Chapter 3
Mr Dibden, the tailor, was an elegantly postured man on the edge of his sixth decade who still wore a fussy powdered wig from the turn of the last century, its elaborate pomade curls framed the furrowed brow that sat atop a pair of shrewd eyes.
It was part of Virtue’s plan that if he found himself over-excited, he would just stare at that awful wig until his cockstand withered away.
Yes, Dibden truly was the perfect man to ratify their bet.
Despite the tailor’s affectation of his own archaic personal attire, he could kit a gentleman out in the modern dandy style like no other, and was a darn sight cheaper than Weston on Bond Street.
But most importantly, Dibden was highly discreet about his clientele.
The tailor had measured Virtue’s inside leg many a time without remarking on his sizeable endowment.
There had been neither hide nor hair mentioned about the size of his prick round White’s that wasn’t wildly farcical, so his advantage remained secure.
In the two days since Exeter had entered it into the betting book, many in clubland had taken to eyeballing his trousers in a disconcerting manner whenever he passed by.
The interest in the vulgarity of the bet, much to his annoyance, meant that on arriving at Dibden’s, a small mob of clubland ne'er-do-wells were already in front of the shop clamouring to get viewing rights of the measuring.
While Virtue was confident of winning, to be corralled by voyeurs was another thing entirely.
Men of far too much leisure, as Exeter had put it while leaning languidly against the door, snuffbox in hand.
Dibden had chased off the voyeurs, ready to geld whomsoever encroached on his stores of superfine with their cigars.
In a huff, he had drawn all the shutters so that no onlookers could peer in.
He’d make a pretty penny if he featured as a fine figure in the stories the gentlemen passed around, far superior advertising to taking out a quarter page in the papers.
Still, that didn’t stop Dibden from checking his pocket watch for a second time.
They’d waited for the shop to warm up. Exeter had insisted they do so to prevent the ill effects of a cold prick, though the necessity of such precaution was…
dubious, since it was a fine summer morning.
The fellow sat in the back room next to a small fire in the grate, hands clenched in his pockets, looking rather ill, his earlier sangfroid quite gone.
“My lords, is it not best we start?” Dibden gently harried them.
“Our apologies, Dibden. Exeter, I’m sure, will be delighted to reimburse you for any loss of trade caused by his delays,” Virtue smirked at his friend, who snapped out of his reverie on hearing his name.
“Gladly. For who knows? I might soon be sixty thousand pounds the richer.”
“That’s the spirit,” Virtue said, not feeling as weasel-worded as he should have done. Having slept on it, he was calmly confident that he would win. “I’m all yours, Dibden.”
Virtue was also starting to enjoy the drama of it all, so he took his time untucking his shirt and drew out unbuttoning the fall of his trousers. Exeter stared on, transfixed.
The promise of sixty thousand pounds could do that to a man, he supposed. The poor fool flinched forward when Virtue cast the trousers down to his knees.
Virtue looked Exeter dead in the eye and lifted his shirt to reveal his manhood.
There, quite the piece you see.
A faint touch of red grew on the other man’s cheeks. Exeter gave his opponent’s cock the smallest of acknowledging nods, his Adam’s apple bobbing. “I see that we must congratulate the Viscount’s mother for having birthed such a healthy son.”
Virtue snorted.
“Ready to concede?” he crowed. He gave his prick a few surreptitious tugs to arrange himself and get a little more blood pumping. If a fellow grew a bit more than he naturally showed, there was no harm in perking it up a bit.
Exeter stalked each movement with his eyes. He gave a simple smile and shrugged. “My word is my word; I’m honour bound to see it through.”
“Good man.”
Exeter’s humility was suspect. Virtue wasn’t concerned that his own prick was small. It wasn’t. But…Exeter could be bigger.
What exactly was Exeter hiding under those clothes?
With his broad shoulders from wrestling and his muscled thighs from riding, no one could doubt that he possessed a fine figure. But the rest was a mystery.
Virtue flinched as the tailor placed a cold wooden ruler along his member, pressing the end firmly against his pubic bone. He glanced over the tailor’s shoulder to catch Exeter’s eye, but Exeter was watching the tailor’s hands.
“The lord hangs at a very respectable six inches when flaccid.”
Virtue cocked his chin in triumph at Exeter. A silent little so there we have it.
Exeter’s face was flushed as he dragged his gaze away from Virtue’s cock.
The man could barely look him in the eye.
Clearly Exeter hung smaller. What a pity they hadn’t bet for blunt rather than the mere chance of courting a woman he lacked all interest in.
But that hadn’t been the point of the bet, a nasty voice reminded him.
Exeter turned away to unbutton his falls. The back of his neck was a hot red stripe beneath his cropped curls.
“You’ll forgive my friend’s slowness, Dibden. I believe he is very concerned about losing.”
Exeter’s hand was still covering his cock and doing a little more than ‘rearranging’ when he turned round.
“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.
“What’s that for?”
“You never use oil?” he asked, surprised.
“Well, I suppose not. You hardly look like you’re enjoying yourself mutilating your prick like that.
It doesn’t always need to be a dash at the races.
You can make it an art; grant yourself permission to enjoy it.
” He drizzled oil into his palm and then wrapped it around his length and gently stroked.
“If you like it, I’ll get my valet to send some round for you. ”