All Male Fiction: Window Watchers

By: Unknown Author

"Hey, Pete, c'mere."

My lover moseyed into the garage, carrying his mug of after-dinner coffee, which he almost dropped when he saw what I was doing. "Jesus Christ, Sean. You said you were coming out here to get your gym bag out of the car, and instead, you're pulling on your dick in the garage. What's going on?"

"Just come over here and look," I whispered, beckoning him with one hand, while the other stayed wrapped around my man-meat, stiff as a tire iron.

I stood next to the car, peeping out the garage window, which overlooked the neighboring house. Back in the fifties, when these tract houses were built, people scoffed and sang about "little boxes made of ticky-tacky." They're still nothing special, and if Pete and I had been able to afford better we'd have done so.

Tastes haven't changed, but the moral climate sure has. While people in the fifties might have been shocked by what Pete and I were watching, nowadays they'd get off on it.

Lord knows we were. Pete had no sooner joined me at the window than he had his zipper down and was hauling out his delicious uncut meat, which quickly grew stiff in his milking fist.

"That little bastard," he breathed. "Just look at that meat."

That meat belonged to Rob, the current tenant in the rental next door. Rob works for a bank in the city, and you'd know it to look at him. He's the very personification of traditional American values, the stereotype of the young Republican. He's also a stud.

Twenty-four years old, or thereabouts, six-two or six-three, short black hair, blue eyes, and a build that shouts varsity football. That's Rob. Pete and I had been drooling over him ever since he moved in six months before.

And now we were watching him as he sat at his kitchen table, beating off.

He'd draped his silk tie and the jacket of his Brooks Brothers suit over the back of a kitchen chair and shoved his slacks down to his ankles. With legs spread wide, he was lovingly stroking what looked like eight inches of stiff, thick meat. Every minute and a half or so, he'd spit into his fist and spread the saliva over his throbbing dick.

With the other hand, he alternately rubbed his big, tight balls, caressed his muscular chest and belly, and flipped through a magazine - presumably a girlie mag - open on the table before him. Whenever he found a page he liked he'd stare at it for a while, then lean back in his chair, close his eyes, and jack off hard for a minute or two. Then, apparently too close to cumming, he'd yank his hand away and watch his engorged meat throb between his thighs.

Pete slipped to his knees right there on the cold concrete floor of the garage and swallowed my raging cock while I watched our handsome neighbor pound his dick. Of course, because he was sucking me, Pete couldn't see anything, so I had to give him a blow-by-blow.

"Shit, Pete, the little son of a bitch is so horny he can barely touch his dick. He's gonna pop any second. Now he's standing up. He's got that fuck book open on the table, and he's bending over it. He's holding his hand down on the table and fucking it like it was the cunt of the chick in the book. Holy fuck! Look at him flex those tight ass cheeks. Shit! I wish it were me he was throwing that power fuck into!"

"Uh-oh, I think he's gonna cum. He's got his head thrown back, and his eyes closed, and his mouth open, and his body is flushed all over and stiff and... my god! Look at all that cum!"

Rob squirted his sperm, so thick and white it looked like mayonnaise under pressure, all over his magazine. As he did so, his body jerked and jolted like a marionette in the hands of an unseen master puppeteer of lust. I managed to hold my own orgasm back until Rob sagged back into his chair and reached for a tea towel to clean up the mess he'd made. Then I grabbed Pete's head and popped a wad deep in his throat like I'd never popped before. A cataclysmic wad. A 1906 San Francisco earthquake of a wad.

And then, in fairness, I had to let Pete sling me over the hood of the car and pry my ass open with his engorged crowbar. In my own depleted state, I couldn't have handled one of Pete's specialties: the two-hour, nonstop, jackhammer fuck. Fortunately, Pete was so excited that in half a dozen strokes he was packing my ass with heavy cream.

By keeping tabs on Rob over a period of several evenings we learned that for some strange reason, he liked to masturbate in his kitchen, and he seemed to do it almost nightly. That meant Pete and I could enjoy our personal peep show several times a week. And enjoy it we did.

After a couple of weeks, Pete hit on the idea of bringing the cordless phone into the garage and calling Rob while he was jacking off. We didn't know his number, or even his last name, but a quick address look-up on the Internet provided us with the information we needed.

The next time Rob started to beat his meat I dialed his number. Through the garage window, we saw him get up to answer the phone, still massaging his half-hard cock.

"Rob?" I whispered, engaging the speakerphone so Pete could hear the whole conversation.

"Uh, yeah, who's this?" Rob answered.

"I've seen you at the bank," I lied, still whispering, "and... well, I'd like to give you a blowjob."

There was a pause. I thought Rob was going to hang up. Then Pete pointed through the window. I looked out and saw that the young banker's dick had bounced to full erection. Whatever might be going through his mind, what was going through his dick was a hell of a lot of blood, and I knew the hard-on would prevail over whatever scruples Rob might have.

"Is this a guy?" he asked.

"Yeah. You ever had your cock sucked by another guy before?" I said in a normal voice now.

"Well, I ain't no homo but I had a guy go down on me once in college."

Tell me about it."

"It was my roommate's brother. He came to visit for homecoming weekend. We got pretty drunk after the game. I woke up in the middle of the night with him blowing me."

"Feel good?"

"Great man, a blowjob's a blowjob, you know."

"I could come over and do you. I don't live far," I said and nearly dropped my teeth at what Rob said next.

Looking directly at our garage window, he said, "I know you don't. I've been watching you guys watch me for weeks now. I pegged you for gay the day I moved in, and like I said, I ain't no homo, but I love showing off my meat. I've been jacking off in this kitchen for months hoping you'd notice. This phone call is a great idea, by the way."

Pete and I stared at each other, amazed. Then at Rob, standing spread-legged, phone in one hand, dick in the other, grinning back at us across the narrow distance between his kitchen door and our garage window.

Finally, I found my voice. "Can we come over?" I husked.

Rob sounded sorry. "I wish you could, but I've got a girlfriend, so I don't do anything with anyone other than her. Just watch me jack off, okay?"

So, we did. With Pete and me on one end of the line, Rob on the other, I waxed eloquent, telling Rob how good my moist, sucking mouth would feel as it slid the length of his dick, taking him deep into my throat. He looked so close that it hardly seemed a fantasy.

I could genuinely feel the tautly stretched silk of his cock-skin as my lips glided over it juicily. Feel it swelling in response to my talented mouth. Taste the salty man-sweat of it. Sense the impending orgasm the way an American Indian could detect the distant approach of an iron horse by putting his ear to the rails: a slight tightening of Rob's muscles that turned to a spasmodic quivering under my roaming hands, a high-pitched keening that developed into a full-voiced, feral wall of pleasure as my lips beckoned him toward the brink.

Pete was sucking me, and I realized that my own body was mirroring what I was describing to Rob. I changed the focus of my tale, describing to Rob the almost indescribably delicious feel of Pete's veteran mouth devouring my fuck pole. Pete has a way of playing me along like a hooked fish, not too fast, not too slow, but eventually, he's got to reel me in; this time, as he did so, I shouted to Rob, "Fuck man, I'm gonna cum. My lover's makin' me cum!"

"Me too, buddy," Rob panted back. "Watch me, watch me. I'm gonna shoot."

"Shoot" was hardly the word for it. As my own cock exploded in Pete's mouth, Rob's dick spewed semen like water from a fire hose. I've never seen an uninterrupted stream of cum like the one he let fly all over his kitchen floor. Good-mannered kid that he was, he didn't hang up at once to mop up the mess; instead, he stayed on the line while Pete took my place on the fender and on the phone. My lover danced that delicious dick of his into my mouth for five good minutes, describing it all for Rob. Then he handed me the receiver, flipped me over the hood, greased his dick with some Goop he found on the workbench, and slid deeply into me.

It was an elegantly slow fuck, the kind of fuck you imagine taking place in an impossibly expensive hotel suite in Venice or someplace. And here it was happening in a musty suburban garage, with two horny bastards having kinky phone sex with the straight stud next door. I wrapped my legs around Pete and dug my heels into his ass, pulling him deep into me and milking his long dong with my ass muscles. He came like that, filling me to overflowing with his copious load.

And when Pete and I had recovered enough to look up, there stood Rob, outside our garage window. He'd stretched the cord of his kitchen phone over the short distance between our two houses and had been at the window the whole time we fucked, and was now peering in, grinning, holding the phone in one hand, and something small and square in the other. We looked closer. It was a condom, still in its gold foil packet.

"This," Rob said into the receiver, "is for next time."

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