Olympic & Crenshaw Ch. 01-02

He was certainly handsome but Packer had no idea how old he was. He had that timeless look of an old movie star. He could be 20, he could be 40. Packer puzzled over it and wondered if his age would be easier to guess when he was awake.

Looking for more clues, Packer let his gaze continue to wander. He was toned. The chest was tall with two round pecs and the skin tightly stretched over them. His nipples sat at the bottom of each pec and his chest had that shelf look of the best bodybuilders. Packer knew that amount of muscle development usually took years to build. He refined his estimate and guessed 30 years old; 30 to 40 years old, that is.

The profile of his arm highlighted a prominent deltoid capping his shoulder, striations in the muscle visible through the skin. Further down, a bicep bulged with one large vein catching the light as it carved the muscle. His forearms rested over a gently protruding abdomen, no doubt hiding a set abs. A lean stomach curved down slowly to the hollow above his hip joint and an impressive Adonis line drew his gaze lower still. At the bottom, piled at the base of his TVA muscle, uncovered and un-shy, was his flaccid penis.

Packer's eyes stopped roaming, entranced by the large male part and its folds of soft pink skin. It fell to the left, pointing towards him as if beckoning him to look closer, the frosted glass of the door allowing in just enough light to take in all the details. Packer focused in.

The foreskin piled at the tip but down the shaft, the head of his dick made a gentle wave in the smooth outer skin, like a sheet stretched over an uneven mattress. Packer guessed him to be hanging about six inches long, longer and thicker than his own, certainly. Blue veins spidered their way up his length, disappearing into a small patch of blonde hair at the base of his shaft. From this angle Packer couldn't see his balls, they must have been hanging between his slightly parted legs, but he imagined them anyway, probably large and full, hanging low and perfectly framing that swinging dick when this guy was up and walking around.

Squinting into the shadows of his foreskin, Packer could just make out the tip of the pink head and the slit of the urethra. He imagined the long retraction it must take to expose that head, rolling those folds of skin back until it glimmered in the light. Packer wanted to see it. He imagined standing next to him at a public urinal, sneaking looks as he rolled that foreskin back, the large head finally popping out. He wondered how the slit pulsed as the golden water came rushing out. Did it gape, empty and eager, for just a moment before engaging? What pattern did that slit make as he sprayed forward?

Packer couldn't look away, couldn't tear his eyes away from the beautiful sight of that penis and those Adonis lines and that trim abdomen and those perfect pecs. His head was still rolled to the side and all his senses completely focused on his neighbor, on that gorgeous body and fresh energy and deep breathing...

Packer stopped. His neighbor's breathing had changed. No longer deep and slumbering, it was now shallow and intentional. He felt it in his gut too, the energy had changed. While Packer had been deep in his fantasy, his neighbor had woken up. And Packer knew, without looking, that he had been caught.