Blue Christmas

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The boys indulge in their own Christmas Revels. This story was written for Kat, for the 2012 Me & Thee Secret Santa Exchange.

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For Kat—Me & Thee Secret Santa 2012

Part 1—Full Court Press

High up on the water tower, a lopsided Christmas star twinkled.

Long shadows fell over the asphalt basketball court, bordered by a chain link fence and trodden patches of grass. The wind rose, as though summoned by approaching darkness, carrying the scent of the ocean, driving away the city smells of exhaust and fast food.

Starsky dribbled the basketball on the paved court, bopping in time to its two beat thump-thwack rhythm.  Clad in cut-offs and shirtless in the balmy air, he delighted in the fresh breeze against his chest and neck.

Mid-court, Hutch, similarly half-clothed, his pale hair like silver in the fading light, ducked and dodged, hailing for a pass.

Between them, bobbing around like plump ducks in a carnival game, detective partners Wooten and Wells put on an amateur show at interference. They were taking a pounding, but retained their sportsmanlike conduct, either by grace or apathy.

Starsky grinned, tossing back his hair, acknowledging Hutch’s waving arms. Catching Hutch’s eye, he all but pointed at Wooten and Wells. Look at these two, would you? Take a good look at what too many Twinkies can do. He palmed the ball and spun it high, right into Hutch’s waiting hands.

Hutch bounded, capturing and arcing the ball, swooping it through the basketless rim. “Twenty to four,” he called out, gloating a bit at the score.

Starsky dashed over for a celebratory high five. His body slammed against Hutch in heated collision. “Last point!” he called out, flipping the ball to Wooten, who gave it a half-hearted bounce.

Hutch scooted into offense, circling his fellow detective like a shark. Starsky joined the hunt, an advance guard leaping forward. Wooten lurched sideways, slamming into Hutch. Hutch staggered and rammed his head into Starsky’s bare stomach.

Reaching to steady his partner, Starsky noticed only one thing—Hutch’s lean body. The glistening skin, the sexy, awkward lope. He swallowed around his dry tongue.

Hutch raised his head and they stared at one another, raw and mutual hunger more deafening than the roar of a crowd.

Starsky bit back a growl. Hell yes. Look at me just like that, blondie-locks.

Wooten lumbered toward the basket, driving hard. Starsky made no protest. He was too distracted by the promises of the night to come—of Hutch tangled around him like a boa constrictor, of their secret and private delights.

Hutch winked, picking up on his partner’s wavelength, running his tongue over his lower lip.

Starsky nearly groaned. Hurry Christmas…Hurry nighttime.

Wooten pattered under the basket while Wells galloped ahead, fending off an imaginary invasion.

Ignoring the action was easy for Starsky, plastered as he was to Hutch’s lanky body.

“Look at them.” Hutch’s words were a warm puff against Starsky’s ear. “Boy Scouts, the both of them. Aren’t you glad we aren’t the wooden solider types, partner?”

“Part of me’s got that wooden solider feeling,” Starsky said, shifting sideways in his tight jeans. Holy Christmas tidings. Can’t we go home already? His cock was already too hard and his imagination too ramped up. Basketball rough housing launched him into overdrive every single time. It was a game of action, timing, skin bruising skin, hands a constant flurry. He loved it all—the flirting, the sweating, the falling into each other’s arms as their shadows wrestled. Jump ball was innuendo and bold public foreplay, never failing to amp up the passion in the night that followed.

Wells took his partner’s hand-off and slammed the ball, scoring a final point. “Twenty to six,” he said, announcing the end result. “Good game, you showoffs. Thanks.” He and Wooten picked up their jackets and waved farewell, heading from the court to their nearby car.

As they walked away, Starsky noted at least two feet of distance between them. Hutch and me are lucky if we have a millimeter of daylight separating us.

Across the street, a Salvation Army Band wheezed out “O Come All Ye Faithful.” The notes floated above the dusty corner, calling out cheer and supplication. Starsky was unsurprised when his partner pulled a handful of coins from his pocket and sprinted over to drop them in the red kettle. A cascade of chipper notes from the jangling hand bell thanked him.

Back from his errand, Hutch tugged his t-shirt over his head. Starsky did the same, and slung his jacket over his shoulder. “Don’t forget it’s my turn,” he said. “I choose tonight’s game, buddy. And don’t think you can buy me off with a few coins. Your money’s no good in my fantasies.”

Hutch gave him the look of a man who’d seen everything at least twice. “I can’t wait to see where your imagination takes us. You have a creative interpretation of the phrase ‘skin in the game.’”

They started the four block walk back to Starsky’s house, headed toward an early Christmas celebration. Anticipation sparked back and forth between them, electric and hot.

Starsky picked up the pace, urging Hutch to walk faster. For some people, Christmas traditions included caroling and eggnog. For us, it’s games of sexual dominance—head to head and cock to cock—and may the best man win.

“Do you remember the night we played ‘Music Man’?” Hutch all but crooned the soft words.

Starsky shivered. Oh God. Yes. That game nearly killed me.

Hutch had taken control that night, playing the part of a demonic violinist. He had ripped into Starsky, rough and passionate, until Starsky felt like a shredded and rosined bow after a playing a score of 16th notes. He’d lost count of the number of times he came that night, and couldn’t begin to recall the places and ways Hutch had claimed him—demanding an encore, and another, and another. Never in his life had he been handled in such a way—paced, teased, and driven to orgasm after orgasm.  Afterwards, huddled in the circle of a gentler Hutch’s arms, he had shuddered himself to sleep—his mouth Sahara dry, his body not quite his own.

Pausing on the sidewalk, seeing the memories flickering in Starsky’s eyes, Hutch took a bow. “Got you good that night,” he said, smug in victory. “You called me ‘Maestro.’”

Starsky smacked him off balance, mining the land of memories, mustering his dignity. “Don’t get so damn cocky. Do you remember the night we played ‘Disobedient Puppy’?” Oh yeah. Disobedient Puppy was some good hot fun, buddy boy.

Hutch’s expression didn’t change, but he swallowed. Hard.

Starsky leered. Yep, you remember, don’t you?

He’d had Hutch eating of his hands by the last trick. Hutch, his cock tied up in a leather lead with his hands laced behind his back. Hutch riding on his partner’s shaft, arching his belly up for patting. He’d splintered Hutch’s spine but good, putting him through the paces until Hutch couldn’t say his own name. Best of all—the memory of Hutch obeying every sharply issued command in hopes for permission to come. By the  end, he’d reduced Hutch to a quivering ball of contradictions and nerves—an obedient puppy eager to fetch, a ferocious and snarling puppy. And at last, a tamed puppy all but rolling over and playing dead.

For the rest of the evening, Hutch had watched him, his eyes filled with a fascinated panic.

Starsky broke into a sidewalk samba, slapping Hutch on the ass as they turned the last corner.

Tonight, he would be merciful. He would put Hutch in the driver’s seat.

 

Part 2—Blue Christmas

Starsky showered first, quickly scrubbing away grime and sweat. He toweled his damp curls and pulled on a tight pair of blue briefs. Fastening the leather tie of his coin necklace, he sauntered back into the living room.

Hutch intercepted him in a gruff hug. After one an admiring look and swift sweep of a hand through Starsky’s hair, he headed off for his own shower. Soon the sound of his tenor voice singing “Silent Night” wafted out of the bathroom, along with the steamy scent of shampoo.

Two tall beer steins sat on the coffee table, filled with foamy Belgian Ale. Hutch had turned on the Christmas tree and clicked off all of the lamps. The gentle glow of multi-colored Christmas lights bathed the room.

Starsky gulped a mouthful of beer. He grinned. He had a simple game in mind tonight—a teasing word fest designed to end in a mutual meltdown on the floor. He filled a shallow bowl with massage oil and placed it like an offering near the Christmas tree. Holiday lights framed the doorway, creating a perfect place to stand and wait—where the tree’s glow bathed his chest and highlighted his muscles, exactly right. Plucking a shiny blue ornament from the tree, he held it in his teeth, his fingers laced and planted on the top of his head.

Hutch strolled out of the bathroom in a pair of black boxers, flecks of water like diamonds on his chest. He stopped mid-stride, eyes widening at the sight of his partner so patiently awaiting his arrival, clothed in little else but a million watt smile.

“C’mere.” Starsky tilted his head and beckoned. He clenched the wire ornament in his teeth tighter, tilting his head in invitation.

Hutch inched closer. With his pinky, he tapped the blue ball dangling from Starsky’s mouth and all but drooled. “Santa’s been very, very, very good to me this year.”

Starsky dropped the ornament onto the carpet. It hit with a gentle plop. “Welcome to my Christmas revels,” he said. “The rules of the game are simple.”

Hutch waited, pressing both palms into Starsky’s chest hair, using his thumbs to tease his nipples.

“All you gotta do,” Starsky continued, “is use the word blue in every sentence you say.”

“You expect me to talk with you standing there like that, looking like that?” Hutch licked his lips.

Starsky snickered. He rotated his hips forward, slamming their cocks together. “If you don’t follow the rules, you ain’t gonna play.”

Hutch’s mouth dropped open. The pupils of his eyes grew darker, larger, as sure a sign of passion as the heft of his instant erection. “Blue?” he asked. At Starsky’s firm nod, he did an about face, heading for the stereo.

“Where you going?” Starsky watched him, puzzled. Cock tease! Bad sport! Ingrate!

“We need a little mood music,” Hutch said. “I’m thinking Bob Dylan.”

“‘Blonde on Blonde’?” Starsky asked. He frowned. “Never did like that title. It makes me think of you with another guy with bleach bottle hair. I wanna keep my blond to myself.”

“I’m thinking ‘Tangled up in Blue.’” Hutch positioned the needle on the record and the wailing notes of guitar and harmonica, along with Dylan’s distinctive voice, filled the air. He closed in, backing Starsky against the wall and trapping him there. “‘Tangled up in Blue.’ Get it? Blue. The magic word. Now I get to play.”

Starsky closed his eyes, forgetting everything but Hutch’s hands exploring his sensitive skin. The wall at his back and Hutch’s weight held him upright through the dizzying sensations, as his mouth was opened and probed by Hutch’s tongue…as his briefs were tugged lower on his hips and the tip of Hutch’s forefinger teased over his cock slit.

“Caught between the devil and the deep blue sea, aren’t you?” Hutch grinned the words, half panting between kisses. He pushed Starsky’s hands up the wall and held them there. Finding the hollow of Starsky’s neck, he bit and nibbled and lapped, finally ending the slow slide of his tongue right back where he started, in Starsky’s mouth, plunging deep, damming back the wall of moans building in Starsky’s throat.

Starsky closed his eyes and groaned, pitching forward, begging Hutch to touch his cock, knowing Hutch would refuse. He’d turned on the juice and Hutch was at his most merciless now, waiting for just the right moment to take him down and turn him inside out.

“Who’s got blue balls, partner?” Hutch held Starsky’s head between his hands, sliding his thumbs over Starsky’s lips. “You do. Don’t you?” He slid to his knees and zeroed in on Starsky’s balls—glazing them with tongue thrusts, sucking them into the warm wetness of his mouth.

Starsky could only pant his answer.

“You’re normally talking a blue streak, but look at you now. Cat’s sure got your tongue, hmmmm?”

“Oil in a bowl by the tree.” Starsky could barely breathe out the short syllables. His head reeled, all awareness scattered. Hutch’s wicked touches were all he knew and all that mattered—Hutch’s hands and mouth claiming his body.

“Maybe if you hold your breath until you turn blue, I’ll fuck you.” Hutch licked his forefinger and rammed it at Starsky’s leaking slit. But the foreplay wasn’t over yet, and Starsky knew it. Hutch was going to kiss and probe and tear him open for an eternity before that glorious hard cock found its way home. Once in the zone, and Starsky would swear it on his mother’s soul, Hutch had the stamina of a racehorse.

The room spun out of control, or so it seemed, the floor replacing the ceiling. In a shiver of vertigo, Starsky realized that he was the one spinning, his body being tilted down and over until he was flat on his back in front of the cheerful Christmas tree. His hips were raised and manipulated, resting on Hutch’s splayed thighs, his legs spread, his erection standing up tall and proud and neglected.

Oil coated fingers tormented him and Starsky flung his head to the side, the carpet soft and familiar under his body. The discarded blue Christmas ornament lay next to him, tipped onto its glittery side. He grasped it in his fist as though grasping for sanity. Long fingers toyed with him…warmed oil coating his chest and filling his belly button like a little well. And Hutch’s blue eyes watched him through it all—loving him and worshiping him. He moaned. Arching, lifting his ass.

“Are you ready to sing the blues for me, partner?” Hutch leaned forward and smothered him with another round of kisses.

Starsky hissed and bucked as Hutch’s right hand spread his ass cheeks. Two determined fingers entered him, coated with the slippery oil, and began a slow and steady dance…in and out…first shallow and then deep. He rose and fell on those fingers, his voice a wordless garble when Hutch struck hard and steady against his sensitive prostate.

“You’d have a blue Christmas without me,” Hutch sang. His fist encircled Starsky’s cock shaft and a mechanical stroking began, sending fire from Starsky’s center right up to his brain. The fingers abandoned him.

“My blue collar boy’s all blue in the face.” Hutch tap danced his fingers over Starsky’s swollen cock head. He lifted Starsky’s neck and pulled him upward, forcing him into a contorted kiss.

“Bastard,” Starsky panted the word.

“You’re my true blue partner,” Hutch answered, dropping Starsky back onto the carpet and displaying him like a fisherman’s morning catch.

The ceiling drank in the glow of Christmas lights. Helpless and wanting, Starsky watched the shadows move overhead. He nearly cried in relief when Hutch raised his ass and forced more oil into his channel, preparing him. And then it began, the first nudge of a rounded cock head against his ass, the first sensation of pain and pleasure as a long thick shaft inched slowly in, filling him, stretching him. His cries clashed with Dylan’s sharp voice bawling out a song of abandonment, of a heart torn to pieces. He flung his head to the side. I’ll be torn to shreds before Hutch finishes with me.

As though reading Starsky’s mind, Hutch fucked him slow and deep, pausing a fraction of a second between strokes. Starsky tried to count the number of strokes, but after twenty, he lost his way. Hutch’s voice came at him like a signal traveling underwater. “Gonna send you into the wild blue yonder.” The words had no meaning. All Starsky knew was a tight hand on his erection and a hard cock raking his ass…and any second now, he was going to lose his mind and his pride.

“I love you, blue boy. I love you.” Hutch turned for the homestretch now, his cries mingling with Starsky’s…his hand and body moving in a blur of power and lust. In a last second of sanity, time froze and Starsky cried out, his hot seed erupting at exact moment Hutch went rigid and shot his load, filling Starsky from within.

They collapsed together, gulping in mouthfuls of air, quivering against one another. Sweat cooled and evaporated on their skin. Dylan ceased his mournful wails.

Starsky roused first, his body and mind suffused in a sense of wonder. Hutch sprawled over him, warmer than a well-loved quilt. In the soft glow, Starsky studied his sleeping partner, taking in the smooth skin, the almost angelic face, the corded muscles. A dark bruise marred the flesh on Hutch’s upper back, out of kissing range, so Starsky ran his fingers over it in a soothing circle. He breathed deeply, counting his blessings.

Tomorrow was Christmas Eve. They would work a regular day shift and then retreat back to their own quiet celebration. Two USDA choice steaks awaited grilling. Hutch would assemble one of his monster salads on the side. Add in a nice bottle of red wine, a plateful of gingerbread and fruitcake. And when they were too full to move, perhaps a bit goofy from the wine, they would fall onto the waterbed for their traditional Christmas waltz. Starsky smiled. He intended to unwrap Hutch like the Christmas gift he was, and fuck him all the way to the North Pole.

“I love you,” Hutch murmured, roused at last. “I love what your body does to mine. I love what you believe in and what you stand for. I love that you can love me, and I don’t need to be perfect.”

Starsky tugged his partner closer, acknowledging and understanding Hutch’s gentle confession. He had learned so much from loving this complicated man who lounged, so trusting, in his arms. Mostly, that love and worthiness didn’t rely on a perfect scorecard. To see a person’s defects as well as his strengths, and still claim him as your own, Starsky now understood, was the most important lesson of love.

“Love you back, you big lummox,” Starsky said.

Against his armpit, Hutch muttered a grumpy protest, rubbing his cheek against Starsky’s arm.

Beside him on the carpet, the blue Christmas ornament glinted in the tree lights. Starsky picked it up and gently hung it on the nearest branch. It spun in a lazy circle, reflecting back a tiny image of he and Hutch, wound around each other.

Starsky closed his eyes, his heart at peace. “Thank you,” he whispered. He could almost believe in the miracles of the season. After all, through every dangerous day, through the constant losses and the ever-present specter of death, here they were.

Together and safe in the sanctuary of Christmas Present, in last days of the year.

~finis~