Working Out with the Neighbor

Note: All characters depicted in this work of fiction are over the age of 18.

--

I don't really talk to my neighbors. Sure, I said hi when Laura and I moved in to the new house. Or, more specifically, I did the thing where you wave without saying anything, then moved in and never really interacted with them further. I'm not a weirdo or anything, I just didn't really care. They don't seem like bad people. Laura and I weren't married, but we'd been dating for a few years. And the mortgage was cheaper than our rent. So moving in together, at that point, seemed like a no brainer.

There's a house right next to ours that I've never seen anyone enter or exit. We used to make jokes about it being haunted, or a secret CIA front. Our one other neighbor is a single guy in his late forties, who's basically never home. I learned his name when Laura left me, after he noticed me drinking whiskey by myself in the back yard. Robert wandered over, said hi, offered his awkward condolences, and left me to marinate in my late spring depression. I spent a few weeks like that- phasing in and out of existence, barely doing my job, barely eating anything worthwhile.

Laura didn't come back. Two and a half years, gone, just like that. She found another guy so fast I wondered if she had been seeing him when we were together. I spent a lot of money on whiskey, that month.

My work performance tanked. I work from home, always. Boring IT stuff- mostly what I do is coordinate a team to make sure we deliver everything we need to, on time. I started being crueler to my team members, in those weeks after Laura left me. Started taking it out my frustrations on people who didn't deserve it. I realized I was being an asshole, but couldn't stop. Wanted to recover my pride, wanted to prove I was still a man.

One day, drunk at two in the afternoon and still dressed in the boxers and dirty shirt I woke up in, I watched a car pull up to Robert's house. Considering how much the guy worked, this seemed off- I rarely saw him come home before seven or eight at night. Plus, that beat up silver Honda wasn't his car. I thought it was some lost driver until the door opened, and a man with a bodybuilder's frame unfolded himself from the driver's side.

Jesus Christ. Right. Robert had mentioned he had a son off at college. And I guess it must be that time that kids start coming home from school for the summer. But Robert was a normal-seeming guy. His kid was the size of a fucking door. He walked to the back of his car and popped the trunk, recovering a pair of massive duffel bags. I watched the kid stalk towards the front door, footsteps heavy and plodding on the driveway and then the wooden porch.

I felt the door slam from my room. What an asshole.

*

The alcohol cycle continued. Get up, do whatever work I had to to not get fired, open a bottle. Most workdays, during work hours, after the morning meetings that my team was now starting to dread. I realized that surviving purely on alcohol and snacks was probably going to kill me sooner rather than later, and started ordering food to my house. My friends stopped inviting me out, after months of trying- guess they got tired of me saying no. Didn't bother me at all, more time to spend with my computer and my perpetual hangovers.

I didn't realize how bad things had gotten until I saw Robert's kid doing yardwork. I didn't think about him much, because I didn't see him much. Heard weird noises coming from next door, every once in a while, clanging or thumping that sounded like he was rearranging furniture. One morning, must've been a weekend, I woke up and rolled my way out of bed and through my headache. A couple of painkillers and a cup of coffee later, I creaked out onto the back porch just in time to lock eyes with my neighbor's son.

We don't really have a fence between us, just a stubby little chain-link thing that's mostly taken over by wild shrubs. Robert's not much of a gardener, and I haven't touched my yard since Laura left me. So I was pretty surprised when I opened my back door and saw this enormous shirtless kid hacking at the plants that separated our two homes.

"Hey!" he said, grinning. Jesus. I could see the sweat running across his individual fucking abs. What were they feeding this guy? His arms looked like they were the size of my legs. "I'm Tyler," he said.

Too much of a hangover fog. I scrambled to think of something clever, then gave up. I walked over to him, coffee in hand, suddenly aware of both how much more jacked he was than me, and how shabby I looked in my boxers and my stained shirt. I'm not into guys or anything, but Tyler was definitely handsome. Dark hair, piercing light eyes, built like a shit brickhouse. Must be beating off the co-eds with a stick.

"Hey," I stammered. "I'm, uh. I'm Chris."

He took a moment to tear one of his gloves off. "Pleasure," Tyler said, thrusting his hand over the short fence. It felt like a warm piece of wood when I shook it. This close, I had to crane my head up to look at his face.

"So you're Robert's kid, huh." Fucking genius dialogue from me. Tyler furrowed his brow.

"Who?"

"Uh, uh, Robert," I said, confused. "Robert... who... lives in your house?"

A flash of broad white teeth. "I'm just messing with you bro. Yeah, that's my dad. I'm back for the summer, so I gotta do some chores around the house. You know. Play my part."

I tried to nod, like a cool guy. Doubt it worked.

"Well," he said, boring into me with his stare. "I should get back to taking care of this." He gestured back at the weeds and plants he'd already taken care of, left in thick piles where he'd pruned them back. He'd crushed through vines that looked like small trees.

"Yeah man, you uh. You do that."

What the fuck is wrong with me. When I log in to work, I don't shout at my team, even when they deserve it. I just keep thinking about the staggering difference between me and the kid next door. Me, running to fat, out of shape, miserable. Him, gleaming like an oiled bodybuilder, happily doing work that I probably would've given up on five minutes in.

Fuck.

*

Next time I see Tyler, he's fucking a girl in his living room.

I mean it had to have happened at some point, right? The kid looks like he belongs on a billboard, shirtlessly modelling either expensive perfume or some testosterone supplement. Robert left for work every day at about six in the morning, and at about noon a black Mercedes that probably cost twice what I get paid a year pulled into the driveway. It looks totally out of place next to Tyler's old Honda. A lanky brunette with a high-cut black minidress and Dior sunglasses stepped out, holding a Starbucks cup in one hand and her phone in the other. She was a real fucking bombshell. 10/10. No tits to speak of, but it didn't stop me from staring from behind a window.

I don't think any more of it as I make my way downstairs. I'm not hungover, surprisingly. Seeing Tyler working outside, his athlete's build rippling in the morning, it switched something in my brain. I seriously have to get in some kind of shape. So yeah, no more drinking. Or, more accurately, not drinking every night.

There's nothing in my fridge except for a few leftover pre-made hashbrowns and some salsa. I throw the hashbrowns in the microwave, then start making coffee. When I turn around, I can see straight into Robert's living room. And, by extension, I can see Tyler's back as he absolutely goes to town on this girl.

At first, I freeze. Can they- can they see me? Maybe not, given the way they're so carelessly splayed out on the couch. My kitchen window looks directly into their house, and normally Robert and Tyler keep their curtains closed. Now, they're wide open, and I watch in shock as Tyler's naked body hammers down onto this girl. She hasn't even taken off her heels or her dress. I stare, astonished, as my neighbor's kid pounds away at his visitor, gripping a dainty ankle in each hand as he pummels her on the couch, missionary style. Her heeled feet barely make it over his shoulders. Basically all I can see his rippling back, the muscles coiling in his ass and legs. Jesus Christ, he's so fucking jacked.

Tyler flexes, tensing, his muscles straining as he pauses deep inside of her. In one motion he scoops her off the couch, switching their positions, pulling her down on top of him as he eases her onto his lap, cowgirl style. Her head rocks back, eyes closed, totally lost in the sensation. Her whole body vibrates as Tyler grabs her by the waist and forces her up and down on his cock. It takes me a second to realize- he's fucking her in the ass. Her pretty face is framed in an expression of absolute ecstasy, pink lips wide open, heavily made-up eyes screwed shut. Tyler thrusts into her at a breakneck pace, and her entire body quivers and shakes as he fucks her.

They keep going for at least five minutes longer. Tyler roams one hand over her flat chest, fondling her through the thin material of her dress. She keeps squirming, riding him as hard as she can, eyes screwed up and mouth open. Her hands clasp onto his shoulders as she forces herself down, over and over again. For a second she stops moving completely, and I watch her twitch and moan as she obviously orgasms.

Right at that moment, Tyler flicks his eyes over to me, and winks.

He could see me watching. Fuck.

Fuck fuck fuck.

I dart my gaze away, incredibly embarrassed, but it's too late. By the time I risk looking over at their house again, the Mercedes is long gone.

*

My heart is hammering in my throat when I knock on the door. Why am I so uncomfortable? The kid if like ten years younger than me. If anything, he-

The door clicks and my monologue shuts off. Tyler opens it, wearing basically the same clothes as me- athletic shorts, workout shirt. He's sweating heavily, and the stains are already pooling on his shirt and in his hair. He smirks.

"Hey Chris. What can I do for you?"

"Hey, Tyler," I say, trying to sound cool. "I was thinking about getting a workout in. I know you're obviously, uh, in shape," my voice trails off as I start looking at his body. Even in a worn old t-shirt and gym shorts, you can see his muscles through his frame. My mind is suddenly flooded with the image of him, pounding that girl in the ass, probably cumming deep inside of her. The way those bodybuilder thighs flexed and strained.

"Hey thanks bro! Yeah, I try to stay in shape." He grins, casually flexing an arm that's the same size as my thigh. He waves me in. "And man, do I have a surprise for you. Great fucking timing"

It occurs to me that I've never actually been inside of Robert's house before. It's... well it's actually basically like my house, with little differences in décor. Classier, maybe. Tyler wraps one hand around the base of my neck, ushering me inside. We stop at the first door we walk up to. He grins and throws it wide. "Check this out."

Now I understand why both his and Robert's cars are always parked outside. The inside of the garage is decked out, everywhere, in gym equipment. There's a bench, a treadmill, a huge tree stacked with weights, kettlebells, things I don't even know the name of. There are barely any tools in here for the garden- it's floor-to-ceiling designed for weightlifting and basically nothing else.

My nose crinkles at the faint smell of sweat. Like it's been baked into the wood.

"It's a bench day too! You caught me right after I warmed up."

I look over at the pool of sweat on the floor. It's actually shaped like a person doing a pushup.

Tyler's eyes twinkle. "Burpees, bro."

*

"You can fucking do it! Two more baby! Let's go!"

I'm pretty sure I'm going to die in here. Why did I ever think that was a good idea.

My shoulders are legitimately going to tear out of their sockets. I grit my teeth and feel the blood pool in my face. The bar barely moves off my chest.

"Come on Chris, don't be a pussy. Do it! Just fucking lift it!"

Tyler is perched over me, hands hovering a half an inch under the bar. He's not helping at all (he told me after I complained that apparently this is what real weightlifters do when they spot you). I'm crushing myself into the bench, struggling to push the bar up. 115 pounds. Just over a third of the weight of what Tyler was just moving.

When I finally lock my arms out, lift finished, I gasp for air. I can barely focus on anything except for the pain in my chest and shoulders. I look up at Tyler's face, beaming above me. His knees are beside my ears, both eyes locked on the bar, waiting for me to drop it. His expression is jovial and supportive, except his stare, which is focused and hawk-like.

"Let's go, Chris. One more. Just one more and you are done."

I let the bar drop again, trying to bounce it off my chest, just looking for any advantage. Tyler laughs and shakes his head. "Fine, you get one cheat rep. Now bring it home."

The bar pauses halfway up.

I can't move it.

I can't. Fucking. Move it.

I think I'm going to black out. Both my arms collapse at once, and the bar comes dropping down towards my chest. A heartbeat later, Tyler is there, both hands wrapped tightly around the iron. He squats down, lifting easily, muscular legs scant inches from my face. His crotch dips down, just over my face, as he positions himself to catch the bar. I realize for a second that that that wave of musky scent is his sweat.

"I got you bro. I got you. Nice one, almost finished the workout!"

How the fuck is he so happy. The routine that Tyler put me through was worse than literally anything I've ever done in my life. When I go to the gym I maybe try a few machines, do some bicep curls. Tyler's workouts were like being attacked by a weightlifting psychopath. I can't even stand up, I just roll onto the ground and lay there, panting, staring up at the naked lightbulb that lights up his garage.

He offers me a hand, which I take reluctantly. I swear when he pulls me up he barely registers the weight at all.

"Hey, Chris. Seriously, man. Good job for finishing."

When he slaps my ass, it almost sends me sprawling.

"Same time tomorrow?"

I look over at him, still panting, trying to figure out if he's being serious with that request. I nod, trying to maintain my pride. My nose is still filled with his smell, from when he saved me earlier. I blink, and try to regain my composure.

"Sure, Tyler. Sure. Same time tomorrow."

*

There is not a chance I am working out today. Did you know how sore it's physical possible to get from just working out your upper body? It hurts to even roll out of bed. That doesn't even make sense. My ribcage hurts.

I limp around my house, feeling sorry for myself. When I sit down to work, I'm so sore that I end up shoving a bunch of books under my laptop and converting it to a standing desk. My team notices, enough to actually sound concerned. I laugh it off, pretending I'm fine, noticing that even the act of typing makes me wince.

Literally the entire day passes with me in pain. I can't even be bothered to cook- I order out for breakfast and for lunch. Around one or two in the afternoon I hear the sound of thumping from next door. For a second I think it's Tyler, screwing some co-ed again- after a few moments I realize he must be lifting weights again. How he can even work out again today is beyond me.

I spend the rest of the day dicking around on the internet. At some point I decide to thumb my way over to PornHub, and start idly browsing through some of the videos. None of them really hit the spot. About thirty minutes in, idly jerking it to a video of some girl getting fucked in the ass against a wall, I remember how Tyler looked when he was fucking that girl in the black minidress a few days ago. How big his muscles were, how defined he looked as he just went to town on her body. The look of bliss on her face, the way her lips formed a perfect-

Too late, I realize that just thinking about that memory turned me on more than half an hour of hardcore porn did. I cum hard, straight into my hand, thinking about the way Tyler's whole body pulsed as he fucked that girl. I even forget how sore I am until a minute later, when I try to stand up and almost fall over.

I let my team off the hook early, after we're all done with our work. No point in keeping them around if they're not going to be doing anything constructive. Plus they did a great job today.

*

"Yo! Chris!"

Shit. I was hoping he wouldn't notice me.

Tyler's leaning out of the window above his garage. I was stepping outside to- to do what, exactly? To run out my trash cans. Right. Once again, I try my cool guy voice.

"Hey," my voice cracks. "Hey, uh, Tyler. What's up?"

He's shirtless, those bulky forearms resting on the wood of the window frame. I swear I can see the wood bending under his mass.

"Thought we were going to work out yesterday, man! You gonna join for a session?"

Am I going to join for a session? Fuck that. Whatever he did to my body, I'm basically still hamburger meat. Even just this little walk to put my trash out is torture. Muscles I don't even know the names of are screaming at me. So no, there's not a chance in hell I'm going to work out with this lunatic. Even my legs feel iffy, and we didn't even do any leg exercises.

When I look back up at him, all I can see is his grin and the way that his forearm muscles flex as he leans further out of the window.

*

"Wow Chris, you weren't kidding. Maybe you should uh, maybe you should take a breather."

I went into his garage, of course, but I can't even get through his warmup. Well, for one, I shouldn't even be here. My chest is so sore that I struggle to hit even five pushups. But there's something in his expression that just made me want to try. I sink down onto a table in the corner of the room, feeble and exhausted.

I spend the next hour just watching Tyler. Well, he asked me to stay, and I wasn't about to say no. The kid was offering to train with me for free. Now that I'm watching him, instead of just doing his workouts, I can really see his amazing body. I mean, his amazing form. He blasts through a warmup that would've knocked me out, even without the soreness. Something about doing burpees and jumping squats around a clockface. He works up a sweat in no time, and the garage floor is soon speckled with his sweat. Pretty soon he moves on to the main event, the overhead press. As he starts thrusting the barbell overhead, he takes a moment to coach me through the movement, show me how he does it. Even with no plates on the bar, I can see the individual muscles of his shoulders, clearly outlined, straining against his taut skin.

By the end of the workout, I realize with a start that he's worked his way up to a weight that's actually significantly more than I weigh. He drops the barbell after last set, and the impact of the rubber weights hitting the mat vibrates the entire house.

"That was... wow, Tyler."

He puts both his hands on his absurdly jacked hips, breathing heavily. Every deep breath highlights his broad pecs, the ripple of his abs. After a few seconds of recovery, he looks up at me, grinning.

"Not done yet, man. Just a few cooldown rounds. Be a doll and take care of the floor, would you?"

He takes off before I can say anything. I'm left standing there, mouth open, staring at his sprinting shape.

Well, I'm not going to be an asshole. I grab the spray solution from a shelf, the old mop that's leaning against the wall, and get to work, griping to myself.

Ten minutes later, after he's finished combining sprints around the neighborhood with throwing a weighted ball as high as he can in the driveway, he's back in the garage. He stomps up to me, body gleaming, and once again I am struck by how small I am compared to this kid. When did he even find time to get this large?