A Few Bars of Thank You

There's this neighbor of mine who shall remain nameless, but the man gives me an itch I can't explain, and I want him to scratch it.  It's a like a tingling that sneaked up on me, and I suddenly understood why women become serial masturbators.  But that ain't enough for me.  It never has been, and it sure wouldn't be now. 
I never understood what women get out of masturbating, but the way I feel about him right now, I understand what they're trying to get.  He literally gives me the hots in a spot that I want him to fill.  Like right now. I. Want. Him.
It's the damnest thing, because I hardly noticed him the first time I saw him, but after I heard him speak, something sparked.  Or maybe I'm ovulating and just feeling frisky.  He's handsome and well-built, dark features, smooth skin, polite.  Somebody I certainly should have noticed before now, but whatever.  I notice him now.
Whatever it is, for the last several nights, I've found myself lying in bed, picturing him.  First, his smile, then his lips, then his completely naked body, intertwined with mine.   Or, at this moment, mine straddling his.
Sometimes, a man's accent is all it takes for me to pay attention.  Sometimes, a slow, southern drawl.  Other times, a thick and sharp northern turn of phrases.  Have mercy, this one is from somewhere in New York, and it's all over him, and just...doing something to me.
I close my eyes and see that smile, however casual it must have been when he first flashed it at me, and I think how he has to know that it's his money maker.  His words, whatever the hell he's saying (I'm not really paying attention), make me want to bite my lips.  I want to kiss him.   Deeply.  And then, Lord help me.  I want to do some really ungodly things with him.
Even now, I'm picturing him naked, lying on his back, smooth chest, neatly trimmed nether regions, waiting, expecting, welcoming.  If I could dictate my dreams, I'd go to bed right now, and just wait to fall asleep.
I feel the need for his hands, strong and firm on my hips, guiding them slowly, or fast, if that's what he likes, as I slide myself, wet and willing, down onto his waiting, expecting, welcoming, beautiful dick.  At this point, I don't care if it's lovemaking or fucking.  I'll take either one.
His grip on my hips instructs my rhythm, and I follow.  I'm aching to feel him throbbing, thrusting; to hear him moaning, to hear myself purring.  We match perfectly.  Perfectly.
He could talk dirty to me.  Or he doesn't have to say anything.  Just keep hurting me with that perfect stroke.  Nothing too rough.  Yet.  But definitely nothing gentle, either.  Just enough to make my back ache, and my body hum a few bars of thank you.
And that's just the beginning.

Somewhere in here is a story.  Maybe not a big story, but something.