I never thought I’d become a voyeur. But here I am, perched on the edge of my couch, coffee cup in hand, staring shamelessly across the gap between our buildings. The morning sun streams through his window, casting a golden glow on his bare chest. He’s there again. Of course he is. It’s become a ritual—his and mine.At first, it was an accident. I was just sipping my coffee, minding my own business, when I noticed him. His curtains were half-open, and he was standing there, shirtless, his hand lazily drifting downward. I thought he was adjusting himself, maybe scratching an itch. But then his hand didn’t stop. It moved with purpose, slow and deliberate, and I realized what he was doing. My breath hitched. I should have looked away. I should have. But I didn’t.Now, it’s been weeks. Every morning, like clockwork, he’s there. Sometimes he stands by the window, other times he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread, taking his time. And every morning, I’m here, watching, my heart pounding, my body betraying me in ways I can’t control. I tell myself I’ll stop. I’ll close my curtains. I’ll look away. But I don’t. I can’t.Today is no different. I wake up earlier than usual, my body already buzzing with anticipation. I make my coffee, the rich aroma filling my small kitchen, and carry it to the living room. My curtains are drawn back just enough to give me a clear view of his window. I sit down, tucking my legs beneath me, and wait.He doesn’t keep me waiting long. A few minutes later, he appears, his tall frame silhouetted against the morning light. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, the fabric clinging to his hips in a way that makes my mouth go dry. He stretches, his muscles rippling under his skin, and then he sits on the edge of his bed. My pulse quickens as he leans back on his hands, his legs falling open slightly.Here we go.His hand moves to the waistband of his sweatpants, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. He’s not in a hurry today. He takes his time, sliding the fabric down just enough to reveal the base of his cock. My breath catches as he wraps his hand around himself, his movements slow and deliberate. I can’t look away. I don’t want to.My coffee is forgotten on the table beside me. My fingers tighten around the edge of the couch as I watch him, my body responding in ways I can’t ignore. My thighs press together instinctively, and I bite my lip to stifle a soft moan. This is wrong, I think. I shouldn’t be doing this. But the heat pooling low in my belly tells me otherwise.He’s not looking at me—at least, I don’t think he is. His eyes are half-closed, his head tilted back slightly as he strokes himself. But there’s something about the way he’s positioned himself, the way he’s so exposed, that makes me wonder if he wants to be seen. The thought sends a jolt of electricity through me.I shift on the couch, my body restless. My hand moves almost of its own accord, brushing against my thigh before sliding higher. My breath comes faster as I imagine what it would feel like to touch myself while watching him. To let myself get lost in this moment, this forbidden thrill. But I stop myself, pulling my hand away. Not yet, I think. Not like this.But the idea lingers, tempting me. What if I did? What if I let myself give in, just this once? My heart races at the thought, and I glance back at him. He’s still there, still moving with that same slow rhythm, and I feel a surge of boldness I didn’t know I had.I stand up, my legs trembling slightly, and walk to the window. My fingers grip the edge of the curtain as I hesitate for a moment. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I pull it back just a little more, giving him a clearer view of me. My heart pounds in my chest as I wait, wondering if he’ll notice.For a moment, nothing happens. He keeps going, his eyes still closed, and I start to think he hasn’t seen me. But then his hand slows, and his head tilts slightly in my direction. My breath catches as his eyes open, locking onto mine across the distance between us.Time seems to stop.He doesn’t look away. Neither do I. His hand is still wrapped around himself, but he’s not moving anymore. He’s just watching me, his gaze intense, unreadable. My cheeks flush with heat, but I don’t move. I can’t.Then, slowly, deliberately, he starts again. His eyes stay on mine as his hand moves, and I feel a rush of heat that makes my knees weak. My fingers tighten on the curtain as I watch him, my body responding in ways I can’t control. My breath comes in shallow gasps, and I feel a surge of boldness I didn’t know I had.I take a step closer to the window, my heart pounding in my chest. My hand moves to the hem of my shirt, and I hesitate for just a moment before pulling it over my head. The cool morning air brushes against my skin as I stand there in just my bra and pajama shorts, my eyes locked on his.His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile, and he leans back slightly, giving me a better view. My breath hitches as his free hand moves to his chest, his fingers trailing over his skin in a way that makes my stomach flip. He’s not just watching me now—he’s performing for me.My hand moves to the button of my shorts, and I pause, my heart racing. Do it, a voice in my head whispers. Let him see you. My fingers tremble as I undo the button and slide the fabric down my hips, letting it pool at my feet. I step out of them and stand there in just my bra and panties, feeling exposed and exhilarated all at once.His eyes darken as they roam over me, and his hand moves faster now, his breathing heavier. My own breath comes in shallow gasps as I watch him, my body aching with need. My hand moves to the clasp of my bra, and I hesitate for just a moment before undoing it and letting it fall to the floor.He lets out a low groan that I can almost hear across the distance between us, and his hand moves even faster. My fingers brush against the waistband of my panties, and I bite my lip as I start to slide them down—“Hey! You up there!”The sharp voice from below makes me freeze. My head snaps toward the sound, and I see a man standing on the sidewalk, looking up at me with a mix of confusion and annoyance. My face burns with embarrassment as I realize how exposed I am.I quickly grab my clothes and duck behind the curtain, my heart pounding in my chest. When I dare to peek out again, the man on the sidewalk is gone—but so is he. His window is empty, the curtains pulled shut.I sink down onto the floor, my legs trembling as I try to catch my breath. My body is still humming with arousal, but the moment is gone. I glance at the window across from me one last time, wondering if he’ll be there tomorrow—and what will happen if he is.

I never thought I’d become a voyeur. But here I am, perched on the edge of my couch, coffee cup in hand, staring shamelessly across the gap between our buildings. The morning sun streams through his window, casting a golden glow on his bare chest. He’s there again. _Of course he is._ It’s become a ritual—his and mine.

At first, it was an accident. I was just sipping my coffee, minding my own business, when I noticed him. His curtains were half-open, and he was standing there, shirtless, his hand lazily drifting downward. I thought he was adjusting himself, maybe scratching an itch. But then his hand didn’t stop. It moved with purpose, slow and deliberate, and I realized what he was doing. My breath hitched. I should have looked away. I *should* have. But I didn’t.

Now, it’s been weeks. Every morning, like clockwork, he’s there. Sometimes he stands by the window, other times he sits on the edge of his bed, legs spread, taking his time. And every morning, I’m here, watching, my heart pounding, my body betraying me in ways I can’t control. I tell myself I’ll stop. I’ll close my curtains. I’ll look away. But I don’t. I can’t.

Today is no different. I wake up earlier than usual, my body already buzzing with anticipation. I make my coffee, the rich aroma filling my small kitchen, and carry it to the living room. My curtains are drawn back just enough to give me a clear view of his window. I sit down, tucking my legs beneath me, and wait.

He doesn’t keep me waiting long. A few minutes later, he appears, his tall frame silhouetted against the morning light. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of low-slung sweatpants, the fabric clinging to his hips in a way that makes my mouth go dry. He stretches, his muscles rippling under his skin, and then he sits on the edge of his bed. My pulse quickens as he leans back on his hands, his legs falling open slightly.

_Here we go._

His hand moves to the waistband of his sweatpants, and I feel a shiver run down my spine. He’s not in a hurry today. He takes his time, sliding the fabric down just enough to reveal the base of his cock. My breath catches as he wraps his hand around himself, his movements slow and deliberate. I can’t look away. I don’t want to.

My coffee is forgotten on the table beside me. My fingers tighten around the edge of the couch as I watch him, my body responding in ways I can’t ignore. My thighs press together instinctively, and I bite my lip to stifle a soft moan. _This is wrong,_ I think. _I shouldn’t be doing this._ But the heat pooling low in my belly tells me otherwise.

He’s not looking at me—at least, I don’t think he is. His eyes are half-closed, his head tilted back slightly as he strokes himself. But there’s something about the way he’s positioned himself, the way he’s so exposed, that makes me wonder if he *wants* to be seen. The thought sends a jolt of electricity through me.

I shift on the couch, my body restless. My hand moves almost of its own accord, brushing against my thigh before sliding higher. My breath comes faster as I imagine what it would feel like to touch myself while watching him. To let myself get lost in this moment, this forbidden thrill. But I stop myself, pulling my hand away. _Not yet,_ I think. _Not like this._

But the idea lingers, tempting me. What if I did? What if I let myself give in, just this once? My heart races at the thought, and I glance back at him. He’s still there, still moving with that same slow rhythm, and I feel a surge of boldness I didn’t know I had.

I stand up, my legs trembling slightly, and walk to the window. My fingers grip the edge of the curtain as I hesitate for a moment. Then, before I can talk myself out of it, I pull it back just a little more, giving him a clearer view of me. My heart pounds in my chest as I wait, wondering if he’ll notice.

For a moment, nothing happens. He keeps going, his eyes still closed, and I start to think he hasn’t seen me. But then his hand slows, and his head tilts slightly in my direction. My breath catches as his eyes open, locking onto mine across the distance between us.

Time seems to stop.

He doesn’t look away. Neither do I. His hand is still wrapped around himself, but he’s not moving anymore. He’s just watching me, his gaze intense, unreadable. My cheeks flush with heat, but I don’t move. I can’t.

Then, slowly, deliberately, he starts again. His eyes stay on mine as his hand moves, and I feel a rush of heat that makes my knees weak. My fingers tighten on the curtain as I watch him, my body responding in ways I can’t control. My breath comes in shallow gasps, and I feel a surge of boldness I didn’t know I had.

I take a step closer to the window, my heart pounding in my chest. My hand moves to the hem of my shirt, and I hesitate for just a moment before pulling it over my head. The cool morning air brushes against my skin as I stand there in just my bra and pajama shorts, my eyes locked on his.

His lips curve into a slow, knowing smile, and he leans back slightly, giving me a better view. My breath hitches as his free hand moves to his chest, his fingers trailing over his skin in a way that makes my stomach flip. He’s not just watching me now—he’s *performing* for me.

My hand moves to the button of my shorts, and I pause, my heart racing. _Do it,_ a voice in my head whispers. _Let him see you._ My fingers tremble as I undo the button and slide the fabric down my hips, letting it pool at my feet. I step out of them and stand there in just my bra and panties, feeling exposed and exhilarated all at once.

His eyes darken as they roam over me, and his hand moves faster now, his breathing heavier. My own breath comes in shallow gasps as I watch him, my body aching with need. My hand moves to the clasp of my bra, and I hesitate for just a moment before undoing it and letting it fall to the floor.

He lets out a low groan that I can almost hear across the distance between us, and his hand moves even faster. My fingers brush against the waistband of my panties, and I bite my lip as I start to slide them down—

“Hey! You up there!”

The sharp voice from below makes me freeze. My head snaps toward the sound, and I see a man standing on the sidewalk, looking up at me with a mix of confusion and annoyance. My face burns with embarrassment as I realize how exposed I am.

I quickly grab my clothes and duck behind the curtain, my heart pounding in my chest. When I dare to peek out again, the man on the sidewalk is gone—but so is he. His window is empty, the curtains pulled shut.

I sink down onto the floor, my legs trembling as I try to catch my breath. My body is still humming with arousal, but the moment is gone. I glance at the window across from me one last time, wondering if he’ll be there tomorrow—and what will happen if he is.

A young woman becomes an unwilling voyeur when she witnesses her neighbor engaging in morning masturbation rituals from her window. She grapples with her growing arousal and curiosity, eventually leading to a mutual exhibitionist encounter that pushes her boundaries and leaves her yearning for more.

Watching my neighbor jerk off every morning

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