Page 7 of Measure of a Man

“I say! Hands off!”

“As if you didn’t do it too,” Exeter protested. “There was some distinct tugging.”

Before they could start in on one another again, Dibden gave a polite cough, reminding them of his presence. “If you please, my lords.”

Exeter raised his hands in surrender and gave the tailor a clipped nod to continue. Dibden flipped the bottom of his shirt out the way with the wooden ruler. His cock was semi-hard, thicker-looking than Virtue’s and⁠—

“Six and three-quarters.”

“He’s half-hard!” Virtue exclaimed indignantly. “You measured me soft. That’s not fair.”

“I’m sorry, my lord, would you like me to measure you again? You might have to…” he gestured to Virtue’s crotch, “wait a few moments.”

Christ, he was at half-mast and in danger of growing a full cockstand.

“Oh, dash it. Just measure me as is.”

“But how do we know if he’s half-hard or three-quarters hard and that I’m not only one-quarter hard?” argued Exeter.

“It would make sense, my lord, that you both take yourselves to the edge of completion to be assured that you’re both shown at your finest,” the tailor clipped out, his patience worn thin.

“In that case, you don’t happen to have any comely looking maids around?” Virtue joked.

Dibden’s mouth pinched in disapproval. “This isn’t that sort of establishment. It’s a tailor shop, my lord. You’ll have to find your inspiration in your head.”

That was him told.

Exeter was already determinedly pumping his cock, sweat beading on his brow, his motions hampered by the billowing of his shirt. “Too much in the way,” he griped. “Right. It’s coming off.”

Virtue tried not to look too fascinated. Exeter waved the tailor away, preferring to hang on to his own clothes. He bent forward to place them neatly on a nearby chair, revealing his broad shoulders, back, and the firm round cheeks of his arse.

Virtue’s cock lurched up.

It was impossible to avoid paying attention to his friend’s body and now he could look at nothing else. If handsomeness could be attributed to a man’s cock, then yes, Exeter’s was a handsome piece. Large and a few shades darker than his skin. Something that he would never have known, but now would know forever. Virtue’s was the same colour as the rest of him, apart from its tendency to purple around the head when he got close to spending.

The down of light hair on Exeter’s crotch and chest was hairier than his own, as were the tops of his thighs. If he touched it, it would be soft.

The rest of him was every bit as wonderful.

Christ, he needed to stop staring.

Why had Exeter insisted on that darn fire? It was far too hot in the shop to concentrate. Red-faced, he whipped off his own shirt and shuffled forward with his trousers still around his knees to face up to Exeter.

Virtue upped his tugging.

“Is that how you do it then?” Exeter cocked his brow at the blur of motion Virtue was making compared to his own more leisurely tugs. Long, slow, squeezing strokes.

“Not always,” he lied, “but I’m in rather a hurry to win.” He shrugged off Exeter’s critique. What did Mr Slow and Torturous know? It looked more like he was milking a cow than frigging himself.

Still, it might be the most erotic thing he’d ever seen.

They continued like prize fighters before a match, sizing each other up. Forgoing any pretence of politeness, they drank each other in, eyes roaming, dissecting the other’s flaws and perfections.

“You’d take hours to peak like that.”

“Sometimes that’s the point.” Exeter looked at him with loaded eyes. “I say, Dibden, some oil would be a fine thing. The kind for…you know…gentlemen.”

Whatever this mysterious oil was, it was soon to hand.