My neighbor's cock was everything I imagined

I’m still recovering from what happened last weekend. I invited a group of friends over for a quiet get-together at my place, and of course, my new neighbors.

Music and laughter floated through my living room, but my eyes were glued to him. I watched him laugh, with his arm around his girlfriend’s shoulders, but every so often, his gaze would meet mine and it was like a flash of lightning, a tacit and dangerous agreement that electrified the air between us.

The tension became unbearable. Using the excuse of touching up my makeup, I slipped away to my bathroom. My heart was hammering in my chest, at my temples, between my legs. Before I could close the door, a shadow filled the frame. It was him. Without a word, he stepped in and slammed it shut, the noise drowned out by the music. There were no questions, no explanations. His lips found mine with an animal urgency, and my hands gripped his shoulders so I wouldn’t fall. His kisses tasted of beer and pure desire, and I felt the dampness instantly soak through my panties.

He broke the kiss, panting, and his dark eyes, filled with lust, dropped to my swollen lips. “I want to feel that little mouth,” he growled, and his fingers tangled in my hair, guiding me with a firmness that brooked no refusal. I didn’t think, I didn’t want to. I let myself be carried away, sliding to my knees on the cold tiled floor. My trembling hands opened his belt and the zipper of his jeans.

When his cock sprang free, I held my breath. It was everything I had imagined in my wettest fantasies: thick, throbbing, with prominent veins running along its imposing length. A drop beaded at the tip, and I, unable to help myself, lunged for it.

I tasted it first, a long, dirty lick from the tip, savoring his salty, masculine taste. He let out a guttural groan and buried his hands deeper in my hair. “Yeah, like that. Take it all.” And I did. I took it all in, feeling it hit the back of my throat, triggering immediate gags that only seemed to excite him more.

Tears welled in my eyes as I worked on his shaft with a desperation I didn’t know I had, bobbing up and down, willingly choking on his flesh, sucking it as if my life depended on it. I heard his ragged moans, his obscene words, and each one was fuel to my fire.

“I’m gonna cum,” he announced, his voice broken. I tried to pull away, but his hands held me firmly in place. “No, stay there. I want to see my cum on your tits.” A hot, thick stream hit my cleavage, splattering my skin, my neck, my chin. I knelt there, panting and stained, watching as he adjusted his clothes. He winked at me, a vulgar and delicious gesture, and walked out of the bathroom as if nothing had happened.

The hangover the next morning wasn’t just from the alcohol. It was from the sound that came through my thin bedroom wall. The high-pitched moans of his damn girlfriend, his grunts, the rhythmic, frantic knocking of their headboard against the wall. I closed my eyes, squeezed my legs together, and brought my fingers to my mouth, jealousy consuming me, but still tasting his cum on my lips, I brought my hands to my crotch and finished in a loud, rage-filled orgasm.

I’m already thinking about how to return the favor, maybe bring a guy (or two) from Tinder who will make me scream like a bitch, while he hears my cries through these damn walls.