Story: "...Please..." Part 3 of 3
Special thanks to Nancy for the "Hutch with pierced ear" idea that inspired this story. Thanks also to the SHareCon S&H veterans who encouraged writing in general and slash in particular.
More thanks to Tiber and shadow for the beta and the "coaching" and reality checking and all the other stuff.
Comments always welcome!
Disclaimer: No ownership of the guys. No money changing hands. Just for fun.
Rating: NC-17 - slash. This story portrays men in a physical relationship.
“…Please…” - Part 3 of 3
A searing heat bled into Starsky’s sleep, burying him under a smothering blanket. He reeled from image to image. Here - entombed in airless darkness. There - stumbling along the edge of an erupting caldera, dodging flaming arrows.
He surfaced, gulping at the murky air as the dreams slithered away. His wide eyes surveyed the bedroom, taking in shadows imitating shapes reflected by neon lights outside. Darkness brought no relief from the earlier heat of the day.
Familiar pain gripped his left leg, the souvenir of chronically overworked muscles blended with recent bruises and rug burns.
Feels like someone yanked out my kneecap, stomped on it, ‘n shoved it back in the wrong place.
He gritted his teeth at the hollow ticking of the alarm clock. He tried propping on one wrist to toss the mechanical pest across the room, but a weight at his center tugged him back. He groaned, pressing a palm to his face, rubbing the sleep away. Hutch’s scent lingered on his fingertips. His elbow collided with a bare shoulder attached to a long, lean body crowned with a head of blond hair.
Hutch - plastered against him, BTUs cranking off of him like steam, nose half-buried in Starsky’s chest. Sweat pooled where their bodies touched and soaked the twisted sheets beneath them.
Starsky watched the dreams and moonlight play across Hutch’s features; admired the curve of the smooth jaw and the high cheekbones. Even in sleep, Hutch sidestepped absolute peace, evidenced by the vertical tension groove between his eyebrows. Starsky smoothed at that stubborn furrow with a rough-tender press of his thumb.
“S-Starsk--” Hutch’s voice was a soft inflection in the half-gloom.
“Yeah, buddy?”
A rapid flicker behind pale eyelashes confirmed that Hutch was still asleep.
“Starsky.” That mellow voice, sleep-addled, confused. “Starsk. Please. I want ….”
Starsky tilted his head.
Please. The same, sorrow-tinged plea again.
He stroked a hand over Hutch’s pale forehead.
“Hey, Hutch. M’here. ” His voice tapered to silence, speech giving way to thought.
Hutch. You drink down doubts like beer. “Want.” “Please.” Huh? Do I seep into your dreams? Am I in there with you now, babe? What do I say? Do I tell you how much I love you? Or do I say I got nothing more to give you? ‘Cause with you, it’s one or the other - no middle ground.
Hutch mumbled, blond head falling back against the pillow.
Hutch. I love you. But dammit, I’m tired of this. What does it take to get through to you - to make you trust me? What’s your burden of proof for love?
Starsky pressed his hands flat against Hutch’s naked shoulders. He hoisted Hutch into the haven of his arms, sliding back against the brass headboard with Hutch’s head on his bare chest. The brush of Hutch’s body triggered familiar desires, those eternally churning needs - blood red and razor sharp. His body strained with impatience and hunger as true as the trajectory of a bullet.
Need and trust and love . The eternal trinity.
Starsky rested a hand on Hutch’s neck and reviewed the facts of the case.
Hutch needed him. No questions there. And Hutch trusted him - with his life, his friendship, his body. Another absolute. But what about off the job, away from banter and bullets and bedroom? Deep veined insecurity was a much a part of Hutch as his fair hair and long legs. And battling Hutch’s doubts constantly landed Starsky on a mental and emotional proving ground where declaring final victory never seemed an option.
I get frustrated. I get impatient. And it boils over, fueled by too many mixed signals ‘n too many times shooting at the same paper targets.
How to connect to Hutch’s insecurity as effortlessly as connecting to his body? How to tame those rogue emotions once and for all?
Enough. No more detours. No turning back.
Hutch’s warm breath, coupled with his weight against Starsky’s groin, was seductive. Distracting.
Wait a minute. He’s asleep. Maybe it’s like that article I read in the paper - about subconscious communication. I can sneak in there. Make him hear the truth. Can’t let him get the drop on me though. Need a diversion.
He felt Hutch’s thigh, heavy and erotic, against his balls. A knife blade of desire raked his spine.
He smiled.
A distraction. Work him. Drain him. Get those busy brain cells of his fuck-drunk.
He settled Hutch onto his back, grinning as Hutch’s long limbs spread in all directions to claim more than his fair share of the bed’s real estate. The damp hair on Hutch’s forehead was a moon-washed halo in the dim light. A white gold earring glimmered against white cotton sheets.
Starsky kissed the tremble under Hutch’s Adam’s apple. His lips teased a trail of kisses from nipples up to exposed neck and ear lobe. He nudged the earring with his tongue tip and licked and sampled his way back down, nuzzling fading bruises on Hutch’s ribs and kissing fresh marks, imprints of his own fingers, on Hutch’s hips and lower belly.
Hutch breathed out a word from his dream horizon.
“Please….”
Yes, Hutch. “Please.” It pleases me. It will please you.
Starsky positioned Hutch’s limber body, arms to the sides and thighs open. He knelt between Hutch’s legs and let his fingers roam, finding the pale hair under Hutch’s armpits, flicking over tight ribs, prodding hidden and secret places.
He shifted backwards, hands splayed on Hutch’s inner thighs with thumbs locked against Hutch’s balls. His tongue, lapping at Hutch’s cock, was instantly rewarded with flesh swelling to arousal. He mouthed the circumcised head and swept a wet lick down the vein. He paused to sip lazily at the shallow pool of pre-cum gathered at Hutch’s cock slit. His mouth continued its teasing journey, agonizingly slow and tender.
Hutch bucked and writhed, breaking the hot silence with a low whimper.
Sweet boy. That’s right.
Starsky opened his mouth wider and swallowed Hutch’s cock to the root. His bite steadied; his tongue tested each sensitive inch.
Hutch gasped. His right arm swept up against his forehead. His eyelids fluttered.
Starsky pulled away and whispered, soothingly, urgently.
“Sleep, Hutch. S’okay. Don’t wake up.”
At the sound of Starsky’s voice, Hutch shivered and submerged into the depths of slumber as though dragged by gloved fingers.
Starsky returned to his play, nursing and suckling. His tongue stroked leisurely, his fingers fondled the tender sweep of Hutch’s skin from cock root to ass - coaxing, demanding.
Hutch’s hips lifted, plundering Starsky’s mouth. Starsky pleasure-tortured him artfully, combining deep suction with perfectly timed fist strokes. Hutch shuddered, arched, and came - mindlessly and helplessly. His feverish moans echoed as Starsky languidly sucked him dry.
Hutch tried to pull away, but Starsky held him down, watching with dark lashed eyes as Hutch lay panting.
Delicious lover. Greedy lover. Next time, baby blue, why don’t I slide a straw inside you and drink right from the well?
Hutch’s left arm flung wide.
Starsky grabbed the wrist, turned the large hand, and gently kissed the palm. He planted a second playful kiss on Hutch’s ear as he choreographed his next move.
Hutch rolled and stretched on his right side with elbows akimbo, his deep breathing a hint that Starsky’s handling had spiraled him further into sleep.
Starsky slid his hands along Hutch’s ass cheeks, pausing to admire the softness of flesh welded to muscle. Then he padded panther-quiet to the kitchen. He found a glass, filled it with ice and water, and drank deeply. He returned to the bed, carrying the glass and a small bottle of oil.
You’re here and mine for the taking, golden boy. Don’t mind if I do.
He propped himself against Hutch’s side, his erection wedged to Hutch’s lower back. He carefully scissored Hutch’s legs apart, hand moving slyly to stroke Hutch’s cock head. Hutch protested quietly, the direction of his dreams shifting according to Starsky’s touch. The heat from his body almost singed Starsky’s fingers.
Starsky reached for the glass of ice water on the bedside table. He took a refreshing swallow and pondered. Smiling to himself, he plunged his fingers into the glass and pulled out an ice cube. He placed his lips to Hutch’s left ear and crooned.
”Sleep, babe. I’m in your dreams. Dream with me.”
Hutch rolled onto his stomach and humped his cock against the cotton sheets, sluggish and heat drunk.
Starsky tugged him back onto his side.
Time to cool you down, partner.
He slid the melting ice cube over Hutch’s ass crack, trapping him in place as Hutch tried to twist away. He waited until Hutch settled, then carefully slid the ice cube inside the grip of Hutch’s body, into the heat of his channel. He fed Hutch’s body another ice cube, cooling him from within. Two water slicked fingers followed the ice.
Hutch flinched and cried out softly. Starsky leaned and kissed his jaw line.
Starsky lengthened his finger strokes, envisioning himself a conjurer of cold and heat, tormenting Hutch with a wand of ice crystals followed by liquid hot tapers. His fingers fucked Hutch in a steady rhythm, shoving the melting cubes deeper. Using water and sweat for lube, he worked, spearing and strumming against Hutch’s prostate with excruciating precision.
Hutch’s cock twitched, lengthened. He cried out from the mist of sleep.
Starsky murmured reassuringly. He extended his free hand to Hutch’s mouth, offering sweat flavored fingers to suckle. Hutch his lips closed around them in eager, almost innocent, desperation.
You big blond glutton.
Starsky snaked his hand down and pumped Hutch, three steady hard strokes mid-shaft. Beads of sweat rose on Hutch’s back like graffiti.
When Starsky abruptly abandoned Hutch’s cock in favor of ice cooled fingers teasing a path from navel to nipples, he heard Hutch’s growl of displeasure; felt him trying again to flip onto his stomach and drill his cock into the sheets. Starsky prevented him from moving.
Not so fast. Stay in our dream, Hutch. Follow me. You’re safe. You’re loved.
He offered the heel of his palm to Hutch’s cock head as a consolation and Hutch butted it in a blind panic.
Starsky’s breath touched the white gold in Hutch’s ear.
“Sweet boy. Ride it out.”
He heard Hutch’s plea over the pounding of his heart and his own cresting, hammering need.
“…Please…”
Starsky’s smile was dark and loving.
“Beautiful. Wanton. Yeah… just like that.”
Hutch’s long legs kicked. He escaped Starsky’s hold and rolled, face down with long fingers balled into fists. His cock rutted the sheets with delirious relief. Pale moonlight bathed him in a ghostly aura.
Starsky watched him - the lean, smooth body slamming against the mattress as though hit with an electrical charge. And his own body in contrast - tanned, chiseled muscle, dark hair across his chest, fingers slippery with the oil he was rubbing onto his cock from drenched slit to balls.
He angled behind Hutch’s sprawled body. His fingers parted the cleft of Hutch’s ass. With a sweet groan of anticipation, he spread Hutch’s legs wider and pushed his cockhead at the tight opening, breaching the entrance. His hips rocked forward.
Hutch stiffened, spreading his legs wider.
Starsky plunged into the mind-tripping tightness, steady and hard, plowing Hutch open with one long uninterrupted slide.
Hutch’s piercing cry melted into a sob.
Starsky’s whisper replied.
“This is a dream fuck, baby blue. You feel my body owning you. You hear my voice and every word is an oath.”
Hutch curved upward, head tossed back. Starsky’s hands caught Hutch and held him, lengthening the stretch. He gasped as pressure like a steel noose gripped him from inside Hutch’s body.
“Dear godsssss-----”
The tightness was velvet smooth and inferno hot. Planted as deeply into Hutch’s body as he could go, Starsky thrust forward and held, breathing through parted lips.
He waited for the signal that Hutch’s body was relaxed enough to claim.
“S-Stars--” Hutch’s voice was hoarse, nearly soundless, his body open and ready.
Starsky experimented with a series of shallow thrusts, found his gait, slammed harder.
“Mine. Hutch. You are mine. ”
He kissed the nape of Hutch’s neck where the blond hair curled in wisps. He lowered his full weight onto Hutch’s back, his cock nailing Hutch to the mattress.
Hutch’s body was a precision machine, custom built for him, sucking him into the blistering center of howling tornado. The need trapped in his body screamed for relief.
“Agggggghhhhhh---”
Starsky’s frantic hands hauled Hutch up to his knees as he plowed forward, his cock an impaling rod assisting from within Hutch’s body. Hutch’s forehead pressed to the mattress, his hands curled around the lower crossbars of the brass headboard. Starsky’s strong thighs wedged Hutch in position, giving his hand ready access to Hutch’s cock. He choke-fisted Hutch’s shaft, imprisoning the blood and seed.
Hutch’s cry shredded the shadows. He lurched up to Starsky, battling for freedom from the vice grip holding back his release.
Starsky rammed forward, hammering Hutch to the core.
“I love you, Hutch. I. Love. You. Understand it. Understand me. Trust me. Trust. Feel. Don’t think. Feel.”
His fist strangled Hutch’s cock.
He hissed.
“I decide when you come, babe. Me. Not. You. Just like you deciding when you trust my love and when you don’t.”
Starsky’s words swept away as passion and fire devoured him, leaving only their truth behind. He settled in to ride, ramming and retreating, sounds like a vortex screaming in his ears. He drove Hutch as though under a lash, all gentleness gone. Sweat dripped from his dark curls and mixed with the damp sheen coating Hutch’s back.
His body moved in piston motion, his cries as unrecognizable. When his orgasm erupted, molten hot, the shock waves launched him across a formless void. He pumped long shuddering ropes of come into Hutch’s body until he was drained, purged.
And collapsed, his head angled along Hutch’s neckline. He laid still, his fist still gripping Hutch’s swollen cock.
The sound of needy moans roused him.
Hutch’s hips moved weakly, almost hopelessly, in his fevered half-sleep.
Starsky’s lips kissed the hot skin of Hutch’s shoulder. His neck. His ear.
He whispered.
“You want to come, babe? Beg for me. Say “’…please….’”
Hutch’s jaw moved. His lips pressed together, a silent appeal that Starsky heard only in his heart.
*Please*
Starsky grunted as he lowered Hutch onto his side. His cock slid from the sheath of Hutch’s body. He scooped drops of oil onto his fingers and fed them one by one into Hutch’s cock slit, and chuckled as the tiny wet mouth gulped.
Helpless against him, Hutch panted.
Starsky swiped his hand in a cooling puddle of spunk and oil. His hand encircled Hutch’s cock root. This time he stroked, up and down, baiting and teasing with calculated slowness.
Hutch lurched in his fist, fever pitched, but Starsky nibbled Hutch’s ear and kept the same lumbering pace. Hutch whimpered and bucked and fought, but Starsky held him in check with long, unhurried strokes.
Six full fist pumps were all it took before tension stiffened Hutch’s frame. Starsky felt the quiver of cock flesh and hot seed gush from Hutch like a fountainhead. He tightened his grip again, stalling the second spasm for several long seconds. He owned Hutch’s orgasm, controlling the pace, dragging it out, forcing Hutch to ride every flame-licked dagger of pleasure separately. Hutch’s lean belly heaved as the last drops were wrung dry.
Starsky pulled him close. A peaceful lassitude enveloped him, as though a part of his soul was scraped clean and purified. He felt cocooned in a haze of love, a familiar sensation that visited him like an orbiting comet every time physical and emotional passion fused.
Hutch was curled into himself, limp-boned and silent.
Starsky drifted, peace and comfort around him like a protective cloak.
“Starsk?” A voice invaded his half-sleep.
Starsky reluctantly forced his eyes open. He lacked the energy to look at the clock. Hutch’s head was next to his on the pillow, their bodies molded together, chest to chest, legs intertwined.
“You’re awake? I thought you’d sleep ‘til next week.” Starsky was only half jesting. A good hard fucking, and he’d treated Hutch to more than one since early evening, usually sent Hutch into a stupor good for at least 12 hours.
“I’m not awake.”
“Talkin’ in your sleep, then?” Starsky kissed the bridge of Hutch’s nose and felt a warm nuzzle to his neck in response.
“Uhh. Liked that. What you did.” Hutch cuddled closer, his face an inch from Starsky’s.
Starsky chuckled. “’’Course you did. You got touched, you got loved.” His voice softened. “And you got fucked. A Hutchinson royal flush.”
Hutch breathed against his cheek. “Yeah. Um. G’night, partner.”
Starsky shook his head. “Not so fast. Got a mess to clean up.”
“Mess?”
“ Spit. Sweat. Water. Oil. Jism. The usual house blend. Whole bed’s a loss.”
Hutch stretched out his hands for balance and rolled off the bed.
Starsky sat up and peered down at him. He sneered affectionately. “You lazy lout.”
Hutch, full length on the floor, tucked his face on his pillowed arms.
“Terrific.” Starsky’s grimace was good natured. “You're pretty much useless. Not only do I get to conduct the orchestra, I get to mop up the stage.”
He moved efficiently, naked and purposeful - stripping the bed and remaking it. A lukewarm shower for rinse off, a handful of damp washcloths to clean the excess off of Hutch. His lower back twinged as he half dragged and half heaved Hutch onto the clean sheets.
“Ya heavy oaf.”
Hutch’s breathing shifted, low and steady, nearer to sleep.
Starsky buried his hand in the corn silk of Hutch’s hair.
Good idea. Let’s sleep. Blessed unconsciousness. No. Wait. I had another question. One final question for the night.
Starsky shook Hutch’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy? When you said, ‘I want ’ - like you did tonight - what’s that mean? What do you want?”
Hutch’s response was sleepy and unguarded. “Want to know how to play the game. Want to play by the rules.”
“Play? Game?”
A drowsy exhale. “Want to keep the prize.”
“What’s the prize, Hutch?”
“You.”
A pause.
“Want to play to win, Starsk, but I gotta play it safe, too.”
Safe.
Starsky quietly cursed the plentiful ghosts from Hutch’s past, that Greek Chorus of doom, continually convincing Hutch that he was so easy to abandon. They didn’t banish easily.
But neither do I.
Hutch’s left hand was open on Starsky’s chest, fingers spread. The near dawn shadows played optical tricks, making it seem like Hutch held a perfect silver star in the palm of his hand.
Starsky placed his hand over Hutch’s. He offered his own vow, bathed in the cleansing silver light.
“Hey, Hutch. Just so you know. When I play, and when it’s you, I only play for keeps.”
~Finis~
More thanks to Tiber and shadow for the beta and the "coaching" and reality checking and all the other stuff.
Comments always welcome!
Disclaimer: No ownership of the guys. No money changing hands. Just for fun.
Rating: NC-17 - slash. This story portrays men in a physical relationship.
“…Please…” - Part 3 of 3
A searing heat bled into Starsky’s sleep, burying him under a smothering blanket. He reeled from image to image. Here - entombed in airless darkness. There - stumbling along the edge of an erupting caldera, dodging flaming arrows.
He surfaced, gulping at the murky air as the dreams slithered away. His wide eyes surveyed the bedroom, taking in shadows imitating shapes reflected by neon lights outside. Darkness brought no relief from the earlier heat of the day.
Familiar pain gripped his left leg, the souvenir of chronically overworked muscles blended with recent bruises and rug burns.
Feels like someone yanked out my kneecap, stomped on it, ‘n shoved it back in the wrong place.
He gritted his teeth at the hollow ticking of the alarm clock. He tried propping on one wrist to toss the mechanical pest across the room, but a weight at his center tugged him back. He groaned, pressing a palm to his face, rubbing the sleep away. Hutch’s scent lingered on his fingertips. His elbow collided with a bare shoulder attached to a long, lean body crowned with a head of blond hair.
Hutch - plastered against him, BTUs cranking off of him like steam, nose half-buried in Starsky’s chest. Sweat pooled where their bodies touched and soaked the twisted sheets beneath them.
Starsky watched the dreams and moonlight play across Hutch’s features; admired the curve of the smooth jaw and the high cheekbones. Even in sleep, Hutch sidestepped absolute peace, evidenced by the vertical tension groove between his eyebrows. Starsky smoothed at that stubborn furrow with a rough-tender press of his thumb.
“S-Starsk--” Hutch’s voice was a soft inflection in the half-gloom.
“Yeah, buddy?”
A rapid flicker behind pale eyelashes confirmed that Hutch was still asleep.
“Starsky.” That mellow voice, sleep-addled, confused. “Starsk. Please. I want ….”
Starsky tilted his head.
Please. The same, sorrow-tinged plea again.
He stroked a hand over Hutch’s pale forehead.
“Hey, Hutch. M’here. ” His voice tapered to silence, speech giving way to thought.
Hutch. You drink down doubts like beer. “Want.” “Please.” Huh? Do I seep into your dreams? Am I in there with you now, babe? What do I say? Do I tell you how much I love you? Or do I say I got nothing more to give you? ‘Cause with you, it’s one or the other - no middle ground.
Hutch mumbled, blond head falling back against the pillow.
Hutch. I love you. But dammit, I’m tired of this. What does it take to get through to you - to make you trust me? What’s your burden of proof for love?
Starsky pressed his hands flat against Hutch’s naked shoulders. He hoisted Hutch into the haven of his arms, sliding back against the brass headboard with Hutch’s head on his bare chest. The brush of Hutch’s body triggered familiar desires, those eternally churning needs - blood red and razor sharp. His body strained with impatience and hunger as true as the trajectory of a bullet.
Need and trust and love . The eternal trinity.
Starsky rested a hand on Hutch’s neck and reviewed the facts of the case.
Hutch needed him. No questions there. And Hutch trusted him - with his life, his friendship, his body. Another absolute. But what about off the job, away from banter and bullets and bedroom? Deep veined insecurity was a much a part of Hutch as his fair hair and long legs. And battling Hutch’s doubts constantly landed Starsky on a mental and emotional proving ground where declaring final victory never seemed an option.
I get frustrated. I get impatient. And it boils over, fueled by too many mixed signals ‘n too many times shooting at the same paper targets.
How to connect to Hutch’s insecurity as effortlessly as connecting to his body? How to tame those rogue emotions once and for all?
Enough. No more detours. No turning back.
Hutch’s warm breath, coupled with his weight against Starsky’s groin, was seductive. Distracting.
Wait a minute. He’s asleep. Maybe it’s like that article I read in the paper - about subconscious communication. I can sneak in there. Make him hear the truth. Can’t let him get the drop on me though. Need a diversion.
He felt Hutch’s thigh, heavy and erotic, against his balls. A knife blade of desire raked his spine.
He smiled.
A distraction. Work him. Drain him. Get those busy brain cells of his fuck-drunk.
He settled Hutch onto his back, grinning as Hutch’s long limbs spread in all directions to claim more than his fair share of the bed’s real estate. The damp hair on Hutch’s forehead was a moon-washed halo in the dim light. A white gold earring glimmered against white cotton sheets.
Starsky kissed the tremble under Hutch’s Adam’s apple. His lips teased a trail of kisses from nipples up to exposed neck and ear lobe. He nudged the earring with his tongue tip and licked and sampled his way back down, nuzzling fading bruises on Hutch’s ribs and kissing fresh marks, imprints of his own fingers, on Hutch’s hips and lower belly.
Hutch breathed out a word from his dream horizon.
“Please….”
Yes, Hutch. “Please.” It pleases me. It will please you.
Starsky positioned Hutch’s limber body, arms to the sides and thighs open. He knelt between Hutch’s legs and let his fingers roam, finding the pale hair under Hutch’s armpits, flicking over tight ribs, prodding hidden and secret places.
He shifted backwards, hands splayed on Hutch’s inner thighs with thumbs locked against Hutch’s balls. His tongue, lapping at Hutch’s cock, was instantly rewarded with flesh swelling to arousal. He mouthed the circumcised head and swept a wet lick down the vein. He paused to sip lazily at the shallow pool of pre-cum gathered at Hutch’s cock slit. His mouth continued its teasing journey, agonizingly slow and tender.
Hutch bucked and writhed, breaking the hot silence with a low whimper.
Sweet boy. That’s right.
Starsky opened his mouth wider and swallowed Hutch’s cock to the root. His bite steadied; his tongue tested each sensitive inch.
Hutch gasped. His right arm swept up against his forehead. His eyelids fluttered.
Starsky pulled away and whispered, soothingly, urgently.
“Sleep, Hutch. S’okay. Don’t wake up.”
At the sound of Starsky’s voice, Hutch shivered and submerged into the depths of slumber as though dragged by gloved fingers.
Starsky returned to his play, nursing and suckling. His tongue stroked leisurely, his fingers fondled the tender sweep of Hutch’s skin from cock root to ass - coaxing, demanding.
Hutch’s hips lifted, plundering Starsky’s mouth. Starsky pleasure-tortured him artfully, combining deep suction with perfectly timed fist strokes. Hutch shuddered, arched, and came - mindlessly and helplessly. His feverish moans echoed as Starsky languidly sucked him dry.
Hutch tried to pull away, but Starsky held him down, watching with dark lashed eyes as Hutch lay panting.
Delicious lover. Greedy lover. Next time, baby blue, why don’t I slide a straw inside you and drink right from the well?
Hutch’s left arm flung wide.
Starsky grabbed the wrist, turned the large hand, and gently kissed the palm. He planted a second playful kiss on Hutch’s ear as he choreographed his next move.
Hutch rolled and stretched on his right side with elbows akimbo, his deep breathing a hint that Starsky’s handling had spiraled him further into sleep.
Starsky slid his hands along Hutch’s ass cheeks, pausing to admire the softness of flesh welded to muscle. Then he padded panther-quiet to the kitchen. He found a glass, filled it with ice and water, and drank deeply. He returned to the bed, carrying the glass and a small bottle of oil.
You’re here and mine for the taking, golden boy. Don’t mind if I do.
He propped himself against Hutch’s side, his erection wedged to Hutch’s lower back. He carefully scissored Hutch’s legs apart, hand moving slyly to stroke Hutch’s cock head. Hutch protested quietly, the direction of his dreams shifting according to Starsky’s touch. The heat from his body almost singed Starsky’s fingers.
Starsky reached for the glass of ice water on the bedside table. He took a refreshing swallow and pondered. Smiling to himself, he plunged his fingers into the glass and pulled out an ice cube. He placed his lips to Hutch’s left ear and crooned.
”Sleep, babe. I’m in your dreams. Dream with me.”
Hutch rolled onto his stomach and humped his cock against the cotton sheets, sluggish and heat drunk.
Starsky tugged him back onto his side.
Time to cool you down, partner.
He slid the melting ice cube over Hutch’s ass crack, trapping him in place as Hutch tried to twist away. He waited until Hutch settled, then carefully slid the ice cube inside the grip of Hutch’s body, into the heat of his channel. He fed Hutch’s body another ice cube, cooling him from within. Two water slicked fingers followed the ice.
Hutch flinched and cried out softly. Starsky leaned and kissed his jaw line.
Starsky lengthened his finger strokes, envisioning himself a conjurer of cold and heat, tormenting Hutch with a wand of ice crystals followed by liquid hot tapers. His fingers fucked Hutch in a steady rhythm, shoving the melting cubes deeper. Using water and sweat for lube, he worked, spearing and strumming against Hutch’s prostate with excruciating precision.
Hutch’s cock twitched, lengthened. He cried out from the mist of sleep.
Starsky murmured reassuringly. He extended his free hand to Hutch’s mouth, offering sweat flavored fingers to suckle. Hutch his lips closed around them in eager, almost innocent, desperation.
You big blond glutton.
Starsky snaked his hand down and pumped Hutch, three steady hard strokes mid-shaft. Beads of sweat rose on Hutch’s back like graffiti.
When Starsky abruptly abandoned Hutch’s cock in favor of ice cooled fingers teasing a path from navel to nipples, he heard Hutch’s growl of displeasure; felt him trying again to flip onto his stomach and drill his cock into the sheets. Starsky prevented him from moving.
Not so fast. Stay in our dream, Hutch. Follow me. You’re safe. You’re loved.
He offered the heel of his palm to Hutch’s cock head as a consolation and Hutch butted it in a blind panic.
Starsky’s breath touched the white gold in Hutch’s ear.
“Sweet boy. Ride it out.”
He heard Hutch’s plea over the pounding of his heart and his own cresting, hammering need.
“…Please…”
Starsky’s smile was dark and loving.
“Beautiful. Wanton. Yeah… just like that.”
Hutch’s long legs kicked. He escaped Starsky’s hold and rolled, face down with long fingers balled into fists. His cock rutted the sheets with delirious relief. Pale moonlight bathed him in a ghostly aura.
Starsky watched him - the lean, smooth body slamming against the mattress as though hit with an electrical charge. And his own body in contrast - tanned, chiseled muscle, dark hair across his chest, fingers slippery with the oil he was rubbing onto his cock from drenched slit to balls.
He angled behind Hutch’s sprawled body. His fingers parted the cleft of Hutch’s ass. With a sweet groan of anticipation, he spread Hutch’s legs wider and pushed his cockhead at the tight opening, breaching the entrance. His hips rocked forward.
Hutch stiffened, spreading his legs wider.
Starsky plunged into the mind-tripping tightness, steady and hard, plowing Hutch open with one long uninterrupted slide.
Hutch’s piercing cry melted into a sob.
Starsky’s whisper replied.
“This is a dream fuck, baby blue. You feel my body owning you. You hear my voice and every word is an oath.”
Hutch curved upward, head tossed back. Starsky’s hands caught Hutch and held him, lengthening the stretch. He gasped as pressure like a steel noose gripped him from inside Hutch’s body.
“Dear godsssss-----”
The tightness was velvet smooth and inferno hot. Planted as deeply into Hutch’s body as he could go, Starsky thrust forward and held, breathing through parted lips.
He waited for the signal that Hutch’s body was relaxed enough to claim.
“S-Stars--” Hutch’s voice was hoarse, nearly soundless, his body open and ready.
Starsky experimented with a series of shallow thrusts, found his gait, slammed harder.
“Mine. Hutch. You are mine. ”
He kissed the nape of Hutch’s neck where the blond hair curled in wisps. He lowered his full weight onto Hutch’s back, his cock nailing Hutch to the mattress.
Hutch’s body was a precision machine, custom built for him, sucking him into the blistering center of howling tornado. The need trapped in his body screamed for relief.
“Agggggghhhhhh---”
Starsky’s frantic hands hauled Hutch up to his knees as he plowed forward, his cock an impaling rod assisting from within Hutch’s body. Hutch’s forehead pressed to the mattress, his hands curled around the lower crossbars of the brass headboard. Starsky’s strong thighs wedged Hutch in position, giving his hand ready access to Hutch’s cock. He choke-fisted Hutch’s shaft, imprisoning the blood and seed.
Hutch’s cry shredded the shadows. He lurched up to Starsky, battling for freedom from the vice grip holding back his release.
Starsky rammed forward, hammering Hutch to the core.
“I love you, Hutch. I. Love. You. Understand it. Understand me. Trust me. Trust. Feel. Don’t think. Feel.”
His fist strangled Hutch’s cock.
He hissed.
“I decide when you come, babe. Me. Not. You. Just like you deciding when you trust my love and when you don’t.”
Starsky’s words swept away as passion and fire devoured him, leaving only their truth behind. He settled in to ride, ramming and retreating, sounds like a vortex screaming in his ears. He drove Hutch as though under a lash, all gentleness gone. Sweat dripped from his dark curls and mixed with the damp sheen coating Hutch’s back.
His body moved in piston motion, his cries as unrecognizable. When his orgasm erupted, molten hot, the shock waves launched him across a formless void. He pumped long shuddering ropes of come into Hutch’s body until he was drained, purged.
And collapsed, his head angled along Hutch’s neckline. He laid still, his fist still gripping Hutch’s swollen cock.
The sound of needy moans roused him.
Hutch’s hips moved weakly, almost hopelessly, in his fevered half-sleep.
Starsky’s lips kissed the hot skin of Hutch’s shoulder. His neck. His ear.
He whispered.
“You want to come, babe? Beg for me. Say “’…please….’”
Hutch’s jaw moved. His lips pressed together, a silent appeal that Starsky heard only in his heart.
*Please*
Starsky grunted as he lowered Hutch onto his side. His cock slid from the sheath of Hutch’s body. He scooped drops of oil onto his fingers and fed them one by one into Hutch’s cock slit, and chuckled as the tiny wet mouth gulped.
Helpless against him, Hutch panted.
Starsky swiped his hand in a cooling puddle of spunk and oil. His hand encircled Hutch’s cock root. This time he stroked, up and down, baiting and teasing with calculated slowness.
Hutch lurched in his fist, fever pitched, but Starsky nibbled Hutch’s ear and kept the same lumbering pace. Hutch whimpered and bucked and fought, but Starsky held him in check with long, unhurried strokes.
Six full fist pumps were all it took before tension stiffened Hutch’s frame. Starsky felt the quiver of cock flesh and hot seed gush from Hutch like a fountainhead. He tightened his grip again, stalling the second spasm for several long seconds. He owned Hutch’s orgasm, controlling the pace, dragging it out, forcing Hutch to ride every flame-licked dagger of pleasure separately. Hutch’s lean belly heaved as the last drops were wrung dry.
Starsky pulled him close. A peaceful lassitude enveloped him, as though a part of his soul was scraped clean and purified. He felt cocooned in a haze of love, a familiar sensation that visited him like an orbiting comet every time physical and emotional passion fused.
Hutch was curled into himself, limp-boned and silent.
Starsky drifted, peace and comfort around him like a protective cloak.
“Starsk?” A voice invaded his half-sleep.
Starsky reluctantly forced his eyes open. He lacked the energy to look at the clock. Hutch’s head was next to his on the pillow, their bodies molded together, chest to chest, legs intertwined.
“You’re awake? I thought you’d sleep ‘til next week.” Starsky was only half jesting. A good hard fucking, and he’d treated Hutch to more than one since early evening, usually sent Hutch into a stupor good for at least 12 hours.
“I’m not awake.”
“Talkin’ in your sleep, then?” Starsky kissed the bridge of Hutch’s nose and felt a warm nuzzle to his neck in response.
“Uhh. Liked that. What you did.” Hutch cuddled closer, his face an inch from Starsky’s.
Starsky chuckled. “’’Course you did. You got touched, you got loved.” His voice softened. “And you got fucked. A Hutchinson royal flush.”
Hutch breathed against his cheek. “Yeah. Um. G’night, partner.”
Starsky shook his head. “Not so fast. Got a mess to clean up.”
“Mess?”
“ Spit. Sweat. Water. Oil. Jism. The usual house blend. Whole bed’s a loss.”
Hutch stretched out his hands for balance and rolled off the bed.
Starsky sat up and peered down at him. He sneered affectionately. “You lazy lout.”
Hutch, full length on the floor, tucked his face on his pillowed arms.
“Terrific.” Starsky’s grimace was good natured. “You're pretty much useless. Not only do I get to conduct the orchestra, I get to mop up the stage.”
He moved efficiently, naked and purposeful - stripping the bed and remaking it. A lukewarm shower for rinse off, a handful of damp washcloths to clean the excess off of Hutch. His lower back twinged as he half dragged and half heaved Hutch onto the clean sheets.
“Ya heavy oaf.”
Hutch’s breathing shifted, low and steady, nearer to sleep.
Starsky buried his hand in the corn silk of Hutch’s hair.
Good idea. Let’s sleep. Blessed unconsciousness. No. Wait. I had another question. One final question for the night.
Starsky shook Hutch’s shoulder. “Hey, buddy? When you said, ‘I want ’ - like you did tonight - what’s that mean? What do you want?”
Hutch’s response was sleepy and unguarded. “Want to know how to play the game. Want to play by the rules.”
“Play? Game?”
A drowsy exhale. “Want to keep the prize.”
“What’s the prize, Hutch?”
“You.”
A pause.
“Want to play to win, Starsk, but I gotta play it safe, too.”
Safe.
Starsky quietly cursed the plentiful ghosts from Hutch’s past, that Greek Chorus of doom, continually convincing Hutch that he was so easy to abandon. They didn’t banish easily.
But neither do I.
Hutch’s left hand was open on Starsky’s chest, fingers spread. The near dawn shadows played optical tricks, making it seem like Hutch held a perfect silver star in the palm of his hand.
Starsky placed his hand over Hutch’s. He offered his own vow, bathed in the cleansing silver light.
“Hey, Hutch. Just so you know. When I play, and when it’s you, I only play for keeps.”
~Finis~