Bulbul In The Jungle

“Would be if I had something to live for.”“Don’t drown yourself here. It’ll leave a bitter taste in my mouth.”“Why would you care?”“Organic, biodegradable, environmentally sustainable, those words are so sweet. But at the end of the day, you’ll just be a rotting corpse, totally putrid on my palate.”“You don’t have to swim here,” I said dismissively.“Forcing me out of my home, are you?”“The water? No one lives in the fucking water. Except maybe the spirit of the jolly swagman.”“Take care. This is the only place where the ghosts of his life are real and ever present.”“Unbelievable. Waltzing Matilda was born in Banjo Paterson’s imagination. And by the way, written well over a hundred years ago.”“And how do you know its fiction? And what makes you think I wasn’t here then?”“No-one lives that long,” I said confidently.I heard a splash from the shadows opposite me. And I then noticed a ripple heading my way across the surface of the billabong as celestial bodies were again disturbed. What. He was still holding my cock, but at some point I'd lost my grip on his. One of my arms was around his neck, the other halfway around his broad back, idly stroking the big muscles there. We stared at each other from six inches apart for a while until the world came back into focus. “All right,” he said. “So, yes. Kissing is good.” “Fuck, Sam,” I said, still a little breathless. “Yeah.” He grinned. “You, ah, need more lotion.” My cock was hard as steel in his hand. I started to say something clever, but he ran his thumb across my glans and I settled for gasping and bucking my hips. “You're never going to sleep like this,” he whispered, his hand stroking me with intent. I pulled his head back down and we kissed like lovers for another unknowable time, the orgasm slowly building until at last it overwhelmed me and I came all over both of us. “You know,” he said when I was coherent again, “getting off with our faces mashed together might just cross the line into angry.” “Yeah,” I.
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