He thought no one was watching.
He thought wrong.
Stretched out on a white and blue striped lounger on his cedar deck, wearing a red tank top, white knee-length shorts and a pair of grey basketball shoes. Brown eyes, black hair cut close, a long, lean body glistening rich and dark as oil under the hot midday sun. He was 32 years old, a self-employed electrician, no visible scars or tattoos.
The book he was sometimes reading, sometimes not, was Stiffen, by John Packer. A tumbler of rum and coke sat on the round white metal table next to him – on the rocks.
He cast a furtive look to his left. There was a six-foot-high cedar fence enclosing the backyard of his two-bedroom bungalow. To the west, a line of elms and the sidewalk and the street; to the south, a stand of oaks and a city park; to the east (his left), a neighbouring home. Seeing no one about next door, he covered the crotch of his crossed legs with a big, long hand and applied some pressure to what lay beneath. The book and the sun and his third drink in the past hour getting to the guy.
He grabbed the significant bulge in his loose-fitting shorts and squeezed, and rubbed. Grimacing, teeth flashing white and even, eyes squinting.
‘Nice day, huh?’
The guy next door, just stepped out onto his own deck to retrieve a blown-over table tray.
Leneal Thompson jumped like he’d been a little too careless with his own electricity. His right hand shooting up off the cable in his shorts and back onto his book. He cleared his throat. ‘Y … Yeah! Just getting some sun – enjoying it!’
The neighbour didn’t seem to notice the squeak in the man’s normally deep voice. He picked up the table tray and waved and went back into his house.
Leaving Leneal all alone again. Or so Leneal thought. He waited 30 seconds, then set the book down on the outdoor table, took a stiff pull on his drink, and then eased out of the lounger and stepped off the deck and onto the grass.
He lay down on the grass at the east end of the 18-inch-high platform, close to the fence, hidden from view of his neighbour now. He squirmed forward and propped his big feet up on the deck, then arched his butt off the ground and pushed his shorts down. Kicked them off his court shoes, leaving himself brazenly bare below the waist, his cock and balls exposed to the sun and the air and his hands; and my eyes.
His dick was blue-black, with a big, fat cap and a thick, veined shaft, five inches long semi-erect. His balls were large and heavy-looking, pebbled with pubes. He spread his legs slightly apart and settled down comfortably on the grass and grabbed onto his cock with his right hand, his balls with his left. And groaned.
His knees shook, as he tilted his head up to look at his swelling cock, stroking it, playing with his balls. The snake growing longer and harder and thicker in his slender, swirling hand; stiffening, straightening, filling his shifting palm and encircling fingers.
A minute in, and it was nine inches long. A solid liquorice stick that was more than a handful for most men, gleaming under the unblinking sun, polished smooth and rigid by Leneal’s stroking hand. He caressed it from tightened nut sac to shiny cap, tugging slow and long and sensual. His other hand squeezing and juggling his balls. His whole body quivering.
A Blue Jay landed right next to me. And ignored me, I had been there so long and so quiet. Waiting for just such a moment as this. My own cock in my jeans was as hard as Leneal’s, watching the man lovingly stroke his dong. But I didn’t dare touch.
He took one last look around his fenced-in backyard, and spotting no one, pulled his hands off his genitals and pulled his tank top up and off and away. Leaving himself fully naked, except for his shoes. His chest was smooth, nipples an even darker hue than the rest of him, engorged and jutting.
He re-gripped his cock and began stroking again, pinching and rolling his nipples with the nimble fingers of his left hand now. On his bare back on the soft, green grass, legs up on the deck, sun dousing his body, hands working.
‘Fuck!’ he grunted, jacking harder, fisting the length of his night-shaded cock. Rolling his head around on the grass and pulling his rigid nipples almost right off his chest.
Then both of his hands were on his donkey-dong, wantonly tugging, stretching the skin and twisting the cap, balls popping. He arched his butt higher off the ground, his legs and feet scrambling on the wooden deck. Staring at that huge cock he was urgently double-fisting, pointing, aiming the gaping slit at his gaping mouth, his pink tongue outstretched and curling.
‘Jesus!’ he groaned, arching, pulling, shaking. His left hand flew off his cock and around and under his hips, fingers digging into his clenched asshole. His right hand moving in hard, precise, piston-like strokes, base to hood.
We both jerked, as sperm shot out of the gleaming tip of Leneal’s hand-cranked cock. A long, blazing-white rope of semen that landed with a splash on his upper lip and hanging tongue, in his wide-open mouth. Another rope of come sailed out, landed the same. And another and another. Leneal’s tensed body jerking with every heated blast, his tongue getting striped with clean thick come, then washing his coated lips, throat working urgently to swallow it all down.
Until, finally, he could only desperately pull the jizz as far as his chest, then his stomach. The seventh shot barely making his bellybutton, his hand and cock and body jumping as one.
I let out my breath. As Leneal crashed back down onto the grass, his big hand on his huge cock not moving any more, just squeezing. A last drop of pure white semen surged up and clogged his slit, as his long tall body shuddered with the sweet aftershocks of all-out orgasm.
He lay completely spent on the grass for a good three minutes afterwards. Feet still propped up on the deck, body dewy with sweat, lips slick with semen, cock limp and long as a boiled eggplant.
But I was just getting started. Because after the dong-heavy man finally gathered up enough strength to gather himself up, climb back into his clothes and stagger back into his house, I waited two minutes more and then climbed down from the 20-foot-high branch of the large oak tree that bordered the back of his fence. I hardly rustled a leaf, swiftly descending and jogging back to my own home two bays away from Leneal’s in the Southdale subdivision.
There I used my photographic memory to graphically recreate the scorching scene, soaking in a warm tub of suds. I stroked and rolled and finger-pumped just as hard as luscious Leneal. And what I couldn’t match in propulsion and trajectory, I matched in passion and intensity.
The following Saturday evening, I was in the Klingman’s back yard, eye to a knothole in one of the planks of their eight-foot-high white picket fence. Their property was half-a-mile over from mine in the Southdale subdivision, their backyard guarded by a dilapidated Beware of Dog sign and a rusty lock on the gate of the fence. They were away for the weekend at their cottage on Beaston Lake two hours north of the city.
Next door to them, though, were Manny Quintero and Phil Jessup, home and very active. Manny was an accountant at a car dealership, Phil a city employee. They owned an old, three-story, lime green-painted house with a rectangular swimming pool in the backyard. Phil was sitting on the edge of that pool at the far end, legs dangling in the lighted water; Manny dangling in between his legs in the deep end.
The small male Hispanic, black on brown, was clutching Phil’s splayed thighs and kissing the bulging spandex crotch of Phil’s flaming red bikini trunks. The tattoos on Manny’s bunched shoulders glistened with water like the rest of his bronzed upper body, his skinny, braided ponytail trailing down his bare back, body and head bobbing in the chlorinated water.
Phil leaned back on his hands and groaned, pale skin glowing in the moonlight and stringed lantern lights; except for his chest, which was covered with thick whorls of brown hair. He was a six-footer, lean, with blue eyes and a bald head, pink nipples that I could still make out quite clearly thanks to my 20/10 vision, despite the fur on the man’s chest. His thin body spasmed when Manny’s lips hit an especially sweet spot.
The knothole was big enough for one eye, and that was it. And that was all I needed. It was four feet up on the whitewashed 1x6, so I had to bend down a bit, legs back and apart, one hand gripping the cross beam, one hand on the nearest post. It wasn’t the most comfortable of viewing positions, but it wasn’t the most uncomfortable I’d ever been in either, not by a long shot.
My cock went hard as that treated wood, as I watched Manny grip Phil’s skimpy trunks and slide them off and let them float away. Then rain down some more wet kisses – right on Phil’s big, bare, twitching prick.
‘Gettin’ a good eyeful, pervert!’
I didn’t move my glaring orb from the knothole. Phil had his hands on Manny’s damp, moving head now, the little guy in the water sucking some serious cock. ‘Why don’t you go bust someone for parking too close to the curb, Biltmore?’
That startled him. ‘What!? How’d you know it was me?’
Phil tilted his head back, his pecs jumping and arms shaking, fingers clutching Manny’s shiny black hair. The waterlogged guy’s head moving faster back and forth, his fingernails biting into Phil’s thighs. ‘It was either an elephant trampling through the grass, or you.’
‘Cocky sonofabitch, ain’t you, Hauer!’
Manny’s shunting head blocked Phil’s cock from my view, but I could well-imagine the heated suction, those red lips sealed tight around Phil’s veiny shaft, sucking hard and long and fast, tongue cushioning and stroking. Phil’s urgent moans and groans attested to the erotic strength of his lover’s technique.
‘I got you dead to rights, Hauer,’ Biltmore droned on. ‘Peeping, uh, tommery. First degree invasion of privacy.’
Phil was just about pulling Manny’s hair out, the floating man’s head flying. He shot his hands up and grabbed onto Phil’s clenched pecs and squeezed, pinched the man’s nipples; sucking and sucking and sucking.
‘Well?’ Biltmore shoved me up against the fence, almost popping my eyeball right through the peephole. ‘I’m making a citizen’s arrest!’ he declared, pinning me by the scruff of the neck and grabbing onto my right wrist.
I easily spun out of his sweaty grasp, anxious that his bellicose belligerence didn’t frighten off the lover boys next door.
‘Wanna play tough, huh!’ he growled, wiping his nose with the back of a paw.
He went through a series of what I assume he thought were intimidating karate moves. Straight out of the Steven Seagal movie catalogue – when he’d gotten old and fat and slow and direct-to-video.
And when Biltmore floated a right chop at my neck, I bent at the waist and pivoted, sent a short left winging into his liver. He collapsed like a deflated balloon.
Cole Biltmore, age 35, blue eyes and crewcut red hair already going grey. Big and bulky, ex-Marine, ex-deputy sheriff, ex-security guard; three ex-wives in the last ten years. Neighbourhood block cop, and bully.
‘You fuckin’-’ he gasped from his knees. Until I shot a short right to his left temple, and he kissed Kentucky bluegrass with an ‘Unh!’
I stuck my eye back into the knothole. The playful pair next door hadn’t heard a thing. In fact, while Biltmore and I had been dancing, they’d taken their sexy shenanigans to the next level. Out of the water now and on the pool edge, Phil laid out flat on his back, Manny laid out over top of the guy, a hard cock in each man’s sucking mouth. Wickedly 69ing in plain sight of my prying, spying eye.
I gripped the beam and the post so hard I almost drew splinters, lashes brushing the wood. As Phil gripped Manny’s taut, golden butt cheeks and craned his neck up and down, sucking hard and tight on the man’s hanging, bronze cock. Manny reciprocating in kind, gripping Phil’s thighs and dive-bombing the guy’s tall cock – face dropping all the way down into pubes and balls before pulling way back up again, pink pipe gliding out of throat and mouth and glistening in the subdued lighting.
I felt a fat, moist hand on my right calf, another crawl up my left leg and ooze into the waistband of my shorts. ‘Sten, please …’
I didn’t waste precious peeping time looking back at the grovelling man. Just unbuckled my shorts and popped them open, let Biltmore drag them down. His lips came hot and wet on my bare ass, a sweaty hand reaching in between my legs and grasping my rigid cock.
Manny had wrapped his own little hand around Phil’s cock at the furry base, was quick-tugging on Phil’s mushroomed hood and swollen shaft with his full-bodied lips. Phil slithering a pair of fingers into Manny’s asshole and pumping away, sucking hard on the man’s golden prick.
‘I … I’ve … wanted to … for a long time,’ Biltmore mumbled behind me. On his feet now, his Wisteria Lane stud act gone with the rest of his dignity. Like I knew he liked it.
He jammed his sausage fingers in between my cheeks and greased my crack with cool lube. Then replaced fingers with cockhead, awkwardly stuffing his stubby dick into my asshole. I thrust back as he stumbled forward, and his soft thighs splashed against my hard cheeks, his cock sliding deep inside my ass.
‘Oh, fuck yeah, Sten! Thanks, Sten!’ he bellowed too loud for my liking. Digging his uncut fingernails into my waist and pumping his heavy hips, churning his cock back and forth in my chute.
Manny and Phil were too far gone – too far into and full of each other – to hear or see anything or anyone else now, fortunately. Even with the white picket fence creaking and swaying in broken rhythm to Biltmore’s excited humping. They were sucking furiously on each other’s pricks, heads bobbing and lips tugging, mouths wet-vaccing. The heat and the pressure building and building.
Manny was the first to let loose, groaning around Phil’s cock, lips writhing and spit spilling onto shaft and groin, his buttocks quivering. Phil swallowing as fast as he could, snot boiling out of his nostrils and semen out of the corners of his mouth.
‘Fuck, Sten! I’m gonna come, Sten!’ Biltmore wailed by way of advertisement to the entire neighbourhood. Banging me almost right through the fence, his flabby thighs and belly smacking against my ass, cock surging. Then spurting away, hot semen pump-spraying my chute.
Just as hot semen sprayed out the tip of Phil’s jacked-up cock. Manny unmouthing the squirming man and rigorously jerking Phil to orgasm, his wide-open mouth just above the spunk-shooting slit to take it all in. Phil still swallowing and sucking, milking Manny dry.
‘I saw you up in that tree,’ Biltmore crowed afterwards. ‘And on the roof of Sid Goren’s garage. And in the Amundsen kid’s playhouse. I been trackin’ you, Hauer.’ I dusted off my hands and pulled up my shorts, not bothering to inform the big lug that I’d been easily aware of the fact he’d been trailing after me like an ox-in-heat; that I’d been impatiently waiting for him to finally make his move.
My job is high-tech, long-range surveillance, after all. My pleasure: low-tech, close-range voyeurism. And I’m an expert at both.