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The Locked-Out Neighbour

When a straight neighbour gets locked out of his house, who knows what it can lead to?
With a groan I slammed my almost emptylager bottle onto the table and stood up. I briefly debated putting on some trousers but then figured what the hell – if someone wants to knock at the front door ten minutes after I've got home from work then they'll just have to put up with me in my white Calvins and shirt.

Opening the door I was a little surprised. It wasn't some kind of charity mugger or local councillor garnering votes. No, it was my hot as fuck neighbour, Warren.

I could qualify that further:

My hot as fuck straight neighbour.

My hot as fuck straight neighbour with no shirt on.

My hot as fuck straight neighbour with no shirt on who my wife and I both want to fuck.

“Hi.” I managed to croak out the word. I'd barely spoken two or three words to him since he'd moved in a couple of months ago. My wife, however, had conversed with him a little more detail. Apparently he was some kind of builder and played a lot of football. He also fucked a lot. His bedroom adjoined ours. I don't think I need to go in to more detail, although historic echoes of his grunts rattled through my brain as my eyes picked out the sweat amongst the dark blond curls on his chest and the bulge in his shorts.

“Alright, mate. I'm sorry to bug you, but I've left my phone and my keys in the fucking van. Any chance I could borrow your phone and get 'em to come back?”

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Yes, no, not a problem. Come in. Please.”

I moved back into the hallway, and paused as he spoke again.

“I'll just take these off. Don't wanna be treading all kinds of crap around.”

I smiled. “No, thanks. I doubt the wife'd like it much.”

He smiled up back at me as he unlaced the black boots and tugged his feet out of them. I gulped and wondered why a sweaty football sock was making my stomach do the kind of flips that are generally reserved for, well, a sweaty rest of him.

“Phone's in there.” I pointed to the living room. “You want a beer while you wait?”

“Christ, yeah, mate! Been a shitter of a day.”

“No probs.”

I gently kicked the door round as I went into the kitchen. I grabbed my phone from next to the fridge and opened a message to my wife.

He's here. Shirtless & sweaty.

I didn't really know why I was telling her. I mean, she was hardly going to come rushing home from her weekend away and jump him, or somehow connive him into shagging the both of us.

Within seconds the phone vibrated. My mouth fell open as I read her reply.

You lucky bastard. Just remember – if you get a go, I get a go. Have fun x

I kind of grinned as I thought about what she'd said, and felt my Calvins get that little bit tighter. I hadn't ever spoken to him long enough to get any signals from him, and the sounds of his frenzied rutting that came through the walls seemed to be of the mixed sex variety. Was there any way I could …..? Probably not. I gave a sigh and realised that there was no way of hiding my arousal. I'd have to wait for a minute and try to think of something that wasn't the half-naked hottie in the next room.

Not helping.

I opened the fridge door and pulled out two green bottles. I twisted the tops and threw them into the sink – well, toward the sink – before closing the door. As I did so I almost dropped the damn bottles as he was stood there leaning against the fridge, smiling. The tightness started to return.

“Thanks for that. They'll be back in a bit.”

“Uh, no probs.”

“One of those for me, mate?” His head tilted slightly and his smile widened.

“Uh, yeah. Sorry. Shit. Here.”

“Cheers.” He angled the bottle toward me and raised it to his lips. His dark eyes were still locked on to mine and refused to let go as he chugged down three or four hearty swallows.

He nodded in my direction. “That also for me, mate?”

“Is what-”


“Yeah. I guess it is.”

In no time at all he was in front of me. I barely registered that he'd moved before I felt a gentle pressure cupping my balls.

He leaned in and, his tone husky, whispered in my ear. “You are fucking hot.”

My mind almost blanked out, full of the working smell of him, full of his guttural words. Before I could respond he'd slid away. Away and down.

He was kneeling now, unhooking and pushing my boxers down to just below my knees. Gently he took my swollen cock into his mouth, cooled by the lager he'd drunk. A curious glance showed me that he still had the half empty bottle in his right hand.

He began feverishly working on my cock, bobbing his head up and down. His free hand reached out and I felt his calloused hand rub and squeeze my balls. I could barely suppress the groan that crept out of my lips and my eyes drifted closed. A hand dropped to his head and stroked his hair, an act of intimacy that surprised me.

His sucking remained frenzied, he seemed energized and devoted to my cock. I began to think that he wasn't all that used to sucking dick, but then realised, as the slow burn begun in my groin, that he was going for fast and dirty rather than any kind of award for style.

With a jolt I realised that I was close to shooting my load. Very, very close. I knew nothing about him. Did he want to swallow my hot load down his willing throat?

“Oh fuck.” I spoke between gasps. “Where …. d'you …. want …. it?”

His mouth didn't leave my glistening member, but his eyes reached up to mine, and he worked faster and faster.

“Oh fuck. Oh fuck. Uhhh!” My knees quivered and I felt the first jet of cum leave my cock whilst it was in his mouth. His hand slipped to my cock and the remaining shots arced out and down onto his naked, shining chest.

He pressed himself to me. The cum on his chest plastering my shirt to me, the cum in his mouth mixing with our saliva as he thrust his tongue into my mouth. His mouth moved along my jaw and to my neck.

His whisper again made my mind quiver. “Your turn.”

My hand was grabbed in his and he pushed it to his own hard cock, still straining behind his blue shorts.

Instinctively I gripped it, feeling its length and width, sliding my palm and fingers up and down, sliding easily along the silken fabric. I groaned as I knelt and pressed my mouth against the tip, licking and chewing his shorts.

The knock at the door startled me.

“What the fuck?”

I looked up at his tanned face and found him grinning. “That'll be my guys from work.”

My bemusement must've been obvious.

“With my keys and shit.”

The knocking came again.

“Oh. Yeah.” I stood up, awkwardly stuffing myself back into my Calvins.

“You busy tonight?”

“Uh, no.”

He grinned. “Good.” He pinned my chest with his finger. “We haven't finished. I'll see you later, alright?”

“Uh, yeah. Sure. I'll be here.”

Another grin, another nod. “Leave the door open.”

He put his bottle, still unfinished, on the counter and left the room.

I heard him open the front door, a brief deep-voiced conversation, a laugh, and then the door shut.

“Jesus fuck.”

I reached out and leaned, stiff-armed, against the kitchen sink. Had that actually happened?

Blindly I groped with one hand until it met a bottle. I bought it to my lips and swallowed the rest of the warm lager.

“Jesus fuck.”

This story is protected by International Copyright Law, by the author, all rights reserved. If found posted anywhere other than with this note attached, it has been posted without my permission.

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