The last beer in the cooler was warm. That was fine, I thought, as nothing stays cold for long out here anyway in the outback. As a geological surveyor, I travelled extensively and this time I had been given a contract to survey a potential reservoir in the middle of fucking nowhere. Seriously, nowhere.
"Seventy fucking miles," I muttered, the closest shop was a three-hour drive across sun-baked dirt roads that rattled your teeth loose. But the state government hadn’t skimped on the motorhome, spacious enough to stand up in without hunching, with a proper bed, a decent fridge, and solar panels that kept the lights on even when the generator wasn’t running. It was a luxury bungalow on wheels, if you ignored the dust that seeped into everything. All I had to do was go to town once a week. Socialise a bit. Gossip a bit and then depart until the next time.
I cracked the warm beer open and took a swig, grimacing at the lack of chill. I had walked a fair distance from my camp and had taken time to sit down and enjoy a beer as I gazed over the land, which was marginally undulated but endless, broken only by the occasional skeletal tree or rusted fence post, but the billabong was magical with plenty of water, trees and no crocs. I had checked.
Except for the gentle breeze, the silence was thick, the kind that made your ears ring. I’d been here three days, and already the isolation felt comfortable with the offering of freedom, everywhere I looked. As for the survey, I could already tell the area was unsuitable, but civil servants like their reports, and so I would provide a comprehensive reason why a new reservoir location was unacceptable even though there was plenty of water. In the interim, I had a good six weeks to enjoy my own space and freedom.
Whilst some folks might think me eccentric, I was dressed appropriately for the desert, taking my lead from the Arab’s by wearing a thawb. I had purchased a few when I was working in Oman at the recommendation of my guide, and it had changed my whole perspective on living in a desert.
Mine was shorter than normal, though, the bottom hem resting just above my knees, but it was cool and airy, made from cotton with a belt that supported my water bottle and other essential items in a pouch and my feet were clad in standard leather sandals. Perfect, relaxed and comfortable as I sat there, the beer almost finished as I reduced my cigarette to ash at the butt.
The beer can crumpled in my hand with a satisfying crackle as I stood, stretching the stiffness from my legs. The sun hung fat and orange just above the horizon, turning the dust in the air to gold. Perfect swimming light, warm enough to ditch the thawb, late enough that the water wouldn’t feel like a lukewarm bath. I flicked the cigarette butt into the dirt, grinding it under my heel just in case.
The thawb flapped loosely around my thighs as I trudged back toward camp, the last of the sunlight catching the folds of fabric like a second skin made of fire. Ahead, the motorhome crouched low against the horizon, its silhouette already blending into the encroaching dusk. Behind it, the billabong glinted, a dark, inviting eye winking at me through the scrub.
The thawb slid off my shoulders like water, pooling at my feet in a soft heap. I stepped out of it, kicking it aside, no need for modesty out here as my Fruit of the Loom briefs clung to my hips, white cotton gone faintly grey from too many washes. I hadn’t packed swim trunks, hadn’t even thought about it, thinking my briefs would suffice when the nearest human was a seventy-mile rumour?
The water closed over my head, cool and silent, washing away the day’s heat in one blissful rush. I surfaced, shaking my hair back, letting the current carry me lazily toward the centre of the billabong. Above, the sky bruised purple with twilight, the first stars pricking through like pinpricks. I floated on my back, arms spread, the water lapping at my ribs, my briefs clinging like a second skin. No crocs. No people. Just the vast, indifferent outback and me.
Then, the splash.
A sound like a boulder dropped from a cliff. Water slapped my face as my body jerked upright, heart hammering. My legs kicked instinctively, churning the surface into froth as I spun toward the noise. Adrenaline burned through me, sharp and metallic. Crocodile. It had to be. I’d checked, but out here, you never really know.
A head surfaced with a gasp, pale, wild-eyed, and utterly human. A man. His dark hair slicked back like an otter's pelt, mouth open as he sucked in air. My arms froze mid-stroke, sending me sinking briefly before I kicked back up. "Christ alive," I choked out, water sloshing into my mouth. "You scared the shit out of me."
The stranger blinked at me, his shoulders rising above the water like smooth, sun-browned boulders. "Didn’t mean to," he said, voice rough but oddly calm. "Thought I would share a dip with yah mate."
I could now tell that the man was a young Aboriginal man and Aboriginal. Hard to guess his age, but I suspected early twenties, maybe, with the kind of lean, wiry build that spoke of a life spent moving across hard country. His shoulders bore the faint scars of initiation marks, thin lines raised against the dark of his skin. Water sluiced off his chest as he treaded silently, watching me with an expression that wasn’t quite amusement, wasn’t quite wariness. Just... observation. Like I was a rock he’d turned over to see what lived beneath.
The water between us stilled, the ripples smoothing into glass. His gaze held mine with an intensity that made my fingers twitch against the surface. "You're not from around here," he said. It wasn't a question; that much was clear.
"Steve," I said, lifting a hand out of the water in a half-wave that sent droplets pattering between us. "Steve Davis. Geological surveyor." The words sounded absurdly formal in the middle of a billabong, floating in my underwear with a stranger who'd appeared like a desert mirage made flesh.
"Billy," he said, finally, after a silence that stretched long enough for my toes to prune. His lips curled at the edges when he saw my confusion. "Not my real name, just my nickname. Doing a walkabout for a while and saw you in the water and decided, why not."
Billy’s grin widened, revealing teeth white enough to gleam in the fading light. Water dripped from his chin as he tilted his head, studying me like I was some rare insect pinned under glass. "Geological surveyor, eh? What’s that, digging holes and talking to rocks?"
The water lapped at my waist, lukewarm now that the sun had dipped below the horizon. Billy rose smoothly beside me, droplets cascading off his shoulders, and then I saw it. Or rather, didn’t see it. The guy was bare as the day he was born, his body lean and unselfconscious under the fading light. I blinked, suddenly hyperaware of my own sodden briefs clinging like a wrinkled second skin.
Billy caught my glance and laughed, a sound like gravel tumbling in a tin can. "Mate," he said, jerking his chin toward my waist, "why’re you dressed like a schoolboy at a swimming carnival?"
The question hung between us, absurd in its simplicity. I opened my mouth, closed it, then shrugged. "Didn’t think I’d have company," I admitted, hooking my thumbs into the elastic. The fabric snapped back against my hips with a wet smack. "And technically, these are underpants."
Billy snorted, sloshing closer until the ripples brushed my stomach. "Technically," he mimicked, rolling the word around his mouth like a gummy bear. "Out here, mate, ‘technically’ means fuck-all," as his fingers flicked toward my waistband, not touching, just pointing. "That’s just extra laundry. Out here, we skinny dip. No one here who gives a fuck, well, only me and, mate, I don't give a fuck."
Water sluiced off my thighs as I waded toward the bank, my briefs clinging like a second skin gone wrong, saggy, twisted, and suddenly ridiculous. Behind me, Billy surged out of the billabong with the ease of someone who’d done it a thousand times. Water sheeted off his body in rivulets, carving paths down the taut planes of his stomach, over his hips, and, Christ, down his thighs. I’d seen naked men before, in change rooms, in showers, but this was different. This wasn’t some hurried glimpse; this was a body unhurried, unashamed, carved by sun and distance into something that made my throat go dry.
His cock hung heavy between his thighs, thick and uncut, the head flushed dark against the rest of him. It swayed slightly as he stepped onto the bank, water dripping from the tip. Beautiful wasn’t the right word. Beautiful was for sunsets and paintings. This was something else, primal, effortless, like the curve of a boomerang or the arch of a dingo’s back mid-leap. I swallowed hard and bent to snatch up my thawb, fabric sticking to my damp fingers as I yanked it over my head. The cotton clung to my wet briefs, plastering them against my thighs in a way that suddenly felt absurdly performative, like wearing a raincoat in a desert.
The thawb’s hem fluttered against my knees as I hooked my thumbs into the waistband of my briefs. The wet fabric resisted for a second before peeling away with a soft, sucking sound. I stepped free, leaving them pooled on the dirt like a discarded snakeskin. The night air whispered over my bare skin, raising gooseflesh along my thighs. Billy watched, arms crossed, his grin widening as I straightened up. "Better," he said, nodding toward my newly unencumbered state. "Now you look like you belong out here."
I cleared my throat, suddenly aware of every inch of exposed skin, the way the breeze tickled places it hadn’t touched in years. Billy didn’t seem to notice my hesitation, or if he did, he didn’t care. He turned and strode toward the motorhome, his bare feet kicking up little puffs of dust. His arse flexed with each step, lean muscle shifting under dark skin, utterly unselfconscious. I hesitated, then followed, the dirt warm underfoot, the occasional sharp pebble making me wince.
"Are you going to put some clothes on?" I protested.
Billy squatted by the motorhome’s steps, his bare arse flexing as he rummaged in a battered leather satchel I hadn’t noticed before. The thing looked ancient, the stitching frayed, the leather darkened by years of grease and dirt. He pulled out a bundle wrapped in faded red cloth, untangling it with quick fingers. "Clothes?" He snorted, unfolding the fabric to wrap it around his body.
Billy straightened, the red cloth now knotted loosely around his hips, leaving his chest bare. The fabric was worn thin in places, the dye faded from years of sun and washing, but it suited him, functional, unpretentious. He jerked his chin toward the motorhome. "You got food in there, mate? Been walking since sunrise."
"I'm sure I can rattle something up," I responded. "You look good like that, by the way. It suits you."
Billy's grin flashed white in the gathering dark as he followed me into the motorhome. The interior smelled of stale beer and sun-warmed vinyl, the solar lights casting a dim yellow glow over the tiny kitchenette. "Nice digs," he said, running a hand along the countertop, his fingers leaving damp trails on the laminate.
The propane grill on the barbie hissed to life under my fingers, the flame licking at the rusted grates as Billy leaned against the motorhome’s steps, beer dangling from his fingertips. He had asked to shed the red cloth wrap almost immediately, claiming it was “too fucking hot,” but I had asked him not too and so he remained covered with dust clinging to his shins.
The steaks sizzled as they hit the grill, the fat rendering into smoke that curled up into the violet dusk. Billy took a long pull from his beer, his throat working as he swallowed, and under the red cloth, I caught the way his cock twitched against his thigh, hard and utterly indifferent to propriety.
"Jesus, Billy," I snorted, flipping the steaks with more force than necessary. "You make me laugh. Standing there getting a hard-on while drinking a beer. Are you normally like that?" The words tumbled out before I could stop them, half-amused, half-terrified of the answer.
Billy took another swig, his Adam’s apple bobbing, then wiped his mouth with the back of his hand. "Figured you’re queer," he said, matter-of-factly, like he was commenting on the weather. "I swing both ways, and I’m finding you attractive for your age. You’re nice-looking and fit," as his bottle clinked against the step as he set it down, his gaze steady, unflinching.
I stuttered and stammered in my response, the words clotting in my throat like congealed gravy. Billy’s grin didn’t waver, but his eyes sharpened, tracking the way my fingers clenched around the tongs. The steak hissed accusingly between us.
“I...,” the syllable dying as Billy pushed off the steps, his bare feet slapping against the metal. The red cloth swayed dangerously low on his hips as he stepped into my space, close enough that I could smell the beer on his breath, the sunbaked sweat mingling with something earthy, like crushed eucalyptus leaves.
"Fancy a good fuck?" was all he said as I almost dropped the meat onto the ground.
“What? Now?” I responded, the words popping out of my mouth like a cork from a shaken bottle. My fingers tightened around the tongs, grease sizzling onto the grill in fat droplets. Billy didn’t move, didn’t blink, just stood there, his bare chest rising with each slow breath, the red cloth hanging precariously off one hip.
A gust of wind rattled the motorhome’s awning, flapping the fabric like a flag. I glanced down at the steaks, their edges blackening. "The meat’s gonna burn," I muttered, but Billy just chuckled, low and rich, stepping closer until his hand brushed the side of my thigh, lifting the cotton material of my thawb.
"I'm not used to things being this forward," I confessed, the words slipping out like a nervous exhale. Billy's fingers lingered on the hem of my thawb, the heat of his touch seeping through the thin cotton. His grin didn't waver, but something shifted in his eyes, amusement, maybe, or patience, like he'd seen this dance before and knew all the steps.
"Tell you what, mate, let's eat and then afterwards, I'm going for a swim, and if you want to fuck, you know where I will be. Otherwise, I shall continue my walkabout a bit earlier," he declared with a smile of confidence on his face.
The steaks tasted like ashes in my mouth. Every chew was mechanical, every swallow forced down past the knot in my throat. Billy ate with the same unselfconscious ease he did everything else, tearing into the meat with his teeth, grease glistening on his lips. He caught me staring and winked, a slow, deliberate thing that sent heat prickling down my spine. "Good tucker," he mumbled around a mouthful, jerking his chin toward my untouched plate. "You gonna eat that or just let it stare at you all night?"
I forced a laugh, cutting into the steak with more violence than necessary. The knife screeched against the plate. Billy’s grin widened, his knee brushing mine under the rickety table, a touch that could’ve been accidental if not for the way his bare foot hooked around my ankle, rough skin rasping against mine.
Dishes clattered in the sink as I scrubbed at them with unnecessary force, the soap suds frothing over my wrists. Through the tiny window above the sink, I could see Billy’s silhouette moving toward the billabong, the red cloth slung low on his hips catching the last of the twilight. He paused at the water’s edge, hands lifting to untie the knot. The fabric pooled at his feet, a splash of colour against the pale dirt, and then he was gone, swallowed by the dark water with barely a ripple.
My hands stilled, the plate slippery in my grip. The motorhome was too quiet, too close, the walls pressing in like they’d absorbed every unspoken thought. I dried my hands on my thawb, the rough cotton snagging on my calluses. Outside, the night was alive with the chirrup of crickets, the occasional distant cry of a nightbird. My bare feet carried me to the door before I could think better of it, the metal steps warm underfoot.
The billabong glinted under the moonlight, a sheet of obsidian broken only by the occasional ripple. No Billy. My pulse thudded in my throat, loud enough to drown out the sensible voice in my head that sounded an awful lot like my mother. The thawb slid off my shoulders, puddling at my feet. The night air whispered over my skin, raising gooseflesh along my arms, my thighs. My cock stirred, half-hard already, as if it knew before the rest of me did what was coming.
I took a step forward, then another, the dirt giving way to coarse grass, then slick mud. The water lapped at my toes, cool and insistent. Another step, and it rose to my ankles, my calves, the chill making my breath hitch. The billabong’s bottom was soft, silty, the mud squelching between my toes. My cock thickened, bobbing against my stomach as the water reached my thighs, the sensation of being naked under the open sky sending a jolt of something raw and electric through me.
A splash, then silence. I held my breath, straining to see through the dark. Another splash, closer this time. My heart hammered against my ribs. The water swirled around my waist, and then Billy surfaced like a spectre, his hair slicked back, his grin glinting in the moonlight. His gaze dropped, lingering on my erection with a slow, appreciative once-over. "Took you long enough," he murmured, his voice rough with amusement. His hand closed around my wrist, tugging me deeper into the water, his skin warm against mine despite the chill. "Now," he said, his breath hot against my ear, "let’s see if you’re as good with your hands as you are with a barbie."
Billy's hands mapped my body like a man reading braille, slow, deliberate, learning every dip and ridge as if committing them to memory. His fingers traced the hollow of my throat, the jut of my hipbones, the soft swell of my belly with a reverence that made my breath stutter. "Been a while for you, eh?" he murmured, his lips brushing the shell of my ear. His breath smelled of beer and something wild, like the wind through dry grass. I nodded, unable to speak as his palm slid down my chest, calluses catching on my nipple, sending a shockwave straight to my cock.
The water lapped at our waists, cool against the heat of our skin. Billy pressed closer, his erection nudging my thigh, thick and heavy. His mouth found mine, not gentle, not rough, just sure, as he knew exactly how much pressure to use to make my knees buckle. I groaned into his mouth, hands fisting in his hair, damp from the billabong. He laughed against my lips, the sound vibrating through me, and then his hands were on my arse, lifting me effortlessly as my legs wrapped around his waist.
"Hold on," he murmured, wading toward the bank with the ease of a man carrying something precious. The night air hit my back as he lay me down on the soft earth, the scent of crushed grass rising around us. His mouth trailed down my neck, my chest, pausing to swirl his tongue around a nipple until I arched off the ground with a gasp. "Billy....." His name was a plea, a prayer, broken off when his teeth grazed my hipbone.
The eucalyptus oil appeared from somewhere, his satchel, maybe, slick and cool between his fingers. The scent bloomed in the air, sharp and clean, as he rubbed it between his palms. "Relax," he murmured, his hands smoothing down my thighs, spreading them wider. His first finger slid into me with agonising slowness, twisting just so, and I dug my heels into the dirt, stars exploding behind my eyelids. A second finger joined the first, scissoring gently, and I bit my lip hard enough to taste copper.
"Look at you," Billy breathed, his voice ragged. His thumb brushed over my cockhead, smearing precum down the shaft. "Fuck, Steve," he declared as his fingers withdrew, leaving me empty and aching, but before I could protest, he was pressing against me, blunt and insistent. The stretch burned, just for a second, before the pleasure swamped it, radiating out in waves as he sank deeper, hips flush against mine.
He moved like the tide, slow, inexorable, each thrust wringing a gasp from my throat. His hands braced on either side of my head, his dark hair falling into his eyes as he watched me unravel beneath him. "That's it," he growled, angling his hips just so, and I saw white, my fingers scrabbling at his shoulders. The stars wheeled overhead, indifferent to the way Billy's breath hitched, the way his rhythm stuttered as he drove into me again and again, sweat gleaming on his chest in the moonlight.
When he came, it was with a groan that sounded torn from his chest, his body shuddering against mine. His hand found my cock, stroking me in time with his fading thrusts until I spilt over his fingers with a choked cry, the pleasure so intense it bordered on pain.
Billy collapsed beside me, breath ragged, his skin slick against mine. The night was quiet save for the distant chirrup of crickets, the occasional splash from the billabong. His fingers laced through mine, rough and warm, as we lay there under the stars, sticky and spent and utterly sated. "Told you," he murmured, pressing a kiss to my knuckles, "you'd look better without the schoolboy skivies."
I laughed, the sound rusty with disuse, and he grinned, rolling onto his side to face me. His free hand traced idle patterns on my chest, his touch feather-light. "Stay the night," I said, the words slipping out before I could second-guess them. Billy's smile softened, his thumb brushing over my bottom lip.
"Wasn't planning on leaving, mate. This was just for starters. The main course is a few hours away if you're up for a late night," Billy murmured.
"I can do late or perhaps all night, if you're up for it. It's up to you," I responded, feeling something different towards this man I had only just met.
Billy’s mouth was warm and slick around me, his tongue tracing lazy circles along the underside of my cock as it thickened again under his attention. I groaned, hips twitching involuntarily, my fingers tangling in his damp hair. He chuckled, the vibration sending a shiver through me, before swallowing me down to the root in one smooth motion.
"Christ...." I choked out, my back arching off the dirt as he pulled off slowly, lips dragging over my shaft, then plunged back down, deeper this time. His technique was unhurried, deliberate, no frantic jackrabbit motions, just the steady, relentless pressure of his mouth and the occasional scrape of teeth that made my toes curl. He sucked like he had all the time in the world, like this was the only thing that mattered beneath the sprawl of stars.
My breath came in ragged gasps as he worked me, his free hand roaming over my thighs, my hips, coaxing me wider. When he hummed around me, the sensation ricocheted straight to my spine, leaving me trembling. "Billy...." I warned, but he just glanced up, dark eyes gleaming, and took me deeper, his nose brushing my stomach.
The second climax hit like a freight train, white-hot and all-consuming. I came with a shout, my fingers tightening in his hair as he swallowed around me, milking every last drop until I was twitching and oversensitive. He pulled off with a wet pop, licking his lips as if he’d just finished dessert, and grinned up at me. "Told you I’d make it good," he murmured, crawling up my body to kiss me, slow and filthy, letting me taste myself on his tongue.
The night air was cool against my sweat-slicked skin as we lay there, limbs tangled, Billy’s head pillowed on my chest. His fingers traced idle patterns over my ribs, his breath warm against my collarbone. "You’re quiet," he observed after a while, propping himself up on one elbow to study my face. "Regrets?"
I shook my head, reaching up to brush a stray lock of hair from his forehead. "No. Just... processing."
Billy snorted, rolling onto his back beside me. "Processing," he echoed, stretching his arms above his head with a satisfied groan. "Mate, you think too much."
A laugh bubbled up in my chest, unexpected but welcome. "Maybe."
The silence settled between us again, comfortable this time, broken only by the occasional rustle of grass in the breeze. Billy’s hand found mine, our fingers interlacing without comment. Above us, the Milky Way sprawled across the sky like a spilt bucket of paint, impossibly vast and bright out here where the light pollution couldn’t touch it.
"You ever seen the Emu in the Sky?" Billy asked suddenly, pointing upward with his free hand.
I squinted at the stars, trying to follow the line of his gesture. "The what?"
"Emu," he repeated, shifting closer to trace the shape against the darkness. "See? That’s the head, there—the dark patches between the stars, not the stars themselves. And the body stretches all the way down there."
I frowned, trying to see what he saw, but the constellations blurred together in my exhaustion. "I’ll take your word for it."
Billy chuckled, pressing a kiss to my shoulder. "City boy," he teased, but there was no bite to it.
The breeze picked up, carrying the scent of dry grass and distant rain. Billy shivered slightly beside me, his skin pebbling with goosebumps. "Come on," I said, sitting up and offering him a hand. "Let’s get inside before we freeze."
He let me pull him to his feet, but instead of heading for the motorhome, he tugged me toward the billabong again. "One more swim," he insisted, already wading into the water.
I hesitated, then followed, the chill of the water a shock after the warmth of his body. Billy grinned as I splashed toward him, catching me around the waist and pulling me under. We surfaced sputtering and laughing, the water sluicing off our skin as the first drops of rain began to fall, cool against our faces.
Billy’s mouth found mine again, tasting of rainwater and recklessness, and I knew, with a sudden, bone-deep certainty, that this—whatever *this* was—wasn’t over yet.
Billy's arms tightened around me as he carried me through the billabong's shallows, water sluicing off our tangled legs. His mouth never left mine, our tongues sliding together in a rhythm as old as the land around us. I bit his lower lip just to hear him groan, the sound vibrating through me as his fingers dug into my thighs.
He stumbled once on the bank, sending us both laughing into the mud. For a heartbeat, we lay there like fools, Billy half on top of me, his cock still hard against my hip. Then he was up again, hauling me with him, our bodies slipping together like wet clay. "Fuck walking," he muttered against my throat, hoisting me higher. My legs locked around his waist, heels pressing into the small of his back as he marched us toward the motorhome.
The door creaked open under his shoulder, and then we were inside, dripping onto the linoleum. Billy didn't set me down, just spun us until my back hit the narrow bunk's mattress, his weight following me down.
Moonlight bled through the windows, painting silver stripes across Billy's shoulders as he braced himself above me. His cock dragged against mine, slick with precum, and I arched up with a gasp. "Easy," he murmured, but his hips didn't obey, grinding down in slow, filthy circles. His teeth scraped my collarbone, then my nipple, each bite sending sparks down my spine.
Billy's breath was hotter, louder, his mouth tracing the shell of my ear as his hand slid between us. His fingers wrapped around us both, squeezing just shy of pain. "This is what you want?" he rasped, thumb swiping over the heads in a move that had me seeing stars.
I couldn't answer, could only nod, my fingers knotting in the sheets as he stroked us together, his pace agonisingly slow. When his free hand gripped my hip, tilting me just so, I nearly came apart then and there.
"Look at you," he growled, watching my face as his thumb found that sweet spot beneath the head. "Gonna come again already? Like a fucking teenager...."
The words dissolved into a groan as I twisted, flipping us with a strength I didn't know I had. Billy's back hit the mattress, his eyes wide with surprise before darkening with hunger. I pinned his wrists above his head, leaning down to lick the sweat from his throat. "Your turn," I muttered, nipping at his jaw.
His laughter was rough, delighted, as I reached for the eucalyptus oil still glistening on the nightstand. The scent bloomed between us, sharp and green, as I slicked my fingers. Billy's grin faded when I pressed the first one inside him, his hips jerking off the mattress. "Fuck, mate...."
"Easy," I echoed, grinning as he cursed, his thighs clamping around my wrist. He was tighter than I expected, hot and clenching around my fingers as I worked him open. His cock leaked against his stomach, untouched but throbbing with every twist of my hand.
Billy's breath came in punched-out gasps, his body bowing when I added a third finger. "Steve....," as his voice broke, his hips canting desperately. "Now. Fucking now."
I didn't make him ask twice.
The first thrust stole the air from both our lungs. Billy's head thrashed against the pillow, his nails scoring my back as I bottomed out. For a heartbeat, we stayed like that, joined, trembling, the world outside reduced to white noise. Then I moved, and Billy's cry was swallowed by the walls.
We didn't last long after that. Billy came untouched, his release painting stripes across his heaving chest. The sight alone nearly undid me, and when his legs locked around my hips, pulling me deeper, I followed him over the edge with a shout that might've been his name.
Afterwards, we lay tangled in the wreckage of the bunk, listening to the outside world. Billy's fingers traced the bite marks on my shoulder, his touch feather-light. The motorhome smelled like sex and eucalyptus, the sheets twisted around our legs. Outside, the first birds were starting to sing, their calls thin and hesitant in the predawn grey.
Billy shifted against me, his knee nudging mine. "Sun's coming," he murmured, his breath warm on my neck. His hand slid down my flank, possessive even now, fingers mapping the jut of my hipbone like he was memorising the terrain.
I turned my head to look at him. In the dim light, his profile was all sharp angles, the straight line of his nose, the curve of his bottom lip. His eyelashes cast shadows on his cheeks. Beautiful, yes, but not in the way paintings were beautiful. More like a knife was beautiful. Functional. Deadly.
"You're staring," he said without opening his eyes.
"Just wondering where you learned that trick with your hips."
His mouth curved. "Trade secret."
The silence stretched, comfortable. I watched the sky lighten through the smudged window, the stars fading one by one. Billy's fingers stilled on my skin, then resumed their slow exploration, drifting lower.
"You're insatiable," I said, but my body was already responding, blood rushing south.
Billy's grin flashed in the gloom. "Not my fault you're so fucking responsive," as his hand closed around me, the calluses on his palm rough enough to make me gasp. "Like that, do you?"
I didn't answer, just hooked a leg over his hip and rolled us until I was straddling him. His cock pressed against my stomach, already half-hard again.
Billy's hands settled on my thighs, thumbs rubbing circles into the soft skin there. "Eager," he observed, voice rough with sleep and want.
I leaned down to kiss him, slow and deep, savouring the way his breath hitched when my teeth grazed his lower lip. His hips jerked up, seeking friction, and I laughed against his mouth.
"Patience," I murmured, sitting back just enough to watch his face as I reached between us.
Billy's eyes fluttered shut when I took him in hand, his breath escaping in a ragged exhale. "Fuck," he muttered, hips canting into my grip.
The first touch of him against me was electric, the slide of skin on skin almost too much after the night we'd had. Billy's hands tightened on my hips, his gaze locked on mine as I sank onto him with a groan, using his seed as lubricant.
"Good?" he asked, voice strained.
I rocked forward, experimentally, and watched his throat work as he swallowed hard. "Better than good."
Billy's fingers dug into my flesh as I moved, setting a slow, relentless pace that had us both panting within minutes. His hips lifted to meet me, driving deeper with each thrust, until I was clinging to his shoulders, my vision whiting out at the edges.
When he came, it was with a curse muffled against my collarbone, his body shuddering beneath mine. The sensation tipped me over the edge moments later, pleasure cresting in a wave that left me boneless and gasping as my cum spilt over his chest and stomach.
We lay like that for a long moment, sticky and spent, Billy's hands smoothing up and down my back in lazy strokes. Outside, the sun breached the horizon, painting the motorhome's interior in gold.
Billy sighed, his fingers tracing idle patterns between my shoulder blades. "Breakfast?"
I laughed, the sound muffled against his chest. "You're unbelievable."
His grin was unrepentant. "You love it."
And fuck if he wasn't right as we separated, becoming conscious that we should greet the new day.
Dawn light spilt across my bare shoulders, the chill of morning air raising gooseflesh where Billy's cum still clung to my thighs. I stretched, feeling the sticky trails slide down my inner legs, the remnants of last night, and this morning, drying in the outback breeze. Behind me, the motorhome door creaked open, and Billy stepped out, gloriously naked, his cock already half-hard again despite everything we'd done.
"Morning, loverboy," he said, scratching his stomach with one hand while the other casually gripped himself, giving a lazy stroke. His dark eyes tracked the way his own cum dribbled down my leg with undisguised amusement. "You look like a fucking masterpiece."
I snorted, rubbing at a streak on my thigh only to smear it further. "A mess, you mean."
Billy stepped closer, his bare feet crunching on the dry earth. He pressed against my back, his cock nudging the cleft of my ass as his arms circled my waist. "Nah," he murmured, lips brushing my ear. "A masterpiece. One of them, Pollock's paintings, all wild and free," as his hand slid down my stomach, fingers tracing through the mess between my legs before lifting them to my mouth. "Taste."
I hesitated, then sucked his fingers clean, the salt-bitter flavour bursting across my tongue. Billy groaned against my neck, his hips rocking forward. "Fuck, that's hot," he muttered, his cock twitching against me.
A kookaburra laughed somewhere in the distance, the sound echoing across the billabong. Billy turned me in his arms, his mouth finding mine in a kiss that tasted of sleep and sex and the faint metallic tang of my own release. His hands roamed freely, mapping my body like he was memorising it for later.
"You gonna walkabout today?" I asked when we broke apart, nodding toward the horizon where the sun was climbing higher.
Billy grinned, swatting my arse before stepping back. "Nah. Changed my mind." He stretched, his lean body silhouetted against the morning light. "Figured I'd stick around a bit longer. Help you with your rock-counting or whatever."
I rolled my eyes but couldn't hide my smile. "Geological surveying."
"Same difference," he said, bending to scoop up a handful of red dirt and letting it trickle through his fingers. His cock bobbed with the movement, utterly unselfconscious. "Besides," he added, straightening and brushing the dust from his hands onto his thighs, "reckon you might need help washing up," as he nodded toward the billabong, its surface glittering in the sunlight.
I followed his gaze, then looked back at him, at the way the light caught the sweat-slick planes of his chest, the dark thatch of hair between his legs, the thick, uncut cock already filling out again. "Yeah," I agreed, stepping toward the water. "Might need a hand."
Billy's laughter followed me as I waded in, the cool water lapping at my sticky skin. Behind me, I heard him splash in after, his hands finding my hips before I'd even turned around. "Let's get you cleaned up, city boy," he murmured, his breath warm against my shoulder as his fingers slid between my legs.
I leaned back into him, my head resting against his shoulder as the water rippled around us. The sun climbed higher, the outback stretching endlessly around us, indifferent to the two naked men in its midst.
Billy's teeth grazed my earlobe. "Race you to the other side?"
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