I couldn't help myself. I'd never seen a man's body before, so I just couldn't help it. There he was, getting changed in his bedroom and I couldn't look away. I was rooted to the spot, watching from the window of my own bedroom. A voyeur. A spy. A peeping Tom... or whatever the female equivalent is called.
It's John; my next door neighbour. Completely unsuspecting and completely unaware of his hidden watcher, he calmly walked into his bedroom, pulling his t-shirt over his head as he strode confidently in. His bedroom, yes. His inner sanctum. His haven. The only place in his entire house, where he's guaranteed privacy. Free from the prying eyes of his parents, his sisters, his entire family. But not free from my eyes. And I can't tell whether it's this invasion of privacy or that sudden, unexpected... foretaste?
Yes. Foretaste. The implicit promise of more. I've seen bare chests before, obviously. It can't be this that caused the quickening of my blood, the catch in my throat, the surge in my... It can't just be his chest. It's the fear, the anticipation, the hope... the hope... that his jeans will follow.
He crossed the room calmly, dropping his t-shirt to the floor and opening up his wardrobe. A fresh shirt is selected and tossed onto the bed, and I hold my breath in fear that he might put it on and leave again. But a fresh pair of jeans was also selected and deposited by the shirt. He crouched out of sight for a moment, leaving me anguished and bereft before reappearing with – oh, yes! – clean underwear and socks. Oh, please don't step outside the range of this too limited frame, this tiny window into your private, private world. I want to see. I want to see everything.
He closed his wardrobe door and stood in front of the mirror for a long moment, studying his reflection. I wonder if he's being critical with himself. Studying his slim frame and wishing for more muscle, perhaps? Or admiring his upper body?
The mirror offered me a grand perspective – both front and rear, at the same time. His back and his chest are displayed to my own critical judgement and I reflected that while he possibly could use some more muscle definition, he doesn't suffer from the lack of it. He is lean and powerful. Like a cat, or... or a wolf. Yes, like a wolf. I had never before seen any kind of feline grace in him, but now I think that there is perhaps something canine in him. Slightly clumsy, but lithe with it.
With a half-formed feeling of solidarity, I unbuttoned my shirt to expose the front of my own upper body to the afternoon air, then unhooked my bra and allowed both shirt and bra to hang off my shoulders. My fingers skated lightly across my erect nipples. And I thrilled to that sensation, as he continued to undress.
He kicked off his shoes, then unbuckled his belt and slipped his jeans down over his hips. He continued to watch himself as he straightened up and stepped out of them, then kicked them away. His legs are strong and corded, I noticed and I thrilled to this further revelation. I know his leanness isn't that of a runner, because I never see him run. I never see him jog. But he walks for hours and hours. He has a dog the he exercises daily and he never, never, never tires.
I found myself staring at his crotch and I lick my lips in anticipation. He was wearing tight boxer shorts that fit the curve of his buttocks perfectly. So perfectly that from behind, he might as well already be naked. But in front... for the moment, I had to content myself with the sight of his penis, still contained within its pouch. Within its nest, I couldn't help thinking. The metaphor appealed to me. I could see how it curled outward and downward and I wondered how comfortable it was. And even as I thought this, he slipped both hands inside the waistband of his boxers and adjusted it. Rearranged it. Found a more comfortable resting position.
