Love Me Better: No Such Unit Hopeless Romantics 1

by Kit Smart

  I turn and step back into the wings. “You have two minutes.” I tell MacQuoide’s back.”

  “Thank you.”

  I watch his back and shoulders shift as he stands there breathing deeply. “One minute.” I warn.

  That earns me a huff of exasperated laughter. “Like a count down for the apocalypse.”

  “Sorry.”

  “I’m not criticizing Seri, I just—ah to hell with it—” He fastens his jacket and turns to face me his face suffused with chagrin. “It’s not going to go anywhere for a bit so—can you tell?”

  I blink. “Tell?”

  He smiles wryly as he gestures at the front of his trousers. “I’m a bit indisposed at the moment.” His expression is a study in embarrassment, and dark amusement. “And I’m afraid I can’t do anything other than try to—uh—camouflage it until it dissipates.” He rocks back on his heels in his agitation, but holds my gaze steadily. “Can you tell?”

  “You have a cock-stand.” I blurt as I abruptly took his meaning. I feel my face begin to burn as I blush wildly in response to my outburst. What is wrong with you? It’s not like this is your first ever erection er—experience with an erection. I force myself to push the reaction aside, and study his groin objectively. You don’t have time to be prissy about this. I tell myself as I take in the way he’s arranged his erection so that it points upwards; the head presumably tucked between the waistband of his trousers and his belly.

  Dropping into a crouch and tipping my head this way and that from all angles to simulate what the audience would be able to see of him as he walked the runway, I scowl. “Put your hands in your pockets.”

  MacQuoide obliges.

  I survey him again. “That will have to do.” I tilt my head back to find him watching me speculatively.

  “Can you tell?” He asks.

  I hesitate, torn between a soothing lie and the truth. “You’re a sizable man Bishop-MacQuoide—” I begin only to be cut off as he groans low in his throat.

  “Owen.” His blue eyes burn with intensity as he steps forward. “If you are truly going to make it your mission to make me as hot and bothered as possible in awkward situations; you may as well use my name.” He slants me a dark smile as he pushes his hands deeper into his pockets and heads toward the stage.

  9

  Seri

  Leaning against the entrance to the stage, I settle in to admire Bishop-MacQuoide’s posterior as he makes his way to the podium positioned center stage just in front of the runway that extends forward from the stage into the room.

  Military-strict posture does wonders for a man’s backside. I think for perhaps the thousandth time since I’d begun working with him. Personality issues aside, the man has an amazing ass. The thought that I would more than likely have an opportunity to run my hands over that amazing ass by the end of the evening has my pulse fluttering with anticipation and my body thrumming happily with arousal. A decidedly pleasant way to end the evening.

  When the subject of my fantasies reaches the podium and turns to face the audience, the sight of him taking his hands out of his pockets in order to grip the podium has me forcibly steadying myself as my knees threaten to give out on me.

  With his hands on the podium and the bright stage lights beating down on him, his arousal becomes very obvious—at least from my point of view in the wings. Curious to see if this is a case of ‘I can only see it because I know it’s there’ I look across the stage at the emcee.

  The deliberate way, he is not looking anywhere other than at the side of Bishop-MacQuoide’s face as he speaks, suggests to me that he’s seen it too. His discretion makes me wonder if there is, perhaps, some sort of code amongst men for these types of situations. Some sort of it’s bad form to stare at another man’s erection type of rule?

  The thought makes me feel a touch guilty. That’s probably a good rule for me to adhere to as well. I tell myself and divert my gaze to his face. Not everybody likes to be oogled… or more to the point, you have no idea whether or not he likes to be oogled.

  Despite my determination to behave respectfully, I find my eyes straying from his face.

  If you had tried to tell me earlier in the evening, that I was the sort to receive pleasure from a man’s public erection, I would have laughed you off as delusional. I mean, it’s rather on the cruel side to derive pleasure from something that is most likely some combination of embarrassing, and uncomfortable for the person involved isn’t it? But here I am eyeing the front of Bishop-MacQuoide’s pants; imagining what it must feel like to be him—to have something that large tucked up against your belly; throbbing and begging to be released from the pressure of your clothing—and I’m getting hot and bothered by it.

  Watching as he charms the audience with smiles, jokes and effusive gestures over the top half of the podium, even while underneath the podium, he shifts uncomfortably from foot to foot in an attempt, I assume, to relieve the pressure in his groin; I want nothing more than to storm the stage, grab him by the hand and hustle him off to a private corner somewhere where I can release him from his pants and… Well, an erection like that is a terrible thing to waste.

  Leaning forward on one elbow, Bishop-MacQuoide casually drops a hand, his right hand, the one that I can see from my side of the stage, below the podium and tilts his hips towards me slightly. Having been lured into thinking that maybe he was going to slip that hand into his pocket, I almost choke to death right there on the spot when he instead grabs himself through his trousers and squeezes. Are you seriously masturbating onstage at this swanky charity auction while I watch? My jaw all but hits the floor in shock, but my body, throbs in appreciation.

  The appreciative throbbing quickly dissipates, however, when Bishop-MacQuoide tilts his head down and toward me for a moment as he squeezes again. In that moment with his expression safely hidden from the audience but perfectly visible to me, he grimaces which effectively puts paid to my kinky masturbating-on-stage supposition of a moment earlier. That’s not a pleasurable squeeze. That’s an attempt to use pain to dissipate an erection.

  I watch fascinated despite myself, as he repeats the procedure several times to no apparent effect. The erection remains exactly as it is and I found myself grimacing in sympathy at the thought of how uncomfortable he must be. Persistent arousal in private with relief in sight is one thing, but persistent arousal in public with a night of speeches and socializing to get through before there’s any hope of getting away to alleviate it is another. It’s the difference between delicious torture and straight up torture.

  Vaguely aware of a thunderous round of clapping and cheering from the audience, I look up to see that the emcee has returned to the stage and is gesturing Bishop-MacQuoide toward the runway, while the women in the audience voice their approval of the idea.

  Shooting me a quick, undecipherable look, Bishop-MacQuoide matter-of-factly adjusts himself more tightly against his belly, re-buttons his jacket, sticks his hands back into his pockets and flashing the audience a disarming smile as he does so, steps out from behind the podium.

  The moment he steps out from behind the podium and the full force of the stage lights hit him, I feel my heart sink. Even the darkness of the fabric of his tux and the way he has his hands fisted in his pockets can’t counteract the brightness of the lights and it takes but a moment for the audience; neatly organized as they were at such a level so as to put their heads exactly at waist level to whomever was on the cat walk; to take in his obvious arousal.

  To his credit, aside from a very slight stiffening about the shoulders and neck, he stands there without reacting as whispers run through the audience, and speculative gazes focus on his groin.

  A minute passes, possibly two with him just standing there wholly on display in front of them all.

  And then with an aplomb that I would have found hard to imagine from the stiff, less than communicative man I’d dealt with the past couple of weeks; he offers the audience a smile that is equal parts rueful and sex
on a stick, and with a shrug that says more clearly than words that men will be men drops his hands from his pockets and starts down the runway; erect manhood proudly on display with every swaggering stride.

  Owen

  The moment I step out from behind the podium, I know two things. The first is that walking is going to be a problem and the second is that the brightly lit stage lights aren’t doing me any favors.

  Despite what you may think, when guys get erect, the muscles in our pelvic region actually relax while our cocks are filled with blood. The blood creates a tightness; a pressure that is a delicious contrast to the relaxed feeling of the pelvis; and everything just sort of becomes languid and tense and brutally sensitive to touch and movement.

  All of that blood and pressure just feels immense, like you’re going to explode. It’s not really painful, but you start to feel aware, start to thrum with a low key awareness that this thing happening to your cock requires attention.

  The sensation that runs through your body when you wake up from a nap and take that first really satisfying full body stretch? Where everything just feels so delicious; so full and heavy. That’s the low key thrumming I mean.

  The relaxation, the pressure, the accompanying tingling heat that has settled in at the base of my spine, while they don’t precisely hurt, they are on their steady way toward becoming overwhelming, and, I know, will make it difficult to walk normally. Not great when you have to get your ass down a runway.

  This is the state of things when I adjust my jacket, shove my hands into my pockets, and step out form behind the podium.

  There’s a moment, where I honestly think my legs are going to collapse out from under me as I take that first step and the sensitive head of my cock rubs against the waistband of my pants.

  By the time I have taken the three steps, that bring me to the top of the runway, it’s a struggle to focus anything other than what is happening below my belt, as more blood flows to my cock in response to the stimulation from my clothing.

  I know without a doubt, that if I have to continue walking down the runway with the fabric of my clothes rubbing against my cock, that I am going to be an absolute mess by the time I make it back stage.

  If I even make it that far without embarrassing myself on stage.

  But here I am, unable to disappear off somewhere private to take care of things, staring down the runway and audience while my cock throbs and begs to be rubbed.

  I spare a moment to think dark thoughts about the woman who got me into this state only to have to grit my teeth against the sudden surge of blood in my groin as an image of Seri undoing my trousers, and taking my cock into her hand flashes through my mind. Christ.

  I honest-to-god turn toward the emcee to tell him to cancel my participation in the auction, so that I can follow my instincts backstage to the woman responsible for it; only to find the man glancing at my groin.

  In that instant I realize that buttoned jacket, hands fisted in my pockets and the darkness of my suit are all useless under the bright stage lights.

  My cock, rigid and pulsing with blood is clearly delineated against the fabric of my trousers for all to see.

  There is nothing else to be done now.

  There’s nowhere to retreat to, nowhere to hide.

  I push the part of me that is cringing with embarrassment aside, and decide to try to enjoy the attention.

  This is a fantasy of sorts isn’t it? I tell myself. One most men can appreciate. Being checked out by a group of women; having them react appreciatively. Knowing that all eyes are on your cock—that you’ve become the center of many a woman’s attention—it’s hard not to react to that.

  I take a quick look at Seri as it occurs to me that she may not be so appreciative of the situation only to find her studying me with that fascinated look she gets sometimes, and heat unfurls deep in the base of my spine as I realize that she is not, in fact, repulsed by the situation.

  The thought of taking her home at the end of the evening forces me to glance away, as, impossibly, my cock hardens even more at the thought how intense the sex is going to be after all this sustained arousal.

  Dropping my hands from my pockets, I smile at the audience, and letting them see it all in my expression, I start down the runway.

  Imagining Seri’s eyes on my backside, I put a little extra swagger in my stride.

  As I walk, the bidding starts and the part of me that is vaguely humiliated at being on display like this squirms and wonders how I am ever going to be able to go on a date with one of these women after they’ve seen me like this.

  I should have had Seri bid on me. I think as I stop at the end of the runway, and a blonde in a red dress catches my eye and raising a finger to her mouth slowly sucks it in a gesture meant to imitate fellatio.

  I blink as out of nowhere I feel a hand on my right flank. Turning toward the hand, I grab a brunette woman’s wrist as her hand slides to my hip. Suppressing my disconcertion at being touched so intimately and so unexpectedly; I force myself to smile as I shake my index finger at her chidingly. Don’t make a scene. I remind myself. You’re playing a part.

  As I stand there on display; the bidding intensifying to preposterous levels along with the leering my embarrassment turns into mortification as I start to wonder what Seri is thinking of this. Professionally, I know she can’t be pleased. It is her job to keep me socially active in an appropriate, but under the radar, kind of way, so as to preserve my cover as the director of Courage After Fire.

  Somehow, I don’t think this qualifies as either appropriate, or under the radar.

  The realization is grim, and a direct counterpoint to how good I feel physically at that moment with my erect cock pressing against my belly as it throbs and aches for relief and causes my body to thrum with a visceral longing that is as pleasant as it is painful.

  Seri

  I am backstage standing in front of a make-up table and rummaging through my clutch for my lipstick when my phone buzzes and a Telegram message from Amory flashes across the front screen.

  Are you with the Chief?

  I look up from the phone to scowl at my reflection in the mirror. I unlock my phone and open the Telegram app. No. I answer. Do you need him for something? “You’d better not.” I tell the phone. “Because he just stormed out of here without a word and I haven’t the faintest idea where he went off to.”

  No—Seri, you’ve been holding out on me.

  I send her a bare question mark. Hopefully my brevity will set the correct tone for this conversation.

  Of course, it’s Amory, so it doesn’t work that way.

  The chief Seri. You’ve never mentioned that how substantial he is. (If you take my meaning.)

  I give up on the lipstick and after a quick glance at the time, settle my hip against the counter in preparation for a chat.

  Seriously? You want to discuss this now? When we’ve still got this event to run?

  I can almost hear Amory roll her eyes in response.

  That’s why I’m texting, and not dragging you off to the corner for tea and goss. Now spill.

  I sigh.

  You’re honestly asking me why I’ve never mentioned the chief’s cock size?

  Yep.

  I think that qualifies as sexual harassment.

  I frown down at the screen as I wonder how the man in question would feel about this conversation.

  Stop trying to distract me and spill.

  Seriously Amory, the man’s already intercepted an email. Do you really think text is the best way to discuss such a thing?

  This is a private, secure Telegram Chat that I’ve set to implode in 30 mins. Also, the man just strutted his stuff down the runway for all to see. I don’t think the chief is shy about his cock.

  Sigh.

  That earns me a frowney face emoji and a: Don’t sigh. Spill.

  I think about it briefly. The short answer is that I’ve never noticed.

  You’ve never noticed? I think we’re g
oing to have to get your eyes checked Seri. How could you not have noticed ?!

  I spend a few seconds searching in vain for an eye-rolling emoji only to give up when I can’t find one. How would I have? It’s not like he wanders around the office without his trousers.

  We should be so lucky.

  Amory.

  Seri.

  Seriously, you must have gotten a glimpse of it here and there. Men have erections like 100 times a day. I can’t think of a man in the office that I haven’t seen with a trouser tent at this point.

  My feet hurt so I set the phone aside in order to lever myself up onto the counter. When I’m arranged comfortably, I pick up the phone. How are we having this conversation?

  I think 100 times a day is a bit of an exaggeration.

  I won’t be distracted by nit-picking. You’ve really never seen it before now?

  “Amory. Amory. Amory.” No. I haven’t.

  How is that possible? It’s massive. You really would have to be blind. I’m going to make you an appointment with an optometrist to get your eyes checked.

  I laugh despite myself. My eyes are fine. I’m just not as sex obsessed as you are. Maybe I should make you an appointment to get your hormones checked.

  lol

  You don’t think constantly staring at the genitals of our male colleagues is an issue?

  She sends me a shrug. Are you asking personally or professionally? (I don’t constantly stare—I just discretely notice from time to time. It’s not like they can completely hide it.)

  I suppose that I should count myself grateful that you haven’t started discussing your fake boss’ cock with me.

  Well, now that you mention it, he’s pretty sizable as well.

  “How is it that you notice that and yet are completely oblivious to the way the man looks at you?” I ask my phone. That is information that I could live without.

  I have this theory that the sockets of his prosthetics stimulate—