My Married Neighbor's Tight Hole Craves My Relentless Breeding

I had only been in the quiet cul-de-sac for three weeks when Mark started appearing at the fence line like clockwork. At twenty-eight, I was the youngest guy on the block by a mile, single, and openly gay. Most of the neighbors kept a polite distance, but not him.

Mark was thirty-two, built like the construction foreman he was—thick arms, broad chest, and a solid gut that looked earned from years of heavy lifting. He had a wife, Sarah, who traveled constantly for her pharmaceutical sales job. The first time he came over he asked to borrow my circular saw. The handshake lasted two seconds too long. His rough palm lingered, his steel-blue eyes flicked down my chest, then back up. When he smiled, it didn’t reach those eyes. They looked starved.

After that it became a pattern. He’d lean on the cedar fence in the late afternoons still wearing his dusty work boots and hi-vis vest, talking about nothing—sports, the neighbor’s shitty lawn service, how quiet the street got when Sarah was on the road. But his body language screamed something else. The way he gripped the top rail until his knuckles went white. The way his gaze kept dropping to my mouth, my crotch, my hands. One Thursday he admitted it outright, voice low and rough like gravel.

“Been eight months since anyone’s touched me right. Sarah’s gone more than she’s home, and when she is… it’s just not the same anymore.” He laughed, embarrassed, but his ears were red. “Don’t even know why I’m telling you this, man.”

I didn’t push. I just let the tension stretch until it vibrated between us like a live wire.

Three weeks of that unbearable foreplay and then, on a humid Tuesday night in late June, the doorbell rang at 9:17 p.m. I opened the door and there he was in a faded black t-shirt and gray sweatpants that did nothing to hide the thick ridge already pressing against the fabric. His wife had flown to Dallas that morning. He didn’t even pretend to have a reason for being on my porch.

“I can’t stop thinking about it,” he said, voice hoarse. “About you… breeding me. Filling me up. I’ve jerked off to the thought every night for two weeks. I’m losing my fucking mind, dude.”

The confession snapped whatever restraint I had left. I grabbed the front of his shirt and hauled him inside, kicking the door shut. Our mouths collided hard—teeth clicking, tongues sliding, desperate and sloppy. Mark groaned into the kiss like a man who’d been drowning and finally found air. His big hands clamped onto my ass, yanking our hips together so I could feel the heavy, throbbing length of his married cock grinding against mine through thin layers of cotton.