Forums

For weeks, ever since I started going out with Sarah, my Sundays always followed the same pattern; the same was true of the Sunday before last. As usual, I went to her place shortly after one, and as usual we did something together. This “something” could be a walk in the park, a visit to the zoo, the theater or the movies; she loves French films – in the original! Okay, twice we went to a high ropes course; she loves climbing according to colors. This Sunday we were at the Hamburg State Opera, where “Beauty and the Beast” was performed.
After the afternoon event, we drove to her parents' for dinner and afterwards we chatted in the winter garden about the weather, politics and similar trivialities? as always. Then Sarah brought me home around nine and as always the ride from the mansion in Blankenese ended with my question: “So? Are you coming up yet?”
On this Sunday, too, I leaned over to her as usual, wanting to plunge my tongue into her mouth. My left hand gently grasped her right knee, wanting to push up the hem of her – this time black – cocktail dress a little; maybe she felt like it after all, maybe I would finally see her naked again, I didn't dare dream of more.
But she pushed me away as usual, shaking her head energetically. “Kilian! Have you forgotten what we've been talking about all evening? The delegation from Chile is coming tomorrow: first a harbor tour to get in the mood, then a snack at Le Canard and later it's on to the conference table. I really need to be well rested, so don't be angry, but...” she stroked my cheek. “We'll see each other on Wednesday, at the opening of this painter's exhibition; Mama is so happy that you're coming with us and we don't have to show up as the mother-daughter duo again.”
Sarah gave me a fleeting kiss as always, then released me – once again unsatisfied – into the lonely night. I looked after her, shrugged my shoulders and, as always, finally made my way up to my apartment and out of these Sunday clothes.
It was still warm, as it had been all day. Wearing only a shirt and boxers, I stood on my interior balcony, took a deep breath and, with a beer in one hand and a cigarette in the other, looked up at the overcast night sky. From the fifteenth floor, as high as my apartment in Hamburg-Bahrenfeld is, you do have an excellent view of Altona? but the nearby freeway and railroad tracks aren't so great, and at such a lofty height you can hardly hear the noise of the otherwise rather hectic neighborhood. I sat down on the old wicker chair and stared into the distance; my eyes fell on the telescope – another great gift from my girlfriend, like the opera subscription.
I enjoyed the beer and the smoke of the cigarette, and suddenly felt better, much better. I had had to do without these mundane pleasures in the last few hours. Sarah's father had given up smoking after a heart attack, and beer in bottles was beneath him anyway. But otherwise, Konrad was actually a nice and approachable guy, never letting the money talk, open-minded and interested in the lives of ordinary people. Maybe it was my Westphalian down-to-earthness that he liked about me, or it was my clear and logical view of things that he appreciated about me, I don't know. In any case, he, the eighth-generation Hanseatic wholesaler, virtually forced the job on me, the prospective industrial engineer, after an internship in his company.
Through this sideline job, I checked his new business ideas for their feasibility. I met and fell in love with his daughter Sarah, who occasionally works for him as an interpreter. Well, it wasn't exactly love at first sight, at least not on my part. Sarah is actually a nice girl, beautiful, intelligent, sophisticated, but inwardly she lacks a good portion of self-confidence, she is rather uptight, inhibited; almost the prototype of an iron maiden, if you can say so.
In the six months, I had never been able to stand it with the same woman for so long, we had only been in the crate twice. She usually blocked it, either put forward her days or, as on this Sunday, important appointments, so as not to have to feel my little Kilian; He longed so much for the warmth and security of a human womb. Normally I would have given her the cold shoulder long ago, but she is nice and she is my boss's daughter and she is a good catch.
My father may have his own carpentry business and eight employees, but we're really not that well off. Okay, my parents pay for my apartment and contribute a good deal to my living expenses. Hamburg isn't exactly cheap, after all. But at the same time, they're also financing the master carpenter's course for Simon, my brother, who is two years older than me and is supposed to take over the carpentry business one day. The only one they don't support anymore is Anne, the oldest of us three siblings. After her training as a kindergarten teacher and several unfortunate love affairs, she wanted to find herself. Her last sign of life was a postcard for my 21st birthday, stamped in Calcutta, the capital of the Indian state of West Bengal; that was a little over five years ago.
I had to go back to the fridge whether I wanted to or not. On the way back, I must not have been paying enough attention to my steps, I kicked this goddamn telescope with my left foot; how I hated this thing! All right, it had been a gift from Sarah for my birthday, certainly not cheap, but what was I supposed to do with that shit? But it was my own fault, since I had put the idea into her head with my supposed penchant for the world of the stars.
We had just started going out and were coming out of one of those chic cocktail bars that are now popping up like mushrooms, walking hand in hand through Planten un Bloomen, Hamburg's city park for everyone, looking at the stars. A blind man could find the Pole Star in the Little Dipper with a cane, and from there it's not too hard to find the Big Dipper; women just love it when you tell them romantic stuff about the starry sky, when you prattle on about stars and distant planets. The method usually works and I just wanted to get her into bed with the liquorice grater anyway, but suddenly I found myself in an academic dispute between astrology and astronomy; not only little Kilian didn't enjoy it much.
And then she arrived at my birthday with this star-gazing device, a Skywatcher MC 127/1500. I was speechless, but she said that I should use my mind rather than my heart when looking at the firmament. I had set up the thing, she could visit me in my apartment, but I had no real interest in interplanetary observation. Okay, I had looked at the starry sky over Hamburg two or three times, but I hadn't found the man in the moon yet.
What should I do with the device? The sky was overcast, the annoying thing was really useless. I would have liked to have thrown it off the balcony, but that would have meant the end of things with Sarah. But wait! In some American movie, I had once seen a man in a wheelchair watching a murder in his neighborhood through a telescope; but I didn't want to see a dead person.
I looked through the eyepiece, but thanks to the damn clouds, I couldn't see either the moon or any of the countless stars properly. So I followed the cinematic example and pointed the optics at the neighboring house, still harboring the vague hope of at least discovering a heavenly body there, in whatever situation. I began my scientific investigation on the left side on the ground floor, moving from window to window, and then turning my attention to the next floor; there I started the investigation again, but this time from right to left.
I wanted to catch a glimpse of a naked female body; I dreamt of observing a random sexual act as if I had won the lottery jackpot. On the eighth floor, I spotted a woman in just her bra and panties in front of the TV, probably doing her evening fitness routine; I almost passed out: the woman could have been my mother, so definitely not my scene! So I had to keep looking.
I found a naked back only just below the roof, so it must also be the fifteenth floor; the neighboring house and mine were identical. The person was sitting on the windowsill, talking on the phone, and tilting his head. I didn't have any luck on the top floor either, so I refocused on the naked figure. The back didn't look so bad. But the window, just the object of my desire, was now dark, while the neighboring room was now fully illuminated.
The naked back slowly turned into a profile. It was – how could it be otherwise? – a man, so not at all what I had been looking for, what I had been longing for. My luck seemed to have deserted me. The guy was tall, slender, tanned; he was playing around with himself and staring at something. I moved the telescopic tube just a millimeter or a millimeter and a half: the guy had one of those large flat screens and was watching porn. As far as I could tell, a curtain blocked my full view of two men having sex.
In search of sexual release for me and little Kilian – Sarah usually left me high and dry anyway – I had come across many an epic on film on the internet. Some of them I could watch, others I found quite repulsive. I was never interested in pure gay porn, but I did like productions in which there were two men with a woman. Just the thought of experiencing something like that with Sarah in the female lead made my 19-centimeter appendage jump and dance with joy.
Okay, I usually fast-forward through the scenes where the guys do it to each other, but the day before yesterday, I don't know why either, I watched one of these snippets in full. The flick was, as I like it, pretty soft. The two guys, about my age, both blond and with short hair, caressed and licked each other with relish, then sucked each other off, and the old woman cheered them on in their unchaste goings-on. Whatever the exact cause, little Kilian seemed to like the scene very much, the little one developed a life of its own and sucked away.
What to do, said Zeus? I was torn. Well, I could have stopped my somewhat inappropriate observations on the spot and gone to the computer to look for adequate relief and then let the hand machine rattle. But what would that have achieved? Little Kilian was already growing, and he seemed to like the guy and his game. Why should I exchange a live show in the making for a canned one?
But should I really watch a man in his most intimate moment? Well, I had once witnessed the whole show, from start to finish, with Thomas, the boy sitting next to me in tenth grade. We were at our local outdoor pool, not only talking to the girls, but also practicing hands-on mouth-to-mouth resuscitation. It was a hot afternoon that culminated later when he was alone in the locker room. I had never seen so much cum from a cock before, to be honest I was jealous, but only of the amount that shot out of him!
So I stayed in my observation position and the longer I looked through the lens, the more eagerly little Kilian built up the tent pole in my boxers. Thanks to the possibilities offered by this small-scale Hubble, it seemed as if I were in the same room and could look him directly in the face as he went about his business, but I was over 50 meters away from the dark-haired guy with medium-length hair. I saw everything, absolutely everything! He had a handsome face, an antique curved nose, I could even see every single stubble of the guy thanks to the 1,500 mm lens: simply amazing!
I saw the tension, the excitement in his body. His dark nipples seemed to be stiff, stood upright; they seemed like huge moon rocks to me. The sight of his abs made me feel queasy; I should finally go back to the gym, I would love to have a six-pack like that, I would love it. His hand worked on his vertical redwood, the jungle was trimmed. He was, like me, uncircumcised. His brownish hand repeatedly opened and closed the fleshly parasol around a large, purple-looking dome. The faster he operated his own mechanism, the greater my appendage's desire for satisfaction.
I stared spellbound through the lens and suddenly, as if controlled by an invisible hand, my right hand also played with my tent pole, trying to test the elasticity of the boxer's fabric. Even though I hardly wanted to admit it to myself, I was sailing under full sail. Never in my entire life would I have thought that the sight of a man pleasuring himself could give me so much pleasure. I was shocked at myself, but I watched with delight as a fellow male jerked off; I could hardly believe it!
Still protected by the material shell, I played with my lower head, sometimes tenderly, sometimes anxiously, but always excitedly. Thank God there was no one left on the balconies, so my activities would go unnoticed. But, between you and me, I haven't had an erection this hard since watching a video of two busty blondes naked mud-wrestling.
The guy in the house across the way suddenly moved his left hand up. His thumb first remained in his belly button, probably making a few circuits there, then he moved his hand higher, it came to rest on his right chest, but it didn't seem exhausted. If my senses didn't deceive me, two fingers were twirling on his towering nipple. I did the same and felt comfortable with it, very comfortable indeed!
As if guided by telepathic forces, I imitated his every move. I felt the same excitement, the same lust as my neighbor, the same twitching went through our distant bodies. The moment the guy in the neighboring house relieved himself, I also came. The only difference: the guy on the other side squirted on his carpet, I glued the cotton fibers of my boxers.
We both needed time to recover from what we had just experienced. When the light on the other side was extinguished, he probably went to his bathroom, I also left the balcony happy and satisfied. A live show, even if delivered by a man, is sometimes considerably better than a work of interpersonal activity captured on celluloid.
I went to bed feeling content, at peace with myself and the world. Well, I knew the guy who had just given me this performance, even if not really. I had seen him often, we had occasionally crossed paths in the supermarket or waited for the same bus, but our previous communication was limited to a nod at most, since we only lived in the same area, in the same neighborhood. How should I meet him if our paths crossed again?
After a somewhat restless night, I just couldn't get what I had seen out of my head. I thought I recognized the guy who had caused me to make such a colossal exit on the opposite platform of the Hamburg-Bahrenfeld S-Bahn station. I stared at him, but then, after a moment, we smiled at each other and nodded in a friendly manner; nothing more happened.
I went to the university, still needed some facts for my master's thesis, and I also had an appointment with my supervisor at 5:00 p.m. But the meeting with Professor Wiese, who had also reviewed my bachelor's thesis, dragged on like chewing gum; he had a few new ideas for my work and wanted to discuss them with me over dinner. It was nine o'clock when I left the local S-Bahn stop and was caught in a late summer downpour. Although I ran, I was wet to the bone when I put the key in the front door.
After the necessary shower, I got ready for bed, my alarm clock would ring as early as 6:00 a.m.; I usually spend Tuesdays at Konrad's company. But before bed rest, I wanted to make a smoke offering, my nicotine level needed to be raised again. My apartment is not a smoke-free zone, but even as a smoker, I don't like cold smoke in the house, and I would have smelled it at breakfast. So I headed to the fresh air zone of my dwelling and lit a cigarette on the balcony, enjoying the peace and solitude.
Inevitably, as large as my open space is not, the black housing of the telescope appeared before my eyes. Should I risk a quick glance? I hadn't changed the setting since yesterday evening, and my neighbor's living room was still in focus. After a brief consideration, I brought my right eye to the lens and looked through it.
Well, there was a certain tension, I admit that readily, but was I really expecting a repeat of yesterday's scene? Somehow I was relieved that the apartment was facing the street. I finished smoking and went to bed. The sleep was dreamless, but more than good for me.
I finished my work at Konrad quickly; I only had to take care of the leftovers from Friday, my second day at the office. There was nothing new on my desk, but that would surely change soon. The Chileans had been there yesterday and that would probably mean a lot of work, just like with the Spaniards, who visited us three months ago.
I left the venerable trading house earlier than usual, but at least I was able to restock the supplies in my fridge, I needed bread, butter, some cold cuts and beer was also no longer in the house. The Penny in Friedensallee was Thank God? just over a kilometer away from my apartment, so I would just about be able to carry the groceries.
As I was pushing the shopping cart through the aisles, once again loading more than necessary, I met him, my neighbor. He was standing in front of the refrigerated meat case, apparently undecided about what to take. Should I dare to speak to him? I thought about it for a moment, but then decided on the elegant solution and simply passed him, greeting him only with a brief nod of the head.
By the time I got to the checkout, however, he had passed me and was standing right in front of me. I couldn't decide between mushroom pizza and pineapple pizza. He would probably have steak for dinner; a package of Irish beef was on the conveyor belt. I saw a net with potatoes and a tub of sour cream, along with one of those bags of salad mix and the appropriate dressing. I envied it, because I am anything but a gifted cook. Most of the time I eat in the cafeteria, and I only use the stove in my apartment to heat up canned soup or to cook pasta; the matching sauces are already available as a ready-made product that just needs to be warmed up.
I served the pizza on the balcony, having sliced it in the kitchen after taking it out of the oven. I drank beer from the bottle with it, unfortunately not well chilled. But I hadn't put the plate with the leftovers in Italian on the small table in front of me; no, the porcelain was on the windowsill, right next to the door. Every time I went to the food source, both on the way there and on the way back, I took a quick look through the eyepiece, watching my neighbor prepare food.
My neighbor's apartment was laid out a bit differently than mine; the dividing wall to the kitchen was missing. He ran back and forth the whole time, and, much to the delight of little Kilian, in his birthday suit, naked except for a pair of slippers on his feet. He ate at the living room table and seemed to like the taste; how I would have liked to have been with him right now.
After the opening on Wednesday, I was really glad to be back in my own four walls. The appetizers that were served at the art show consisted only of cold fish. I like seafood served warm in all its variations, but when it's cold, I prefer to give it a wide berth. The works on display were also a bit too abstract for my taste. And discussions about what the artist actually wanted to say with his work are more than distasteful to me; and there were plenty of conversations of this kind at this event.
I made myself a sandwich, with ham and a slice of medium-aged Gouda, because my stomach still wanted to be filled sensibly. I enjoyed this heavenly meal on my observation deck; this time the beer was well chilled too. The light was on in the apartment opposite. After my meal, I gave in to my curiosity and looked through the telescope. I could hardly believe what I saw; it took my breath away!
My neighbor was sitting naked on his couch, lolling lasciviously; but this time he was not alone. Another man, also naked, looked down at him with a grin, and this guy was also playing with himself. His member seemed considerably larger than little Kilian's, who was slowly feeling cramped again in his trousers. A gay porn movie was playing on the TV again, as a kind of suggestion.
The guy standing in front of the sofa, you could see almost every vein on his shaved head, was tanned like my neighbor, but his body was even more defined, even more muscular. The bald man walked towards the sofa, waving his manhood in the process, and then held it directly in front of my neighbor's nose. His lips licked the tip of the stranger's rod, slowly at first, then more and more vigorously, until it disappeared completely into his mouth.
Little Kilian reported again, wanting to be freed from his prison at last. I fumbled with my belt, pushed the waistband down a bit and my right hand to my crotch; immediately I felt the moisture that was already present in my pants. The prisoner leaped for joy when I finally slid the last material wall of his prison onto my thighs.
On the opposite side, the stranger now moved his hips faster, really bucking. His left hand seemed to have wrapped itself around my neighbor's head, as if it wanted to penetrate even deeper into his mouth, even though his balls were already being pushed forcefully away from the blower's chin with every thrust. The bald man took a step back, but only revealed the view briefly, and he now slammed his thing onto the nose, mouth and cheeks; my neighbor seemed to like it.