Page 2 of Molly Boys

Everett watched as the Colonel skimmed his roughly calloused hand up the young man’s thigh, drawing the chemise up to reveal his most intimate parts and rubbing his palm against the young man’s cock as it stiffened in his hand.

Everett wasn’t really surprised. The Colonel had always had a penchant for an audience while pleasuring his boys. He couldn’t say he found it all that arousing either. Turning away, he mused idly at how jaded he’d become at the ripe old age of twenty-two years.

He moved to the nearby sideboard and poured himself a generous whiskey from a heavy crystal decanter. Setting his glass down, he retrieved a silver case from his pocket. He flicked it open nonchalantly and retrieved a small brown cigarillo. He set it between his lips and lit it, blowing out a thin, elegant stream of smoke before picking up his glass. Swirling the amber-coloured liquid, he took a sip and allowed the rich, peaty flavour to wash over his tongue.

Everett propped himself up against the wall and made himself comfortable as his gaze continued to wander around the room. A rather noted lawyer was dressed in a lady’s evening gown and stays, a heavy-looking wig propped neatly on his head and fashioned into a popular lady’s style. Jet earrings dangled from his earlobes and a glorious choker of pearls encircled his skinny throat.

Sat across the room on a high-backed sofa was a well-known judge with a young man propped on his knee. In between nuzzling kisses to the boy’s mouth, he seemed to delight in feeding him bites of delicate pastries.

The room was filled with titled gentlemen such as himself, born of the upper classes. There were also a few politicians and men of the upper middle class, as well as those who worked in trade, and they all had one thing in common. They were all sodomites, or such was the label society had rather egregiously bestowed upon them. He preferred to think of them simply as men who preferred the intimate company of men.

They weren’t hurting anyone, yet society shunned them, forced them to hide, to deny their true nature. The only place they were relatively safe were establishments like this, known as Molly houses.

There was a certain unspoken rule that they would protect each other’s secrets. But it was a precarious world in which they resided, and it would take only one small betrayal for it all to come tumbling down like a house of cards.

Everett lifted his glass to his lips to take another sip before chasing it with a satisfying inhale of tobacco as he wondered where the devil Francis was. Haywood had seemed convinced he was in the parlour, and Everett found himself craving the company of his dearest friend.

“Hello, my darlings!” a familiar voice rang out as the door to the parlour clattered open, and Francis sailed in as regal as a queen.

His short brown hair was oiled and combed neatly into a side parting, his lips fully rouged beneath his tidy moustache. He wore a flamboyant purple evening gown, unevenly laced and falling off his pale, bare shoulders, and his hands were encased in lace gloves.

He climbed up onto a chaise, a bottle of champagne in one hand and a half-filled glass in the other.

“Good evening, my delightfully debauched subjects! Curtsey before me for I am Lady Fanny, Duchess of Islington!”

He threw his arms up as a rousing cheer rippled around the room.

“What have you got for us tonight, Your Grace?” someone piped up. “Are you going to dazzle us with your poise and good breeding?”

“I’ll give you poise and good breeding.” He downed his glass of champagne and tossed it behind him with a tinkle of smashing glass before grabbing the hem of his gown and lifting it to expose his flaccid cock surrounded by a bush of dark hair. With a loud whoop, he wiggled lewdly while his guests whistled and laughed.

Seeing Francis was in fine form and seemingly in the mood for raucous entertainment rather than quiet conversation and contemplation, Everett slipped quietly from the room.

Thanks to his intimate knowledge of the house owned by his friend, he climbed the stairs to the topmost floor, leaving the rowdy carousing, leers, and laughter behind him.

Reaching Francis’ private rooms, he let himself in without shame, needing the solitary peace and quiet the space afforded him. He wasn’t in the mood tonight. Stubbing the remains of his cigarillo out in the heavy ashtray on Francis’ dressing table, he caught his reflection in the huge oval gilded mirror.

He looked pale and tired, his blonde hair dull and lifeless in the dimly lit room. His eyes bore faint shadows and his mouth seemed to turn down as he skimmed his fingers along his shaven jaw, feeling the few downy whiskers beginning to grow back.

Even though he was a man, he barely needed to shave. His skin was soft and as pale as ivory. His eyes were as blue as cornflowers and his hair as bright as the sun. At least that was what his mother had told him, even if it was now no more than a dim recollection, a fading memory which grew ever more faint with the passage of time.

He loosened his white bow tie and left it hanging around his neck as he removed his jacket and tossed it over the back of the deeply cushioned chair. Next, he unbuttoned his waistcoat and the top few buttons of his shirt, relieved as the grip of the overly starched collar relaxed.

Picking up his glass, he refilled it from the bottle Francis always kept nestled amidst his powders, rouges, and perfumes. For want of something better to do with his restless hands, he retrieved another cigarillo from the open silver case on the dressing table and lit it, inhaling deeply. He bypassed the huge canopied bed and settled on a low sofa as he sipped his whiskey.

Allowing his head to fall back against the back of the sofa, he lifted the cigarillo to his lips and took another long drag, exhaling slowly and watching the tendrils of smoke coil sinuously into the air like a serpent.

He turned his head at the sound of the doorknob rattling and the door suddenly swinging open.

“There you are!” Francis swept into the room, closing the door behind him. “Haywood said you’d arrived.” He eyed Everett’s dress trousers and unbuttoned shirt and waistcoat. “Good evening?” he asked with a raised brow.

Everett scoffed as he raised the glass to his lips and sipped. “The theatre… the relentless misery of talentless fops and giggling ladies in search of gossip. It’s worse than a travelling circus.”

Francis threw his head back and laughed. “Now you know why I chose not to attend. I have to be in the mood to deal with that.”

“Liar. You thrive on drama and gossip.” Everett lifted one brow lazily.

“Alas, it’s true.” He unlaced the back of his loose-fitting gown and pulled it from his shoulders, allowing it to slide down his slim body and pool at his feet with a soft thud of heavy fabric. “But not this evening. Call it self-preservation. Lady Abingdon is on the prowl for a husband for her daughter, and I have no intention of placing myself in her path.”