Sometimes I felt as if I'd grown up staring at him. He had the neatest yard on the block. Precise flowerbeds, everything freshly painted. His garbage cans always had their lids. His car was always washed and waxed. Every once in a while he'd have a party, with great music and lots of laughing people. At first, I didn't know what I felt when I stared at him. Later, when I did know, nothing changed because I knew I'd sprout wings and fly before I'd get up the nerve to go speak to him. A lot happened my freshman year in college that changed my outlook on things. When I came home for that summer break, I swore to myself if nothing else, I'd take a shot at him. And thus began my career as a sexual predator.

OK, in the four weeks that passed between my start as a sexual predator, and my actually doing something about it, I watched him through my bedroom window, just as I had so long ago. He didn't look any older. I wasn't sure how old he was, but his hair had that silver thing at the temples now. It was a thick chocolate brown all over his head, except for at the temples, where it was thick silver. His body was great, tan, slim and muscular. He probably worked out. I knelt next to the window and watched him work in the front flowerbed. He was on his hands and knees, his shorts pulled tight over his ass, his muscles rippling. I pulled my cock out and stroked it as I watched him, trying to remember how many times I'd jerked off staring at him, or his house, or a few times just at his car. I stroked harder and faster, and imagined his cock in my mouth, or my cock in his, or bending over and taking his cock up my ass...with him pounding it in hard, holding my hips, faster and faster, grunting and sweating and cumming all over the wall again. I looked down. I'd shot my wad all over the wall. Again. I laughed at myself. That was it. Tomorrow would be the day.
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Hard Studs