Neighbor's Massive Young Ass

Randy was fifty-two and had lived in the same ground-floor apartment long enough to know the sound of a U-Haul idling in the lot. He stepped onto the small concrete porch with a mug of coffee and watched the new neighbor wrestle a lamp out of the back. She was young, college-young, the kind of young that made his own gray at the temples feel louder. She turned, and the afternoon light caught a round, heavy face broken out across the cheeks and chin, acne red and clustered, nothing delicate about it. Her chest was flat under a stretched gray T-shirt. Her middle was soft and wide, hips thick, thighs filling the denim until the seams looked strained. None of that held him. What held him was the ass that filled those jeans from behind when she bent to set the lamp down: enormous, high, and round, two heavy cheeks that strained the denim into a deep cleft and moved with a slow, separate weight when she straightened. He felt his cock shift against his thigh and did not look away.

She caught him looking and gave a small, uncertain wave. “Hi. I’m Roxanne. Just moving in.”

“Randy,” he said. His voice came out rougher than he meant. “Next door. You need a hand with the heavy stuff?”

She hesitated, then nodded. “If you don’t mind. My friend’s car died, so it’s just me.”

He set the mug down and crossed the walk. Up close she smelled like laundry soap and the heat of a long afternoon. Twenty, she told him while they carried a desk through the door, a junior at the state college, transferring in for the spring term. He did the math without meaning to and felt the number land: thirty-two years between them. It should have cooled him. It did not. Every time she turned, that massive young ass swayed in front of him, and he had to remind his hands to stay on the furniture.

Over the next weeks he made himself useful and easy to talk to. He carried her grocery bags when he saw her struggling up the walk. He showed her which breaker tripped when the old window unit kicked on. He brought over a spare plunger the night her sink backed up and stayed while she ran the water clear, talking about nothing important—her classes, his shift work at the warehouse, the bad coffee in the building lounge. He never rushed. He learned she laughed with her whole face when something actually landed, acne and all, and that she got quiet when she thought a man was only being polite. So he stopped being only polite.

“That color looks good on you,” he said one evening when she came home in a faded blue hoodie, and he meant the way the hem rode up over the swell of her hips. Another day, watching her climb the steps ahead of him with a laundry basket, he let himself say, “You’ve got a hell of a figure from this angle.” She stopped, cheeks flushing darker than the breakouts, and looked back at him like she was waiting for the joke. He didn’t make one. “I mean it,” he said. “I like looking at you.”

She didn’t tell him to stop. She started lingering at his door when she returned his tools. She started wearing the jeans that fit tight across that enormous ass instead of the sweatpants. The flirtation stayed light for a while—comments about how he always seemed to be outside when she was, how she didn’t mind, how it was nice having someone next door who actually talked to her—but the heat under it was obvious to both of them. She was shy about her face and her chest and the soft weight of her stomach. He could see that. He also saw the way she stood a little taller when his eyes dropped to her backside and stayed there, and the way she didn’t tug her shirt down when it rode up.

One Thursday, three weeks after she moved in, he was changing the bulb over his porch when she came out with two mugs. “I made too much coffee,” she said. “You want to come in for a minute? My place is finally not a disaster.”

He followed her through her door. The apartment was small and warm, textbooks stacked on the coffee table, a blanket thrown over the couch. She set the mugs down and turned, and the motion put that huge round ass in profile, the denim pulled smooth over each cheek. Randy’s mouth went dry.

“I’ve been thinking about you,” he said. No more circling. “A lot. More than I should, probably. You’re twenty and I’m fifty-two, and I know how that looks. But I can’t stop looking at you. That ass of yours—” He shook his head, honest and a little rough. “I’ve never seen anything like it. I don’t care about the rest of it the way you think I might. I want that. I want you.”

Roxanne stared at him, mug forgotten. Her hand came up halfway to her cheek and dropped. “Most guys don’t even get past my face,” she said quietly. “Or they make a crack and think I should be grateful.” She swallowed. “You really mean it. Just… that.”

“I mean all of you, because it’s attached to you,” he said. “But yeah. I’m obsessed with your ass. Have been since the day you moved in. I go to bed thinking about it. I wake up hard thinking about it. If you want me to leave, I will. If you don’t—”

She crossed the small space and kissed him. It was clumsy for a second, then not. Her mouth was warm and willing, and when he pulled her in, the soft weight of her body met his and that massive backside filled his hands at last. He groaned into the kiss and squeezed, both palms spreading over the heavy cheeks, feeling how much of her there was to hold. She made a small sound and pressed closer, arms around his neck, kissing him harder. They stumbled to the couch. He sat and she climbed into his lap, straddling him as well as her thick thighs allowed, and they made out like they had been waiting the whole three weeks, which they had. His hands never left her ass. He kneaded it through the denim, lifted it, let it drop and bounce against his palms. She rocked on him, shy at first, then less so, her breath catching every time he gripped harder.

“Can I see it?” he asked against her mouth. “Properly. I want you bent over for me. I want to spend time on it. Only if you want that.”

She nodded, face flushed, eyes bright. “Yeah. I want to know what you do when you finally get it.”

She stood, unbuttoned the jeans, and worked them down over those hips with a little effort. The panties were plain cotton, pale, and they disappeared between the cheeks almost at once. She glanced back at him, still a little unsure, and he just looked at her like she had handed him something he had been starving for. She braced her hands on the armrest of the couch and bent forward, feet planted, back curved, and presented herself. The ass rose in front of him, enormous and round and bare except for that thin strip of cotton, each cheek plump and heavy, the cleft deep, the undersides soft where they met her thick thighs. Randy’s cock was already straining his pants. He got on his knees behind her and just stayed there a moment, breathing, both hands resting on the outer curves, feeling the heat of her skin.

“Jesus,” he said. “Look at you.”

He hooked the panties and drew them down to mid-thigh. The sight of her bare made his hands shake. He spread her gently, then less gently, opening that deep cleft, watching the heavy flesh yield and spring back. He kneaded for a long time, slow and thorough, squeezing each cheek until his fingers sank in, lifting them and letting them fall, watching the way they moved. He pressed his face between them and just breathed her in, nose buried, mouth open against the soft inner skin. Roxanne moaned, a low surprised sound, and pushed back. That was all the permission he needed to stay.

He licked her there for ages. Long strokes from the top of her cleft down over her hole and lower, until he found her pussy already wet, then back up again, unhurried, worshipful. He sucked at the inner curves of each cheek, leaving them shiny. He spread her wide with both thumbs and licked her asshole in slow circles while she gasped and gripped the armrest, then dipped lower and ate her pussy from behind until her thighs trembled. He pulled back only to look, to slap one heavy cheek lightly and watch it ripple, then the other, then bury his face again and groan into her. She was soaked. She kept pushing back into his mouth, shy little words slipping out—yes, there, don’t stop, God, your tongue—and he didn’t stop. He kneaded while he licked, obsessed and unashamed, mouth and hands full of the ass he had been fantasizing about since the moving truck. Time went soft. He could have stayed on his knees until his jaw ached and been glad of it.

When he finally stood, his pants were open and his cock was out, thick and flushed, aching. He ran the head along her wet slit, coating himself, and leaned over her back.

“I want to fuck you,” he said. “From behind. Just like this. You want that?”

“Yes,” she said, voice wrecked and clear. “Put it in. I want it.”

He pushed into her pussy in one slow, thick slide. She was tight and dripping, and the feel of her gripping him while that enormous ass pressed back against his hips nearly undid him on the first stroke. He held still, both hands sunk into her cheeks, spreading them so he could watch his cock disappear into her. Then he started to fuck her, deep and steady, the soft slap of his hips against all that flesh filling the small apartment. Every thrust made her ass bounce and ripple. He gripped harder, pulled her back onto him, and let himself get rougher when she moaned and asked for it. He slapped one cheek, then the other, watching the skin pink under his palm, and she cried out and clenched around him.

“That’s it,” he muttered. “Fuck, Roxanne. This ass. I’m not gonna last.”

“Don’t,” she panted. “I want to feel you. Come on me. On it. I want to see what you do.”

He fucked her harder, the couch creaking, her heavy cheeks colliding with his stomach on every stroke, wet sounds loud between them. The pressure built fast and mean at the base of his cock. He pulled out at the last second, fist working himself, and came in thick ropes across the broad curve of her ass—over both cheeks, into the cleft, stripe after stripe of cum painting that massive young backside while he groaned her name. It striped her skin and dripped slowly toward the small of her back. He kept stroking until he was empty, then just stood there, breathing hard, hands still on her, watching his cum shine on the ass he had wanted since the first afternoon.

He caught his breath with his palms still spread over her, careful not to smear it away yet. “Come here,” he said, softer, and helped her straighten. She turned in his arms, jeans and panties still around her thighs, face flushed and a little stunned, and he looked at her straight on—the acne, the soft body, the flat chest under the rucked-up shirt—and felt nothing but heat and a strange, settled affection.

“You have no idea how perfect that was,” he said. “Your ass is the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever had my hands on. Enormous, round, soft, and it moves like it was made to be held. I adore every inch of it. The way it filled my hands. The way you pushed it back into my face. The way it bounced when I was inside you. You made me lose my mind, Roxanne. You’re sexy as hell exactly like this. I don’t want you different.”

She smiled, small at first, then real, the kind that reached her eyes. “You mean that.”

“Every word.” He kissed her, slow and lingering, tasting coffee and the salt of her skin, his hands sliding down to cup the cum-slick weight of her backside again because he couldn’t help it. She kissed him back, pleased and warm against him, arms loose around his neck. When they finally eased apart she laughed once, quiet and disbelieving, and he felt the sound settle somewhere under his ribs.

He helped her step out of the tangled jeans and found a towel, cleaning her with more care than haste, still stealing looks at the way her cheeks filled his vision even when she was standing still. They finished the coffee eventually, sitting close on the couch, her thigh against his, talking in low voices about nothing that mattered and everything that did—her afternoon class, his early shift, whether she wanted him to stay a little longer. He stayed until the light outside went gold. At her door he kissed her again, one hand resting low on her back, just above the ass he already missed holding.

Walking the few steps to his own apartment, Randy was already turning the next time over in his head. Tomorrow after her last class, if she was free. He’d bring dinner so she wouldn’t have to cook, and he’d ask her, plain as he had today, whether she wanted to come to his place and let him spend even longer on his knees behind her. He wanted her bent over his bed, that massive ass raised and bare for as long as she’d allow, his mouth on her until she was shaking, and then his cock in her again, slower this time, so he could watch every ripple when he finally came across those plump cheeks a second time. He’d tell her again how perfect she was. He’d already decided the words. He just needed her to open the door.