Leo sends Adam a filthy video that pushes his “straight” neighbor over the edge and straight to Leo’s door. Without a word, Adam lets Leo drop to his knees and take his cock, while Chris watches from the bed. What begins as a slow, wet blowjob turns into a full-on spit-drenched face-fuck, with Adam using Leo’s throat while Chris tongue-fucks him from behind. It’s messy, wild, and ends with Leo taking two loads at once; one in his mouth, one deep in his ass.
Adam meant it when he said “Dude,,You have to like… blow me every single day after work.”
I’m not even sure how it became routine. Monday to Friday, I gave Adam the kind of stress relief most guys only dream about. He’d get home from work around six-thirty. Still in his dress socks, tie loose, chest rising under that tight undershirt as he stood in front of the window, always in his trunks, like it was our unspoken signal.
The first day, he texted: “I’m at the window.”
And like a trained dog, I was out my door, across the alley, knocking on his door. No questions. Just heat.
I dropped to my knees. He didn’t have to say a word. I sucked him off like it was my last meal. Hands on his thighs. My nose buried against him. Swallowing everything. And when I left, I could still taste him on my tongue.
It only took one text on Monday for me to learn his routine. By Tuesday, I was already waiting, casually glancing at the clock around 6:30, pretending I wasn’t checking the alley window every other minute. And sure enough, there he was....late by three minutes, but still in those same Calvin Klein trunks, still leaning against the sill like he owned me. He didn’t text. He didn’t have to.
By Wednesday, it was Pavlovian. I was already half-hard before I even knocked on his door.
By Thursday, I started to get cocky with it. Pushed deeper. Let him fuck my throat, gag me a little, moan against him just to feel him twitch. He never talked much during it. Mostly just deep breathing, some rough grunts, a hand on the back of my neck. But that day?
He let out this low groan and whispered, “Fucking hell… you are my throat goat.”
I nearly laughed with his cock in my mouth. But also? That did things to me.
Friday was wild. He came so fast I didn’t even get my shorts off. Something about the way he was already half hard when I walked in. His hands trembled a little when he pulled me closer. I tasted him for hours after.
And then… Saturday.
I waited. Same time. Same place. Sat in my window seat, sketchpad in my lap but no real intention to draw. Just glancing across every few minutes. Expecting him. Needing him.
Nothing. Five minutes pass. Ten. Fifteen.
I check my phone. No message. I consider texting him. I even type out,
“You back?” But I don’t send it. I don’t want to be that guy. Clingy. Obsessive.
I mean i was definitely obsessed with my hot neighbor, but I couldn't show that.
Instead, I clean the kitchen. Fold some laundry. Dust the damn bookshelf like it matters. But I keep glancing up.
Still nothing.
By the time 45 minutes pass, I’ve convinced myself he’s ghosted. That maybe I did too much. Maybe I made it weird. Maybe I should’ve pulled back on Friday instead of deepthroating him until he collapsed back on the bed, sweaty and panting like I’d blown his soul out.
So I retreat to the canvas. My safe space.
I paint. Big, messy strokes. Reds and grays and this anxious kind of blue that makes my teeth hurt when I look at it. I’m not thinking...just moving. Just trying not to feel the weird hollowness in my chest. The craving.
Then I glance up again.
And there he is.
Adam. In the window. Fully dressed this time. Not in his work clothes...no. He’s wearing a black leather jacket, open just enough to show off the cling of his shirt underneath. His hair looks slightly wet. Maybe gelled. His jaw’s clenched, but there’s a looseness to his posture, like he just got back from somewhere loud.
And he’s not alone.
There’s a woman with him. She steps into view like she belongs there. Laughs at something he says. Tosses her hair over one shoulder and drops onto Adam's bed.
I freeze.
Suddenly I’m hyper-aware of everything. My unwashed paint-stained shirt. The fact that my tongue still remembers what his dick tastes like. The week I spent choking on him while he grunted and pulled my hair like I was just some toy.
My stomach knots. I watch, unable to stop myself. He offers her a drink. Her laugh is louder this time. She stretches her legs out, kicks her heels off, and when he sits down beside her, she leans in like it’s natural. Like she knows that space belongs to her.
I should look away.
I don’t.
My fingers tighten around the brush. Red paint splashes across the canvas. It looks violent now.
I know what this is. I’ve seen this scene before. Not here, but in a hundred different guys. “Straight” until someone’s watching. “Curious” until they get what they want. I was fun for the week. The convenient fuck. The secret. The mouth that doesn’t talk back.
She kisses him. It’s soft at first. Then deeper. Her hand moves to his thigh.
I can’t breathe.
I close the curtain. Slowly. Like it’ll hurt less that way.
I couldn’t watch the man I was obsessed with kiss someone else.
I sink back into the living room and throw on some rom-com. Something brainless. Something stupid. But the tears surprise me. Just one or two, sliding down while some overly attractive actor on screen delivers a line that’s meant to be swoony. I can’t even hear it.
My throat feels dry. Not like before.
By now, most nights, I’d be kneeling for him. I’d have his cock down my throat. I’d be swallowing everything he gave me without a second thought. My lips would be bruised. My knees sore. My chest heaving with pride and hunger and whatever the fuck this thing is that he makes me feel.
But not tonight.
Fifteen minutes pass. Maybe twenty. I’m not watching the movie. I’m just thinking about him. His mouth. His voice. The quiet way he groans when I take him deep.
I can’t take it anymore. I get up. My feet move before I’ve even decided. I walk to the window. Gently pull back the curtain.
And there he is. His back to the glass. Naked. Bare ass jiggling.
He’s fucking her. I freeze. My breath catches.
He’s panting. Aggressive. His hips driving forward in rough, deep strokes. She’s bent over the edge of the bed, face buried in the pillows, her body jolting with every thrust. He’s holding her hair in one hand, the other gripping his own hip, steadying himself.
My chest goes cold.
That should’ve been me.
I should be on my knees. Or bent over for him. Or under him. Anywhere, as long as it was me. I feel it...jealousy. Sharp. Ugly. Hot.
I hate her. I hate how her moans are echoing through the alley. I hate the way his muscles tense, the way sweat drips down his spine, the way I know exactly what he feels like in this moment.....because I’ve felt it, tasted it, craved it all fucking week.
And just when I think I can’t take another second...
He turns. Looks straight at me.
A slow, deliberate smirk tugs at his lips.
Then, without missing a beat, he keeps fucking her.
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