June 15th- Fair Game: Part 3 All’s Fair in Love and Bondage by Dandelion

Click here to read Part 1
Click here to read Part 2

This stand-alone slash story contains a reference to events from the author’s novel, Unbreakable. The reference is marked * for clarity.

“You had this planned all along.”

“Nah,” Hutch said, not convincingly. “I’m a police officer. I carry handcuffs on me at all times, same as you.” Neither of them did, not all the time, but the point was playful, and Starsky didn’t argue with it.

“So, you’re gonna take me right here and now, hm, cowboy?”

That was Hutch’s plan. Their days-ago conversation about bondage had encouraged him to closely consider Starsky’s argument, which was that Starsky would only get pleasure out of being restrained during sex—and that Hutch would only feel good about Starsky’s enjoyment.

Once the moment was upon him, Hutch pressed his entire length to Starsky and carefully shoved him against the wall. “Yeah,” he said quietly into Starsky’s ear and to answer his man’s question, “it looks like I get to take you right here and now.” Only then did Hutch realize he was excited by the idea of owning Starsky—and it startled him enough that he instinctively knew what to do next. “But, first, I’m gonna need a safe word.”

“Spaghetti,” Starsky said with a pant of excitement.

“Spaghetti it is.”

“And I want it for dinner tonight, too.”

“Idiot,” Hutch mumbled under his breath—his verbal version of rolling his eyes—as he buried his face in Starsky’s neck, deeply inhaled his scent, and belied his annoyance by asking, “Why do you smell extra good this morning?”

“Cologne?”

“Yeah, but why?”

“Because I thought I could talk you into playing with me in the tent.”

“But you figured wrong, huh?” Hutch joked. He drew attention to where they were at that moment by thrusting his hips into Starsky’s denim-clad buttocks, and causing his lover to laugh, too. “The best laid plans of mice and men…”

“What’s that about mice?”

“Focus more on the ‘laid’ part of that comment,” Hutch advised him. He nibbled Starsky’s ear, savoring the sensual aroma of Starsky’s warmth and cologne, and feeling his own arousal heat him from the inside. “I’m just sorry I had to interrupt your plans.”

“I’m not.”

“Yeah, me neither,” Hutch said, as if on second thought. He stepped back to give himself the reprieve he needed to not be in a hurry—and to examine the look of Starsky handcuffed to the wall. The first thing Hutch noticed was Starsky’s profile—and that his eyes were closed, as if Starsky was already transfixed in dreamy contentment. “You like that, do ya?” Hutch softly asked. “I mean, you like being controlled this way.”

“By you. But don’t you like it when you are? Why would I be different?”

The questions by themselves answered it for Hutch. “Are you comfortable?”

Starsky appeared comfortable, Hutch thought, despite that he was cuffed to a ring slightly above his head. Starsky was able to lean into the wall, relax against it, wait for further instructions—or Hutch’s next move.

“This can only end well for me,” Starsky explained, “so how can I be uncomfortable?”

“I don’t know. A hard-on up against drywall doesn’t sound all that appetizing.”

“Who says I have a hard-on?”

“You don’t? Not even a little one?”

“I guess you’ll have to find out on your own—because I’m not gonna help you.”

Never mind that he couldn’t help Hutch. But Hutch wasn’t falling for it, either; he knew when he was being baited. “So, let’s get going,” he said, as if Starsky had been the stall. “Step away from the wall and take off your shoes.”

“Funny man, you are, Officer,” Starsky replied dryly—but not until after he’d tried to get loose from the handcuffs and then obviously realized that instinctively following orders was just a prank. For payback, he did pretend to fight with the towel ring, as if miraculously pulling it out of the wall would be his key to salvation.

“Don’t scratch the hardware,” Hutch warned him. He pulled Starsky away from the wall, knelt at Starsky’s feet, and untied his shoes when Starsky surrendered, hearing him say, “Leave my socks on; the floor is gonna be cold.” But Hutch ignored him and removed Starsky’s shoes and his socks.

“So that’s how it’s gonna be,” Starsky said, reluctantly. “Okay. I get it.”

“Oh, you’ll get it, all right,” Hutch coyly promised him. He fetched the towel he’d left on the bathroom counter, folded it in half again, and dropped it on the floor in front of Starsky. “Stand on that.” He didn’t want Starsky to be cold, but he also needed him to be stark naked, too. Once Hutch had him where he wanted him—away from the wall, but still locked to it—he reached around Starsky to unbutton his shirt. “If this goes according to plan,” Hutch said, “I won’t be the only fly in a spider’s web from here on out.”

“Creepy crawlies and little furry rodents. You’re not gonna faze me.”

“I wasn’t trying to,” Hutch said, laughing, “not that way, anyway.” He lifted Starsky’s shirt over his head, but failed to remove it when it was inevitably stopped by the handcuffs—and that’s when Hutch felt the blood drain to his feet. How could he not have seen that coming? There was no way he could get around completely stripping Starsky without uncuffing him—which would only serve to derail the experience for them. More than that, leaving Starsky’s shirt on was also hauntingly reminiscent of the gang-rape*—wherein the attackers couldn’t take it off of Starsky for the same reason, so they ripped it open instead.

Hutch slumped against him with nearly his entire weight, breathing hard, feeling disappointed and angry at himself. But before he could say a word or abandon the effort, Starsky intercepted him.

“Hey, c’mon, Hutch,” he said, “don’t give up, okay? We got this.”

Hutch rested his forehead against the wall beside Starsky’s face and closed his eyes. “I’m sorry,” he whispered.

“The only reason I thought of it was because you did,” Starsky swore. “I wouldn’t have made any connections, not a single one, if you hadn’t remembered it.”

Hutch could never forget what he witnessed on that videotape.

“Look. I can use it for a cushion,” Starsky said. “See what I’m doing?”

Hutch turned his head and looked into Starsky’s blue eyes—noticing that Starsky had bunched his shirt between his cheek and the wall—and instead of joining Hutch in his dismay, Starsky also beamed a sexy smile at him. “You did my face a favor,” Starsky noted. “Next, we figure out how my hard-on can take the drywall, okay?”

Hutch didn’t know how he felt—until Starsky wiggled his butt at him. The tease didn’t titillate Hutch so much as it convinced him that Starsky was still in the game, that he was playful and willing, that he hadn’t missed a beat—except the one Hutch had caused him. So he stepped behind Starsky, pulled Starsky’s hips further away from the wall to push him into slightly bending over, and then reached around him again, that time to unbutton and unzip his fly. “Be careful what you wish for,” Hutch said, summoning a wistful voice.

“If you only knew what I wish for—”

“I’d be fucking you by now?”

Starsky laughed. “If you think you’re man enough.”

“Daring me isn’t going to get you what you want any sooner,” Hutch reminded him. He slowly lowered Starsky’s jeans to the floor, stealing a gentle love bite to Starsky’s left buttock as he leaned over and helped Starsky step out of them—and hearing Starsky’s subsequent yelp. Hutch noticed again how good Starsky smelled. He really had hoped to play with Hutch in the tent that morning, having apparently dabbed cologne in more places than just behind his ears; he exuded an enticing and fresh scent over every inch of his skin.

Hutch straightened, removed the almond oil container from his sweatpants pocket, and popped open the cap. “Look at you,” he said, turning the bottle over and squeezing it, “being so good to me and praying for a romp outside, and I’m simply gonna ‘fuck the cum out of you,’ as you like to say, right here in the bathroom.”

Starsky laughed again and was apparently about to say something when he moaned instead—having felt the oil suddenly drizzle over his back, and then Hutch’s warm fingers use it to soothingly moisturize him. “That feels good, Hutch.”

It did feel good. And it looked as appealing, too. Starsky’s hairless and darker skin, sans that soft patch of black hair in the small concave above his butt, was strong and muscled, and now glistening with oil in the late morning daylight. After he closed the bottle and returned it to his pocket, Hutch coated Starsky with the lubricant, slowly and sensually, a deliberate action that evolved into an unplanned massage of Starsky’s relaxed shoulders, strong biceps, and haired forearms.

They listened to each other’s deep and hesitant breathing as time slowed and their arousals matured. Hutch was especially turned on by the overall idea that Starsky was naked—and probably erect, too—and that he himself was dressed in comfortable sweatpants and a tee-shirt while his lover was completely exposed and relatively helpless, despite that it was pretend. All Starsky could do was wait for whatever Hutch would do; those things, and the feel of Starsky’s warm and forgiving flesh at his fingers, eased Hutch’s subconscious concerns. “Yes,” Hutch agreed in a whisper, “it does feel good.” He bent over Starsky to kiss along his spine to his neck, enjoying the oral sensations of taste and touch at his lips.

“I’ll suck whatever you put in my mouth,” Starsky promised him—as if that might get him uncuffed.

Hutch leaned around Starsky to put him to the test—one he passed—when he immediately sucked Hutch’s moist lips and warm tongue. The joining moved Hutch from behind Starsky to beside him and, while they kissed, to instinctively reach for Starsky’s penis, finding and devouring it with short, gentle strokes in his oiled hand. Starsky’s erection had apparently been waiting for him; it was already firm with desire, as evidenced by the soft and lengthy moans Starsky expressed during the sexy contact.

“That feels good, too, doesn’t it?” Hutch asked when he ended the kiss—knowing the answer. He squeezed more tightly to force a breathless, “Yes,” out of Starsky, and then followed the tease with another rhetorical question: “Do you think you might want me to suck it, too?”

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky begged him. He lowered his head to watch Hutch pump his penis with a generously lubricious hand, and then lengthen the strokes. “Oh, Hutch, you make my dick feel so good.”

They did that for each other, made each other feel good like that—and with an intensity they’d never experienced with other lovers. Even then, and without direct touch, Hutch’s penis felt pulses of pleasure wash over him purely from the visual of Starsky’s helplessness in his hands, from the feel of Starsky’s hardening shaft, from the sound of his accelerated breathing, and from that just-below-the-surface pulse beat of Starsky’s pounding heart.

“I could come now if you suck me,” Starsky said, sounding matter-of-fact, despite the deeply unconvincing breaths he drew between words. “Then I’ll suck you. You like getting sucked, doncha, Hutch? You like that more than anything.”

Hutch completely let Starsky go to kneel on the floor between him and the wall; he set his butt against the hard surface behind him for support, and spent the next couple of minutes simply inhaling the musky male scent of Starsky’s groin, his stiffened penis and his fleshy sac, that nearly black patch of kinky hair, but not touching him, not obliging—not even answering him.

“Oh, c’mon,” Starsky said, “don’t do this to me. I thought you were gonna suck me.”

“Maybe,” Hutch finally said, quietly, as if to no one who cared. He stalled for time by enjoying the familiar look of Starsky’s erection, its blood-gorged veins and wider girth, visibly broader than his own, not as long, but sizable in its own right, more than enough to fill his hand and mouth at once. When Hutch focused his attention on the end of its darker pink cap, the slit pointed directly at him as if to accuse him of malfeasance.

“Just a little lick then,” Starsky pleadingly said. “Could you do that much?”

Hutch lifted his head and looked right into Starsky’s beautiful blue eyes. “Hi there,” he said, as if noticing him for the first time. “How you doing?”

“Are you listening to me at all?”

The top of Starsky’s head was against the wall, cushioned by his shirt, and he gazed down at Hutch as if he were the one in command—except the delirium in his eyes proved otherwise.

“It’s hard to think,” Hutch said, returning his attention to Starsky’s erection, fascinated again by its closeup dark and darkening skin. Even without physical contact, Starsky’s arousal for him gave Hutch such immeasurable emotional and sexual pleasure that filled him with an even deeper desire for nothing and no one else.

“I’m not asking you to think,” Starsky argued, rotating his hips to solicit tactile contact. “I’m asking you to hear me.”

“Did you say something?”

“Suck me—you know, like you do.”

Hutch got the bottle out of his pocket, squeezed a few drops of the emollient onto the tips of his fingers, closed it, pocketed it, and gently rubbed oil along his lips—and taking his time for each action.

“Yeah, that’s nice,” Starsky said, watching him, and sounding excited. “Make yourself slippery for me.”

But Hutch was nowhere near the end of his tease. He cradled Starsky’s penis at its base with one oiled hand, coated the flattened top of its crown with the other, and then gently pushed the stiffened organ to Starsky’s haired belly, moving it from left to right so the slick and pleasing sensations would only deepen Starsky’s need for that elusive orgasm.

Starsky audibly panted, a rhythmic cadence of exhales interrupted only by an occasional cuss word. He obviously wanted more—and more different. “You have… such a… mean streak,” he was able to say, pressing his hips forward to get that erotically satisfying pleasure he really sought.

“I thought the point of this,” Hutch said musingly, fondling his own emerging erection through his sweatpants and to share what little he was offering his lover in the ensuing empathy, “is that I get to play on my terms.”

Starsky’s respiration was heavy, halting, and finally exhaling with dissatisfaction. “Yeah, okay,” he reluctantly acquiesced—and only because he had to—“but… I mean…”

“That’s what I thought,” Hutch said, mocking him. He let Starsky go and sat on the floor in front of him to keep Starsky at bay for as long as he could. “You smell good, though,” Hutch added, still close enough to drink in the aroma of cologne, almond oil, and sex rolled into one titillating scent.

“C’mon,” Starsky debated him, “why are you making me wait? I mean… the point is to… take me… like I am. You can do whatever you wanna do to me, so do it.”

“I am doing what I want to do.”

“But… I mean… I don’t do this kind of thing to you. I do one thing, then another. I don’t make you wait for stuff.”

“I’m not sure you’re right about that, buddy.”

Starsky inched forward and touched Hutch’s cheek with the tip of his penis, rotating his hips in a further failed effort to get Hutch to open his mouth. “It’s not gonna suck itself,” Starsky said, laughing, but sadly. “And you know you love to suck my dick.”

“Okay, so you’re right about that, Starsk. It is a beautiful dick—and I do love sucking it.”

“So, then, do it, willya? And then I’ll do you.”

With just his thumb and forefinger, Hutch pushed Starsky’s penis against his belly again, gently sliding it in the oiled contact from left to right. He settled against the wall as if he planned to be there a while, giving only that, simply to taunt Starsky, and pleasuring himself to keep his own erection satisfied. But he didn’t dare reach inside his sweats; an oiled hand, even one of his doing, might push him too far too soon.

A bead of clear seminal fluid emerged from the slit in Starsky’s crown, building on itself until it threatened to spill over onto the floor—had Hutch not caught it with his thumb. He then coated that sweet spot on the underside of Starsky’s erection with the lubricant, knowing he’d raised the bar in that isolated, but highly stimulating action. “Does that feel good, too, Starsk?” Hutch asked, more firmly pressing his thumb to the hypersensitive frenulum in sensual circular caresses, and looking up at Starsky’s face as if he didn’t know the answer.

But Starsky was lost in the quicksand of his own bliss, speechless, eyes tightly closed, an expression of sweet pain outlined his face, its dark brows, thick eyelashes, thin lips—parted just enough to suck in the oxygen he needed to remain standing, lest he hang from the wall.

How could Hutch possibly keep such a needy man waiting for more ‘stuff’? He let himself go, leaned forward to kiss Starsky’s sensitive head, the swollen one at the end of that desire-aching phallus between his legs, and then closed his lips around its smooth surface of nerve-pulsing skin, continued to stimulate Starsky’s frenulum with oil and pre-cum, that time using his tongue, and heard his own deep breaths and irrepressible moans rise from the pleasure it gave them both.

Hutch couldn’t help himself, either—not in that moment, anyway. He opened his mouth and allowed Starsky to impulsively push his penis into the tight wet warmth that invited him. Starsky’s careful, gentle strokes ratcheted up both their drives. They moaned together, listened to the rhythmic sounds of sucking, enjoyed the differing sensations equally. Hutch knew Starsky watched him in those orally copulating moments, handcuffed as he was above his head, but definitely needing to see his penis disappear and reappear from Hutch’s mouth; Starsky’s hiss and his accelerating thrusting stride were the clear-cut evidence.

Hutch only permitted Starsky a minute to enjoy himself—without ever giving him the accommodating, finishing hand. “Man, you’re damn delicious,” he said, licking his lips after he broke them apart—and panting in unison with Starsky for nearly half a minute. He then took his tee-shirt off over his head, having become aware of the sweat that seemed to have boiled up from inside him and broken out onto his skin. But before Starsky could beg for it, Hutch pushed off the wall, and fed on him again, that time surprising him by stroking Starsky’s penis in a tight fist and a wet sucking mouth, both of which worked in glorious tandem—an unprecedented technique they had learned with each other and found most satisfying.

“Oh, Hutch… that’s so good… you do my dick good… if you… keep…”

Hutch knew the rest of Starsky’s sentence, despite that he didn’t hear it in words; it was the one he planned for. If he kept up the noisy, sucking, stroking of his lover’s swollen organ, Starsky was bound to ejaculate in a matter of seconds—so Hutch abruptly let him go again. He ignored the sincere cussing he heard, and pushed himself up the wall, using just his legs and his back to rise, and forcing Starsky off his head rest when he straightened, to kiss his lips and nurse his tongue instead.

Starsky may have been helpless in most respects, but he wasn’t acting alone, nor in isolation. Though he could do no more than drive or rotate his hips, he did make those efforts, pinning Hutch to the wall and riding Hutch’s erection through his sweatpants with his own.

“Whoa, there, boy,” Hutch said, pushing Starsky off him, and as if words alone would have altered Starsky’s intentions. “Let a guy get undressed first, willya?”

“You’re taking too long,” Starsky replied, accusingly. He huffed with frustration when Hutch moved out from under him and he was alone again with just a towel ring, a pair of handcuffs, and a wall. “Do you even see my dick?”

“Can’t miss it,” Hutch said, trying not to sound as amused as he felt. “I just played with it for a while—or didn’t you notice?”

“Then you know how hard it is.”

“I do.”

“So you’re just gonna leave it hanging here like this?”

“I wouldn’t dream of it.”

“What next, then? Fuck me and pump me at the same time, that way you do, right?”

“There’s an idea.” But Hutch didn’t move.

“I come, you come,” Starsky explained, looking over his shoulder to make compelling eye contact with his partner. “You want that, doncha?”

“Plannin’ on it.”

“Well, how come you don’t wanna feel good right this second?”

“I do feel good. I’m enjoying myself immensely. What’s hard to understand about that?”

“Well, can I see if it’s hard?”

Hutch loosened the drawstring on his sweatpants and then lowered them to his knees, ignoring that Starsky had misread his comment. He swung his fully erect penis in the cooling air about a foot from Starsky’s leg, as if to show it off, and laughed inwardly when he realized he mimicked Starsky’s playful behavior in times past. That boy had always been a bad influence, Hutch mused. “He’s dancing on the boulevard,” he said, referencing his engorged phallus, so swollen it had completely emerged from its foreskin without any help from either of their hands.

“Put some oil on it,” Starsky suggested. “Then fuck me, okay?”

Hutch reached into his pocket, got the bottle, and then stepped out of his sweats altogether, kicking them aside to keep from tripping on them. He poured a generous amount of oil into his palm, closed the bottle’s lid, and tossed it into the nearby sink. He then stepped behind Starsky, spread Starsky’s buttocks with one hand, and drizzled some of the lubricant into its crevice with the other, keeping most of the oil in his closed fist. “I gotta say this again, Starsk,” he said, lovingly, “you have the most beautiful ass ever made.”

Starsky had gone back to hanging his head against the wall; no doubt he was disappointed when Hutch didn’t play along exactly the way he wanted him to, but he was no less excited, and obviously quite ready to be penetrated and thrust into—an ecstasy that would end with both of their ejaculations. Or, at least, Starsky hoped as much. “I can’t wait until we come, Hutch, so hurry.”

Hutch hadn’t been facetious. “You’ve really got a gorgeous ass,” he said, admiring its muscled and fleshy appearance, its perfect curves and proportions, its warmth and its inviting sexiness, the subtle way it blended into Starsky’s back and legs. “Everything about it is… so… beautiful: the way it looks…” He bent over and kissed both cheeks, inhaling their romantic aroma of cologne and yielding skin. “…the way it smells…” He used the thumb of his closed fist and the fingers of his other hand to expose Starsky to cool air and closer examination. The view of Starsky’s darker pink entry, coupled with the hairless surface of his perineum and the reddened textured skin of his snug-to-his-legs scrotum, just about took Hutch’s breath away. And, of course, Hutch had to put his mouth—his lips and his tongue—on every part of it. “The way it tastes,” he said between licking kisses.

“You… tease… me… so… bad,” Starsky said, moaning with the aching pain and the indirect pleasures he felt at once. He rattled the handcuffs, cussed under his vacillating breath, but still couldn’t help his impulsive words. “That feels good. I love… the way… you lick me… all over… like that.”

Whatever Starsky verbally asked for, Hutch stopped giving him—just to keep Starsky in edgy anticipation. He pressed his pelvis and his erection into Starsky’s buttocks instead, and enjoyed the feel of the slippery glide against its underside as it rode between his oiled cheeks from end-to-tip.

“Go inside me,” Starsky said. “I’m relaxed for you.”

“I’ll get there,” Hutch promised. He reached around Starsky to swallow Starsky’s shaft with the oil he’d kept in his fist so they could both enjoy the sensations.

“Oh, Hutch…”

“Oh, Starsky,” Hutch said in Starsky’s ear, playfully mocking his partner’s helpless delirium, lightly laughing, and breathing heavily, as if it were Starsky who had command of him. “You make me so hard.” That part was authentic. Hutch lowered and lifted his hips to lengthen his strokes along Starsky’s backside, promising good things for his partner’s building climax, mostly to bait Starsky—but Hutch was fairly sure, as his own orgasm slowly developed, that he only succeeded in tantalizing and tormenting himself. The feel of Starsky’s hardened meat in his hand, slipping in and out of his squeezing massages, and his own shaft between the lubricated cheeks of Starsky’s buttocks, and Hutch wasn’t certain who baited who in those minutes.

He kissed Starsky’s neck, pressed his nude and perspiring body to his partner’s, the whole of his groin to Starsky’s butt, his bared chest to Starsky’s back, his slightly bent knees just inside Starsky’s supporting stance—to hold them open—and he couldn’t help but hear the pleasing whimpering of Starsky’s heavy, panting, moaning breaths, and the echoes of his own murmurs and labored gulps for air. Who was the most helpless in those rising moments of sheer ecstasy and excitement? Hutch could no longer say.

He let Starsky slip from his hand—not intentionally, not with any purpose or ill will, not even consciously; maybe the instinct to hold onto what he felt he may have been losing forced him into a different grip: his own strength to endure. He had to step forward—once, and then again—losing balance perhaps, catching what threatened to escape him: Starsky’s hips breaking away. But Hutch was clearly conscious of what he wanted; he guided his penis to its intended target and pushed forward into the warm, tight opening—except it eluded him, not by much, but by enough.

“Starsk.”

“Hutch…”

Hutch took half a step forward to close the gap he felt. “Starsky.”

“I’m gonna come, Hutch.”

Only then did Hutch realize what had been transpiring without him. “Please, don’t, Starsk,” Hutch implored him, fearing it was too late even before he said it. Starsky had been riding the closest object he could reach; he’d been enjoying that brief minute or two—when he wasn’t in Hutch’s stroking hand—to be up against the rough, but slickened surface of drywall. Hutch tugged Starsky’s hips again, more forcefully, and succeeded in abruptly breaking Starsky’s contact with the wall. “Don’t come yet,” he ordered—as if he had any power to stop an ejaculation once it began.

“Fuck,” Starsky hissed, and then angrily howled. “Goddamit, Hutch. I just needed a few more seconds.”

“I need a few more minutes,” Hutch replied, holding firmly to his partner, and not allowing his pelvis anywhere near the wall. But, despite how much he loved tormenting Starsky, he also didn’t want to deprive him when he was that close to his climax; Hutch had had his teasing fun. It was time to be serious.

He found the coveted entry he sought; Starsky’s entire backside was slippery with oil, felt supplely warm, wantingly relaxed, and seemed to push Hutch toward the only tightness he could feel, that accommodating passage into his lover’s body—by an instinctively compelling invitation he couldn’t thwart or refuse. It never ceased to amaze him how comfortably he could slide into Starsky, how receptive and eager Starsky was for entry, a point proven by Starsky’s low and lengthy moan of acceptance. Hutch drove in as deeply as he could; the only thing to stop him from further penetration was the rest of his body. Only once did he have to shift his feet and further bend his knees to find the most resistance-free angle.

“You fill me up,” Starsky said, heavy in breath. “So… big… and…” He couldn’t finish his sentence.

“Hard?” Hutch asked, as he began the pleasurable cadence of stroking penetrations. But Starsky was too far gone to answer him. It mattered not. Hutch was eventually lost in the mesmerizing feel of his slow-paced deep entries and his nearly full withdrawals. He held Starsky’s legs apart with his thighs, bent over and against him, breathed and moaned in his ear, their sweating skin pressed tightly to the other’s, their union much closer than just physical.

Hutch reached around Starsky again, took his meaty hard-on in hand, was impressed by how much fuller and more rigid he’d become, and only slightly increased the pace of his strokes, if not for Starsky’s satisfaction, at least for his own. On a manual downstroke to Starsky’s penis, Hutch delivered a deep penile penetration into his anus; on the upstroke, he nearly withdrew—creating a hypnotizing and teasing rhythm for them both.

“Oh, that’s so nice,” Starsky said after a couple of minutes of sheer bliss. “I love… oh… the way you fuck me. It’s always so… you’re just… it feels… it’s the best, Hutch.”

It didn’t matter that Starsky couldn’t assimilate his thoughts enough to verbalize them in complete sentences; they both became completely immersed in the sensations of their bodies, separately and together, until the emotional and sensual overtook their abilities to think or speak. Grunts, moans, soft laughs, communications without words, filled the tiled bathroom with a resonating sound. Skin-to-skin slaps, gentle in nature, and the occasional jangle of handcuffs against the ring hardware, added to the audible ambiance.

Hutch’s loving thrusts left him spellbound. He kissed Starsky’s ear, his cheek, the warmth of his perspiring neck, inhaled his familiar scent, his maleness and his manliness, continued to pump Starsky’s shaft with a tightening and slickened fist, and began to feel overwhelmed by the building climax within his own penis. The only sensation he missed, if he missed anything, and mostly subconsciously, was the occasional and arousing fondling Starsky would give both their sacs during intercourse, an action Starsky couldn’t make under the immediate circumstances.

“Hutch, I’m comin’…” Starsky suddenly warned him, snapping Hutch out of his trance; Starsky’s ejaculation seemed to have arrived so quickly a second time. “I’m… here I come, Hutch…” Before Hutch could even hope to change that direction, Starsky erupted in familiar wails of orgasmic bliss—and there’d be no stopping it. But Hutch wanted to at least see it, to visually feed off it, to witness what he had, at least in part, enabled, and use it to spur his own orgasm. Even that was too late; instead, he gave Starsky a lengthy, ending squeeze—holding onto Starsky’s penis while it emptied onto the floor, delivering semen as well into Hutch’s hand, perhaps onto the wall—and covered Starsky’s back with tender kisses amid several soft “I love you’s.”

“Oh, man, that feels so fucking good,” Starsky said when he rolled onto the downside of his orgasm. When the ‘good’ began to fade, he laughed impulsively. “Holy shit, Hutch,” he said, but with no follow-up.

Still joined in a penetration, Hutch pushed Starsky to the wall and relaxed against him, his face to the side of Starsky’s sweat-drenched neck. Hutch closed his eyes, panted with his partner, listened to his subsiding noises—all except his heavy breathing—and felt Starsky’s pounding heart inside both their chests.

Handcuffs momentarily rattled against the towel ring.

After a minute, as they were recovering from the intensity of Starsky’s ejaculation, Starsky seemed to have found his other senses. “Did you come?” he sleepily wondered. That he asked such a question made Hutch realize his partner was still tuned into his needs—and he appreciated the thoughtfulness.

“No,” Hutch said. He hadn’t completely lost his erection, but he had purposefully abandoned his desire.

“Well, go ahead and finish,” Starsky encouraged him, laughing while he clenched his sphincter for added effect.

“I can’t,” Hutch said, despite the pleasure he’d gotten from that unexpected squeeze. Taking Starsky under those conditions—handcuffed to the wall, still wearing his shirt, and while he no longer had an erection—wasn’t something Hutch was emotionally capable of doing. Hutch knew that only then. “I’m sorry, Starsk. I just can’t.”

“Are you okay?”

“Yeah, buddy,” Hutch replied sincerely, pushing off the wall and carefully easing out of his partner. “I’m okay. Really, I am.” He did like the look of his glistening shaft as it emerged from inside Starsky, still dressed in blood-gorged veins and showing off its nearly full potential.

“Then let me out of these things,” Starsky insisted, impatiently.

Hutch picked up his sweatpants, despite how weak and out of breath he was, got the key from one of its pockets, and then let Starsky go. “Be free, my son,” he joked, watching Starsky remove the handcuffs and toss them to the bathroom counter. “Something about… if you love something very much, set it free?”

“Oh, I’ll come back to you,” Starsky promised, smiling big. “You can bet your fine ass on that.”

Hutch was about to apologize again—at least to explain himself—but Starsky planted his lips on Hutch’s mouth and prevented his words. They kissed, feverishly and passionately, tongues and nibbles, reciprocating and forceful, arousing Hutch again. He felt Starsky’s hand clasp his still-rigid penis, stroke it gently and with determination, forcing it completely out of its foreskin again, and then Starsky broke away to kneel on the towel. “Don’t,” Hutch quickly said, grabbing Starsky’s chin before he could reach the floor, successfully intercepting him.

It hadn’t occurred to Hutch that their sex would end just because Starsky had enjoyed an orgasm; the giver in his man was still present. If asked in that moment what filled Hutch with an enormous gratitude, he couldn’t say—mainly because logic and words escaped him while so much blood remained in his penis. But, instinctively, it was Starsky’s impulsiveness, his generosity, his sensuality and sexuality, his adventurous sportsmanship, his need and his want and his intention-filled endeavors to push Hutch into yet undiscovered emotions and behaviors, all serving to win over Hutch’s embarrassments, and leave him with pure, unadulterated animalism. But, alas, even those were gifts Hutch couldn’t accept at that moment.

Starsky bent over to pick up the towel. His erection was obviously fading, but his skin continued to glisten, and he was still gorgeous and sexy and beautiful to behold. When he straightened, he made mesmerizing eye contact with Hutch, his blue eyes sparkling with affection and love. He appeared exhausted: mussed hair, beads of perspiration visible on his forehead, and seeming drained of energy. “That was amazing,” he said breathlessly about the sex he’d experienced. He then grabbed Hutch’s forearm and turned them toward the shower stall. “Let’s get you washed up,” he said, opening the glass door and pushing Hutch into the tiled walk-in ahead of him. “That way, you won’t have any other reasons not to have an amazing, good cum yourself.”

What turned Hutch on more than anything? Not handcuffs. Not bondage. Not even, in the broader scheme of things, sex itself. What turned him on the most was Starsky’s giving generosity, despite his already spent desire, and his unspoken understanding and appreciation for Hutch’s inhibitions, sensitivities, and needs. No man on Earth, no one anywhere, knew Ken Hutchinson to the core the way David Starsky did—and loved him because of it.

Click here to read Part 4