I was an impressionable teenager and prone to fantasies I couldn’t shake. And, like any teenager, I was raging with hormones. One such fantasy was Mr. Walker, who lived down the block from us. He was a former Marine in his thirties, who worked hard to keep himself in tip-top shape. He was a runner, and I’d frequently see him running around our neighborhood, wearing no more than skimpy shorts and running shoes without socks. He wasn’t muscle bound by any stretch of the imagination, but he was finely built and there wasn’t an ounce of fat on him anywhere. His buzz cut and exercise regime screamed that once a Marine, always a Marine.

The first thing that started me to fantasizing about Mr. Walker was his wife. She was a cute little blonde thing who always looked so satisfied with herself and who popped out a baby every twelve or thirteen months or so. In my adolescent mind, this suggested to me that every minute Mr. Walker wasn’t out running, he and Mrs. Walker were in their bed "doing it." The mere image of that turned me on. As I said, I was suffering from raging hormones then, and I found myself fantasizing about being in bed with the Walkers—for several weeks about being in bed with Mrs. Walker, and then for a while with both of them, and finally, distressingly, I fixated on being in bed with just Mr. Walker.

The Walkers belonged to the same community club my family did, and in the summer of my sixteenth year, I found myself at the pool the same afternoon the Walker clan was there. Mr. Walker looked mighty fine poolside in that Speedo of his. He was in the shower of the men’s locker room soaping himself up when I entered the shower after my swim. A lump went to my throat. His body was magnificent—all sinew and muscle in motion and rolling veins lacing his body, having been pushed to the surface by his muscle and lack of any fat in which to hide. My eyes went directly to his dick, which was the biggest and thickest I’d ever seen as it plunged out of a clump of red hair at his groin. I hadn’t thought of Mr. Walker as a red head; his buzz cut was just too short to tell from that, and the rest of his body appeared smooth and hairless from a distance. I could see now, when he was soaping himself all over, that he had tufts of red hair at his pits as well. My own cock came to quick attention at what I was seeing.

Mr. Walker obviously saw me staring at his package as well as what my own was doing in response.

"Hey, you’re the kid living up the block from us, aren’t you?" he asked in a pleasant tone, not bothering to stop soaping around his dangling dick.

"Yeah," I managed to burble out. "I see you running in the neighborhood sometimes."

"Well, how old are you, kid?" he asked straight out.

I told him.

"When’s your birthday?" he then asked, which seemed a strange question at the time.

I told him that too.

"Well, on your eighteenth birthday, we’ll meet again," he said. "Until then, keep yourself clean, ya hear? And you could stand to do some running of your own." With that, he rinsed off and left me and my boner alone in the locker room shower.

I started running after that, but I never stopped fantasizing about Mr. Walker.

On my seventeenth birthday, I was out running a woodland trail. I’d gotten myself in great shape