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The first slow movement of his hand made his abs tighten.

The second made his head tip back.

I stared shamelessly.

I think it was that he’d always lived so close, but I’d always tried picturing what he was doing next door at any given minute of the day.

When I’d hit puberty those thoughts had taken a natural turn.

Which led to present day me, singularly fixated on the picture of him jacking himself off.

His hand was slow as he moved it up and down along his trembling length.

I watched everything.

His fingers tightening.

His hips making tiny involuntary movements into his grip.

The muscles in his stomach flexing every time his hand reached the base.

Finally I let myself reach a hand up, touching the tip of him with my finger.

His entire body jolted. He made another gratifying noise, and a bead of pre-cum appeared at his tip.

I wiped it with my finger and brought it to my lips, gazing up at him.

His moan was low and rough. “Can I touch you?” he asked.

I swallowed, then aimed my eyes back down to what he was doing. I put my hand out. “Use my hand to jack off,” I told him.

He stared at me for a second like I was actively trying to kill him.

Then he shifted closer, moving my hand into place. His hand covered mine as he stroked himself.

The skin of it was like velvet, and the hardness under it felt like a living thing.

It felt even better than the million times I’d pictured it.

My fingers tightened experimentally.

His breath broke.

That was fascinating.

I did it again.

He stroked a few times and I quickly saw the problem.

“We need lotion,” I mused.

He choked out a laugh, then his whole body froze. “We could use something better.”

I looked up at him, curious what his tone and words meant.

His eyes had gone dark.

“Can I touch you?” he repeated his earlier question.