Good Neighbors--my lovefest entry
E switched off the overhead light in the kitchen, snapped off the two lamps that flanked the couch in the living room, and cursed under his breath when he tripped over the book he’d left lying open and face-down next to the recliner. Finally it was full dark, no illumination in here at all except for the occasional glint of moonlight off the glass breakfront or the silent television. He looked around the room for a moment, gauging his choices, then moved toward the black leather club chair that stood in the far corner. Gripping the chair by its heavy arms, he manhandled it toward the narrow, rectangular window that looked out over the side lawn. In the summer his view would be obstructed by the two oak saplings that helped to define the border between his lawn and his neighbor’s. Rather than serving as a fence, however, the trees represented his rather halfhearted attempt to cultivate this little piece of the world. But now, in the middle of winter, the trees’ spindly branches were barely noticeable. Perfect, because he had a very different view in his sights right now.
E settled back into the chair, extending his legs and crossing them at the ankle. After a few moments, he realized that his lower back was aching and his feet were freezing. A draft must be blowing in from somewhere. He found his way back to the couch, grabbed up a few throw pillows, and managed to stub at least three toes on the ottoman before getting a good grip on it.
Back at the window, he arranged his pillows in the chair, sat back, stuck his feet on the ottoman, and smiled to himself. At last. And not a moment too soon, it seemed. The show was just beginning.
A faint glow appeared in a window of the house next door-a rectangular window, the same shape and size as his own. The glow was faint and far away at first, as though a light were shining somewhere in the back of the house, but it brightened suddenly, with a nearly audible click, and E sat up a little straighter in the chair, craning his neck slightly to gain a better angle into the room he could see in the other house.
It was a bedroom. He wasn’t sure of the other house’s exact layout; it was a brick colonial, like his own, but the sleeping porch had been built onto the back, rather than the side, and the driveway ran past the house, ending in a detached garage that looked older than his.
In any case, the room E was familiar with was a bedroom, and here came its occupant now. He was a dark-haired man of about thirty, at best guess, who lived there alone but who must work long hours. He usually came home around seven or eight p.m., sometimes later on the weekends, usually alone. Though on one memorable night recently he’d had a guest. His voyeur, now nestled in a well-padded black leather club chair, hadn’t gone to bed himself at all that night.
Now the dark-haired man came into the bedroom and shut the door behind him, already unbuttoning his shirt. He must be a lawyer or a stockbroker or something, probably coming home late every night from the city, sporting a different well-cut suit each time. Tonight his tie and coat were gone, and his shirt was well on its way to the same fate, already open enough to reveal a solidly muscled chest, with swirls of black hair between his pecs and flat pink nipples just begging to be touched-or nibbled. He finished unbuttoning the shirt and yawned, scratching at his belly languidly as he contemplated a bookcase that stood to one side of the window. He reached up and selected a volume, turning it over to scan the back for a moment, then turning away, book in one hand and the other working at his belt buckle.
The man in the club chair drew in a harsh breath, gritted his teeth for a moment, then exhaled and pushed his hands down flat on the arms of the chair. E wanted to relax-and needed to get himself under control now-so he could last long enough to watch the whole scenario unfold tonight. His jeans already felt uncomfortably tight, however, and he had to grip the chair arms, feeling the cool brass studs that edged the leather pushing into the pads of his fingers, to keep from undoing his own belt.
Next door, things were just getting interesting. Hot Guy-this was the way E usually thought of his neighbor-had taken the book with him to his bed, which was king-sized and very cushy indeed, piled with pillows and covered in a dark green comforter. It stood against the wall opposite the window, positioned off-center so that the right side of the bed was clearly visible from the club chair, though a little well-timed craning allowed E to see any part of it that he wanted to. Hot Guy threw the book onto the bed, and let himself drop down beside it. His shirt was still on, though completely unbuttoned. He reached for the remote that was sitting on the nightstand and aimed it at the far left-hand corner of the room. This was the one part of the room E had never been able to glimpse, in spite of the one afternoon he’d wasted experimenting with some strategically placed mirrors. However, judging from the bluish glow that tended to emanate from that direction, E guessed there was probably an entertainment center of some kind.
Hot Guy was holding the remote up, angled toward the corner of the room, probably flipping channels. E was much more interested in his left hand, however, which had finally managed to undo his belt buckle and was now toying with the top button of his pants. The button came undone, the zipper slid slowly apart, and his hand came to rest on his bare stomach, one finger twining in and out of the dark curling hairs that ran in a tantalizing line down into his plaid boxers. E watched, mesmerized, faintly aware that his own mouth was hanging slightly open, as Hot Guy slid two fingers under the waistband of his boxers, rubbing gently up and down on the tender skin just above his groin. His tongue emerged at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes fell closed. The remote came to rest, forgotten, on the bed beside him.
E shifted on his chair, hyper-aware of the slick leather slipping under his ass. He leaned back, trying to make some room for himself in his too-tight jeans. As he watched, his hands shaking even as they gripped the binoculars, Hot Guy sighed, his chest rising and falling abruptly, and allowed his hand to slide farther down. His right hand, now empty, found its way to his chest, passed slowly from one perfectly sculpted pec to the other. The pad of his thumb stroked first one nipple and then the other to stiffness. He shuddered, his hips lifting slightly from the bed, and E saw a tremor run through the muscles of his belly.
All at once, the phone on the nightstand shrilled, faintly audible even through the two windows. Hot Guy’s eyes snapped open, and he grimaced, twisting to one side to read the caller ID screen. Fuck, E saw him say, and he grabbed the phone and put it to his ear. He threw his other arm across his eyes so that E couldn’t really judge the tenor of the conversation, but his lips were pressed into a tight line. It didn’t look good, whatever it was. After a few minutes he pulled the phone away again, looked at it for a moment, then chucked it across the room.
E held his breath, waiting for his earlier activities to resume, but this was not to be. Hot Guy got up and stalked out of the room, pants and shirt open but hands clenched at his sides. E closed his eyes, trying to sustain his fantasy alone for the time being, remembering the tenting in Hot Guy’s boxers, the slow glide of fingers against skin, the obvious pleasure he felt while touching himself. He ran a hand through his hair, moved it slowly down his body from the base of his throat, across his chest, trailing a gentle nail across his left nipple, down his stomach, feeling the firm muscles beneath the skin, lingering just above the waist of his jeans. As he began to unbutton his fly, his other hand found its place on his inner thigh, rubbing soft circles as it moved higher and higher. His legs relaxed, opening wider as one hand crept toward its prize inside his pants while the other cupped his balls from outside and massaged gently. His hand grasped his shaft, began to stroke, almost tentatively at first, then with growing eagerness as heat built in his belly.
E was right on the verge, wild tendrils of pleasure just beginning to shoot through his body, when he glimpsed a sudden movement through his half-closed eyelids. Hot Guy was back. E’s left hand stilled. With his right, he pulled himself upright again. His neighbor had returned with what looked like a pretty hefty shot of whiskey. Tilting his head back, Hot Guy swigged most of the glass’s contents, blew out a quick breath, and tipped the glass up to get the rest. A single amber drop trembled, clear as desire, at the corner of his mouth, until his pink tongue darted out to retrieve it.
Hot Guy set the glass on his nightstand, then fell onto the bed again. His eyes were already closed. He reached for the glass again, his mouth curving upward into a private smile, and tipped it up to chase the last few drops of melting ice. An ice cube fell out, landing on his chest. E could almost hear the surprised noise that Hot Guy made, flinching upward and grabbing at the offending object. However, once his fingers closed over it, he seemed to change his mind. He brought the ice to his mouth and licked it once, carefully, then trailed it over his lips, outlining them with the slippery wetness until they were both red and gleaming, fuller than ever. The ice slipped farther down, then farther still, tracing a shiny path down his neck to his chest. He rubbed the ice in circles around his nipples, chafing them until they both stood out stiffly. Abandoning the ice for a moment, Hot Guy rolled the swollen nubs between thumbs and forefingers, pinching and teasing until his mouth fell open and his hips flexed upward again.
E watched, transfixed, as the ice slid, apparently forgotten, right down the center of the heaving chest, the flat belly, until it hovered at the waistband of Hot Guy’s boxers. Hot Guy rubbed the palms of both hands over his chest, massaging the flesh in tight circles, then moved his hands gradually down the length of his body. He pushed his boxers and pants down to mid-thigh in one fluid gesture, using both hands, then gasped when the last thin sliver of ice made contact with his groin.
E bent forward at the waist, his own straining need forgotten for the moment, pushing the binoculars out in front of him until they hit the glass window with a soft clink.
Hot Guy shoved one hand between his legs, squeezing and pulling on his rigid cock, moving his hand up and down with a rough kind of grace. The other hand slid along his inner thigh, teasing at the secret crease where leg met groin and then coming around to cradle his balls.
E was torn. Keep watching, piling up hot material for his future fantasies, or relieve his own pressing need? His eyes were open, the binoculars bruising the bones of his face, but he couldn’t stop his free hand from sliding down the front of his jeans. He spread his legs, slid his hand down his dick, and groaned aloud with the pure hot pleasure surging through his lower belly. His hand moved faster, stroking and tugging, until he couldn’t hold back anymore. His eyes closed, and he moaned through clenched teeth, emitting a long, low whine.
After a few moments, E remembered himself. Picking up the binoculars, which had somehow come to rest on one thigh during this little episode, he focused once more on the house next door. To his surprise, Hot Guy was now lying on the bed, his feet stretched straight out in front of him, in an attitude of total relaxation. His head was pillowed on one arm; the other hand played idly across his taut tummy, stroking and circling and caressing in all the ways that E liked best to see. His eyes were wide open. He was smiling. And he seemed to be looking straight at E.
E froze, unsure about what to do. He lowered his feet slowly to the ground, then pushed the chair, as slowly and quietly as he could, farther back into the shadows of the living room. He hunched his shoulders and slid down into the cushions, closing his eyes as though this might better shield him from the other man’s gaze.
After a few minutes, E finally ventured to open first one eye, and then the other. Hot Guy was gone. The bed was empty, no sign of his recent escapade other than the empty whiskey glass and the rumpled covers. He waited, holding his breath, ready to find out whether Hot Guy was even now calling the police to report his peeping-tom neighbor, or getting out the shotgun. But five minutes passed, then ten, and still nothing. Silence, and an empty room. E began to relax again, let his eyes close, and thought back to some of the sweetest nights he’d spent over the past few months. He could get himself back in the mood this way.
Hot Guy straddling a desk chair, pulled up to the side of the bed so he could peruse a stack of papers spread out across the comforter. He’d flicked open his belt buckle, pulled it through the loops, and thrown it on the floor. After a while the shirt had come off too, Hot Guy gripping the wooden chair back in both hands, throwing his head back, and rubbing up against the wooden slats. He’d thrust a hand down his pants and rubbed himself wildly, rocking the chair back and forth until E had feared he might fall flat on his back. The real cherry on top of the sundae had come, though, when Hot Guy sucked two fingers into his mouth and then reached around behind, stroking his crack and finally plunging them in, as far as E could see. He assumed Hot Guy had come at some point after that; he’d gasped as soon as the fingers went in, slid his own hand over the front of his still-buttoned jeans, and come so hard he’d seen tiny red stars bursting at the edges of his vision. He’d been too caught up in his own orgasm to pay Hot Guy much mind for a little while.
Yeah, that had been a good night. Or maybe
Hot Guy came in, wearing nothing but a pair of dark gray boxer-briefs-and a silk scarf, tied loosely around his neck. He lay down on the bed in his customary position but this time, instead of flipping on the TV, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. Waiting for someone to answer, he drummed his fingers nervously on his stomach, scratched at his right thigh, then drew a careful, trembling line right up the side of his cock-already standing up in proud outline against his shorts. When he began speaking at last, E could see that he was turned on immediately by whatever his partner in crime had said. He cupped one hand roughly under his balls, then scrubbed a hard line up over his cock, stomach, and chest. His palm circled over one nipple, moving in time with the short, sharp thrusts of his hips. A slow smile spread over his face, then he tugged on the scarf and positioned it over his eyes, pulling at the knot at the back of his head to tighten it. He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in the comforter, squirming and twisting to form a tangled nest of blankets just beneath his hips. He rode this hump for a while, clutching the phone to his ear, until things apparently came to a head-so to speak-and he dropped the phone, grabbing one tight buttock in each hand, arching his back, and shoving his dick against the bed. E, wanting a little of that action for himself, had jammed a random throw pillow down over his own groin and cried aloud.
*****
E opened his eyes, smiling to himself, ready to take in the sights again. He was pretty sure, come to think of it, that Hot Guy hadn’t seen him watching this time. He’d checked out the window angle pretty carefully when he’d last mowed the lawn in September; he was certain that no one could really see into a dark room at night anyway. And Hot Guy didn’t really seem like the type to mind being seen. Otherwise he would have probably invested in some curtains by now.
Suddenly a knock sounded on the front door. E sighed, tried to ignore it. Surely Hot Guy would be coming back any minute now; he didn’t want to miss anything. Maybe tonight he’d get to see the real deal. The whole package. Full frontal. Didn’t the Brits call it the Full Monty or something?
The knock came again, firm raps that refused to be ignored. Still E waited, leaning forward slightly in his chair, jogging his left leg nervously up and down. More raps. A pause. Raps. Longer pause.
Finally E settled back in the chair again, shifting his back against the cushions to push them back into the most comfortable arrangement. He pulled the binoculars off the window sill at his right elbow and was just about to raise them to his eyes when he heard the doorknob rattling.
“Hey!” a hoarse, unfamiliar man’s voice called. “Anybody in there? Hurry up, would you? This thing is hot!”
Hot? What the hell was he talking about? And, more importantly, who the hell was that?
At the door, E fumbled with the deadbolt for a few seconds, his hands all at once slippery with sweat. When he finally pushed the door open, he saw an envelope-probably his cable bill-lying on the mat. Bending down to get it, he was confronted by first a pair of dark green and brown hiking boots, then an appealing pair of jeans-clad legs, a tight white T-shirt . . . hmm . . . then . . .
Oh.
Shit.
“Hi!” Hot Guy stood there, framed in the doorway like a Greek god who’d come down to earth and shopped at Eddie Bauer, pizza box in his hands. “Noticed you hadn’t been eating much lately. I was afraid you’d be wasting away over here, and I sure don’t want that to happen. I’ve, uh, . . . I’ve gotten kind of used to seeing you.” He grinned then, showing off lusciously shaped lips and teeth bright enough to rival the sun, shifted the box to his left hand, and stuck out his right. “Almost forgot to introduce myself. Name’s Jack Twist.”
E settled back into the chair, extending his legs and crossing them at the ankle. After a few moments, he realized that his lower back was aching and his feet were freezing. A draft must be blowing in from somewhere. He found his way back to the couch, grabbed up a few throw pillows, and managed to stub at least three toes on the ottoman before getting a good grip on it.
Back at the window, he arranged his pillows in the chair, sat back, stuck his feet on the ottoman, and smiled to himself. At last. And not a moment too soon, it seemed. The show was just beginning.
A faint glow appeared in a window of the house next door-a rectangular window, the same shape and size as his own. The glow was faint and far away at first, as though a light were shining somewhere in the back of the house, but it brightened suddenly, with a nearly audible click, and E sat up a little straighter in the chair, craning his neck slightly to gain a better angle into the room he could see in the other house.
It was a bedroom. He wasn’t sure of the other house’s exact layout; it was a brick colonial, like his own, but the sleeping porch had been built onto the back, rather than the side, and the driveway ran past the house, ending in a detached garage that looked older than his.
In any case, the room E was familiar with was a bedroom, and here came its occupant now. He was a dark-haired man of about thirty, at best guess, who lived there alone but who must work long hours. He usually came home around seven or eight p.m., sometimes later on the weekends, usually alone. Though on one memorable night recently he’d had a guest. His voyeur, now nestled in a well-padded black leather club chair, hadn’t gone to bed himself at all that night.
Now the dark-haired man came into the bedroom and shut the door behind him, already unbuttoning his shirt. He must be a lawyer or a stockbroker or something, probably coming home late every night from the city, sporting a different well-cut suit each time. Tonight his tie and coat were gone, and his shirt was well on its way to the same fate, already open enough to reveal a solidly muscled chest, with swirls of black hair between his pecs and flat pink nipples just begging to be touched-or nibbled. He finished unbuttoning the shirt and yawned, scratching at his belly languidly as he contemplated a bookcase that stood to one side of the window. He reached up and selected a volume, turning it over to scan the back for a moment, then turning away, book in one hand and the other working at his belt buckle.
The man in the club chair drew in a harsh breath, gritted his teeth for a moment, then exhaled and pushed his hands down flat on the arms of the chair. E wanted to relax-and needed to get himself under control now-so he could last long enough to watch the whole scenario unfold tonight. His jeans already felt uncomfortably tight, however, and he had to grip the chair arms, feeling the cool brass studs that edged the leather pushing into the pads of his fingers, to keep from undoing his own belt.
Next door, things were just getting interesting. Hot Guy-this was the way E usually thought of his neighbor-had taken the book with him to his bed, which was king-sized and very cushy indeed, piled with pillows and covered in a dark green comforter. It stood against the wall opposite the window, positioned off-center so that the right side of the bed was clearly visible from the club chair, though a little well-timed craning allowed E to see any part of it that he wanted to. Hot Guy threw the book onto the bed, and let himself drop down beside it. His shirt was still on, though completely unbuttoned. He reached for the remote that was sitting on the nightstand and aimed it at the far left-hand corner of the room. This was the one part of the room E had never been able to glimpse, in spite of the one afternoon he’d wasted experimenting with some strategically placed mirrors. However, judging from the bluish glow that tended to emanate from that direction, E guessed there was probably an entertainment center of some kind.
Hot Guy was holding the remote up, angled toward the corner of the room, probably flipping channels. E was much more interested in his left hand, however, which had finally managed to undo his belt buckle and was now toying with the top button of his pants. The button came undone, the zipper slid slowly apart, and his hand came to rest on his bare stomach, one finger twining in and out of the dark curling hairs that ran in a tantalizing line down into his plaid boxers. E watched, mesmerized, faintly aware that his own mouth was hanging slightly open, as Hot Guy slid two fingers under the waistband of his boxers, rubbing gently up and down on the tender skin just above his groin. His tongue emerged at the corner of his mouth, and his eyes fell closed. The remote came to rest, forgotten, on the bed beside him.
E shifted on his chair, hyper-aware of the slick leather slipping under his ass. He leaned back, trying to make some room for himself in his too-tight jeans. As he watched, his hands shaking even as they gripped the binoculars, Hot Guy sighed, his chest rising and falling abruptly, and allowed his hand to slide farther down. His right hand, now empty, found its way to his chest, passed slowly from one perfectly sculpted pec to the other. The pad of his thumb stroked first one nipple and then the other to stiffness. He shuddered, his hips lifting slightly from the bed, and E saw a tremor run through the muscles of his belly.
All at once, the phone on the nightstand shrilled, faintly audible even through the two windows. Hot Guy’s eyes snapped open, and he grimaced, twisting to one side to read the caller ID screen. Fuck, E saw him say, and he grabbed the phone and put it to his ear. He threw his other arm across his eyes so that E couldn’t really judge the tenor of the conversation, but his lips were pressed into a tight line. It didn’t look good, whatever it was. After a few minutes he pulled the phone away again, looked at it for a moment, then chucked it across the room.
E held his breath, waiting for his earlier activities to resume, but this was not to be. Hot Guy got up and stalked out of the room, pants and shirt open but hands clenched at his sides. E closed his eyes, trying to sustain his fantasy alone for the time being, remembering the tenting in Hot Guy’s boxers, the slow glide of fingers against skin, the obvious pleasure he felt while touching himself. He ran a hand through his hair, moved it slowly down his body from the base of his throat, across his chest, trailing a gentle nail across his left nipple, down his stomach, feeling the firm muscles beneath the skin, lingering just above the waist of his jeans. As he began to unbutton his fly, his other hand found its place on his inner thigh, rubbing soft circles as it moved higher and higher. His legs relaxed, opening wider as one hand crept toward its prize inside his pants while the other cupped his balls from outside and massaged gently. His hand grasped his shaft, began to stroke, almost tentatively at first, then with growing eagerness as heat built in his belly.
E was right on the verge, wild tendrils of pleasure just beginning to shoot through his body, when he glimpsed a sudden movement through his half-closed eyelids. Hot Guy was back. E’s left hand stilled. With his right, he pulled himself upright again. His neighbor had returned with what looked like a pretty hefty shot of whiskey. Tilting his head back, Hot Guy swigged most of the glass’s contents, blew out a quick breath, and tipped the glass up to get the rest. A single amber drop trembled, clear as desire, at the corner of his mouth, until his pink tongue darted out to retrieve it.
Hot Guy set the glass on his nightstand, then fell onto the bed again. His eyes were already closed. He reached for the glass again, his mouth curving upward into a private smile, and tipped it up to chase the last few drops of melting ice. An ice cube fell out, landing on his chest. E could almost hear the surprised noise that Hot Guy made, flinching upward and grabbing at the offending object. However, once his fingers closed over it, he seemed to change his mind. He brought the ice to his mouth and licked it once, carefully, then trailed it over his lips, outlining them with the slippery wetness until they were both red and gleaming, fuller than ever. The ice slipped farther down, then farther still, tracing a shiny path down his neck to his chest. He rubbed the ice in circles around his nipples, chafing them until they both stood out stiffly. Abandoning the ice for a moment, Hot Guy rolled the swollen nubs between thumbs and forefingers, pinching and teasing until his mouth fell open and his hips flexed upward again.
E watched, transfixed, as the ice slid, apparently forgotten, right down the center of the heaving chest, the flat belly, until it hovered at the waistband of Hot Guy’s boxers. Hot Guy rubbed the palms of both hands over his chest, massaging the flesh in tight circles, then moved his hands gradually down the length of his body. He pushed his boxers and pants down to mid-thigh in one fluid gesture, using both hands, then gasped when the last thin sliver of ice made contact with his groin.
E bent forward at the waist, his own straining need forgotten for the moment, pushing the binoculars out in front of him until they hit the glass window with a soft clink.
Hot Guy shoved one hand between his legs, squeezing and pulling on his rigid cock, moving his hand up and down with a rough kind of grace. The other hand slid along his inner thigh, teasing at the secret crease where leg met groin and then coming around to cradle his balls.
E was torn. Keep watching, piling up hot material for his future fantasies, or relieve his own pressing need? His eyes were open, the binoculars bruising the bones of his face, but he couldn’t stop his free hand from sliding down the front of his jeans. He spread his legs, slid his hand down his dick, and groaned aloud with the pure hot pleasure surging through his lower belly. His hand moved faster, stroking and tugging, until he couldn’t hold back anymore. His eyes closed, and he moaned through clenched teeth, emitting a long, low whine.
After a few moments, E remembered himself. Picking up the binoculars, which had somehow come to rest on one thigh during this little episode, he focused once more on the house next door. To his surprise, Hot Guy was now lying on the bed, his feet stretched straight out in front of him, in an attitude of total relaxation. His head was pillowed on one arm; the other hand played idly across his taut tummy, stroking and circling and caressing in all the ways that E liked best to see. His eyes were wide open. He was smiling. And he seemed to be looking straight at E.
E froze, unsure about what to do. He lowered his feet slowly to the ground, then pushed the chair, as slowly and quietly as he could, farther back into the shadows of the living room. He hunched his shoulders and slid down into the cushions, closing his eyes as though this might better shield him from the other man’s gaze.
After a few minutes, E finally ventured to open first one eye, and then the other. Hot Guy was gone. The bed was empty, no sign of his recent escapade other than the empty whiskey glass and the rumpled covers. He waited, holding his breath, ready to find out whether Hot Guy was even now calling the police to report his peeping-tom neighbor, or getting out the shotgun. But five minutes passed, then ten, and still nothing. Silence, and an empty room. E began to relax again, let his eyes close, and thought back to some of the sweetest nights he’d spent over the past few months. He could get himself back in the mood this way.
Hot Guy straddling a desk chair, pulled up to the side of the bed so he could peruse a stack of papers spread out across the comforter. He’d flicked open his belt buckle, pulled it through the loops, and thrown it on the floor. After a while the shirt had come off too, Hot Guy gripping the wooden chair back in both hands, throwing his head back, and rubbing up against the wooden slats. He’d thrust a hand down his pants and rubbed himself wildly, rocking the chair back and forth until E had feared he might fall flat on his back. The real cherry on top of the sundae had come, though, when Hot Guy sucked two fingers into his mouth and then reached around behind, stroking his crack and finally plunging them in, as far as E could see. He assumed Hot Guy had come at some point after that; he’d gasped as soon as the fingers went in, slid his own hand over the front of his still-buttoned jeans, and come so hard he’d seen tiny red stars bursting at the edges of his vision. He’d been too caught up in his own orgasm to pay Hot Guy much mind for a little while.
Yeah, that had been a good night. Or maybe
Hot Guy came in, wearing nothing but a pair of dark gray boxer-briefs-and a silk scarf, tied loosely around his neck. He lay down on the bed in his customary position but this time, instead of flipping on the TV, he picked up the phone and dialed a number. Waiting for someone to answer, he drummed his fingers nervously on his stomach, scratched at his right thigh, then drew a careful, trembling line right up the side of his cock-already standing up in proud outline against his shorts. When he began speaking at last, E could see that he was turned on immediately by whatever his partner in crime had said. He cupped one hand roughly under his balls, then scrubbed a hard line up over his cock, stomach, and chest. His palm circled over one nipple, moving in time with the short, sharp thrusts of his hips. A slow smile spread over his face, then he tugged on the scarf and positioned it over his eyes, pulling at the knot at the back of his head to tighten it. He rolled over onto his stomach and buried his face in the comforter, squirming and twisting to form a tangled nest of blankets just beneath his hips. He rode this hump for a while, clutching the phone to his ear, until things apparently came to a head-so to speak-and he dropped the phone, grabbing one tight buttock in each hand, arching his back, and shoving his dick against the bed. E, wanting a little of that action for himself, had jammed a random throw pillow down over his own groin and cried aloud.
*****
E opened his eyes, smiling to himself, ready to take in the sights again. He was pretty sure, come to think of it, that Hot Guy hadn’t seen him watching this time. He’d checked out the window angle pretty carefully when he’d last mowed the lawn in September; he was certain that no one could really see into a dark room at night anyway. And Hot Guy didn’t really seem like the type to mind being seen. Otherwise he would have probably invested in some curtains by now.
Suddenly a knock sounded on the front door. E sighed, tried to ignore it. Surely Hot Guy would be coming back any minute now; he didn’t want to miss anything. Maybe tonight he’d get to see the real deal. The whole package. Full frontal. Didn’t the Brits call it the Full Monty or something?
The knock came again, firm raps that refused to be ignored. Still E waited, leaning forward slightly in his chair, jogging his left leg nervously up and down. More raps. A pause. Raps. Longer pause.
Finally E settled back in the chair again, shifting his back against the cushions to push them back into the most comfortable arrangement. He pulled the binoculars off the window sill at his right elbow and was just about to raise them to his eyes when he heard the doorknob rattling.
“Hey!” a hoarse, unfamiliar man’s voice called. “Anybody in there? Hurry up, would you? This thing is hot!”
Hot? What the hell was he talking about? And, more importantly, who the hell was that?
At the door, E fumbled with the deadbolt for a few seconds, his hands all at once slippery with sweat. When he finally pushed the door open, he saw an envelope-probably his cable bill-lying on the mat. Bending down to get it, he was confronted by first a pair of dark green and brown hiking boots, then an appealing pair of jeans-clad legs, a tight white T-shirt . . . hmm . . . then . . .
Oh.
Shit.
“Hi!” Hot Guy stood there, framed in the doorway like a Greek god who’d come down to earth and shopped at Eddie Bauer, pizza box in his hands. “Noticed you hadn’t been eating much lately. I was afraid you’d be wasting away over here, and I sure don’t want that to happen. I’ve, uh, . . . I’ve gotten kind of used to seeing you.” He grinned then, showing off lusciously shaped lips and teeth bright enough to rival the sun, shifted the box to his left hand, and stuck out his right. “Almost forgot to introduce myself. Name’s Jack Twist.”