"I can't," he whispers, the words barely making it past his lips.
But Emmy's hand finds his, warm and steady, and she pulls him forward. His heels click on the pavement, each step a small betrayal. The corset forces his spine straight, his breathing shallow. His "breasts" jiggle with each step, an unfamiliar weight that makes his stomach flip. The night air slips under the satin dress, raising goosebumps across his bare arms.
They pass the patio. A group of smokers turn their heads. Their gazes slide over him—over the satin, the wig, the makeup. One man whistles, low and appreciative. Heat floods Greg's cheeks beneath the foundation, shame and fear racing through him. But beneath the satin, his cock twitches, hardening against the fabric. He hates that he feels it. Hates that the humiliation stirs something deeper.
Emmy's grip tightens, and when he glances at her, she's smiling—a small, private smile that says she knows exactly what's happening inside him.
The door opens. Bass throbs through the floor, and the air smells like perfume and sweat and alcohol. Colored lights flash across the crowd—men in sequins, women in leather, laughter that rises above the music.
Emmy leans close. Her lips brush his ear. "Vanessa. Remember. You're Vanessa tonight."
The name settles into him like a key turning a lock. He feels it click into place somewhere deep in his chest.
They weave through the crowd toward the bar. Eyes track him—curious, hungry, appraising. He feels like prey stepping into a clearing full of wolves, and his cock throbs in response. He hates that his body doesn't know how to be afraid the way his mind does.
Emmy orders two shots of something dark. She pushes one toward him, and he throws it back, the burn distracting him for a moment.
They wait for the second round. A man appears beside them, tall, broad-shouldered, with a slow smile that doesn't reach his eyes. He looks at Vanessa—up and down, slow, deliberate, like he's inspecting a piece of meat. His gaze lingers on the curve of the corset, the line of the gown, the painted lips.
Greg's skin crawls. Humiliation shudders through him. But his cock stays hard, pressing against the satin, and he feels wetness at the tip.
Emmy steps forward, her smile wide and bright. "Hey, Joe. This is my friend, Vanessa." She says the name like she owns it.
Joe extends a hand. "Pleasure."
Vanessa's hand moves before Greg can stop it. She takes Joe's fingers, her own painted nails catching the light.
Emmy's smile deepens. She watches with satisfaction as her creation begins to come alive.
Greg feels it before he can stop it—a warm, shameful wetness spreading at the tip of his cock, soaking into the satin. He clenches his thighs together, trying to hide it, but the fabric clings, darkening against his skin. His cheeks burn beneath the foundation, and he looks down, unable to meet Joe's eyes.
The wetness spreads, a slow, insidious warmth that makes his stomach clench. He's never been this hard in his life. Not from Emmy's touch, not from any girl he's been with. The humiliation shudders through him, and his cock throbs in response, a slick pulse that leaves another spot of moisture on the satin.
Joe's eyes drop, tracing the line of the gown. He notices. Of course he notices. A slow smile spreads across his face, and Greg feels like he's being undressed, like every layer of satin and corset is just a costume that's about to be stripped away.
"Vanessa," Joe repeats, savoring the name. His thumb traces a slow circle on the back of her hand. "That's a beautiful name for a beautiful woman."
The words land like a punch. Greg opens his mouth to say something—to protest, to correct, to explain—but nothing comes out. His throat is tight, his tongue heavy. He's supposed to say he's a man. That this is a joke. A bet. A mistake.
But the wetness keeps spreading, and his cock stays hard, and the name keeps echoing in his head: Vanessa. Vanessa. Vanessa.
Emmy's hand finds his lower back, warm and steady. "I told you," she says, her voice soft, for him alone. "You're beautiful."
Joe releases her hand, but his gaze doesn't leave her. "Can I buy you a drink, Vanessa?"
Greg's stomach flips. He looks at Emmy, panic rising in his chest. But Emmy is already smiling, already nodding, already pushing him forward into the current.
"She'd love that," Emmy says.
Joe gestures toward the bar, and Greg's feet move before he can stop them. His heels click against the sticky floor, each step a small surrender. The corset forces him upright, the gown swishes around his ankles, and his "breasts" bounce with each step, drawing eyes wherever he passes.
He feels the wetness between his thighs, the slick fabric rubbing against his sensitive skin with every movement. The shame deepens, curling in his chest like a living thing, but his cock doesn't soften. If anything, it gets harder, a desperate, aching throb that he can't control.
Joe pulls out a stool for him at the bar. Greg hesitates, then sits, the satin shifting beneath him, the corset digging into his ribs. Joe leans close, his breath warm against Greg's ear. "What's your poison, Vanessa?"
Greg's throat works, but no sound comes out. He looks at Emmy, who's watching from a few feet away, her arms crossed, that small, knowing smile on her lips. She nods, almost imperceptibly.
"Whiskey," he manages, his voice barely a whisper. It comes out higher than usual, softer. Feminine.
Joe's smile widens. He signals the bartender, and Greg watches his hands—broad, strong, with calluses that speak of manual labor. The same hands that held his, that traced his knuckles, that called him beautiful.
Greg's cock pulses, another warm spot spreading against the satin. He presses his thighs together, trying to stop it, but it only makes it worse, the fabric shifting against his sensitive skin, sending a shiver through his whole body.
Emmy appears beside him, her hand finding his knee under the bar. She squeezes gently, a silent reassurance—or a silent reminder. He's hers. He's Vanessa. And the night is just beginning.
Emmy leans in, her lips brushing Joe's ear. Her hand cups the side of his jaw, a gesture so intimate that Greg's stomach clenches. She murmurs something—low, private, words that don't carry past the bass and laughter.
Joe's eyes widen. Then he smiles. Slow. Hungry.
Greg's heart hammers. He tries to read Emmy's face, but she's already pulling back, that small, satisfied smile playing at her lips. What did she say? What deal did she just make?
"Emmy—" he starts, but the name catches in his throat. He's not Greg anymore. Not here. Not with Joe's hand sliding off the bar and landing on his thigh.
He nearly falls off the stool. The hand is heavy, warm, the palm pressing flat against the satin just below his hip. Joe doesn't look at him. He's still smiling at Emmy.
"No limitations," Emmy says, her voice soft, for Greg alone. Her hand finds his back, sliding around his waist, guiding him forward off the stool. She's nudging him toward Joe, her palm a steady pressure between his shoulder blades.
Greg's feet move. The heels click against the floor. The satin shifts, and he feels the slick spot where his cock has been leaking, pressed against his thigh now, a damp, shameful secret that the fabric can't hide.
Joe's hand moves. Slides up. Over the curve of his hip. Across the flat of his stomach. Stops at the junction of his thighs, where the satin is dark and damp.
Greg freezes. His breath stops. Joe's fingers press—slow, deliberate—and he feels the hard shape of his cock through the fabric, the wetness that clings to Joe's knuckles.
Joe's smile widens. He curves his palm around the bulge, cups it, squeezes gently. Then his hand slides lower, over the satin, around to the curve of his ass. He grabs a handful, fingers digging into the padded shape beneath the gown.
Greg's cock throbs. Another pulse of wetness leaks into the satin. He can't breathe. He can't think. He can only feel the pressure of Joe's grip, the heat of Emmy's hand on his back, the weight of every eye in the bar watching this scene unfold.
Joe looks at Emmy. "Let's go back to your place, then."
The words land like a splash of cold water. Greg's head snaps up, his eyes wide, his mouth opening to protest. Back to Emmy's place? What does that mean? What did she tell him?
"Emmy—" His voice cracks, high and desperate.
Emmy's hand slides up his spine, settles on the back of his neck. Her thumb traces slow circles against the edge of the wig. "Shh," she says, her voice honey and steel. "Vanessa. You're doing so well."
Joe releases his ass, steps back, offers his hand. "Shall we?"
Greg's hand rises before he can stop it. His painted fingers find Joe's palm. The grip is warm, firm, inescapable.
Emmy's hand stays on his neck as they walk toward the door, guiding him like a dancer, like a puppet, like a creature she's just learning to control. The neon pink light bleeds through the window, painting them all in blood and promise.
Greg's heels click against the pavement. The night air hits his bare arms, raising goosebumps. Between his thighs, the satin clings, damp and cold now, a constant reminder of what he's become.
He doesn't know what Emmy whispered. He doesn't know what's waiting at her apartment. But his cock stays hard, and his heart stays racing, and the name echoes in his skull like a bell that won't stop ringing.
Vanessa.