The bass thrummed through the floor of the bar, vibrating up through the soles of his shoes, through his legs, settling somewhere in his chest. Greg shifted on the red leather booth, the slick material cool against his thighs through the satin of his panties. Pale pink. Amy had picked them out that morning, had kissed his neck while he put them on, had whispered wear them for me against his skin.
He'd said yes. He always said yes.
Across the table, Caroline was mid-story, her hands cutting through the air, auburn hair catching the dim bar light. Natalie listened with a half-smile, her wine glass spinning between her fingers. Amanda giggled at something, cheeks already flushed from her second drink. Amy's hand rested on Greg's thigh under the table, her thumb tracing slow circles through his jeans.
Then his phone slipped. Caught on the edge of the table, spun once, and disappeared into the dark below.
"Shit." Greg bent over, reaching under the booth, his fingers brushing sticky floor and a forgotten napkin before finding the phone. He straightened up—and saw Caroline's eyes fixed on his hip.
Her mouth opened. Closed. Opened again.
"No way." Her finger jabbed toward him, and the world went slow. "No fucking way."
"What?" Natalie leaned forward.
"His pants rode up when he bent over." Caroline's voice climbed, sharp with glee. "He's wearing—Greg, are you wearing pink satin panties?"
The table went silent.
Heat flooded his face. His ears burned. He could feel the exact shade of red spreading across his cheeks, down his neck, settling in his chest. His mouth opened but nothing came out—just a dry click of tongue against palate.
"Oh my God." Amanda's hand flew to her mouth. "You are."
Natalie set down her wine glass, her eyes narrowing with interest. "Let me see."
"No—" Greg started, but Caroline was already on her feet, rounding the booth, her grin widening with every step. She hooked a finger in the waistband of his jeans before he could pull away, tugged just enough to expose the pale pink satin and the thin lace edge.
"Satin," she breathed. "With lace. Greg, honey, those are cute."
The word landed like a slap. Cute. He was six-foot-three, broad-shouldered, built like he should be throwing tackles, and Caroline Miller was calling his panties cute.
His cock stirred against the slick fabric.
No. Not now. Not here.
"Where'd you get them?" Natalie asked, her voice casual, like she was asking about a brand of jeans. "They look expensive."
"They're—" Greg's voice cracked. He cleared his throat. "They're Amy's."
Under the table, Amy's hand squeezed his thigh. Once. A message he knew too well: I didn't plan this, but I want you to feel this.
"Bullshit," Caroline said, still standing over him. "Those are your size. Those are your panties."
Amanda's eyes went wide. "Greg, do you... like, crossdress?"
The word hung in the air. Crossdress. He'd never heard it said out loud before, not like this, not in front of people. His pulse hammered—not against his ribs, but lower, in his throat, in his stomach, in the growing pressure against the satin between his legs.
Too late now, anyway.
"Do you wear them all the time?" Amanda leaned forward, her hazel eyes wide, her voice a breathless whisper. "Like, under your clothes when you go out?"
Greg's mouth opened. Closed. His tongue felt thick, useless. "I—sometimes—"
"Look at his face." Caroline cackled, still standing over him, her hip against the edge of the table. "He's so red. Oh my God, this is the best night ever."
Natalie's wine glass paused halfway to her lips. Her sharp brown eyes swept over him—shoulders, chest, the line of his jaw—and something shifted in her expression. "The panties are one thing," she said slowly, "but what else are you wearing?"
The question landed like a punch. Greg's breath caught.
"What do you mean?" Amanda asked.
Natalie set down her glass. "I mean, if he's committed enough to wear satin panties under his jeans to a bar, he's probably not stopping there." She tilted her head, studying him. "Am I right?"
Greg's heart slammed against his ribs. His cock, already half-hard against the slick satin, throbbed painfully. He could feel the corset beneath his shirt—the tight compression of it, the boning pressing into his ribs, the way it cinched his waist and made his posture change without him thinking about it.
Caroline's grin widened. "Oh, you are so right."
Before Greg could move, Caroline's hand landed flat on his chest. Her fingers spread, pressing through the fabric of his button-down—and then her eyes went wide.
"Holy shit."
"What?" Amanda leaned closer.
Caroline's fingers traced downward, feeling the rigid lines beneath his shirt. "He's wearing a corset." Her voice climbed with disbelief and delight. "There's like—boning. And it's tight. Greg, you're actually wearing a corset right now."
Natalie's eyebrows shot up. Amanda's hand flew to her mouth.
"Let me see," Caroline said, already reaching for the bottom of his shirt.
"No—" Greg's hands shot out, grabbing her wrists, but she was stronger than he expected, and he was frozen, trapped between the table and her grip. The button of his jeans pressed against his stomach, the corset squeezing his ribs, his cock straining against the satin, and he couldn't breathe, couldn't think, couldn't do anything but sit there as Caroline's fingers hooked under his shirt and lifted.
The pale pink satin of the corset caught the dim bar light. Lace-edged. Boned. Laced tight across his broad chest, forcing his waist into an hourglass curve that looked almost feminine.
"Oh my God," Amanda breathed.
Natalie set down her wine glass with a soft clink. "Well. That answers that."
Caroline's hand stayed on his chest, her fingers tracing the top edge of the corset, feeling the satin, the boning, the way his breath came shallow and quick beneath it. "You've been wearing this all night," she said, her voice lower now, something darker flickering in her green eyes. "Under your clothes. While we were just sitting here, drinking, talking."
Greg's face burned. His cock ached, pressed against the satin panties, and he knew—he knew—they could see the tent forming in his jeans if they looked down.
And then Amy's hand tightened on his thigh.
She rose from the booth, smooth and unhurried, her dark hair swinging as she stepped around the table. Her brown eyes swept over the scene—Caroline's hand on his chest, Natalie's calculating gaze, Amanda's flushed cheeks—and she smiled.
"Ladies," Amy said, her voice light but carrying an edge of command, "perhaps we should take this somewhere more private."
The table went quiet.
Caroline's grin returned, sharper now. "My place. Ten minutes."
"Yes," Amy said, her hand finding Greg's shoulder, squeezing once. "Your place."
And Greg sat there, his corset exposed, his panties damp with pre-cum, his face the color of the satin he wore, knowing that the night was only beginning.