My Married Neighbor's Hungry Ass Begs for Breeding

I had only been in the quiet cul-de-sac for three weeks when Mark started coming around. At twenty-eight and freshly single, I figured the suburbs would be a boring reset after the chaos of city life. I was wrong. My next-door neighbor changed everything the first time he knocked on my door with a six-pack and that easy, straight-guy grin.

Mark was thirty-two, built like the construction worker he was—thick arms, broad chest, and a solid ass that his worn jeans never quite hid. He had a wife, Lauren, who traveled constantly for her pharmaceutical sales job. That first evening we drank on my back patio while the sun went down, talking about sports, tools, and how quiet the neighborhood got after nine. His eyes kept drifting to my mouth, then lower. When he clapped me on the shoulder on his way out, his hand lingered a second too long. The tension was instant, thick, and unspoken.

After that, it became a pattern. Whenever Lauren’s car was gone, Mark found reasons to come over. Beers turned into whiskey. Conversation grew looser. He started making “jokes” that weren’t jokes at all. A casual comment about how tight his jeans felt. A story about a buddy who once let another guy suck him off in the army. Each time he said something like that, his cheeks would flush and his gaze would drop to my crotch before flicking away.

Then the texts started. Late at night, when I knew Lauren was in another state, my phone would buzz. The first picture was innocent enough—just the curve of his lower back in the mirror after a shower. The next ones weren’t. A close-up of his smooth, muscular ass, cheeks spread just enough to show a tight pink hole that looked anything but innocent. The caption always read something like Wife won’t touch it lol or This thing gets so fucking hungry.

I jerked off to every single one, but I never replied with more than a thumbs-up emoji. I was trying to be good. He was married. Straight-acting. My neighbor. The kind of man who could ruin my quiet new life if things went sideways.

That resolve lasted until the second Friday in August.

The night was sweltering, the kind of humid heat that made clothes stick and tempers short. I had the AC cranked and the lights low, nursing a cold beer on the couch when the doorbell rang. I already knew who it was. When I opened the door, Mark was standing there in a faded gray tank top and basketball shorts, eyes glassy, a half-empty bottle of Jack in his hand. The smell of whiskey rolled off him.

“Lauren’s in fucking Chicago till Tuesday,” he said, voice low and rough. “Let me in, man. I can’t… I can’t do this shit anymore.”

I stepped aside. The second the door clicked shut behind him, the air in the room changed. He kicked off his sneakers, took one long pull from the bottle, then set it on the coffee table with a heavy clink. His eyes locked on mine—desperate, angry, starving.