My Dumb Himbo Neighbor

The week after our first encounter is... entertaining, to say the least.

Michael texts me constantly. And I mean constantly. My phone buzzes every hour with messages that range from innocent ("hey what r u doing?") to unintentionally flirty ("been thinking about our workout session 😊") to completely oblivious ("do u think my pecs are getting bigger? need ur opinion bro").

And then there are the photos.

Oh god, the photos.

Mirror selfies showing off his massive chest, his abs, his thick thighs. Close-ups of his arms flexing. And—my personal favorite—pictures of his cock with captions like "getting bigger?" and "u said to track progress right?"

He genuinely thinks we're just gym bros helping each other out. That I'm monitoring his gains like some kind of fitness coach. The complete lack of self-awareness is almost endearing. Almost.

I save every single photo, of course. Study them when I'm alone. That perfect body, those huge pecs with their puffy nipples, that massive cock that barely fits in frame. He has no idea what he's doing to me. No idea that every innocent text, every "bro" and "buddy," just makes me want him more.

I respond carefully, keeping my messages supportive and friendly. "Looking great man!" and "Definitely seeing progress!" and "Keep it up bro!" All while planning exactly how I'm going to corrupt him further.

Saturday evening, I'm in my room scrolling through Michael's latest batch of photos—shirtless gym selfies that show his pecs glistening with sweat—when I hear my mom's phone ring downstairs.

"Oh, hi Carol!" My mom's voice drifts up. Carol Richardson. Michael's mom.

I pause, listening.

"Oh, that's so sweet of you to think of him... Church tomorrow? I'm sure Jordan would love to... Yes, we'd be happy to have him join you... What time should he be ready?"

My heart rate picks up. Church. With the Richardsons. With Michael.

This is perfect.

My mom calls up to me after she hangs up. "Jordan! The Richardsons invited you to church with them tomorrow morning. Isn't that nice?"

"Yeah, Mom," I call back, unable to keep the smile out of my voice. "Really nice."

That night, Michael texts me: "so excited ur coming to church tomorrow!!! 🙏 gonna be awesome having u there bro"

I stare at the message, at those prayer hands emoji, at his complete innocence, and type back: "Can't wait buddy. See you in the morning."

I lie in bed that night thinking about possibilities. A church full of people. Michael in his Sunday best. The risk, the wrongness of it. My cock hardens just imagining it.

Sunday morning, I take my time getting ready.

I choose my outfit carefully: tight black dress pants that hug my ass, a crisp white button-up that I leave open just enough at the collar to show a hint of skin. I look good. Innocent but not too innocent. Exactly the image I want to project.

The Richardsons pick me up at nine-thirty. Mrs. Richardson is driving, Mr. Richardson in the passenger seat, and Michael is waiting in the back.

When I slide in next to him, I have to suppress a groan.

He looks incredible. Tight gray slacks that hug his muscular thighs, a white button-up stretched across his massive chest—I can see the outline of his pecs, the way the fabric pulls taut. His hair is styled neatly, and that gold cross necklace is visible at his throat, glinting in the morning sun.

"Hey!" he says, that puppy-dog excitement radiating off him. "You look nice!"

"Thanks, buddy. You too."

He beams at me, completely oblivious to the way my eyes trace over his body, lingering on his chest, his thighs, the slight bulge at his crotch.

The drive to church is short. Mrs. Richardson chatters about the sermon topic, Mr. Richardson nods along, and Michael keeps glancing at me with that dumb, happy smile. I smile back, my mind already working through scenarios.

The church is traditional—not too large, white exterior, stained glass windows. The Sunday morning crowd is filing in, families greeting each other, kids running around. We park and head inside.

The interior is beautiful in that classic way: wooden pews, high ceilings, soft light filtering through the stained glass. The pastor is already at the front, preparing. People are finding their seats.

"Michael, Jordan," Mrs. Richardson says, turning to us. "Your father and I are going to sit with the Johnsons up front. You boys find seats wherever you'd like."

"Okay, Mom," Michael says.

Perfect. Absolutely perfect.

We head toward the back as his parents move to the front rows where the other adults are gathering. The church isn't full—maybe sixty or seventy people scattered throughout. Most families are clustered toward the front and middle.

Michael leads us to a pew near the back, far from everyone else. We slide in, and I glance around. The nearest people are three rows ahead. No one behind us. We're essentially alone.

Michael settles in, his posture straightening, hands folding in his lap. He bows his head slightly, and I realize he's actually praying. Genuinely trying to be good, to focus, to be the perfect Christian boy his parents raised.

I watch him for a moment—the concentration on his face, the way his lips move silently, the gold cross rising and falling with his breathing.

God, this is going to be fun.

The service begins. The pastor welcomes everyone, and the congregation settles. Hymns are sung, prayers are recited. Michael participates fully, his voice joining the others, his attention focused forward.

I sit beside him, playing the part of the respectful guest, but my mind is elsewhere. I'm studying him—the way his shirt stretches across his chest, the visible outline of his pecs, the strong line of his jaw. The way his thighs press together in those tight slacks. The gold cross catching the light every time he breathes.

He's so focused on being good. So earnest. So completely unaware of what I'm planning.

I shift slightly, closing the small gap between us. Our thighs touch. Michael doesn't react—probably thinks it's accidental, just the natural result of sitting close in a pew.

The pastor begins the sermon. Something about temptation and resisting sin. The irony isn't lost on me.

I let a few minutes pass, then casually rest my hand on my own thigh. Michael is still focused forward, listening intently. Slowly, I move my hand to his knee.

He glances at me, a small questioning look, but doesn't say anything. I give him an innocent smile and turn my attention back to the sermon. My hand stays where it is.

After a moment, I start moving. Small circles with my fingers, tracing patterns on his knee through the fabric of his slacks. Still, he doesn't object. His breathing changes slightly—just a small hitch—but he keeps his eyes forward.

I move higher. My fingers trail up his thigh, slow and deliberate. I can feel the muscle there, firm and thick beneath the fabric. Michael shifts slightly, and I feel his leg tense.

Higher still. My hand moves to his inner thigh, and now I can feel his breathing change more noticeably. His chest rises and falls a little faster. But he doesn't stop me. Doesn't say anything.

My fingers brush against the bulge at his crotch.

Michael's sharp intake of breath is audible. His hands grip the pew in front of us, knuckles whitening. But he still doesn't look at me, doesn't tell me to stop.

I palm him through the fabric, feeling him start to harden beneath my touch. The thick shaft beginning to swell, pressing against the tight slacks. I stroke slowly, deliberately, and watch as his cock grows rapidly, the huge shaft snaking down his inner thigh.

It's so big it's visible even through the dress pants—a thick ridge running down his leg, impossible to miss if anyone looked.

But no one is looking. Everyone is focused on the sermon.

I trace the length of it with my fingers, feeling every inch. Michael's breathing is shallow now, controlled but strained. His face is flushed, his jaw tight.

I lean in close, our heads nearly touching, and whisper, "You getting hard in church, buddy?"

His response is barely audible, a whispered, "Jordan—we shouldn't—"

But he's not stopping me. And that goofy smile is starting to form on his face despite his words. He thinks this is a game. Something naughty and fun. He has no idea how far I'm planning to take this.

I continue stroking, my hand moving up and down the thick length through his slacks. His hips shift subtly, pressing into the touch. The gold cross rises and falls with his increasingly heavy breathing.

I glance around. The parents are all near the front, absorbed in the sermon. The few other people scattered throughout the church are paying attention to the pastor. No one is looking our way.

Perfect.

I make a decision. I'm going to push this further.

My fingers find his zipper. Michael's eyes go wide, and he looks at me with a mixture of panic and excitement. I just smile—that confident, knowing smile—and slowly, carefully, unzip his slacks.

The sound seems impossibly loud in the quiet church, but no one turns around.

I reach inside, my hand wrapping around hot, hard flesh. Michael's cock is massive in my grip, thick and pulsing with his heartbeat. I carefully, slowly pull it out.

It springs free, standing nearly vertical, the fat mushroom head already dark and swollen. Pre-cum is leaking steadily from the slit, and I can feel the heat radiating off it.

"Jordan—" Michael whispers, his voice strained.

"Shh," I murmur. "Eyes forward. Act normal."

He struggles to comply, his gaze fixed ahead but completely unfocused. His mouth is slightly open, his breathing ragged.

I need lubrication. I bring my other hand to my mouth and lick my palm, coating it with saliva. Then I spit into my hand—hot, wet spit pooling in my palm. I bring it to Michael's cock and spread the wetness over the thick shaft.

The slide becomes slick, smooth. I spit again, more this time, letting it drip down onto his cock, mixing with the abundant pre-cum that's flowing steadily now. The combination creates a slick, sloppy mess.

I start stroking. Slow at first, then faster. My grip is firm, my hand sliding up and down the thick length. The wet sounds start immediately—slick, squelching noises with each stroke.

Schlick schlick schlick.

It's loud. Too loud. Michael's eyes widen in panic, and he looks around nervously.

"Shh," I whisper again. "They can't hear. The sermon's loud enough."

But he's terrified and aroused in equal measure. His hips start moving, subtle thrusts into my fist. The sounds get wetter, sloppier. More spit, more pre-cum, everything slick and messy. My hand is coated, dripping. Some of it drips onto his slacks, darkening the fabric.

Michael is fighting desperately not to moan. His jaw is clenched, teeth gritted. Small sounds escape despite his efforts—tiny whimpers, sharp breaths. His hands are gripping the pew so hard it's shaking slightly.

The gold cross swings with each heavy breath. His massive chest is heaving, the shirt stretched tight across his pecs. I can see his nipples hardening, visible through the fabric.

His face is flushed deep red, sweat beading on his forehead. His eyes are glazed, pupils blown wide. That goofy expression is mixing with desperate arousal—he looks completely blissed out.

I vary my grip—tight at the base, looser at the head. Twisting my wrist on the upstroke. Thumbing the sensitive spot just under the head. Michael's cock responds to every touch, throbbing, leaking more.

I lean in close, my lips nearly touching his ear, and whisper, "Such a big cock. You're so hard in church."

He whimpers.

"Good boy, staying quiet for me."

Another whimper, his hips thrusting more obviously now.

"You love this, don't you? Love having your cock out where anyone could see."

Michael can only nod, beyond words. He's fucking into my fist now, his movements becoming less controlled. His balls are tight, drawn up. His breathing has become ragged, desperate.

He's right on the edge. I can tell by the way his cock is pulsing, the way his whole body is tensing. He's seconds from cumming.

And I stop.

Completely. Suddenly. My hand pulls away.

Michael's eyes fly open, confused and desperate. "What—Jordan—"

I quickly tuck his cock back into his slacks—still rock hard, still leaking, but contained. I zip him up carefully. He looks devastated, his hips still making small, aborted thrusts. He was so close.

I lean in close, my lips nearly touching his ear. "Not here. Too risky."

His confused expression—where else?

I let my eyes flick to the side. Michael follows my gaze.

There, not far from our pew, partially hidden in an alcove: the confessional booth. Old-fashioned, wooden, with a heavy curtain.

Michael's eyes widen. He looks at me with shock and excitement and disbelief.

I just grin—that wicked, confident grin—and nod toward it.

I stand first, casual, like I'm just stretching my legs. I glance around—still no one paying attention. The sermon is in full swing, the pastor's voice filling the space, holding everyone's attention.

I step out of the pew. Michael hesitates for just a moment, then follows. His movements are awkward because of his raging hard-on, the thick shaft still pressing visibly against his slacks.

We move slowly, trying to look casual. I lead the way toward the confessional, my heart racing—not with fear, but with excitement. This is so wrong. So risky.

Perfect.

I reach the confessional and pull aside the heavy curtain. The space inside is small, dim, barely enough room for one person, let alone two. It smells like old wood and incense.

I step in. Michael follows immediately, and the curtain falls closed behind us.

Suddenly we're in near-darkness, the sounds of the sermon muffled but still audible. We can hear the pastor talking about sin and redemption, and the irony makes my cock throb.

There's barely enough room for both of us. Michael is about to speak, his mouth opening to ask what we're doing, but I put a finger to his lips.

"Shh."

I don't waste time.

I drop to my knees in the cramped space. The floor is hard beneath me, but I don't care. My hands go immediately to his slacks, unzipping, unbuttoning, pulling them down just enough.

Michael's massive cock springs free again, and even in the dim light filtering through the curtain, it's beautiful. Still rock hard, still leaking, the head dark and swollen. Wet with pre-cum and the remnants of my spit from before. The thick shaft pulses with his heartbeat.

I wrap one hand around the base—it's so thick my fingers don't meet—and look up at him.

Our eyes lock. Michael's expression is a mixture of shock, arousal, confusion, and desperate need. His mouth is hanging open slightly, his breathing already ragged.

I maintain eye contact as I lean forward. My tongue extends, and I lick a long, slow stripe up the underside of his cock. From base to tip. Tasting salt and musk and pre-cum.

Michael's sharp inhale echoes in the small space.

I do it again, slower this time, savoring the taste. Then I focus on the head, circling it with my tongue, dipping into the slit to taste the steady flow of pre-cum. It's thick and slightly sweet, and I moan softly.

Michael's hands fly to the walls of the confessional, bracing himself.

I open my mouth wide and take the fat head inside. My lips stretch around it—it's huge, filling my mouth immediately. I suck gently, my tongue working the sensitive underside.

Michael's moan is loud—too loud—and he quickly stifles it, biting his lip hard.

I take more, sliding down the thick shaft. Inch by inch, feeling it fill my mouth, press against the back of my throat. I relax, breathe through my nose, and take it deeper.

The head hits my throat and I gag slightly. I pull back, breathe, and try again. Deeper this time. My throat opens, accepting the massive intrusion. Michael's hands are shaking against the walls.

I start bobbing my head, taking as much as I can with each stroke. It's immediately messy. Spit flows freely, coating the shaft, dripping down to his balls. The sounds are obscene—wet, sloppy, gurgling.

Gluck gluck gluck as my throat works around the thick cock.

I pull off to breathe, gasping, and strings of spit connect my lips to his cock. Then I dive back down, taking it even deeper. Choking, gagging, but not stopping. My eyes are watering, tears forming at the corners, but I keep going.

More spit, more pre-cum, everything slick and messy. It's dripping down my chin, onto my shirt, but I don't care.

We can hear the pastor's voice outside, muffled but clear enough. Talking about resisting temptation, about staying pure. The wrongness of what we're doing, the risk of being caught, makes it so much hotter.

Michael seems aware of it too. His eyes are wide with fear and arousal, darting toward the curtain every time I make a particularly loud sound.

But I don't stop. I suck harder, faster, deeper. Taking him all the way down until my nose presses against his pelvis, holding there, my throat convulsing around his thick shaft.

Michael's hands leave the walls. They go to his shirt, fumbling with the buttons. I watch from below, still sucking, as he opens his shirt.

His massive chest is revealed. Those huge pecs, firm but padded, absolutely perfect. They bounce slightly with each bob of my head. The gold cross dangles between them, swinging with his movements.

Michael's hands go to his pecs immediately. He starts playing with them, squeezing, kneading the firm flesh. His fingers find his nipples—already hard, puffy and pink—and he pinches them, tugs on them.

A low moan escapes him, and he quickly bites his lip to stifle it.

I pull off his cock with a wet pop, stroking it with both hands, fast and slick. Looking up at him playing with his own tits.

"You're so fucking hot," I whisper, my voice rough.

Then I take him back in my mouth. Deep. All the way. My nose pressing against his pelvis, my throat completely full of his cock. I hold there, my throat convulsing, gagging around him.

Michael's hands tighten on his pecs, squeezing hard. His hips start moving. Small thrusts at first, testing. Then more deliberate.

He's fucking my throat.

His hands leave his chest and go to my head, fingers tangling in my hair. He holds me in place and thrusts. Slow at first, then faster. His massive cock sliding in and out of my throat with wet, obscene sounds.

I gag, choke, but I take it. My hands grip his thighs for support, feeling the muscles flex with each thrust. Tears are streaming down my face now. Spit is everywhere—on my chin, my neck, dripping onto the floor.

The sounds are so loud: wet, desperate, filthy. Gluck gluck gluck mixed with my gagging and his barely-suppressed moans.

I look up, maintaining eye contact even as he uses my throat. Michael's face is a mask of pleasure—mouth open, eyes half-closed, that goofy expression mixed with pure bliss. His pecs are bouncing with each thrust, the firm flesh jiggling. The gold cross is swinging wildly between them.

His breathing is ragged, his moans continuous now, barely suppressed. He's trying to stay quiet but failing.

"Jordan—" he gasps. "Oh god—Jordan—"

His thrusts become erratic. His grip on my hair tightens. His pecs are heaving, every muscle in his body tensing.

I can feel his cock swelling even more, pulsing. I know he's close.

I relax my throat completely, taking him all the way. Sucking hard, my tongue working, my hands stroking what won't fit.

"Jordan—I'm—I'm gonna—"

Michael cums with a loud moan—louder than it should be, definitely audible outside the confessional if anyone was listening closely. But he can't help it.

His cock pulses, and then he's flooding my mouth. Thick, hot ropes of cum. So much of it. I swallow, trying to take it all, but there's too much. It overflows, spilling out around my lips, coating my chin, dripping down.

Michael's still cumming, still pulsing. Wave after wave. His whole body is shaking, his hands still gripping my hair, his pecs heaving with each ragged breath.

I pull back slightly, letting some of it shoot onto my face, my neck. Thick white ropes painting my skin. Michael's eyes are rolled back, his mouth open in a silent scream of pleasure.

Finally, after what feels like forever, he stops. His cock is still twitching, still leaking. I lick it clean, swallowing the last drops, my tongue tracing every inch.

I look up at him with cum-covered lips. Michael is staring down at me, completely dazed, that dumb blissed-out smile on his face.

We stay frozen for a moment, both panting, hearts racing. Michael's cock is finally starting to soften, but it's still impressive even half-hard.

My face is a mess—cum, spit, tears. I wipe my mouth with the back of my hand, lick my lips, taste him.

"Holy shit," Michael whispers, his voice rough.

I grin up at him. "Good?"

He can only nod, still catching his breath.

We need to get out before someone notices we're gone. I stand, my knees aching from the hard floor. Michael is still catching his breath, his shirt hanging open, his massive pecs on full display.

I help him button it back up, my fingers lingering on his chest, feeling the firm warmth. I tuck the gold cross back inside. Michael tucks his sensitive, spent cock back into his slacks, wincing slightly at the touch. He zips up, buttons, tries to make himself presentable.

I straighten my own clothes, use my sleeve to wipe the remaining cum from my face. We both look somewhat presentable. Somewhat.

We stand still, listening. The sermon is still going—we can hear the pastor's voice, talking about grace and forgiveness. No commotion outside. No indication anyone heard anything.

I crack the curtain open slightly, peek out. The church looks the same as before. No one is looking our way. Everyone is still focused on the sermon.

Perfect.

I step out first, casual and unhurried. Michael follows, still looking dazed, that goofy smile plastered on his face. We walk back to our pew, slide in quietly.

Just as we sit down, the pastor begins wrapping up the sermon, moving toward the final prayer. The timing is perfect.

I glance toward the front—the Richardson parents are still there, completely oblivious. No one around us seems to have noticed anything. We got away with it.

The service ends. People stand, gathering their things, chatting with neighbors. The Richardsons turn and wave at us. Michael waves back, that dumb happy smile still on his face. Still flushed, still processing what just happened.

I catch his eye and give him a knowing smirk. He blushes deeper, looks away, but he can't stop smiling.

As we file out with everyone else into the bright Sunday morning, Michael leans close and whispers, "That was insane."

I just grin. "That's what buddies are for."

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