Dash and Dingo (30 page)

Dash and Dingo: In Search of the Tasmanian Tiger | 189

Morning came quickly, and rain had been falling all through the night.

Heavily. Dingo wasn’t next to him. Henry rubbed at his face blearily and pulled open the tent flap.

Dingo was standing in the rain, naked. Water coursed over his skin, down the back of his neck, and broke off into branched rivulets over the slight hair on his buttocks and the thicker hair of his legs. He bent over, and Henry realized that he was soaping himself up and treating the rain as a natural shower.

Henry sniffed himself and knew immediately he could use a clean as well.

Dingo turned, lazily rubbing a bar of soap across his chest. “Morning, Dash. Not sure how long this will last, so you might want to hurry up.”

Without a hint of self-consciousness he began to soap up the dark bush of hair between his legs, and his cock perked up slightly.

Henry swallowed heavily, unable to tear his eyes away from the sight.

“Come on, Dash,” Dingo implored. “You can do my back, and then I’ll do yours.” He smiled, stroking himself gently, but his smile faded as he took in the lust etched on Henry’s face.

Henry stood up and deliberately took off his glasses, hooking them over one of the ropes. With the same deliberation he slowly peeled off his shirt and tossed it to the ground.

Dingo licked his lips nervously when Henry’s hands dropped to his belt, unbuckling it with excruciating slowness. And yet Henry was not doing it to tease Dingo; there was no self-conscious smirk on his face as he stripped his trousers down his long legs and stepped out of them.

Henry started toward him, his sex swaying as if to some internal beat as he walked. Dingo stood there watching, his hand motionless on his dick, powerless to move until Henry was practically touching him. Dingo opened his arms to feel his lover against him.

His hands circled Henry’s waist, still clutching the soap in one of them.

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Henry started singing in time to the drumbeat of the rain, his mouth near Dingo’s ear so the other man could hear him. It was a song popular right then, especially in the queer clubs, and Dingo seemed taken by surprise that Henry knew it.

We walk like tigers in the night

Staying hidden undercover,

Silent dancing by starlight

We claim our secret lover.

The lather made their skin slip sensually as Henry started them swaying to the tune.

“Come along, sing with me,” he said softly.

Dingo cleared his throat and said hoarsely, “I can’t sing.” He ran the soap over Henry’s back, sliding it lazily over each vertebrae as his hand went lower.

“It doesn’t matter,” Henry said. “Audience of one. Be a sport.”

Stripes melting into shadow

Where the tigers go at night

And only we can follow

Slinking out of sight…

Dingo joined in, his voice cracking and wandering off tune. He slid his hands down to cup the creamy skin of Henry’s arse, dropping the soap without thinking, pulling him tightly to him. Henry was surprised to realize he didn’t feel self-conscious at all, listening to his voice muted by the rain, swaying as if they were dancing together in some swanky club. It felt natural to dance with his lover in the rain in the depths of the forest. And instead, Dingo seemed to be the one who felt a need to hide himself, keeping his face buried in Henry’s neck.

No one else must know

The yearning we’re concealing

Dash and Dingo: In Search of the Tasmanian Tiger | 191

The feelings we can’t show

Staying hidden in plain sight

Burning eyes can’t help revealing

That we are tigers in the night

Tigers in the night.

Dingo’s voice cracked and died away, and he pressed his cheek against Henry’s. The coolness of the rain contrasted with the heat of Dingo’s skin where their bodies touched. Henry could feel Dingo’s hard cock rubbing against his, and the desire that had been smoldering between them burst into the blazing need to satisfy.

“Let’s go inside.”

Henry leaned his head back and shook his head, smiling enticingly and squinting against the rain. “Let’s do it here.”

“It’s muddy,” Dingo said, pointing out the obvious.

“So we’ll be dirty.” Henry chuckled. “Very dirty. ‘Burning eyes can’t help revealing…’”

“I won’t hurt you again,” Dingo said. “Wait here.”

Henry’s gently mocking laughter followed him on his dash to the tent.

“Where else am I going to go?”

Dingo came back with the tube of lubricant clutched in his trembling hand. Henry attacked his mouth, plunging his tongue teasingly between his lips, plundering the depths until Dingo submitted eagerly to him taking the lead.

Henry sank down onto the ground, dragging Dingo with him. Dingo grunted as he landed on top of his lover, bracing his weight so as not to crush him, but Henry wrapped his legs around his waist, keeping him prisoner as they kissed passionately.

Dingo shielded Henry from the rain with his own body, sliding a finger over his anus, using the lube to open him. Henry spread his legs wide, arching up as he was breached, not breaking the kiss, one hand cupping the back of Dingo’s head, the other firmly holding him in place by the arse.

Henry yearned to feel the burning heat of Dingo’s cock enter him, but Dingo continued to caress the inner passage, stretching the muscle to handle his girth until Henry bucked impatiently beneath him.

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“Come on, then,” Henry urged.

Recovering a bit of his usual bravado, Dingo grinned, lifting Henry’s legs and draping them over his shoulders. He pressed forward with his cock gently until Henry relaxed enough to take him. Groaning, he pushed his way inside, entering his lover tenderly. His hands cupped Henry’s cheeks, curling his body and pushing his arse up.

Henry stared up at him, blinking in the rain, his eyes full of trust and yearning. Dingo slid his cock home, leaning down to kiss him. Henry melted under the tender assault, almost wishing he had decided to take Dingo instead, but there was really no difference when their bodies were one. He felt as if they were truly as close as any two people could be.

Staying hidden undercover,

Silent dancing by starlight

We claim our secret lover.

The words to their song still played in his head, and it matched the rhythm of his hips as he began to move, meeting each of Dingo’s slow thrusts, feeling the hardness of him to his depths. Dingo seemed to want to take his time, fucking Henry tenderly until their bodies caught fire and burning need overcame him. Soon he was riding Henry, their wet flesh slapping together, his groin pounding against Henry’s arse.

With a sudden gasp, Henry arched his back, straining up against Dingo, his eyes closed in ecstasy, his hand urgently stroking his cock. Dingo watched the spurts of come land on Henry’s chest with the righteous joy of a man who had pleased his lover.

And then Dingo was lost in his own climax, slamming into him with a force that pleased Henry, as a measure of his passion. He thrust until he was drained and panting, letting his full weight come to rest upon Henry.

Dingo pushed himself to the side with a shaky laugh. The mud felt silky and cool against his skin.

Henry reached up to brush his cheek. “You’ll have to wash again.”

“You too,” Dingo said.

Henry couldn’t bear to let Dingo pull out, and so they lay locked together. When it became inevitable, Dingo put his hand on Henry’s side to push himself away as he slipped out. Henry looked down to see that Dingo’s

Dash and Dingo: In Search of the Tasmanian Tiger | 193

fingers had left stripes of mud on his pale skin that melted away slowly with the rain.

“Don’t go,” Henry said. “What is it?”

Dingo simply shook his head, as if he couldn’t speak.

“Tell me,” Henry urged.

Staring at Henry, Dingo muttered, “You do something to me, Dash. I’ve got you under my skin.”

Henry smiled but looked puzzled. “Surely you’ve done this with lots of men before. Not in the mud, perhaps, but you’ve loads of experience—”

Dingo dropped his face against Henry’s chest. “I’ve been with other men before, yes. I’ve taken them, and some I’ve even let take me. It was fun while it lasted. But with you, each time I feel it’s not enough. I want you more than—”

“More than what?”

Henry ran his fingers delicately through Dingo’s wet hair.

“More than I should. More than I can say.” Dingo sighed and shivered.

After a short silence, Henry said, “You’re cold. We should get cleaned up.”

“Yes. We should.” Dingo pushed himself onto his hands and knees, bending to kiss Henry, before getting to his feet and stretching out his hand. “I owe you that back wash.”

Henry laughed exultantly as they stood together, their cocks half hard again, crossing like swords in front of them. “I’ll take you up on that offer.”

Gently Dingo turned Henry to face away from him, and Henry felt that for some reason Dingo wanted to avoid his gaze, but it didn’t make him feel uneasy. Instead he felt almost triumphant at the way he had been able to arouse passion between them.

Dingo cleared his throat. “Anytime, Dash. And perhaps we’d better just rinse through our clothes as well. Or we’ll stink as much as we did before.”

He bent to retrieve the soap, and Henry could hear him humming the song under his breath.

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The air was full of mist, or drizzle, or both. It didn’t really matter much, Henry thought, the end result was that after their
al fresco
bath, they were both slightly damp and doomed to remain so unless they stayed inside the tent all day. Of course, that would have been against Dingo’s nature. Henry resignedly wiped his glasses against his shirt for the umpteenth time, although it resulted in smeared lenses rather than ones with droplets, and trudged after Dingo. His feet kept getting harder to lift as mud caked onto his boots with every step.

Still, the chance that they might get to see the thylacine again kept him moving.

Dingo stopped short and waved his hand behind him. Henry stiffened and peered through the grey mist, barely able to make out the ghost-like form standing on an outcropping of rock before them while his palm started to itch like mad. The dim light combined with the incessant rain to drain the color from the thylacine, but there was no mistaking it for any other animal Henry had ever seen. Even here in Tasmania, the land of bizarrely original creatures, the tiger stood alone, lean, muscular, elegantly shaped. Every other animal, predator or prey, had been roughly pear-shaped, tubby, and lower to the ground.

His fingers trembled as he lifted the camera, shielding the lens under the brim of his rakish hat, grateful now that he’d worn it despite Dingo’s amused look. The tiger almost seemed to be aware of Henry’s intentions, standing in profile, its nose in the air, tail outstretched and alert, as if offering the ideal pose.

The silhouette of the thylacine seemed almost to fade into the misty backdrop of the forest. The image he captured aroused all the poignantly protective emotion within Henry; it seemed so symbolic of the possible fate of the animal, especially when the tiger lowered its nose and vanished suddenly.

“Is it always like that?” Henry asked in a hushed tone.

Dash and Dingo: In Search of the Tasmanian Tiger | 195

Dingo turned to search his eyes. “The first sight of them and my heart beats faster. It’s always a phenomenon.”

Even Henry couldn’t mistake the glow in Dingo’s eyes. “Only for the tiger?” he murmured, stepping closer so their chests were touching.

“You know it’s not,” Dingo whispered, sliding an arm around Henry to pull him closer.

Henry could feel the beat of Dingo’s heart against his, both of them racing. Dingo was warm in his arms, but the rest of him was cold from the rain and damp. Reluctantly he let Dingo go.

“Should we follow him?”

Dingo cocked his head and looked up, although the sky and even the canopy of leaves overhead were hidden from view. “We can try.”

“I thought you could track a snake over a rock,” Henry teased.