A Dawn Chorus

I thought I was safe, sitting on my veranda in the semi-dark of the early morning, surveying the landscape of gum trees and shrubs, dressing-gown loose about me, cock in hand, pleasantly semi-hard. I wasn’t really having a wank, just working my foreskin in a desultory way over the slippery knob, nowhere near orgasm, nor intending to be. 

The first notes of the dawn chorus were starting to echo through the still, cold air, like distant music or an orchestra tuning. My favourite time of the day, if I manage to drag myself out of bed early enough, the only person awake in the entire world.

His voice came as a surprise when he said “good morning”, so rapt had I been in solitary reverie. One of my oldest friends (and even older than me) staying for a few days, always welcome. As handsome as the day I’d first met him (my little secret), the house seemed warmer with him in it.

He stepped out through the door and sat on a chair, not too close. I could just make out his figure, dressing gown thrown on haphazardly, pyjama pants and singlet more guessed at than seen. Could he see me playing with my cock amongst the folds? The thought appealed, so I didn’t stop.

Pleasantries exchanged, then silence. My foreskin slides silently, back and forth, back and forth. 

I glance across while he looks out into the diminishing darkness. His right hand lost from view, the left resting on the arm of the dilapidated wicker chair. Legs slightly spread, as if braced for escape, I imagine his fleshy penis and low hanging balls heavy between them.

I continue my pleasant work, back and forth, back and forth. More soft than hard, a favourite pastime, keeping well away from climax, a warm, not quite tumescence. As befits such an old friendship.

The chorus grows louder, in front, back, all around. The depth has drained from the darkness, colour leaks into the trees, the sky, the space between us. Will I have to stop my gentle business?

He looks at me, comments on the birdsong. Does his gaze linger just a moment too long, quizzically? Has he guessed what I’m up to? I continue, oddly unperturbed by the threat of discovery.

A distant clatter becomes a roar as a garbage truck trundles into view, stopping and starting, its robot arm lifting and emptying, breaking the peaceful bubble. And then its gone, a slight veil of dust from the unmade road its only legacy. The birds, momentarily silenced, begin again only louder this time, drowning out the echoes of mechanical noise.

Light is seeping into the chill air, giving form to shadows. My hand has continued its work throughout the disruption. The shaft feels thicker, my hand moister. I should probably stop now, before it’s too late. 

He yawns and stretches and pushes himself up from the chair. He could do with a bit more sleep. Pulling his loose robe close about him he turns and goes back inside. Leaving me with my cock, and the carolling birds.

I sit a while longer, reluctant to end such a pleasant moment. Looking across at his empty chair, I imagine again his cock and balls hanging heavily, so close. So very close.

Finally I get up too. A bit more sleep sounds good, perhaps something else. I shuffle past his chair, my bare toe lands in a small viscous pool. Looking down I smile. Could it be? I run my fingers through it, cool to the touch, silky. It smells loamy, fresh like the cool of the morning, a different muskiness to my own. 

Scooping it up I sit down in his chair, and slide back and forth, back and forth.