My Neighbor Jerked Off, Then Looked Right at Me

*All characters in this story are 18+*

I was painting in my room when I saw a hot guy directly across from my window. Literally across. Like, if I leaned forward, we’d probably breathe the same air. He was just moving in boxes, duffel bags, a fan that kept tipping over. I figured he was new to the building. I watched him unpack for a while, not really thinking much of it. Until he leaned back on the bed, peeled off his sweats, and let them fall to the floor.

And just when I thought it couldn’t get any better,
he stood up… and reached for the waistband of his underwear.

His hands moved to the waistband of his dark grey trunks, and just like that, they were gone. One slow, deliberate pull, dragging the fabric down over his thick thighs, the outline of his cock straining beneath the fabric until it finally slipped free, bouncing slightly as it stood tall and proud in front of him.

He wasn’t shy about it. My Neighbor's cock, thick and flushed, hung heavy between his legs. My mouth went dry. I couldn’t stop staring. His movements were slow, controlled—like he was letting me take it all in, letting me see exactly what he had to offer. He cupped himself for a moment, like he was savoring the feeling of being completely exposed.

Long. Thick. Loose at first but heavy, already rising. Veins like brush strokes—clean, strong, beautiful. Definitely a shower. Or in his case, a shower that was still growing.

Fucking art.

I should’ve grabbed a sketchbook right then. He should’ve been my subject. Lit by the soft glow of a desk lamp, framed in the boxy symmetry of his new place. His hand brushed along it—just once. Like even he had to admire it.

Then he sat back down on the bed.

No rush. No performance. Just casually draped himself across the mattress, pulled a pillow under his head, and adjusted the way his vest clung to him. Rolled it slightly up his torso. That’s when I saw them—abs, ridged and faint, carved with ease. The vest bunched around his chest, his skin flushed from the heat or the work or maybe the fact that he knew what he was about to do.

Left hand held his phone.

Right hand wrapped around his cock.

He started slow. No urgency. Just a few long strokes as his thumb rolled lazily over the tip. I mirrored him instinctively. Slipped my hand into my own trunks and tried to match his rhythm. I could barely see the screen on his phone, but whatever it was, it had him focused. Like he was sinking into it.

His grip shifted. His hips moved slightly. That thick length swelled in his palm with each pass, fingers tightening just below the head, dragging back down. He was stroking with purpose now, still slow, but heavier. Bolder.

I was hard as hell. Rocked slightly on the edge of my seat, breathing shallow, my brush forgotten in a little blob of violet paint on the floor. My cock ached in my grip. I didn’t blink. Didn’t move.

He adjusted his grip again. Switched pace.
I did too.

I couldn’t tell if this was real or some sick fantasy. He looked too good. That body, those legs slightly spread, his stomach tensing subtly every time he hit the base. His eyes flicked down to the screen again. His thumb moved like he was scrubbing forward in the video.

Then, suddenly....he stopped.

Mid-stroke. Just let go. Cock standing there, hard and heavy, glistening slightly from the way he'd been working it. I froze. My hand still wrapped around mine. Mouth dry. Not breathing.

He stood up. Again.

Still watching whatever was playing on his phone with one hand, he dug into one of the open boxes nearby. His cock bobbed with each step—fully erect, flushed, beautiful. I couldn’t look away.

He pulled out a towel and a clean pair of trunks. Tossed his trunks on to the bed like he wasn’t done. Like he’d be back. Then, he peeled the vest off over his head in one quick motion and threw it on the mattress.

And he walked away.

Just walked. Out of frame. Out of sight. Cock still fully erect. Swinging with each step like he didn’t even care. Like it wasn’t the centerpiece of the show he just abandoned.

What? No. No way. The good part. We were right there.

I sat there fully hard, pissed off, chest tight like I’d been edged by a ghost. He didn’t even hesitate. Just left me there hanging, with my cock out and heart pounding like a pervert in the middle of a gallery opening.

Minutes passed. Still nothing. My window was just… empty. A blank rectangle. The worst painting I’d ever stared at.

Frustrated, I let go of myself and reached for my brush again. Tried to get back to painting. Like that was even possible. I was mid-stroke...on the canvas, I mean, when I saw motion again.

He was back.

This time, with a towel around his waist. Hair fully wet, darkened and messy, sticking to his forehead. He looked fresher. Relieved. Like he’d just… finished. In the shower. Goddamn it.

He tossed his phone onto the bed and took a few steps toward the window.

Then he looked at me.

Not a smile. Not a smirk. Just stared. Straight through the glass. Into my room. Into me.

And then, he laughed. Just a little.

The kind of laugh that said:
*Yeah. I know you were watching.*