I like to think so.It always starts with his hand Disappearing into the open flap off his pyjamas,Fondling himself happily,As do I in my boxers,(Which I put on just in case I’m discovered).That’s never happened mind you,Which I think is unfortunate.But then again, it might spoil the game.I wait and watch in the shadows of morning,The door slightly ajar,Barely daring to breath, His hand slowly moving just out of sight.My cock is already sticking out,Insistent and flagrant.Its night-funk smell reaches my nostrilsAs I pull back the foreskin.Does he smell it too,Even from this distance?Or does his own stink overcome mine?By this time I know his rhythm,The schedule of things.He leans against the bench,Side-on to me in my hiding place,A ringside seat.His cock too beautiful (and stiff) to hide any longer,Forces its way out of his pants In all of its tumescent tightness,The knob fat, the shaft slender, slightly curved,His circumcision scar a darker ring of fleshAs his hand slides up and down, up and down.Leaning against the bench his breathing becomes thicker, faster.His other hand brings out his balls, pulling on themThe way I know he likes; I’ve seen it all before.He looks out into the garden,But his thoughts are focused elsewhere, elsewhere.Taking me by surprise I spurt, Again and again into my shorts,No self
