assure thee I would lend my arm to any boy who requires a few inches of height to alight comfortably.”

I was glad of the dark to cover any reddening of my face.

“I am sure, although from what I know of men, many of them would refuse such gallantry out of principle.”

“Aye, that’s true enough. Pride is injurious to most fellows: be careful of the excess of it.”

Chastened, I followed Flinn as we continued our journey on foot. We had not been walking long before we came to an unassuming wooden back door to a building with no signage or clear significance, with the windows heavily curtained although I could see the flicker of lamplight through a gap. One window had been sloppily bricked up, perhaps for lack of money to repair, or due to tax. I would not have picked this house out as anything worth notice, assuming it perhaps was merely a dwelling place or some other private office without the need to entice the public.

My guide lifted his knuckles to rap out a rhythmic tattoo. A panel on the door that I had not realised was hinged swung back, revealing a small opening of a few inches and an eye that peered out silently at us, impassive. Flinn leaned forwards slightly, rapidly muttering something that sounded like rhyme. I remember that he recited what seemed like an entire verse, although I only recall the final couplet: “I sweare to thee by Joves immortall curse, I have more in my hart than in my purse.”

The eye peering out at us did not react until Flinn had finished, at which point the peephole was closed and there was the sound of bolts being drawn back.

“What was that- Shakespeare?” I enquired in an aside.

“A reasonable guess- his work was assumed to have been written by the Bard in the past. A poet called Barnfield: a contemporary of Shakespeare and perhaps a friend. Our little club wanted something unlikely to be taught by rote in the schoolroom so as to reduce the risk that any snooping passerby, on hearing a snatch of it, would already know the rest.”

He led me over the threshold and it was he himself who closed and bolted the door behind us, presumably trusted enough by the proprietors that he was not under any suspicion of assisting raids or rushes by deliberately leaving the door unlocked, although I supposed whoever had let us in might be lurking about to return to their post as soon as we had passed through.

I had already had my suspicion, almost from the moment he had mentioned this secret club, about what sort of an establishment it must be. It was therefore of no surprise to me when he added to me in a soft, conspiratorial murmur:

“We took the lines from a poem written in the voice of a shepherd expressing his love for a boy. It felt appropriate.”

The hallway we stood in was a narrow shabby concourse, dimly lit, with a flight of stairs leading up and around out of sight. To the right, a closed door had a plaque with the label PRIVATE. From the upper floor I heard a distant peal of laughter.

“Is this what people call a molly house?” I was unable to stop from asking, feeling that I had a fairly robust sense of what was happening but feeling the need to just know for certain; as much as I understood the need for codewords and subterfuge in order to protect the identities of any participants who could be ruined by their exposure, I also felt it was fair that I also knew of what risks I was placing upon my own person by entering this establishment.

“That term has been used,” Flinn replied, turning to look at me, his face a dancing shadow in the lamplight, “The club itself meets upstairs. If you prefer I will escort you, or you may make your own way. If you are able to go alone I would greatly appreciate it: I apologise, but time has flown faster than I had hoped and I have to attend to something first. I will join you presently. If anybody asks who brought you, my name here is Milton.”

“I need no chaperone,” I waved him off with a laugh, although my heart pounded at the thought of making my own debut into this strange new world.

“I will be quick,” he said, before giving me a fraternal pat on the shoulder, “You will have no trouble. This place is the most welcoming establishment I’ve had the joy to belong to.”

He left me there at the foot of the stairs, and I purposefully did not watch him leave, not wanting to seem like a puppy pining for its master before he had even left. Out of the corner of my eye, I did see that he had disappeared behind that door marked PRIVATE. I straightened my hat with a sigh. How was it that I could put on an air to seduce men as easily as breathing, yet my knees trembled and my stomach clenched as I ascended these stairs? My mind was churning with hideous thoughts: perhaps this was all a scheme to discredit and humiliate me, and I would emerge into a room of jeering red-faced coves and cox-combs, pointing their fingers and roaring with laughter at the silly girl dressing up as a boy. Perhaps Flinn had slipped out of the door and made his escape while I was about to walk into a den of constables looking to catch anybody performing acts considered unnatural, and then it would be the pillory for me.

Yet I did not really believe that. I supposed I trusted him, at least a little. I knew realistically that it was my own anxieties conjuring devils in my imagination: a fear unfamiliar to me of being judged unworthy, an impostor, even though I had very little idea of what molly houses contained other than idle hearsay overheard in the inn between men attempting to scandalise their companions, or occasional pious fools preaching in the newspapers.

I reached the top of the stairs, where a heavy drape had been hung as the final barrier to cross. My shaking fingers twitched it aside, and I stepped firmly across the threshold. I was greeted instantly by a sight beyond even my wildest imaginings: a riot of colour, sound, movement. What a bower of bliss, what a garden of earthly delights! I was overwhelmed first of all by the size of the room I had entered, which seemed to confound my sense of the architecture: I realised quickly that two large upstairs rooms had been combined into one by some ingenious art, presumably by knocking down the dividing wall and covering up the joins by wallpapering the entire chamber, yet the resulting room seemed to stretch wider than I had thought this building had been. I had never seen so much wallpaper in one place: I assumed it must be an imitation print of some kind, but I was not well versed in such matters of domestic design. Patterns of ivy, honeysuckle, roses, jasmine, hollyhocks, pansies, clovers and all kinds of foliage made up wreaths in which were printed parrots, parakeets, macaws, singing doves and other birds of every hue, fluttering so charmingly across the paper that they seemed almost alive. Some of the larger flowers had been flocked in a velvety material, although this was part of where the paper showed age, as several patches had been rubbed bald. The main colour was a dusky pink which contrasted delightfully with the green leaves.

Around the room was hung a variety of woven tapestries, glimmering mirrors of different sizes, and large mismatched brass candlesticks. I had the impression of a collection of items gathered or donated rather than a cohesive set: this may have seemed stiflingly cluttered in a smaller room but had a pleasing sort of effect as it was. There was a similar mismatch in the furniture: couches in the French Rococo style which seemed perfectly designed for indolent lounging, heavily stuffed armchairs and stools, and many large cushions and piles of rugs. A piano forte stood in one corner with a small lyre, currently not being used, and there were several tables and trays laden with food and drink. However, as interesting as the furnishings may be, they paled in comparison to the people.

At first, nobody paid me much mind as I entered, deliberately stepping as lightly as I could to avoid attention- not that I could have been much heard over the chattering patrons. Nearest the door, a Puckish lad with a tanned complexion in a velvet tasselled cap and nothing else straddled the lap of a pale Brobdingnagian fellow who resembled one of Rubens’ paintings of Bacchus, particularly as he was wearing just a loose length of cloth in the style of a toga. The two of them were feeding each other cherries, sucking the juices from one another’s fingers.

It seemed many other of the guests of the club had similarly chosen to wear costumes: the Greek and Roman tunics were popular, as were pastoral influences such as shepherdess bonnets, or large military hats. Just as class and profession were being readily traversed, so too appeared to be sex, as many of the pretty maids also had beards, and many of the proud soldiers seemed never to have grown one. Some, like I, had concealed their breasts to conform more closely to the illusion of a masculine silhouette, while others had their blouses open in a manner that made me blush at first sight, some even tying belts beneath their breasts to raise them further into view. I rather envied that boldness, not merely in being naked in front of so many but in being so playful with the categories of man and woman.

I had rather thought that a molly house was a place for sodomites, which I had always believed to be men primarily, and I do believe that most likely that was the majority of the club’s clientele. It was difficult, as I have implied, to be fully certain of who was indeed a man, which I believe is part of what so terrifies Parliament and the staunchly religious who maintain that an Adam and an Eve should be separate beasts who attend entirely different spheres of society. I do know however that at least some of this party were women, as you shall now see.

“You’re new here.”

The speaker was a Black woman in what I presumed to be hunting attire: a long red coat with gold trim and matching red skirts that occasionally swished to reveal polished black boots as she walked. She held a riding crop in one hand, and her short hair was pinned up beneath a very large cocked hat, decorated with more gold trim, a jewelled button, and a fine feathered plume. She spoke with an accent I thought might be from Birmingham or even further South, although that is a part of the country I know little about since our inn rarely sees custom from so far away.

“I… I’m a guest of Milton.” I replied, almost forgetting the name Flinn had given me.

“Is that so? He hasn’t brought anybody in a long time. You must have interested him.”

I could not think what to say to that so simply bowed in response. She smiled, taking off one of her gloves and offering me her hand. I kissed the back of her fingers, my lips brushing against a heavy ring with a carved carnelian set into it.

“My name is Meg. Do you have a name?”

The way she worded it gave me pause. I supposed I ought to have invented a sobriquet in advance. In the moment I could not think of a single appropriate name. Would it be more appropriate to choose an alternate surname, as Flinn had done, or was I, dressed as a young boy, more likely to go by a Christian name? It did not occur to me for a moment to provide the name I was baptised with. Meg seemed to see my hesitance and kept a hold of my hand, lightly squeezing my fingers.

“A nameless child. Worry not, my lamb. We all started out the same way: some of us are still searching. Come, will you meet some of our little fraternity?”

I submitted to being led across the room. She did not name every member we passed, and I wondered whether that was for the sake of discretion as some may prefer to not be noticed when they came here, particularly if they were likely to be recognised. A few mollies who she referred to as ‘the Old Guard’ were pointed out. The large Dionysian man was referred to as Georgio and his nude companion was Michael. Two heavily powdered white men in fine embroidered court suits who must have been at least sixty years of age were introduced as ‘the Twins’.

“They are not truly brothers,” Meg explained, “A convenient story to explain their close relationship: they have lived together for almost twoscore years.”

Several patrons had particularly florid nicknames: Dante, Narcissus, Baby Betsy, Miss Mutton, Romeo, Bartholomew Baby, Captain Queernabs, Marrowbones, Isolde, Reynardine, Gulliver, Hickenbotham, Jack O’ Legs, Little Breeches, and so on. Each was merely gestured towards, occasionally responding to their name with a bow or nod as we moved through the room in the direction of a little tableau being played out against the back wall.

To the left hand side was another much smaller room with the door closed which I had not at first seen as the door itself was somewhat concealed behind a tapestry. I would later learn that this was known as the ‘Chamber of Matrimony’ and was a room that contained a large bed for those who preferred privacy for their coupling.

“May I present the Duchess?”

The Duchess was seated in a large, high backed seat with two men sitting on the floor at her feet and was holding an extravagant fan of white feathers which she fluttered demurely. She was wearing a robe à la française in a lustrous cream, the open front displaying countless frothy layers of tambour lace with floral designs and a stomacher with an embroidered bouquet incorporating what looked like real seed pearls. Her wig was as white as her face powder and exceedingly tall, curled up into a mountainous coif with silk flowers decorating it. I certainly got the impression that she must be fairly wealthy, or perhaps had access to a very generous patron.

I call her ‘she’ here as that is how she is referred to while in the club, although later I learned she prefers to be ‘he’ if encountered outside in public, just as the appellation ‘Duchess’ would be most inappropriate if I encountered her, who would then be ‘him’, in the street. That appeared to be a common preference, likely for safety. In future I would learn that some members of the club had particular names or nominative pronouns that they used only when in costume, or only when in this room, whereas others would always be known as their preferred ‘he’ or ‘she’ or more rarely other terms altogether, at least when referred to by friends who understood them. Many mollies, even those who dressed in a most masculine fashion, playfully used ‘she’ for themselves and other men almost as a way of designating and recognising another member of the family. There is a kind of specific slang, similar to beggar’s cant, which seemed to be used in this molly-house and I eventually learned seemed to be common to other similar places and some bordellos, likely as a way of soliciting companionship and so on without alerting the law.

“Who is this? A new plaything for me?” the Duchess asked, and I realised that the two men seated by her were both wearing leather collars decorated with golden bones, as pet dogs wear, and both of them had some sort of leather bag tied around their balled fists, which I believe is to give the appearance of animal paws.

“Not at all, you wicked wench. This one is Milton’s.” Meg lightly remonstrated, tapping the Duchess on the flank with the tip of her riding crop: the blow likely did not make it through even half of her layers of skirts but still earned a yelp of protestation before she recognised Meg’s words and looked at me with renewed curiosity.

“Milton? He told me nothing, the naughty ferret. I will scold him directly,” she looked me slowly up and down, appraising, kohl-rimmed eyes narrowed.

I straightened my back automatically, shoulders back, chin turned up, and looked unflinchingly back. After a moment, she gave me an enigmatic smile, and addressed me.

“A pleasure, indeed. I do not usually get to meet one of Milton’s boys. I expected he never mentioned me.”

“My lady, he did not even tell me what establishment I was being brought to,” I confessed, feeling bolder, and the two of them laughed with delighted incredulity.

“He thinks himself as mysterious as the Sphynx,” the Duchess scoffed.

I realised that both of them were hoping that I might be able to give them an insight into Flinn’s character, which I was not sure I knew, while simultaneously it occurred to me that they had apparently known him for some time so I might be able to similarly glean more information from them- although that might also be difficult since it seemed as though they did not know very much about him either.

“How long have you known Mr Milton?” I enquired.

“Oh, perhaps as long as he has worked here. And yourself?”

It seemed she had the same ability for reticence; her answer did not tell me anything of substance and rather raised more questions. I should have foreseen that she would ask me the same, and I was just trying to think of a way to tell them that I barely knew him at all without saying such a thing directly when I was saved from the necessity of replying when a great cheering and clapping arose around the room and we all turned to the entrance to see its cause.

At first sight I thought that a beautiful young woman had entered the room, until she looked in my direction and I recognised Flinn’s face, somewhat altered with a layer of powder, rouge and reddened lips. A small beauty patch in the shape of a heart had been artfully placed by the eye, drawing attention to the darkened and perhaps even, I was not quite sure from this distance, lengthened eyelashes, and the natural pleasing glimmer of the eyes themselves. The hair had been given at least a foot of height with a hairpiece, powdered to be pink at the front and fading to white where long loose bouncing curls had been added at the nape. Lavender coloured bows adorned the coiffure and lengths of ribbons dangling from them had been curled into tight spirals. Several butterflies, either real preserved specimens or formed from paper or feathers, were lightly pinned to the hair with such a delicate touch that they appeared to only be momentarily resting there.

From his earlobes dripped amethyst coloured gems surrounded with what appeared to be diamonds and a matching rope of jewels wound around his slender neck, all glittering in the candlelight. The gown, however, was the most astonishing part of all. Like the Duchess, this dress was made in the style of the French court, which was a la mode at the time for the upper classes. I had never seen such raiment as this, however, not even in reproductions of paintings of the new French queen Marie Antoinette, nor the famous mistress of their previous king. Perhaps the closest representation had been in caricature illustrations of the ‘beau monde’ which showed ladies struggling around in skirts that resembled an iced cake or a tea table. I had thought them to be exaggerations to mock such strange fashion, and yet here was the real thing.

I continued my own blazon, my eye’s journey over the figure that began at the head, cataloguing my slow way down this body which I had thought I knew the shape of but that here stood transformed. The shoulders had been shaped into dramatic points while the chest was open to the sternum, the full length of the collarbones revealed, and the open overdress showed a powder pink column of bows down the front- made in satin but stiffened in some way so that they were all very neat in appearance. It was not apparent at first sight but I later realised that the bows all subtly tapered down in size, from the largest at the very midpoint of the breast smoothly decreasing to a significantly smaller bundle of ribbons down at the lowest point of the stomach: this all gave the illusion of the torso having a more dramatic shape and a smaller waist, which was exaggerated further by the enormity of the skirts.

Some sort of pannier structure provided a scaffold, giving the impression of hips which were almost two feet wider on each side. The latitude was even further increased as the skirt flared diagonally outwards yet further to where it touched the floor, the broadest part as wide as Flinn was tall, giving a most strange silhouette. The material of the dress was a fine sky blue with a distinct shine to it made visible only in the light, and I counted five separate layers of white ruffle which seemed to mimic the scudding of fluffy clouds. It was all of it draped in several layers, some drawn up into what is commonly called a swag and pinned into place with more pink bows so that the frilly finery of the layers beneath could be seen, and to show the extent of fabric used in its construction: a furlong, at least, I thought dizzily, and that did not seem so far off. It seemed a feat of witchcraft that such a huge gathering of material could be carried so lightly, as indeed each step seemed as delicate as though the subject was clad merely in spun gossamer.

Of Flinn’s feet, nothing could be seen, as the dress dragged against the ground so that each step brought about a pleasing swish and hiss of satin against the carpeting, the sound changing slightly from a thicker pile of rug to a more threadbare example. The back of the dress was gathered into a bow of truly enormous size, tied intricately with multiple loops and fixed with a large brooch in the centre which helped to give the impression of a gigantic dog rose. From beneath this flowed a train of blue and white, streaming like a waterfall, swaying sinuously from side to side, dragging along the ground in a manner that would certainly not be possible in the grimy streets without an attendant to help carry it.

“This is my cue,” Meg murmured, taking her leave of us and striding across the room to the piano forte to sit down on the stool, gloved hands finding their position on the ivory keys.

Not unkindly, the Duchess seized my hand and pulled me down to sit on a small velvet stool beside her. Around the room, the majority of patrons had found seats on furniture or the floor, most turned in the direction of the piano.

“My loves; my beloved culvers, may I present an angel of the firmament, the jewel of House of Mother Meg’s: put your hands in your purses for Nellie!”

Flinn, or Milton, or Nellie, had taken her place in front of the piano and picked up the lyre. As Meg began to play, Nellie’s fingers moved over the strings of the instrument, seemingly plucking them along with the melody although I was unsure whether she was actually playing it or merely miming in order to give more credence to the performance. The entire room was silent in anticipation, perhaps due to already knowing what was to come, although I felt that the two of them had enough of an enthralling presence that any newcomers would be curious enough to pay them all of their attention.

By this point in our association, I felt that nothing more that Flinn did would surprise me: or rather, that everything he did was so unexpected that I was prepared for anything. Yet as Meg played in the first few bars of a common ballad I recognised well, and Nellie began to sing, I found myself fixed to my seat in complete awe. The song was a lament that was usually known as ‘The Virgin’s Complaint Against Young Men’s Unkindness’, which I had often heard sung by drunks who think themselves bards. The version I had heard was usually of a jauntier nature, sung almost in jest with an air of lusty humour, as most songs sung in the inn are. By the time the melancholy of the gin sets in, the song may have become more of a tuneless dirge. Nellie’s voice was deep for a woman but relatively high for a man, perhaps what might be classified as a tenor although I confess I have little knowledge of opera. She sang well, her voice soaring alongside the tune wrought by the piano, yet it was not merely the skill of the vocal cords which entranced the room. There was a sweet, pure quality, perhaps in part by the emotional tone of her voice, perhaps in how she performed, wide shining eyes sweeping the room so it seemed as though she might be speaking to any of us. I felt my cheeks burn as our eyes met for a moment.

Yes, I could well believe, this was a young virgin girl, and this was her authentic story. Yet the song was given a further pathos, I felt, by this presentation, this intermingling of the sexes in one person. After all, this was a ballad about the inconstancy of man’s love, which I supposed could be understood by many of these men also. Meanwhile, when Nellie reached the portion of the song which proclaimed “that when I love again, I’ll love a woman,” I saw several of the young ladies in the room draw closer to their own tommy companions, exchanging knowing looks, squeezing hands. Perhaps I, too, found a new perspective by my own position: my body was outfitted to appear like a male lover, after all. I had indeed seen several of the men in the room glance at me with curiosity, thinking me a catamite boy, meanwhile at least one handsome virago or unpartnered woman had also looked me up and down, apparently assuming me to be a girl and perhaps one interested in tribady; neither interpretation felt entirely correct at that time, so that I felt an odd kind of guilt about deceiving all.

By the time Nellie had finished, many of the audience were brushing away tears. Afterwards, our spirits were raised by a cheery little ditty which Nellie sang out with much enthusiasm, kissing her hands towards one person or another, gesturing with ebullience and twirling on the spot with such abandon that once again it truly seemed as though she was not merely reciting a song that she had learned but instead was expressing the truest emotions of her soul. I found myself easily smiling along with the rest, clapping hard when the song was over.

In all, Nellie performed five songs, and appeared just as intently moved by the final ballad as she had at the beginning, swaying on the spot with her eyes closed at another tale of heartbreak and loss. When she had finished, she stood there still for a long moment, hands clutched over her chest, eyes closed, chest rising and falling in silence. The room remained in silence, before applause swept the assembled company like a wave. A hat was produced and Nellie held it forwards, smiling graciously whenever anybody came forwards to drop shillings, golden guineas, pound notes or else a handful of pennies, whatever anybody may have to offer and which they would freely part with. This was eventually given over to Meg, who I was beginning to realise was in some position of management here, and Nellie was free to return to us, attempting to walk directly to where we were sitting, although she was thrice interrupted by those eager to speak to her first.

Eventually she was standing before us, even more lovely in such close proximity.

“Brava, poppet,” the Duchess beamed, “Although I really ought to scold you for leaving this poor Ganymede to wander amongst the wolves.”

She gestured towards me as she spoke. Nellie made a playful pout at her, and I noticed another small beauty mark by the side of the lips: a moue decorated with a mouche, as it were.

“I hope you are counting yourself amongst that number. I half feared to find him transformed into your newest puppy.”

I felt an odd, warm sort of feeling at being called “he”, even if only in playacting. The Duchess opened up her fan with a sharp flick of the wrist, wafting her face with an expression of innocence, even while she raised one foot to place it on one of the crouching men in the collars, using him as a footstool. I felt it should seem shocking, and yet I only felt curiosity, particularly when I saw how eagerly, how delightedly the man-dog braced his spine to be used as furniture.

“I do not poach the pets of others,” she reproached, “Although I do envy you, dear creature. Still, my boy, if you tire of this one’s riddles…” at this point she addressed me directly, jerking a contemptuous thumb at Nellie: “…You may find me here.”

“Thank you, my lady, although I fear I am not well behaved enough for your pack,” I replied, pleased to see that it made her beam delightedly, clutching Nellie’s long, lacey sleeve.

“The training is half of the pleasure, sweetling.” she told me, reaching a hand down to stroke one of her pets tenderly, running fingers through his hair.

“I saw Meg was sitting with you when I came in,” Nellie said to me, “I knew that she would find you: she is a born proprietoress.”

“Yes, she introduced me to several of the people here. Is she… does she own this place?”

Nellie hesitated, then gestured for me to follow.

“Come, we ought to be getting back before daylight. I need to undress: come along with me and I will try to answer your questions.”

It occurred to me that Flinn had not encouraged me to go up alone earlier due to shyness around getting ready, nor due to any fear of judgement from the other patrons for being together in private since several of them were now openly engaging in congress with one or more others in a giggling pile of blankets, or even because he felt that I ought to have more time meeting the other mollies and experiencing the wonders of the house for myself. No- I realised that it had been for the same reason he had not told me directly that he dressed as a girl to sing in a molly-house: purely to enhance the maximum drama for the perfect reveal. I could not fault him for that.

I gave the Duchess a hasty bow as I was led away by the hand, out of the main room and down the staircase. I glanced about us curiously as we went, attempting to make sense of the shape of the house, since leaving the large room brought us back into a narrow house which did not seem as though it should be able to contain it. Flinn took me down to the PRIVATE room, ushering me inside. It was a small chamber with a dressing table and accompanying chair, shelves of wigboxes, hatboxes, shoeboxes, and a tallboy which must contain clothes, along with chests and boxes which must all contain other items of costume.

“All the performers share this space,” Flinn explained, reaching to the back of his head and unpinning part of the hairpiece, removing a line of ringlets and setting them carefully down.

“Then this is your profession?” I asked, affecting a tone of nonchalance: I did not want to make it clear how fascinating I found him.

“One of several. The pay here is not enough to support a fellow alone.”

That much I had surmised, since I had seen him leave my parents’ inn in several different directions wearing a number of outfits.

“But your connection to this house is not merely professional, am I right?”

“Are you asking if I’m also a sodomite?” he shot me a charming smile, unpinning butterflies from his hairpiece.

“I suppose so.”

“Yes, I am. As I said, this is a place for people like us. Mollies, tommies… everybody else.”

He removed the large coiffure, setting it on a small stand. Beneath, his natural hair was grey with powder, sticky with pomade, from where it had been blended into the large puff of false hair.

“Everybody else?”

“Well, there’s a wider spectrum of unnatural than merely buggery. Anything outside of an ordinary Christian family of mother and father and their god-fearing offspring. Anything outside of the law. As you know, if we were caught dressed as we are in this moment, both of us would be arrested.”

It had occurred to me that he had shown me himself in a gown to make it clear that he would keep my secret- to show how the two of us were similar. I appreciated that. It had not been necessary for him to do so.

“I suppose I thought it was part of the same thing. Mollies dress as women- that’s what it always says in the papers.”

“Certainly it can be, but not always. Many a madge cull has no interest in wearing a petticoat no matter how much he enjoys the company of his fellow man. Some mollies say that it has nothing to do with their sexual interest but rather the mere experience of living outside of society has made them realise they have the freedom to wear what they will, not only what the law decrees. Yet others feel that they ought to have been formed as a woman in the first place- and if they are courageous and protected enough, they may live their entire life that way: do you know of Mademoiselle de Beaumont?”

“I do not.”

“I am not surprised: the case is discussed largely in the underground of society at the moment. Some hope for it to be influential in our personal freedoms, but others are more pessimistic. Most reporting on such cases in the daily rags or puritanical pamphlets largely distort the motives of the individuals involved.”

“I have read before about women who dress as men.” I said hesitantly, “Though less about the reverse.”

“Ah, I believe that is because it is easier for the critics to explain,” Flinn looked me full in the face, “The argument is that women wear boys’ clothes to advance in society; to marry women and gain their inheritance; to move upwards in some cynical way or, if the pamphlet is more sympathetic, to avoid ruin or being sent to a nunnery or to Bedlam by male relatives. It is still not the whole story. Some dress that way because they are more comfortable doing so: the tomboy, often permissible in childhood but seen as improper in adulthood; often they still consider themselves a full woman but enjoy the practicality of breeches. Some like to play the part of a man sometimes for their own reasons. Some would live as men their entire lives if that was an acceptable choice.”

My heart was pounding as he spoke. I felt as though he was putting into words suspicions I had held even before I had first put on my first set of male clothing: that I wished it had been possible to change my state; that if only such fanciful tales of people suddenly changing sex after jumping a fence too vigorously were true then I would leap every stile in the county until I caused such a transformation; that I felt more confidently myself as I currently was, in these plain rustic trousers, being referred to as a boy by all of these people… the idea terrified me because I knew it was true.

“I understand: it is more difficult for the critics to say why a man might want to dress as a woman, as there is no societal benefit to doing so.”

“Quite so. Thus the conflation with sodomy: it is merely described as another symptom of a diseased or unnatural mind,” Flinn’s tone was heavy with scorn as he began to remove his sleeves, then the huge blue overdress which he carefully hung up to keep it fresh.

“May I ask for your own motivation? Is it merely that you make such a handsome girl that you might make some coin from it, or else…” I left the implication hanging.

“Partly. I enjoy the performance, and I do like to step into Nellie’s shoes: to express a feminine side of myself. Yet I do not consider myself to have a woman’s heart. I do not think I would choose to live as a woman all of the time, although I know that it’s possible I am making the more cowardly choice since it is not safe to make the other. Still… I believe myself to be content in my current state- to be some manner of man.”

He had removed the stomacher, now standing in a tightly laced heavily boned pair of stays and the huge white petticoats which resembled nothing so much as a marquee or bandstand in a pleasure garden. Without being asked, I moved to help unlace the stays, as he had assisted me to dress earlier. I had never myself worn one of this particular style: it seemed much more uncomfortable than my own pair, which used only fabric and lacing to support the body without need for whalebone to reshape the anatomy; I marvelled however at how it managed to emphasise the conical shape of the upper body by dramatically narrowing the waist, even giving the slight illusion of a larger chest by pressing that flesh higher and closer together.

Flinn hissed slightly in relief as the laces were loosened and the stiff flaps of the undergarment were peeled from his ribs, taking in a long breath. I found myself running my fingers down the reddened strips of skin where the material had dug in, soothing it with circular rubs of my fingertips.

“What do you think my own heart is?” I said softly, my palm pressed over where I suspected that organ to be in the chest of my companion and feeling an answering pulse which I fancied to be somewhat elevated from the pressure of my hand.

“Only you can answer that for sure. All I know is that I recognised from the start that you were a creature made of the same material as I. Our hearts are of a similar stuff.”

“I am not yet sure either,” I admitted, “But I… I also do not feel that I have a woman’s heart.”

I bit my lip, not wishing to spill the rest of my thoughts- that I felt that I had stepped so naturally into the role of man that it must have always been intended for me, that I had mistakenly been born a girl, and yet… that there was part of me that still doubted. In this masculine garb I felt the shape of my rounded hips and my velvety monosyllable, the coy term for what was more crudely called the cunt, and I did not resent the way my body had been formed, other than the fact that I disliked how it meant I was perceived. I supposed I might be happy to have a prick, if only for the novelty, but I did not particularly feel sore from the lack of one.

“I thought that was perhaps the case,” Flinn murmured, cupping the back of my head lightly with one hand, “After all, I usually only find myself enticed by other boys and there is something about you that I find… intoxicating.”

Certainly I had felt a flirtation between us but hearing it put into such plain terms ensnared me in an instant. His eyelids, still emphasised with cosmetics, fluttered as he glanced down at my lips, and a rush of desire flooded my gut. I did not even think before I pressed myself closer to his bare chest and kissed him on the mouth. His lips were soft and slick with the lip stain which was transferring itself to my own mouth as we moved together as though attempting to devour each other. His hands traced down my spine, pulling me closer as he backed against the dressing table, petticoats rustling lightly. There was something about his current state, stripped to the waist and then the colossal skirts beneath, that ought to have been ridiculous but instead I found to be immensely stirring.

When I pulled my face back from his I saw with another surge of lust that his lip paint had smudged and smeared about his mouth, like he had been gorging himself on berries, and the white powder of his cheek was streaked. I glanced at my face in the mirror and saw my own face, flushed with need rather than rouge, my own mouth red from his lips. Filled with an odd playful spirit, I reached out for the pot of crimson pigment and brushed a thick layer onto my own lips before proceeding to kiss down Flinn’s chest, each buss leaving a red imprint of the lips on the creamy skin. He gasped and then laughed with surprise when my mouth caught up one of his nipples, sucking hard on the teat to make him whimper before pulling back to admire the redness left by the combination of suction and rouge.

My cap had become loose from the activity and Flinn pulled it off so that he might wind his fingers in my hair and guide my head up to kiss my mouth once more, curling his tongue behind my teeth in a hungry desperate sort of way that bolstered my confidence in the knowledge of being wanted, needed. I wanted to grip him by the hips but the panniers either side thwarted my intention so instead I planted both my hands on the dressing table and pushed him back against it using only the motion of my pelvis hard against his. He responded by perching on the edge and wrapping his legs wantonly around my waist, a little awkwardly with the quantity of petticoats: I could not tell whether he had a cockstand beneath the layers of fabric or whether that protrusion I felt pressed to my own nethers was another bow or ruffle.

“A most audacious young lad,” he murmured against my mouth, thighs holding me tight against him, and I could smell the perfume behind the ears: a fresh sweet rosewater.

“Forgive my impertinence, my lady,” I returned, as natural as breathing, nudging his head aside with mine so that I could inhale the scent more directly from the side of his neck, and indulge myself in sucking a kiss there that made him gasp and clutch at my side in a most gratifying manner.

As with my encounter with Crosby, it felt that we had fallen into some sort of playact, and while I cannot be exactly sure of the fantasy playing out in Flinn’s own head I felt that the image stirred in mine was that of a fine lady being debauched by a rough labourer, skilled with his hands, as indeed I fancy myself to be. I felt able to indulge in that which I was usually forced to hide: the strength in my arms from hauling basins of water or bottles of hay to the horses for example, the muscular power which it would not be lady-like to display now felt not merely natural but reshaped my body in my mind into a figure I found most attractive. I fear I must seem most self-conceited yet I revelled in my own self just as much as I did the body of the creature in my arms. It was a fantasy, indeed, yet it felt just as much a reality to me as did my daily performance as a polite little innkeeper’s daughter, and in some respects much more.

My mind was still so occupied with imagining the two of us as though from a distance, as though set out as a bawdy watercolour illustration, that a particular image struck me. I stepped back, my hand pushing lightly against Flinn’s chest to make it apparent that I wished him to stay seated on the tabletop, and gave him a playful filip directly over the heart shaped beauty mark on his cheek. Keeping my eyes on him, I dropped slowly to my knees, not quite how a servant might kneel to his master but how some devotee may kneel to receive the Eucharist on a willing tongue. He watched, still, silent, eyes dark and shining, chest stained with lip paint rising and falling erratically, as I carefully gathered handfuls of the layers of frills and lifted the petticoat, revealing a pair of pretty slippers in the same hue as the gown and with matching bows on the toes, and white stockings up to the knees. I raised the skirts high enough to give myself access and then threw them over my head, crawling beneath.

I had feared that perhaps the panniers Flinn had worn as Nellie were the kind that covered the entire front of the pelvis in a fearsome cage of bone or willow or even metal, which would have thwarted my intentions, or indeed worked into a separate undergarment shielding the entire lower body which would be too stiff for me to wriggle beneath. Fortune smiled upon us both: the contraption was indeed of the cage-like variety, jutting out a very long distance either side of the hips and secured around the waist with thick straps but leaving the front of the pelvis fully uncovered, not even by a shift or layer of linen for modesty, so that I was immediately faced with an eager bobbing shaft of a pleasing proportion, already glistening wetly at the tip in a way that made my own cunt wetten in sympathy.

It felt instinctual, upon seeing the sight before me, that I leant forwards to kiss the pretty tool in my eyeline, an open mouthed kiss with my tongue against the velvety skin, and I heard Flinn curse like a sailor in a manner that seemed as though it must be genuinely pulled from him, and I felt very pleased that I had taken him by surprise. I had surprised myself somewhat also with a more daring act than I had intended: I was no modest virgin without experience in the carnal arts, but I had never attempted to use my mouth on any lover’s instrument, nor had it been asked of me. My knowledge of this unusual method began and ended with overhearing smutty talk between drunkards boasting, whether truthful or not, about having had their tarses sucked and their emissions swallowed by women of the town who offered such services in exchange for a generous quantity of coin. I understood how it must appeal to these men, yet it seemed a rather unpleasant act from the other end of the bargain, which is why I had always supposed it was less usual than the other kinds of congress, especially without adequate remuneration.

I have since felt that there is a sort of madness which may overcome one when in the midst of lust, which lessens disgust or even transforms it into desire. So it was that I must have felt when I experimentally grasped Flinn’s prick with my hand to hold it still, careful to mind my teeth whilst I took the entire rosy tip between my lips, pressing my tongue to it and licking in earnest. The stiff length twitched in my palm and I could hear a soft sound of approval from above, and the shifting of fabric around me, which I recognised was Flinn straightening his skirts so as to hide my person from the sight of anybody who might walk in. I pressed my thighs together, a dull throbbing between them, my loins stirred by the idea of somebody looking upon Flinn, not seeing anything amiss, or even Flinn attempting to maintain ordinary conversation, while I was concealed beneath the large petticoats, wickedly toying with him. I found that there was a specific sort of delight that came from shaking the mask of this man, whose true face I was unsure of, whose true name I did not know, and whose true character was impossible to discern.

At that time I was only a novice, experimentally taking him a little more and a little further into my mouth before pulling back to stroke with more confident fingers, pressing fevered kisses against the shaft, before I attempted again to take as much of him past my lips as I possibly could, doing my best to ignore my body’s instinct to pull back from the press of the head against the roof of my mouth, sure to keep breathing through my nostrils to assure my mind that I was not about to drown on a throatful of flesh. I kept a hand firm around him, both in order to continue to stimulate, and also to maintain control of the speed and depth. He did not attempt to push, allowing me to take the lead, which I did appreciate given my lack of experience in this matter, no matter how much I longed to feel him thrust with abandon, to use my mouth and throat as he willed. I knew with reluctance that my own gullet was not yet ready for such a task, yet it seemed a worthy goal.

“Wait, wait,” Flinn fumbled through the layers of fabric to find my form through it and separated me from his own body.

For a moment I feared he was dissatisfied, until I emerged from beneath the canopy to see him flushed and panting, gripping the table forcefully with one hand, the other buried in his own hair which he had been twisting and tugging so much that the powder had been rubbed away. In answer to my questioning look, he caught me about the waist and pulled me close to kiss me with a tender earnestness that I chose to believe was entirely real.

“Wondrous creature,” he breathed, “If we had worlds enough and time I would take my pleasure from your clever mouth and wait until I stirred again so that we could begin another turn, but dawn is creeping ever nearer and I cannot be so selfish as to be the only one satisfied.”

As he spoke, his hand was pressing against the crotch of my trousers, palm over the mound, fingers exploring the textures and ridges, rubbing teasingly in circles through the fabric, and I groaned and clutched at him, feeling as though I must be soaking through. I felt as though he was unable to bear being the only one teased, and now I must receive my revenge, yet what a delicious punishment it was!

I could not help but wonder how much Mr Crosby had told him, and found the thought of it rather thrilling: perhaps, I liked to think, he had been told enough that he felt envious of what his friend had indulged in and hoped to experience the same. Perhaps I ought to have used this advantage and withheld for longer, yet I did not think of it, my brain so addled with need. Deftly, Flinn unbuttoned my trousers, slipping a hand in the front and insinuating his fingers between the lips to find the seat of pleasure and apply pressure and friction. Our eyes met, and I deliberately widened my stance to give him more room to explore between my legs- he took the hint, sliding a long curved finger into my eager cunt, and smiled when my mouth fell open in a silent moan.

“Sit,” I ordered him, gesturing to the thankfully sturdy looking chair in front of the dressing table, before pausing and then amending with a gesture at his hips: “Take those things off first.”

Regrettably he had to remove his hand from its current home to do so, yet I was convinced in the efficacy of my plan. While Flinn unbuckled the pannier cages from his pelvis, hanging them on a particular hook against the wall which also contained several similar devices to shape the body, I reluctantly stripped out of the trousers entirely. Flinn sat on the chair, spreading the petticoats around his legs demurely, before I moved forwards to flip them back up his thighs just enough to expose his prick, jutting vertically upwards.

“These aren’t real, I expect?” I asked, touching one of the heavy earrings hanging from his earlobes, and he laughed.

“They’re paste. Yet paste jewellery glitters more brightly, just as the cheap gaudy fabric often catches the eye. Artifice is an art- and can be the greatest weapon.”

I settled myself in his lap, straddling his thighs with mine spread wantonly apart, my mount-pleasant bumping up against the base of his arbor vitae. Our mouths met, ardently sliding tongue against tongue, one of his hands fisted in my hair. Bracing my hands on his shoulders, I lifted my hips up to shift even closer, aiming my waiting inkpot above his readied quill, and nudging it into place using just the circular motion of my hips. There was a preparatory dip, and Flinn’s fingers tightened at the nape of my neck, before I allowed myself to drop down, the weight of my body assisting in my impalement. The exquisite, painful stretch of it! I could not control my reaction, fingernails carving accidental scarlet furrows in Flinn’s skin, while he threw his head back and gasped out some muffled oath I could not quite make out.

For a moment we held still, joined at the waist, clutching at each other passionately and breathing unevenly. As soon as my body had adjusted to the intrusion, or even before, still feeling really as though it was too much, I was compelled to begin moving. I shifted to position my knees either side of Flinn’s thighs, each foot finding purchase on the turned wooden stretchers that formed convenient steps on the chair, slowly beginning to rock and rotate around him and working up to a vigorous bounce.

“Fuck,” Flinn panted, eyes fixed on me as I rode him roughshod, “My glorious Adonis.”

I felt he knew exactly how much his praise affected me, and yet I welcomed it gladly, delighting in the thought of being worshipped so. My hands gripped the back of the chair to give better support, feeling a warning creak from the wood as I lifted myself higher to drive the entire length of him deep inside, but I did not care: let the whole house fall to rubble around us; let us fuck the world to pieces. At some point Flinn’s hands had found purchase on my hips- not controlling my movements as such but supporting my weight, allowing more ease of motion. It truly did feel as though we had done this dozens of times before, seeming to be able to sense and understand each other without words.

My legs ached, thighs beginning to tremble, and I knew full well that I would be sore in the morning, but it was impossible to imagine that the morrow even existed. The person I would be in the future certainly did not exist. I had killed her and had not yet resurrected her to inhabit my daily life. I wished to remain in this state forever, but equally I was unable to resist chasing the end I could feel building in the molten centre of my body.

Wordlessly, Flinn tipped his head up to catch my lips with his, biting lightly at my mouth to encourage it open enough to mesh our tongues. I found myself pressing against him as close as I could without impeding my movement, chest to chest, unsure if I could feel my own heartbeat or his. I inhaled deeply the scent of his perfume, his powder, mingled with the tang of our sweat, committing it to memory. His naked torso with me in full shirt and waistcoat; me bare from the waist down while his lower half was wrapped in layers of skirt: there was something rather pleasing about the symmetry of the image, which I occasionally glimpsed in the looking glass when I was not occupied with kisses.

We were so closely entwined that I could barely discern the boundary between our two bodies, only aware of that sweet friction where we connected most fully. My body was burning from exertion and yet I could not pause, rutting desperately, chasing the release which seemed so close, so close… this must have been obvious from my face or my body, as Flinn removed a hand from its current duty and cupped it over my furred mound, pressing two fingers in just the right place and massaging in a rhythm which matched the speed of penetration so that the most intense pressure occurred alongside the deepest thrust, causing a flurry of stars to appear to cross behind my closed eyelids.

“Yes, yes, just so…” I encouraged, dragging my swollen lips from his just in order to make sure that he continued to touch me exactly as he was doing.

“Magnificent boy,” Flinn murmured, “You cannot know how I have longed for you.”

I did not trust myself to reply, for fear that I may say something sentimental, so I kissed him once more in answer. In moments I was incapable of speech regardless, as a particular movement of Flinn’s hand caused my body to seize, frozen and unable to move other than a violent shudder which seemed about to shake my bones out of my flesh. Joy, and a kind of agony, as often go together, and I almost felt I was unable to bear it, as though at the point of death, dropping my head to Flinn’s shoulder and biting the flesh there- without intention to hurt him, only attempting to stifle my own groans. I was unable to control the way that my tight sheath clamped and squeezed around Flinn’s anatomy, which seemed to bring him onto his own paroxysm of sweet release: I feel he perhaps had attempted to help along my rapture first since he sensed that he was close to it himself and, chivalrous as he is, intended to make sure that I also had mine.

My spent body lay soft and slumped against Flinn’s, enjoying the sensation of his hot seed spilling into it, and the knowledge that it was from my doing. It was not something I ought to indulge in too often due to the risks inherent, yet I revelled in the current moment.

Perhaps if we had been at home, I might have luxuriated longer in Flinn’s arms, the two of us holding each other in companionable silence. It was better, then, that time was against us, for such tenderness was unwise. I would allow access to my body gladly, but my heart required stricter guardianship, as it was something which could be wounded more deeply. Yet I confess, after we had both quietly, somewhat shyly, dressed in our ordinary men’s clothing for the return journey and successfully arrived by our loyal steed back at the house of my parents, and after we had slipped quietly back into the sleeping inn and crept like housebreakers up the stairs, I confess… I entertained the most fleeting fancy of following him back to his room and sharing his bed for just a while, just a while longer. But it was too dangerous to even consider seriously, for the hooting of the owl was already beginning to melt into the dawn chorus, and it would soon be day.

Yet I knew that, like unfortunate Pandora, I was unable to return to the life before I had indulged my curiosity. Unable, or perhaps unwilling, for my eyes had been opened to a world which I felt I belonged to, as a changeling child might feel upon catching a glimpse of the elf hill from which it originally came. To this brave new world and to Flinn himself I was already bound, and to both of them I must return. I feel I am not revealing too much that the reader could not already surmise in noting that this was not the only time that I would visit the molly-house, nor the only liaison with the man who was known amongst other epithets as Edward Flinn, yet those further adventures must now be a tale for another time.