Dark Side of the Moon

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The former United States of America has dissolved into numerous countries, many of which are ruled by corporations and consortiums. In some of these independent fiefdoms, slavery is now legal. Initially used as a way to control the criminal population, vulnerable citizens are now being kidnapped, forcibly enslaved, sent to slave training facilities in Nevada, and later sold to the highest bidder in a demanding market.

Bay City, the capital of Southern California, is run by a corrupt corporation. Jack Dunfey, a dangerous mobster, plans to take over the BC government so he can control the West Coast underworld from a position of authority. Starsky and Hutch are detectives working under B.C.’s private Special Police force. Lovers since the academy, their relationship has been at odds over the last few years. They’re still two of the best cops B.C.’s ever had, and they’ve been trying to nail Dunfey for years without success. When Starsky gets a call from Hutch to meet him at one of Dunfey’s warehouses so they can arrest him, he doesn’t think twice about going. But Hutch isn’t at the warehouse when Starsky gets there. Fearing for his partner’s safety, Starsky acts impulsively and makes the biggest mistake of his life. Or was his mistake in trusting Hutch in the first place?

Dark Side of the Moon is a complex love story with a four pieces of color art by Suzan Lovett and Flamingo. This slash alternate-universe novel also depicts non-consensual sex, BDSM, and graphic violence. It is not related to Dawn’s Bound to the Law universe.

Edited and published as a stand-alone zine by Flamingo in 2012.

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Dark Side of the Moon

by Dawnwind

 AUTHOR’S INTRODUCTION from the zine

The novel begins and ends with Flamingo. Years ago, possibly in 2004, she put out a challenge to a few of us: write a plausible rape story where either Starsky rapes Hutch or vice versa. I didn’t think it could be done, but I gave it a try. The first 75 pages or so of this novel have changed very little from a three-day writing marathon-the rest of the story has been written, rewritten, torn apart, spindled, refocused, and sewn back together like a quilt. From early on, Flamingo has been my drill sergeant, cheerleader, supporter, tough editor, and friend. She coaxed a story out of me I didn’t believe was in there. I envisioned a darker Bay City than the one in the original series, where democracy has been thrown out the window and slavery is the norm. How would this change Starsky and Hutch, and how would it bring them closer together in the end? Flamingo challenged every one of my writing skills and made me dredge deep to discover new abilities and new ways to express myself.

Thank you, Flamingo, for pushing me, making me change the villain of the piece into a completely different person, and mostly, for showing me what I could do.

Eight and a half years in the making-what I occasionally called the albatross around my neck is finally a real zine.

DAWNWIND

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From the Bird’s Beak:

Years ago, I found an old Trek zine in Rosemary’s apartment. There was a gorgeous illo of Spock with long hair, wearing a skimpy loincloth, in chains, enslaved. I remember shoving it in Rosemary’s face and demanding, “Why don’t we have this in Starsky & Hutch?” I didn’t particularly care who was in chains, though in honesty, Hutch would’ve been my first choice, but then and there I decided this fandom needed more leather codpieces.

I never envisioned what Dawn would send me years later. But she wrote something that pushed every button I had, even though the “wrong” partner was in chains. Even she didn’t realize how rich, how complicated, and how unique her story was. That’s why God created editors. So great literary opportunities don’t get lost.

I’m going to miss working with her on this novel. Editing it was an adventure, and trying to let her know how fabulous, unique, exciting, dark, titillating, and moving it was, while demanding so much more, wasn’t easy. I don’t know why she kept listening to me. I’ve worked with a number of very cooperative writers over the years, who’ve appreciated how editing can improve their stories, but I’ve never worked on a story of so much length and complexity. That really ramped things up.

We all know I have strong opinions and can be painfully blunt. I know there were moments when Dawn probably wanted to wring my neck, or shove the printed manuscript, all 550 pages, down my throat. But she never lost patience with my demands. I imagined sometimes she must’ve responded to my edits with a blistering email, typing away furiously in San Francisco. But whatever she wrote first, what she sent me was always complimentary and accepting. If she disagreed with a “suggestion” (yeah, my “suggestions” are as subtle as a hammer!), she would respond with a reasonable discussion of valid points. I marveled at her patience. And whatever I asked for, what she sent back was always so much more.

Putting a zine together is often a group effort. I have to thank my beloved partner, Saint Anne. After working on this story for so long, I couldn’t attempt to copyedit the final. Anne did the whole thing in record time.

I’d like to thank Elfqueen for the early drafts of artwork she supplied. I very much appreciate the time she spent responding to my requests.

There’s a special place in fan heaven for Suzan Lovett, who took my sad attempts at producing visuals for Dawn’s story-the artistic equivalent of stick figures-and said, “I can clean those up.” That was like writing the piano piece, “Chopsticks,” and playing it for your friend, Mozart, who kindly says, “Let me jazz that up a little for you.” Suzan insisted we both produced this art, but I was just a Sorcerer’s Apprentice to her Master Magician.

And I’ve got to thank Dawn, who gives me too much credit. Her story is so much more than either of us imagined. This is her world, her story, her imagination at work. It’s a major work for our fandom, and I, for one, am so grateful to have it. I hope you will be, too.

Flamingo

 

 

“Every man is a moon, and has a dark side, which he never shows to anybody.”
Mark Twain

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Book One 

 

Starsky slammed against the metal flooring hard enough to see stars, which was odd considering that his head was covered with a canvas bag, and he couldn’t see jack. The sound of doors clanging shut assaulted his ears. He was locked in. He tried to scramble to his feet just as the floor lurched under him. The rumble of an engine proved he was in some kind of truck that gained speed immediately. The forward momentum toppled him to his knees, and he couldn’t catch himself when he fell sideways against the smooth metal sides, not with his hands bound tightly behind him by plastic strips that cut mercilessly into his skin.

Lying on his side, Starsky forced himself to feel the movement of the truck, to listen to the pattern of acceleration and stops. Three stops, then a surge of speed. They were on the freeway, and moving rapidly away from where he’d been captured. Mission and Ninety-first. The closest on-ramp to Mission was three blocks south, leading away from Bay City.

He’d walked into the warehouse on Mission and Ninety-first without backup and without notifying dispatch.

Damn.

Hutch, where were you?

Hutch had called him. It had been Hutch’s voice, he was sure of that. Not frightened, but urgent, telling him to meet him at the warehouse, that he’d tailed the suspect and had seen him go in. The address was altogether too familiar: Jack Dunfey’s lair. He was the fucker who’d risen from mid-level criminal to crime lord running all of Bay City in under a decade.

Focus!

Hutch had called him, so why hadn’t he been there? The LTD wasn’t around; Starsky had circled the block twice before parking his ’83 black Torino on a side street and approaching cautiously. If Dunfey had gotten the drop on Hutch, his goons would have hidden his car. Starsky had gotten scared, and that made him reckless. Afraid that Hutch might have been captured or hurt, Starsky had ventured inside the cavernous building alone.

Big mistake. Possibly the worst mistake of his life.

The place had been as dark as the far side of the moon although it was the middle of the day. High windows were painted black, emitting very little ambient light. He’d gripped his gun tighter, suddenly freaked. Where was Hutch? How could he find him? He’d barely gotten past a small side door when hands gripped his arms, and plastic bindings looped around his wrists so fast he couldn’t fight back. His gun dropped to the ground, and a bag was shoved over his head. He’d kicked at shadows, then bit a fleshy hand as the bag descended, but he never had a chance. It had been a set-up from the start.

His mouth dry, Starsky considered his options. None of them were good. He didn’t know where he was going. He was a prisoner, bound, blindfolded, and partially gagged. With every breath, the canvas bag clogged his mouth, tasting of animal and dirt. He could feel straw under his fingers. What kind of truck was this?

And where the hell was Hutch? It had been his voice on the phone, Starsky would swear to it. His inflections, his soft intensity. He’d used the nickname Starsk. Could someone mimic his partner well enough to fool him? There were impressionists who could imitate Elvis, John Wayne, and Brando perfectly, fooling the ear even when the eye could see it was really Rich Little or Frank Gorshin. But would that really fool someone who knew them well?

It had been Hutch. Starsky remained firm on that point, even when his belly lurched sickeningly as the truck took a wide turn, rising as it did. They were going over an overpass, connecting to a different freeway. Damn, damn, dammit to hell. Every mile took him farther away from Bay City and any chance of finding out what had happened to Hutch.

He had to think logically and analyze everything. The voice on the phone had sounded like Hutch, so he immediately believed what Hutch told him. If it wasn’t Hutch, then who? How? A recording? But they’d spoken, exchanged words, hadn’t they?

“Starsk, Dunfey just went into the warehouse on the corner of Ninety-first where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there.”

That was all Hutch had said. Starsky remembered saying, “I’m on my way.” Had there been anything else? Any proof Hutch was on the other end of the line? Only his gut instinct.

It had been Hutch. He’d already staked his life on it.

Get past the phone call — get to the warehouse. It looked deserted, with signs of a forgotten time, when goods were actually manufactured in the United States and not in some robot factory overseas. Now, warehouses were the stomping grounds for the gangs and mobsters that crowded the field when the street people disappeared. Before the Economic Revolution of ’80, the warehouse districts had become wastelands, inhabited by only the most hardened criminals.

Starsky recalled those turbulent years before the end of the Vietnam war. Monopolies like the California Economic Corporation took advantage of the social chaos and encroached on state and federal governments with malice. With all the protests and riots turning daily life upside down, few citizens noticed the big corporations hiring military leaders away from the armed forces for their own private militias. By the time the federal government fell apart, the military complex had been absorbed into the corporate sector. After the huge monopolies used their armies to restore order, the citizens saw them as benevolent. Soon, a conglomerate of corporations were funding state projects, restoring the economy the war had decimated, and backing their own political candidates with bundles of cash.

Finally, during the Economic Revolution, when the California Economic Corporation, or CEC, and other monopolies had completely overwhelmed state and federal governments, the CEC proclaimed that criminal acts would not be tolerated. But that didn’t mean crime was eliminated. Instead, it had escalated. For Starsky, that had been a strange form of job security.

Starsky’s recovery from James Marshall Gunther’s assassination attempt was partly due to the CEC’s influence. The corporation CEOs had seen the downfall of Gunther as a boon to their rise in power, and had paid Starsky’s medical bills, providing him with the best doctors and therapists. When he’d regained his health, he and Hutch had been actively recruited into the CEC’s new state police force. They’d gotten a raise in pay, enjoyed considerable prestige, and suddenly had all the might of the government behind them as they went after drug dealers and murderers.

The rapidly changing political climate hadn’t really bothered Starsky until far too late. But Hutch had noticed long before he had. Hutch hadn’t liked it. He’d watched the CEC’s increasing monopoly as it encroached on all aspects of local government, then the restructuring of power in the state government, and finally, on all aspects of daily life.

Then, soon after the Economic Revolution, everything changed.

Except for crime. That never changed. Like back in the thirties when prohibition had outlawed alcohol, current laws made drugs and imported untaxed tobacco from other now independent states just that much more desirable. Dunfey had seen the opportunities presented by the chaos and used it to his advantage. Always a prime mover and shaker in the criminal underworld, he soon was the kingpin, the Godfather of all Godfathers, more powerful than Gunther had ever been. He had a reputation for ruthless dealings and a wide base of operations. Word on the street was that he had the CEC’s president of Southern California in his pocket. Nothing in the state, never mind Bay City, happened without his stamp of approval. How he maintained his power was unknown, but his favorite base of operations was Bay City. The man was truly scum of the earth.

So, Dunfey might have been at Mission and Ninety-first; that was believable, but Starsky never got a chance to find out. Was it Dunfey’s goons who had grabbed him, tossed him in a truck? Why? If they’d wanted to kill him, they would have done it already. Starsky’s mind skittered away from more frightening possibilities — could they want him as a hostage for ransom — or maybe…to torture for inside police information? He wouldn’t let himself consider the most frightening possibility — legalized slavery —

Get back to Hutch.

Thinking of Hutch centered him, making it easier to endure the bumps against his spine as the truck raced toward the unknown.

Hutch had gone out that morning on one of his mysterious outings. He used to do that a half dozen times a year, but lately, the frequency increased dramatically. Starsky always assumed it was with a woman, but it could as easily have been a man. Hutch had always enjoyed both sexes, and to a lesser extent, so had Starsky. Usually, Hutch would be gone for the morning, then return refreshed and charged with energy. But where he went, or who he was with, was something he’d never confided to Starsky. Starsky accepted that, telling himself it was as it should be. They didn’t need to know each other’s every secret just because they’d been partners for so long.

Partners.

And lovers.

In his heart, Starsky would have liked to think that he could have kept Hutch satisfied sexually. But he couldn’t deny the evidence. Hutch was never satisfied. Satiated for a while maybe, but always looking for more. Starsky assumed that was the reason for Hutch’s secret outings. He never asked. Hutch was entitled to his secrets.

Starsky had his own. He had never told Hutch — or anyone else — about his hard teen years when he’d dabbled in every drug he could get, and used his body to buy them. That was in the past. In the last ten years, so much had changed for everyone that many used the excuse of the recent revolution to erase any bad periods in their past.

So, Starsky had barely noticed that this was one of those mornings. Hutch had told him not to pick him up, that he would arrive at Metro after twelve. He’d called at noon, just when Starsky was expecting him to arrive. Starsky had been cursing the newest advancement in computers, fighting with the machine’s latest version of a fingerprint ID program when the phone rang. It had been Hutch’s voice. He was sure of it.

He wanted to be sure of it, but now, miles away from the Metro squadroom and even farther away from knowing what was going on, he wasn’t confident any more.

The truck changed lanes, swerving so fast Starsky slid forward, crashing into the metal basket attached to the sloped wall. Straw scratched his hands and tangled in his clothes, making him glad that his leather jacket and jeans protected his limbs. What kind of truck was this? The smell of horse was strong here under the basket. Wiggling his body around, he was able to hoist himself into a sitting position by laboriously grabbing hold of the bottom rungs of what he assumed was a metal manger with his nearly numb fingertips. It felt much better to sit up, even though he was facing backwards as the truck moved forward. His belly lurched again, acid churning in his throat, but he swallowed it down. He’d never liked riding backwards, although what difference did it make when he couldn’t see anyway? He tried to breathe evenly, slow his heart rate down, but inhaling sucked the canvas bag between his teeth, which only made things worse.

Hutch… Why would he have been near Mission and Ninety-first, anyway? All the state-sanctioned brothels and legal slave houses, places Starsky assumed Hutch frequented on his outings, were across town on Lincoln. Maybe the LTD broke down? That damned car was a relic. Even Starsky had traded the old tomato for a new Torino two years ago, one of the ’83’s with the interceptor engines and a spoiler on the back. It wasn’t red but midnight black, with a single pencil thin red line along the chassis.

The LTD must have broken down. If Hutch had seen Dunfey going into the warehouse, he should have informed their current captain, CEC’s handpicked man, Len Roschenzky, and then called Starsky. But, he hadn’t even used dispatch to contact Starsky. He’d called from an outside line, not the police radio.

Had Dunfey’s men grabbed Hutch the way they had Starsky? Recorded Hutch’s voice and then killed him?

Starsky refused to believe that. Hutch would never have said those words in such a normal sounding way. He’d have thrown in some clue, wouldn’t he? He’d used the nickname Starsk.

That was what made Starsky so sure. Starsk. Hutch’s special nickname. The way he sometimes said it, soft and low, just like on the phone, could make Starsky quiver. The way he’d say it when asking Starsky to go down on him. Like that. Sexy, longing.

Spitting out the canvas bag, Starsky shook his head. No, not like that. That couldn’t be what he’d responded to. The sound of sex in Hutch’s voice.

They’d been casual partners in bed from the first week in the academy, when Hutch had grabbed him, stinking of sweat after a long run, and pulled him into the showers. He’d pushed Starsky down in front of him, under the stinging spray of water splashing over their nude bodies. Hutch was solid and hard as a rock. Starsky was sure Hutch knew, then, what he’d done as a teen, but when he looked up all he saw was desire and need in Hutch’s face. Hutch didn’t know anything about his past. This was just how Hutch celebrated. He had sex. Nothing complicated or involved, just a simple act between friends.

That was how it remained. Whenever things went well, after a big bust, or a celebratory dinner for some citation of merit, Hutch would push Starsky down in front of him. Never forcefully, but Starsky had come to understand that this was his special job in their partnership. Keep Hutch happy with sex. Only oral, though, no penetration, but an occasional hand job or frottage for variety. That was Starsky’s limit. For the most part, Hutch seemed satisfied with those boundaries, although after a while he intimated otherwise and eventually made specific requests. When Starsky refused the kinkier fare, Hutch would drop the idea. Things would be cool between them, but that would pass. Most of the time, Starsky could bedevil Hutch into a better mood with silly trivia and goofy jokes. They would trade barbs about each other’s weird eating habits and insult each other’s taste in cars.

The truth was, Hutch wanted more from their sex life. Because Hutch wanted more sex. Starsky had come to the conclusion that Hutch needed sex, like a junkie. He’d once escaped an enforced heroin addiction after only a few weeks of hell, but he remained well and truly addicted to sex. That was why Starsky never paid much attention to Hutch’s occasional disappearances. He assumed Hutch was getting his fix.

“Starsk.” Hutch had said when he’d pushed Starsky down into the spray of the academy shower. That’s when it had begun. All the promises Starsky made to himself when he joined the police force, all his ideas of putting his past behind him had been shattered when Hutch uttered that one word in the showers. And he couldn’t explain why.

“Starsk, just take the edge off,” Hutch had whispered, his voice like whiskey, rough and intoxicating, and Starsky was utterly drunk. He’d never noticed the hard tile under his knees, the water going up his nose and almost drowning him. All he’d felt was Hutch. Hutch in his throat; Hutch holding the back of his head; Hutch bracketing his shoulders with his muscled thighs.

He’d never known how Hutch had so easily breached his defenses and slipped inside the barricades. Maybe there hadn’t ever been any where Hutch was concerned. After that, they’d become a team. Partners. Starsky’n’Hutch: one word. He’d never examined their connection. Their bond was so powerful, he’d never wondered when he’d ceased to have an identity separate from Hutch’s.

And Starsky could not deny that he enjoyed the sex. When they had it. In between their trysts, there had been a parade of women in Starsky’s bed: Nancys, Kathys, and even a Carmelita. But none stayed. None defined him as Hutch did with that simple diminutive of his name. “Starsk.”

Starsky almost let down his guard there in that dusty truck, thinking about servicing Hutch, remembering the long, hot stakeouts when Hutch would simply point downward, and Starsky would capitulate. Once or twice he’d thought about refusing to see what would happen, but he never did. He had to admit he loved the feel of Hutch’s firm, taut flesh filling his mouth.

“Starsk.” It worked like a magic spell, though Starsky didn’t know why. But he’d go to his knees every time, and look up at Hutch’s elegant face awash with lust. Was it the needy sound in Hutch’s voice, a promise of sex with a hint of violence? Or was it because Hutch would talk while Starsky was on his knees?

“I went into this pissant job to help people,” Hutch would complain. “To change the world…and look what’s happened. The world is changing…mutating into something ugly. I’ve lost all control of the situation. There has to be something…” His rants would soften as his cock hardened until he’d climax, panting with release.

Starsky could be aroused just from the sight of Hutch sprawled in a relaxed heap on his bed. Or in the backseat of the Torino. Or once in a booth at Huggy’s, after closing time. But there were other days, usually the ones when Starsky wouldn’t fulfill one of Hutch’s special requests, that he was left to pump his own oil. Most of the time, though, once Hutch had his drug of choice, when he was well and truly relaxed and sex had smoothed out all the tension in his face, he’d reach out with that long- fingered hand and finish Starsky off. It was usually short and sweet, since Starsky was often so aroused by then he could have humped a table leg.

Almost forgetting where he was, Starsky let himself drift away on the memory of those moments. When the truck jerked to a stop, he lost his grasp on the basket and sprawled forward. He was trying to right himself when the doors opened, letting in a blast of hot, exhaust-scented air. Someone grunted, and Starsky felt the floor sway as a man swung up onto the bed of the truck.

Starsky skittered to one side. He had no hope of battling his way out, not with his hands tied behind him and a bag over his head, but he wouldn’t make it easy for them.

“Kidnapping a cop will put you in prison for the rest of your lives!” he shouted, the bag snatching half his breath. A hand closed around his right ankle, so Starsky struck out with his left foot. He connected and there was a curse of pain. A second man grabbed him, shoving him hard against the side of the truck. Stunned, Starsky fell, but fought to stay conscious as they manipulated his body like a doll’s.

“Don’t damage the merchandise,” a gravelly voice said. So, there were three of them.

Starsky lay face down, nose pressed against the unforgiving metal floor. He wanted to run, but he couldn’t get his limbs to cooperate. A sharp blade snicked under the edge of his pants, slitting up the legs and through the waistband. The pants fell away, leaving him naked from the waist down. Calloused hands roughly caressed his bare ass, and Starsky jerked violently.

They pinned him to the cold, straw-laden truck floor, hauling his legs out straight. Panting raggedly, Starsky attempted to kick and twist away from his captors, but they quickly locked his ankles into metal cuffs attached to a long length of bar, spreading his legs so far apart he could feel his hips rotate painfully. That was when Starsky was forced to realize why they’d kidnapped him.

No, this isn’t happening. His brain refused to accept it. NO.

They flipped him over like a human pancake, neglecting even the most basic methods for protecting a prisoner. His head bounced against the floor. Lying on his back, his bound hands now dug painfully into his spine. A sweaty palm closed around his cock, making Starsky shout inarticulately. Someone sat down on his abdomen, driving all the air out of his lungs until he nearly passed out from asphyxiation. But what came next blew away the dullness in his brain like a flame-thrower in a field of dry grass.

Incredible pain shot through the end of his penis, blood red bursts going off behind Starsky’s closed eyes as the man gripping his cock punctured the crown with a sharp tool. Starsky screamed, but the sensation only intensified as the man immediately forced something cold, hard, and metallic through the new hole. When the man released the metal, heaviness dragged his cock down, magnifying his agony.

No. No!

Starsky tried to unseat the man straddling him, but the hand still holding his cock squeezed tightly. Through the pain, he heard his captor laugh.

Starsky couldn’t breathe. He’d been pierced. Marked as a slave. Robbed of his citizenship by a single hoop of surgical steel.

“Yeah, cop,” a gravelly voice spoke above the laughter of the others. “You went along with the company line when they passed the slave laws as a way to handle the ‘criminal element.’ Get ’em off the street, right? Do away with the riff-raff, and the homeless, and the lawbreakers?”

Starsky forced himself to inhale past the searing agony and the oppressive heaviness on his abdomen while hands fumbled with the ring being threaded slowly through the new hole. The process seemed to take forever. Even though he couldn’t see, Starsky knew what they were doing. To secure the ring, one end had to be seated tightly inside the other.

“I can’t get it in,” Gravel Voice complained.

“I’ve got a hammer,” another replied.

Starsky flinched, the thought of a hammer smashing down on his traumatized flesh too fearful to contemplate.

The calloused hands holding his throbbing cock steady shifted and Starsky screamed again, his ass muscles bunching in a fruitless effort to flee. Then, all of a sudden, whichever part of the ring that resisted finally slipped into place. The kidnappers chuckled their approval.

“Didn’t think this could happen to you, huh, cop? You ever seen one of them rings once it’s put on a slave? Can’t be removed once the ends are joined. After ten seconds, a chemical reaction bonds the ends so it becomes one solid ring.”

Starsky drew in an unhampered breath when the weight on his chest lifted. He could hear some of the men moving away. There was a sudden burst of intense heat in the ring that threatened to singe his cock, as the metal soldered itself together.

“Never thought I’d say it, but I love the CEC.” One of the men kicked Starsky’s spread legs, making the pain flare sharply. “Found a way to bring the cops down, and it’s legal.”

“My brother had one a’ them rings, back before.” There was clumping and clanging as the trio moved around the truck. “Before the CEC made ’em slave rings. He ran for Chink-ville up in ‘Frisco, and took it out. No slaves in my family.”

“Your brother had a ring? Shit. Never saw one before I had my first slave girl. Remember the first house? On Lincoln and 30th? I was riding her and didn’t even notice ’til after that she was a cheerleader from my high school. Once I knew, I did her twice.”

There was more laughter as the men recalled the early days after the take-over when all the U.S. was in turmoil.

They pushed Starsky onto his side. The ring in his cock hit the ground when he was shoved over, the sensation like a razor slicing him in two. Calloused fingers cut the plastic strips from his wrists. His hands were so numb he couldn’t feel them.

Slavery. He was now someone else’s property, not even allowed to own his own name or hold a real job.

“Put some a’ that ‘septic stuff on there, asshole,” one of the men said, “and let’s get on the road. It’ll take a couple more hours, and the border crossing is always a bitch.”

Starsky tried to roll away as more hands grabbed his penis. The tip must have mushroomed to twice the normal size and echoed the beat of his heart. Movement exacerbated the horrible soul-eating agony, but with his legs still locked in the spreader, he didn’t have the strength to shift fast enough to evade his captors. They slathered something cool and wet all over the end and some of the pain receded a little.

Then the men began removing his leather jacket. Hutch had given him that jacket after he was shot. With leather goods now so expensive that only the richest bigwig could afford them, vintage leather was precious. He wasn’t going to let these shit-faced slave dealers steal it from him.

“That’s mine!” Starsky cried out as they pulled the jacket off him easily, grieving for what he had lost, but the canvas bag stuck to his dry tongue and his words were almost unintelligible. He needed to hold onto something.

“Good quality, maybe even vintage ’40s,” Gravel Voice said appreciatively, holding Starsky’s arm away from his body. Agonizing pins and needles jabbed its length as circulation returned, and Starsky swung out blindly with his unfettered left arm.

His captor laughed. “Slaves can’t own stuff like this. You know that, cop.”

The other man grabbed Starsky’s arm in mid-swing and snapped a thick metal cuff around his wrist. They hauled Starsky to the rear of the truck, his feet dragging heavily behind him.

“He ain’t a cop no more, huh? Brought down to the dregs, now, huh? Never thought this kind of thing could happen to one a’ the almighty state police, huh?” He locked the cuff to the top rung of the manger.

Starsky struggled, fighting his fate, but the ankle spreader impeded his balance. He was like one of those inflatable clowns, his lower half weighted to the ground, but easily knocked over. When one of them squeezed his newly pierced cock again, he nearly fell to his knees. The stress on his torqued thighs was incredible, and he bit back a scream as fresh pain shot down both legs. He ended up hanging by the arm from the hay basket, unable to get his feet under him for support. The guy with the calloused hands seized the opportunity, and quickly locked Starsky’s right arm to the top rail of the manger.

They ripped Starsky’s t-shirt off his body and wrote something on his back with a grease pencil. Seething, Starsky couldn’t move enough to evade the debasement.

He went cold inside. He would never be a slave. However long it took, he’d hunt down whoever paid for his capture and rip their heart out, but not before piercing them with their own goddamned slave hoop.

The heavy metal collar that closed around Starsky’s neck only reinforced his servitude. Finally, the men pulled the bag partially off his head, allowing him to take a few gulps of fresh air. Even that that minor freedom was cut short when they then forced a ball gag between his teeth and buckled it tightly behind his head. Starsky howled his displeasure, wrenching away from the hands that gripped the sides of his head.

Calloused fingers yanked Starsky’s cock once again, and he froze in reaction to the renewed shock of pain and to avoid being emasculated. The men replaced the bag that covered his eyes with a standard blindfold, too quickly for him to see who’d kidnapped him. Starsky was familiar with the blindfolds; he’d seen them when he’d joined a taskforce to break up the slaving rings that were supposed to be illegal in B.C. Many slaves were blindfolded when being transported to increase their disorientation and keep them from knowing the routes in and out of the city.

Blindfolded, gagged, and pierced. He was now fully a slave, nothing more than merchandise, as the first captor had called him. A commodity to be sold or traded.

Oh, Hutch… Had they done this to him, too? Stripped him of his humanity, his goodness, and subjected him to similar treatment? Hutch wouldn’t stand for this. He’d find some way out of the situation. Starsky’s tendencies were for rash action first and thinking later, but Hutch could be calm, almost detached, until he came up with the right solution.

In the last year, Hutch had grown disillusioned by the current state of affairs in California. He’d railed against the CEC’s increasingly draconian laws, and talked about joining an underground movement to effect change through civil protest and social reform. Starsky thought they would be better off to escape, run away to a less militaristic state like New Mex-Arizona or what was left of Michigan and Minnesota, where Hutch’s mother used to be governor. There, anti-corporate protests weren’t stopped with enslavement or death. Then they could fight from the outside, where they could get help from other like-minded people.

He could clearly hear Hutch’s voice. “They claim they’re different, that a corporation — a board of greedy business men — can change things for the better. This is communism except with money. Capitalism, with a capital C, and it won’t work, Starsk. We need to take a stand for what is right. Protect the people from their own government.”

Hutch had grown morose, letting his mustache grow back. Starsky saw the mustache as a barometer of Hutch’s mood. It had come in lush and blond under his nose, a testimony to Hutch’s deep depression. His mysterious outings had doubled in frequency, too. Starsky realized he should have been paying more attention. He could have asked where Hutch was going any number of times.

But would that have changed anything?

He was getting lost in his memories to avoid the present, but it was easier than anticipating what his captors might do now that he was shackled and nude. He could actually breathe when they finished their lewd inspection of his body and climbed noisily out of the truck.

The truck started up again, gathering speed. Starsky was sure they were headed for the old state of Nevada, away from the contradictory laws of California, where owning slaves was legal, but kidnapping and training them was not.

Thinking of Hutch brought him back to their case against Dunfey. The crime lord was involved in the wholesale trafficking of human beings. It was one of the things he and Hutch had been investigating. Dunfey’s group secured slaves for customers with particular tastes. Tastes Dunfey probably shared. But he’d managed to keep ahead of the cops, as if he had inside information. He’d evaded every raid, every trap they set. That’s why Starsky had believed Hutch’s phone call so completely. Nailing Dunfey had been their goal for over a year.

Starsky forced himself to examine all he knew about the mobster’s operation, glossing over the black market sales and gun running. Most of the people Dunfey’s henchmen enslaved had been legal citizens until his hand-picked goons grabbed them out of their mundane lives and spirited them away to the infamous out-of-state slave farms. On paper, that was the one thing the CEC didn’t allow — the wholesale marketing of slaves. Slaves were supposed to be convicted criminals or prostitutes who couldn’t pay the state taxes to keep their brothels open legally. Slaves were not supposed to be private citizens kidnapped at the whim of someone’s pleasure. Since most slave farms were in the old state of Nevada, they were out of the CEC’s jurisdiction and beyond prosecution.

So, that’s probably where they were taking him. Starsky shuddered, but it helped to have that tiny bit of knowledge in this completely out-of-control situation. He might be immobilized and nude, but he knew where they were going.

Now for the why? And the who. Who would want him as a slave? Some member of the Corporation he’d pissed off? There were so many he couldn’t pick just one.

Starsky was a rabble-rouser, a rebel. For all his anger at the system, Hutch kept it bottled up and played the good cop with their superiors. Probably why Captain Roschenzky had recently offered Hutch a promotion over Starsky. Hutch refused the offer, but they both knew that Starsky would never qualify for advancement through the new corporate organization.

Thinking about anything but that he’d been locked to a manger in an old horse trailer, yoked, and pierced as a slave, helped Starsky stay sane. He wanted to panic, to freak out and cry, but what good would that do? It wouldn’t free him, and it wouldn’t help him find Hutch any faster.

Hutch’s last words repeated endlessly in his head. “Starsk, Dunfey just went into the warehouse on the corner of Ninety-first where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there.”

Hurry. I’ll meet you there.

I’ll meet you there.

Hutch hadn’t been at the warehouse when he called? The pay phones in that area had long been destroyed; there wasn’t a working phone in a two-mile vicinity. So, where had Hutch been?

The little nagging doubt was back, but Starsky pushed it firmly away. Hutch wasn’t involved in this. That wasn’t possible.

By curling his fingers around the metal bar he was cuffed to, and going with the sway of the truck, he could keep his balance and prevent the ring in his cock from clanging against the hay basket. Every time the ring connected with metal, he felt the sharp spike of pain all the way up to his breast bone. To think some guys used to do this for sex appeal!

His mouth was so parched, his tongue kept sticking to the rubber ball clenched between his teeth, even as it caused a tiny line of drool down his chin. He wanted to lick that drool to help quench his thirst and wondered if he were becoming dehydrated. How long had it been since he’d been grabbed, anyway?

He’d arrived at the warehouse around 12:20 and they’d captured him immediately. It was approximately a four-hour drive from Bay City to Las Vegas — if that was where they were going. Starsky had driven it often enough with Hutch back when the states were united and gambling was a fun pastime instead of the way states filled their coffers.

Had they been gone longer than two hours? Closer to three?

Starsky twisted his arm awkwardly inside the tight cuff, feeling the tiny wrist bones grind against the metal. These were far bigger and thicker than the standard police issue handcuffs he was used to. These were slaveware, impossible to remove without a hacksaw. He suddenly realized he wasn’t wearing a watch. The bastards had stolen his Yamamoto Titanium Special with the depth gauge and compass.

He could no longer own anything. Slaves were owned. Everything they wore, touched, or used was the property of their master.

Starsky took a shaky breath, biting down on the ball of the gag. He’d get through this and escape. No one owned David Starsky. He’d protect the last thing he had, his name, no matter what.

Slaves were usually given variations on their original name, diminutives, or childish nicknames to further enforce their lowly status. They’d probably call him Davey, something only his mother had ever gotten away with. Hutch called him Starsk.

Starsk. Hutch’s special nickname for him. Not childish or demeaning. Strong, masculine, and…Starsky refused to wander that dark path, past the memories of going down on Hutch to stumble over the new idea that Hutch might have done this to him. That he could be that duplicitous. No. Never.

Oh, God, Hutch, what happened?

 

The ride was long and arduous. Starsky kept falling whenever there was an abrupt turn or stop, and one time smacked his lip so hard on the manger rail that it swelled, pressing painfully against the ball gag. Maybe they were going farther than Nevada?

Then the truck ground to a halt, inching forward as if in a slow line, and Starsky knew where they were — the border crossing between the independent states of California and Nevada. All those decades of trying to keep Mexicans out of California had provided good experience. California knew how to hold a border. There were checkpoints and double checkpoints. No dissidents or undesirables were allowed in, period. Just exactly who those undesirables were was decided from on high. It wasn’t quite as cut and dried as the Nazis who had hated anyone who didn’t conform to their idea of Aryan perfection. No, the CEC’s ideals were more nebulous.

The doors of the truck opened, and Starsky shivered as a hellishly hot gust of wind swirled around him. He hated the thought that people were seeing him, naked and bound, blindfolded like a common slave.

“Cargo?” a bored voice asked.

“Human slave, bound for the farms,” Gravel Voice responded, chewing gum loudly. He popped a bubble, the sugary-sweet smell totally alien in the dusty, horse-scented trailer.

Starsky tensed, very aware of the two men so close to him. A finger tapped him on the shoulder. “Invoice number’s on his back, all official-like.”

“Gotta inspect the merchandise,” the bored voice said, as the man clamored into the truck. He smacked Starsky hard on the butt, making him jump in surprise. The heavy weight hanging from his penis swung from side to side and Starsky gasped, clamping down on fear and pain. “Good reflexes,” the guard laughed. “For this kind of freight, there’s a fee.”

“You new around here?” Gravel argued. “Dunfey has a free pass, alla time.”

“Things change fast.” The guard’s hand slid around Starsky’s hip, caressing the skin over his pelvis.

Even with the blindfold, Starsky closed his eyes, more afraid than if he’d been standing in front of a drug-crazed maniac with a sawed-off shotgun. He didn’t move, willing the questing hand away from his genitals.

“Six hundred dollars or I get a taste of this sweet whore.”

Starsky shifted his weight to evade the guard’s hand, but he couldn’t move very far.

“Just keep it quiet. I’ll go get the paperwork,” Gravel said, the truck bed jouncing when he left them alone. “And don’t bruise him any. We’ll probably get gypped on the price with all the dings he’s got.”

“Feisty, ain’t you?” the guard said once the man was gone. “Well, we can fix that quick.” He bracketed Starsky’s body with his own, pressing full length against him. Starsky could feel the smooth fabric of a polyester uniform and slick boots against his bare legs and ass. The guard’s erection was hard beneath his pants, pressing into the one place that Starsky never allowed human flesh to breach. When Starsky had plied his body on the street, he’d protected that place religiously — like a girl guarding her virginity with her very life.

Hutch had never touched him there. In fact, Hutch didn’t always reciprocate sexually. He kissed Starsky often, nearly every day, but as far as other sexual acts were concerned, Hutch was a one-trick pony. He wanted to be serviced, and then would return the favor after the fact. Starsky could easily count the number of times Hutch had gone down on him first. Usually on his birthday, though the most memorable time was after the shooting when he’d cleared the medical board to get back on the force. Six years ago.

The rasp of a zipper being pulled down jerked him back to his immediate problem. The sound was so loud it drowned out the cars and other border guards outside. There was no one else in the world except Starsky and the guard. He pulled Hutch’s image back, his shining blond hair and clear blue eyes, comforting and strong. If anyone was going to be pressed against him, he wanted it to be Hutch. But not back there — never there. At fifteen, he’d declared that place off limits, and no penis had ever penetrated him since. He panted around the gag, unable to stop what was about to occur.

Hutch, what did you do to me?

Starsky could no longer deny the ugly thoughts. Hutch might have lured him to the warehouse. Hutch must have lured him to the warehouse. For what reason? He replayed Hutch’s words over in his head to barricade himself from the guard’s actions, but the pressure of an alien cock pressing against his backside was too strong to ignore.

No. NO.

“Hey, Rato, get out of there!” an urgent voice cried. “Boss is on the way from the security booth.”

Starsky’s attacker cursed with disappointment, fumbling with his engorged cock. He’d never made it past the initial advance. When he moved away, zipping himself up, Starsky sagged, exhausted.

The back doors were slammed shut moments later and the truck started up, trundling through the border after a brisk “All Clear” called by another guard. They were now in Nevada. Did that improve the situation or make it worse? Nevada was a wild, dangerous place, governed by only corruption and greed. Stephan King’s novel The Stand had set Las Vegas as the capital of sin, and this had come to pass. Whether the devil really lived there was a matter of debate. Many criminals who’d been out of prison when the revolution began had gone to ground in Vegas. There was no extradition to California from Las Vegas, and no police. Many of the Corporation CEOs kept homes in Nevada for exactly that reason — as did those in the criminal element. Although Starsky had heard that Dunfey’s stronghold was farther south, possibly in New Mex-Arizona.

Starsky hadn’t been to Las Vegas since he and Hutch had gone undercover to help investigate a serial killer. They’d won a great deal of money and given it all to a dancer for her crippled child. He hadn’t thought of them in years. The girl would be in her teens by now, if she lived. Few people with handicaps remained. The disabled were among the first to be exiled, which had frightened Starsky when he’d thought he might be included. But he’d recovered well from his gunshot wounds. Perfectly, in fact. The new laser treatments had all but erased many of the surgical scars on his chest.

He tried to shut his mind down after the near rape, and was barely cognizant of the rumble of the truck under his feet or the metal cuffs holding him in place. For the next few hours he merely existed, banking down his need to fight until he found an opening. He couldn’t escape from the truck, but once at the farms — wherever they might be — there would be more opportunity. There had to be.

Starsky would not be any man’s slave.

When the truck finally came to a halt and the doors opened again, Starsky shook himself out of his haze. He had finally arrived.

“This is what all the fuss was about?” a man’s voice with a British accent said. Starsky could hear his footsteps as he approached, and the tone of his voice made it clear he was appraising Starsky’s worth. Then cool hands suddenly felt him up and down, but in an impersonal way, not designed to illicit a sexual response. More like a horse trader checking out an animal’s lines. “Not really what I expected, but the buyer is always right. Especially at the price he paid.”

“Good commission?” Gravel laughed.

“Darling, you couldn’t even imagine.”

Someone had paid enough to impress this man from the Farms? Starsky digested this interesting nugget with a surge of hope. Hutch had no money, certainly not enough to pay what must have been an exorbitant price for him. So Hutch wasn’t involved…or if he had been, it was only peripherally, against his will. Maybe he was mixed up in something he couldn’t get out of — a bad debt or blackmail. Maybe he’d slept with the wrong person — a CEC official or something. He’d been forced to make the phone call. That was it.

Caught up in new ideas, Starsky barely acknowledged the handlers freeing him from the leg spreader and the metal rail in the horse truck, and hauling him out. His legs had gone stiff and numb in the long hours, making him clumsy and uncoordinated. He was marched along a corridor with cold marble flooring, his arms quickly bound behind his back, a handler on each side holding him up. The agonizing drag of the ring in his penis brought home his servitude with every step.

The Brit followed behind, giving orders. “Step lively, chaps; this one has to be processed quickly. We only have a few days before the buyer arrives.”

Suddenly, an alarm rang. Starsky turned his head in the direction of the raucous clanging, anxious to learn anything he could about the layout of the place. They’d come in from the left, and gone down in an elevator, possibly one or two floors, but emerged onto what felt like an identical marble floor. Starsky had been frog marched down another hallway to this place with the horrible alarm.

“Hear that, Davey?” the Brit asked sweetly. “If you try to escape your cell, everyone in the compound will hear that sound. Unpleasant, isn’t it? Nod your head.”

Starsky nodded. What other choice did he have?

“If you attempt to escape, it will be doubly unpleasant for you, I guarantee it. Your master has specifically ordered that you not be harmed, but there are punishments that won’t mar your pretty flesh unduly.” Starsky heard a series of beeps, like computer-pad buttons being pushed as the Brit continued. “I am programming a pass code into the door, and only myself, two specially picked guards, and your owner will be given that code.”

When the door opened with a hissing slide that reminded Starsky of the electronic doors on Star Trek, he was pushed to his knees.

“Dismissed, Denato. Fortun, stay for now and get out the equipment.”

Starsky swallowed, but there was almost no moisture in his mouth, the ball-gag nearly glued to his lips and tongue. He had no idea what to expect. He’d never visited a slave house as a patron, and had only been inside one a few times as a cop. Since owning slaves wasn’t illegal, he’d only glanced at the slaves’ living quarters while searching for suspected contraband, and on one occasion, a CEC Vice President’s wife. He’d been involved in the investigation of her kidnapping. They found her four months later in the slave quarters of a competitor VP. Her owners had dyed her brown hair blond, covered her body with tattoos, and forced a diamond-studded ring through her clit. Her husband refused to take back what was now a sex slave, even if she was the mother of his children.

He now had something in common with that woman.

Would Hutch really want him like this? Or would he reject Starsky the same way?

A male hand tugged at Starsky’s curls and strayed over his blindfolded face. “Your owner left explicit instructions. No shaving the head or dying the hair. No extra piercings. Such a pity; you’d look divine with a ring through your nose.” He pinched the end, making Starsky sneeze. “Altering a new slave’s appearance so helps with the acclimatization process. Helps the slave settle into his new role, but so be it. The buyer is always right.” He said that ironically, and Starsky could easily imagine the overly dramatic lift of one shoulder and eloquent sigh. He’d seen men like this; they were called flaming queens and were often the object of derision. Obviously, not this man.

“I’m sure you’re wondering what we’re going to do, Davey.”

Starsky jerked at the name, anger and humiliation burning in his gut. The Brit gave a sardonic chuckle and straightened Starsky’s shoulders, unlocking his bound hands from behind him, and placing them just so on his thighs. Starsky had seen this before — presentation position. All slaves were required to show themselves like this when a master came into the room. When he’d poked his head into the slave rooms looking for the VP’s wife, every slave there had assumed this pose.

“Remember to show your best assets, Davey,” the Brit said with a self-important laugh, twitching Starsky’s limp penis lying lax between his spread knees.

Starsky screamed inside, but outwardly didn’t give the man the satisfaction of wresting a reaction out of him.

“Not interested in me, are you? I’m sure you’re hungry and thirsty, too, poor lamb, but that’s all part of the plan. You’ll be isolated here for a few days in your own cell. You’ll be cared for, but rarely touched or spoken to. An IV will take care of fluids going in, and a Foley catheter for fluids out.” He giggled as if this were a witty bon mot. “There will be other discomforts, of course, but you won’t be really harmed. We have higher standards than those run-of-the-mill training houses. Most new slaves are relieved to hear that. Nod, Davey.”

Starsky nodded, hating this queen in ways he could hardly describe. Taking the one chance he had while unrestrained, he launched himself in the direction of the Brit’s voice, grabbing at silk clothing and a slender leg, knocking them both over.

“You heathen!” the Brit shrieked. “Get him off me. He’s a menace. Use the sedation, now!”

Pushing, shoving strong arms subdued him as Starsky fought like a captured animal unwilling to be caged. Someone — Fortun, Starsky realized — jabbed a needle straight into his rump, sending unwelcome narcotic languor through him. It didn’t knock him out or paralyze him, but left him completely unable to resist. Weirdly, the drug made him all the more aware of the sensations around him. The Brit’s silk clothing slid over Starsky’s skin like the belly of a snake, making him want to throw up. Fortun’s hands dragging him up were like huge meaty paddles.

Fortun must be built like a wrestler, Starsky thought, as the guard manhandled him over a metal frame that was shockingly cold against his naked skin. Fortun draped his body forward against a center brace that supported his chest, then strapped him into place. The guard stretched Starsky’s arms just above shoulder height on two parallel supports, and used leather bindings to secure him tightly at bicep, elbow, and wrist. This centered his head on a small metal depression that hugged his chin. Fortun, and now the Brit, wrapped leather straps around his head so that he couldn’t turn even the barest inch. They strapped his legs and arms at regular intervals, but kept his feet resting on the cold marble floor. He could not escape the bindings, but the open design of the framework left every part of Starsky’s body available to any master who wanted to use him.

At least, according to the wretched Brit, who talked incessantly through the ordeal. “You’ll become quite accustomed to this place, Davey; it will be your home until you’re claimed by your owner. We’ve worked long and hard to make this frame both welcoming and functional for the recently turned slave. Consider it an introduction to your new life and a way to retrain your body into one pleasing for your master.” He brushed his fingers over Starsky’s abdomen, feeling the ridges of his taut muscles. The center support brace had openings so that he could pinch and tease Starsky’s nipples and chest hair with ease.

Starsky groaned, fighting to maintain an ounce of dignity, but with his chin jammed into the cup, even swallowing was a chore.

“You’ll notice how easily I could use any part of your body. That pretty dick hangs free, and your glorious ass sticks out, all ready to be reamed. Fortun?”

With Starsky totally restrained, Fortun inserted an IV into a vein in his groin. He squirmed ineffectually as the needle jabbed him. When Fortun threaded the tiny tubing in, it felt like a million worms invading his body. Starsky screamed, his muffled voice hoarse and barely audible over the Brit’s constant yammering.

“The IV is for long-term use,” the Brit said, “so, once sutured in, we will maintain it carefully.”

Starsky could hear the Brit walk around the frame as Fortun finished quickly. “It hurts, doesn’t it, lamb?” The Brit kissed Starsky’s cheek, leaving a wet place, but it was obvious that humiliation and torture turned the man on. “It will be over all too soon and we’ll leave you alone. Just a few more things to do. Your body isn’t your own anymore. We can control every one of your natural functions.”

The guard shoved another catheter up his penis to evacuate his urine. Starsky remembered this from the hospital, but that had been a cakewalk compared to this ordeal. The rubber tubing forced the ring up against the swollen tissue of his crown, triggering pain so intense Starsky thought he’d black out, but he didn’t. He bit down hard on the ball gag, no longer caring that they could see his pain and degradation. Just make them stop!

“It’s cleaner this way, lamb,” the Brit explained in his maddeningly cheerful and eerily aroused voice. “Don’t want you to pee all over that nice new piercing. That would sting so badly.”

Rubber tubing penetrated his anus twice. Once to clean out his bowels and a second time when a dildo plugged his rectum like a cork in a wine bottle. They fed the last tube through his nose to his stomach to feed him, if he earned the privilege of food.

The sedative was short acting. Just as Fortun finished with all the tubing, Starsky slowly regained some of his wits. For nothing. He couldn’t move, couldn’t fight, couldn’t help himself in any way. He was more of a thing than a man now. He couldn’t imagine any master seeing him suspended like this, plugged with rubber tubing, and be aroused. Disgusted would be more like it.

Then he was left alone.

The solitude was the worst. There was no sound, even though Starsky wasn’t wearing ear plugs. He was overcome with the urge to move, and wiggled each of his fingers and toes just for the supreme pleasure of controlling a part of his own body. He had been robbed, pure and simple. Robbed of freedom and deprived of the most ordinary acts. Each tube that breached his body defiled him. He was filled with loathing. How could they do this to him? How could they do this to anyone?

Again, the image of the VP’s wife came to him. Had she been bound to this hideous frame? Had this happened to every slave he’d ever seen on the streets, staring vacantly into space as they followed their masters?

He’d always assumed there would be whips and maybe thumb screws. A rack like in movies on the Spanish inquisition. Not IVs, Foleys, and feeding tubes like in the hospital. Those had once helped him heal. Here, these innocuous items were objects to torture and debase. It was not what he’d expected, yet all the more horrible. Degradation. Humiliation. Invasion. Rubber shoved into him, including the one place he’d protected since the age of fifteen. The plug in his anus felt wide, wider than anything meant to be inside the rectum, and as the hours passed it seemed to swell, bruising his inner walls.

Torture.

His mind skittered away from the word, but that was what the Brit and his underlings had done. Torture.

Hutch.

Hutch, I went to the warehouse like you told me to, but where were you?

He was never sure whether he slept — some hours seemed like the unfathomable depths of dreamland and others like the endless tedium of being awake and unable to sleep. He remembered so much, things he didn’t want to remember, and things he could never forget.

Being sent away from home to relatives who were nearly complete strangers. Rebelling against child-rearing techniques more strict than his mother’s, and taking to the streets. He’d been popular — on the small side, curly haired and charming. He’d gotten lots of clients quickly who paid for his services in drugs and candy. Or candy and drugs, he was never sure which was the most addicting. They’d press him against the rough surface of a brick wall in some dank alley and push him to his knees. It only took a few moments to satisfy most of the men who bought him. Just a few slurps and the rasp of a zipper closing. Sometimes he’d see the glint of a knife in the darkness poised against his unwhiskered cheek, or feel the pain of penetration when one of the regulars pushed that blade into his skin —

Fuck.

He opened his eyes into darkness, his body drenched in sweat. The decade old scar on his shoulder ached with the fierceness of freshly sliced flesh. He needed to run, to hide, to get away from those hands, but he was pinned like a butterfly in a museum case, displayed for his new owner.

Hutch?

No. Older, tall, blond, and powerful — with a handful of cash. Starsky desperately wanted to escape the memories but they piled on, trapping him on the slave frame. A blond man with whiskey on his breath and cigarettes — long ago, not Hutch, but so much like him. Ready to pay a lot of money as long as fifteen-year-old David Starsky would go down on his knees in a swanky hotel room. The money wasn’t for his mouth, though, but for the other opening in his body.

No.

He’d refused. But the handsome stranger didn’t take no for an answer. So he’d fought, scratched, and then screamed when the man shoved something big, hard, and metal into his ass.

Starsky dreamed of Hutch running up, apologizing for the misunderstanding. It was all a big mistake. This wasn’t supposed to happen — not to him.

He awakened to hear people in the room, walking around the frame, speaking softly to one another, too low for him to make out their words. They were watching him; the hair rose on the back of his neck. They could see him. See his naked body shackled to the frame, limbs held rigidly, all dignity stripped ruthlessly away. He could hear the rustling of their clothes when they walked, hear their breathing and soft tread of their shoes on a hard floor. But no one spoke to him. He’d never been so completely ignored while being the center of attention.

They replaced the IV bag, and a few drops of water dripped on his leg in the process. Someone wiped it away, caressing his thigh, making the slave ring bounce against the rubbing tubing in his cock. They cleaned the penile piercing gently and applied gel to the tip. For a moment it burned but cooled quickly, taking away some of the awful pain. Starsky was powerless, inanimate.

He wept. The tears pooled on the lower edge of his blindfold, but only a few escaped to roll down his cheeks. He felt one wet tear on his lip and rejoiced at this small freedom.

“This is pretty Davey, our newest acquisition,” the Brit said to the crowd.

Starsky was nothing more than an object, something to play with and tease, not human at all.

“He’s barely used, which is probably why his master bought him. The uninitiated are so wonderfully vulnerable.” There was a smattering of laughter from the audience.

Starsky strained, trying to guess how many stood around him, viewing him like some exotic display.

How could they?

How could they use him this way? Yesterday, or maybe the day before — he was no longer sure of the date — he’d had a life. Been a person, dammit. Not a slave.

Not a slave.

Starsky felt hands moving the buckles strapped around his head, fingers threading through his curls, kneading his scalp. It was wonderful and terrible. He didn’t know whose hands they were or what more they would do. His whole body tensed, anticipating pain.

Someone removed the blindfold. Although the room was fairly dark, his eyes stung as he struggled to adjust after the long darkness. He could see a wide metal door directly in front of him, tantalizingly open to an expanse of corridor. Where were they? In Nevada, but where? In the mountains? The desert? If he walked out that door and down that hallway, would he be free?

His audience, including the Brit, stayed out of his limited visual range, although he tried to peer sideways to get a glimpse of his captors. When a feminine hand trailed over his tightly bound hip, slipping a finger underneath the thick leather strap, bile rose in his throat. But at the same time, he had the oddest, almost terrifying need for that hand to linger, grab hold of his cock and pump him dry.

“This new frame is a vast improvement over the earlier one,” a mellow female voice said. “The design is elegant but imminently functional. The way the leather holds the body…” she gave a strap a tug making it dig deeply into the sensitive area between Starsky’s scrotum and thigh, “…is highly provocative.”

Starsky jerked in his bonds, but hands caressing his head stilled what little motion he could achieve. Who else was there besides the Brit? Although they had removed some straps, enough remained to prevent him from turning his head. His chin was still wedged in the depression, and his arms and legs immobilized against the metal bars.

“Yes, I love how accessible his body is,” the Brit agreed. “I can touch every part.”

There were two sets of hands touching him; those cupping his head slithered down his sweaty body to his back. He was poked in his old bullet scars. The nerve endings there were damaged, making the sensation surreal. When a finger dipped into the largest of the thickened scar tissue, it felt like a zipping flash skittering down his torso, like a rock skipping across a lake.

“Very nice,” the woman said. “So easily stimulated. He would be wonderful to play with.” The slick surface of her long fingernails slid along the plane of his hipbone to his groin over the IV port to tangle in his pubic hair.

The Brit laughed. “You’ve gone all goose flesh, lammy-boy. Are you cold?” He licked Starsky’s shoulder, his tongue warmer than any part of Starsky’s body. The sensation was horrible and yet incredibly right at the same time.

No more. Leave me alone.

“You say he was a cop?” said a different woman’s voice, sensual and snide. “Doesn’t look much like one.”

He heard more laughter from the peanut gallery.

“They all look the same on the frame.” The Brit continued his slow, vile washing, all tongue and slippery fingers. “Sweet, frightened, and in pain. That’s the best part. The pain sweeps away all vestiges of their old life.”

Starsky cringed, shame heating his body better than anything his captor was doing. Some damned queen was using him like a party doll while people watched as if this were some fucking sideshow, and he couldn’t resist in any way. He’d never imagined anything like this. Never considered the utter helplessness of a slave, forced to perform for a master without any regard for the slave’s needs or wants.

“This is taking too long,” the first woman said, sounding bored. She cupped his sac, her nails just a fraction too sharp against his flesh. “I have a dozen things to arrange before I leave for the council meeting.”

“Take your time, Harriet,” a male voice said. “I’ll make some phone calls.”

Starsky caught a glimpse of a broad back clad in a forest green shirt walking out the door and strained to see where he was going. His eyes could only swivel so far, but just as he despaired of seeing anything else, a naked man followed Forest Green out — a naked man plugged up the ass with chains hobbling his ankles. Another slave. So there were others being trained as he was. How many? Who were these people? Why did they watch him, toy with him without giving him any answers?

“Thank you, Sebastian, you are such a gentleman,” she called after the retreating man.

“Then, will you do the honors, my dear?” The Brit finally stopped licking him, leaving Starsky damp and slimy.

“Well, with that damned Foley you always insist on shoving up their dicks, Neville, I don’t know what you expect me to do,” she complained, finally coming into Starsky’s view.

She was an older woman with gray hair coiled into a French knot, wearing an expensive but severe navy suit stating clearly that she was with the CEC — an executive or VP. Were there many female vice presidents? Off to one side, he was aware of shifting bodies and murmured comments, but the woman demanded all his attention.

“Ah, you are pretty, aren’t you, Davey?” She bent to slip one finger into the heavy ring on his cock. Starsky moaned, horrified when he felt an involuntary arousal crawl down his spine in spite of the pain from her rough examination.

“This will be so much fun to play with once it’s healed. Only takes a short time. I’ve heard it hurts for a lot longer, though.” She twisted the metal, sliding her hand up his length in a parody of a handjob.

Starsky arched as much as he could, desperate to get away from her ruthless torture. Her skin was as soft as a child’s against his icy flesh, the heavy scent of magnolia clogging his nose when she leaned close to kiss his gagged lips. “There are so many nerve endings down there.”

She flicked the ring, sending waves of pain up his abused genitals and across his abdomen. He couldn’t breathe.

“I’ve heard that in some men, it hurts for the rest of your life.” She smiled, all elegant beauty and power, and released the ring, tapping it so it would swing, then gently touched the side of his face. “You’ve been crying, sweetling. How novel. So few men give in to their own fears.”

Starsky tried to look away to avoid seeing her terrible appetite, the way her eyes ate him alive.

“Who bought him? Someone I know?” she asked.

“Davey’s master prefers to remain anonymous.” As always, Neville seemed to add something vaguely dirty to everything he said.

“Too bad he’s not going for auction anytime soon,” a German accented voice commented from the back of the room.

“I was hoping to have more time to play.” Harriet pushed back Starsky’s eyelids, exposing his eyeballs until they watered and his vision blurred. Then she pushed his lips away from the ball gag, inserting her long blood red fingernail into his mouth.

That hurt. His lips were cracked and bleeding, his jaw extended far wider than ever before, the muscles and ligaments in his cheeks searing with pain.

She probed inside his ears, scrutinized his neck, shoulders, and chest with rapt attention. She gave every inch of Starsky’s body a minute examination as if he were a horse she considered buying. She left no part of him alone.

He could have cried again, but wouldn’t. Not in front of his abusers. He had to maintain some tiny remnant of pride. How did anyone else endure this? Why didn’t every kidnapped slave go crazy?

“Fine specimen, though,” she said, standing so close to the side of his body that he could feel her breasts under her suit jacket heaving against his ribs. She reached around and slowly removed the dildo, twisting it slightly to prolong the agonizing stretch of Starsky’s muscles. “How is this, little Davey? Doesn’t it raise the hairs on the back of your neck? It’s such a unique, exquisite pain.”

The low-level arousal that he’d been fighting slammed in when the plug came free. He panted, but got no joy or release from the sickening sensation. He squeezed his eyes shut to get rid of the sight of Harriet, concentrating on resisting her intrusions. She slotted a finger into his anus and scraped her nail against his prostate.

He would have jumped, if he could. Would have run, screamed, fought to get away. All he could do was gasp around the gag.

Not there. No.

Not there. God, please.

Only Hutch.

His muscles automatically clamped shut around her, trying to prevent any further entrance.

“He’s not a virgin; I can feel scar tissue.” She jerked her hand free, stepping back into his line of sight to hold out her soiled finger impatiently.

“That will lower his resaleability,” the German said with a click of his tongue.

A female slave moved into Starsky’s view for just a second to wash Harriet’s hand with a wet cloth. The slave kept her head lowered the entire time, her body so tense she practically vibrated with fear.

“My recommendation would be to leave him on the frame for several days,” Harriet said to the Brit over Starsky’s shoulder. “And he needs a higher dose.” She regarded him without apology for the way she’d treated him. This was normal operating procedure, making sure the merchandise was worth the money invested in it. “Poor Davey. There’s not enough Phenine in your system yet or you’d have enjoyed that a great deal more.” She pinched his nipple, eliciting a sharp shiver that trapped his breath in his lungs. “But just wait. It will hit so fast, and then you’ll want to be touched so badly. But no one will be here to give you a hand.” She smiled, her gray eyes frightening, filled with a false kindness. “Isn’t it sad, my dear?”

“Just a pity,” the Brit agreed, and rammed the butt plug home.

Starsky screamed, his throat spasming to force sound past the gag, but his cry was nearly mute to his own ears. Metal and leather bit into his body when he fought to get free. His struggle was futile, a useless battle that left him bruised and sore.

“Give it time, Davey,” Neville soothed into his ear, flicking a tongue into the curved shell. “Donato, draw up a double dose this time. He has an incredible tolerance for the stuff. Who knew he would be such a natural slave?”

The Brit once again strapped the blindfold over his eyes. Starsky tensed when he felt the brush of Neville’s silk shirt against his belly as the man bent to inject more drug into his IV. His body recognized the languor when the sedative took over with a sweet longing. Next would come the need, the desire for so much more, and that frightened him. He couldn’t even control his own reactions anymore.

The door hissed shut as Harriet and the others left. He was alone, spread on the frame, open to anyone who chose to come in and touch him, abuse him, look at his nakedness. He cried again, alone. Waiting for them to come back and use him again.

Wanting to be used.

A fervent need built inside him, kindling a fire that burned hotly. He sweated, panting, which only exacerbated the dryness of his tongue and mouth. He imagined Harriet’s hands covering the parts of his skin not crisscrossed by leather restraints, then pulling at his nipples, fisting his cock, pressing into his anus.

Not her!

Hutch, only Hutch would ever be allowed to do those things. Hutch taking him like a virgin with those sky blue eyes that could see past Starsky’s barriers to his innermost thoughts.

There was no one in the room, yet it was full of his past lovers. Starsky dripped sweat, his belly writhing with need. He’d never felt such a powerful craving for sex, such a desire to fuck and be fucked. He couldn’t move, not even to reach down and relieve the ache in his balls. He couldn’t manage an erection, not with the tube stuck in him, but the rest of him roiled with lust.

A trickle of sweat slid down his nose. Starsky could feel it dangling off the tip, tempting him, and envisioned Hutch reaching down to flick that droplet away, his mouth slightly open, moist tongue peeking out as he concentrated. Starsky yearned to suckle on that tongue, draw in some of the sweet moisture, and taste Hutch’s essence. Then he’d kneel, slurping up Hutch’s cock like the finest ice cream.

It was too much.

Forcing himself to think past the seething madness, he realized that whatever was in the IV drug left him hot and bothered without any recourse. What had she called it? Phenine? He didn’t know what that was, but it was working, making him crave sex. So he’d be willing when they came for him. So he’d perform.

David Starsky would never be a slave for any man.

He had to focus on something else. Going over the events of his kidnapping helped alleviate the intense sexual hunger. In his mind, he drove the streets around the warehouse again, turning right on Mission, left onto Ninety-first, left onto Cassio and Ninetieth, and then back to Mission. Making a wider sweep onto Ninety-second, but seeing no one. No mobsters, no gang members, not even a dog.

When had the streets ever been so completely deserted? Something had been planned, and he’d fallen into it with his eyes wide open. He’d been so sure Hutch would be waiting for him that he’d never given a single thought to anything else.

Hutch, where were you?

It had been Hutch’s voice. That was established.

But it had been a bogus call; that seemed certain. But what else?

Hutch, did you know what they were planning to do?

He couldn’t have. He wouldn’t have gone along with it if he had. So, where was Hutch now? Back in Bay City, roaming the streets looking for him? Had anyone even noted Starsky dashing out of the squadroom?

Before his shooting, before Harold Dobey had been forced out, there had been good, reliable men on the squad that Starsky had been proud to call friends. But recently, as older cops resigned in disgust, the men replacing them were corrupt cops who accepted graft and pay offs. Starsky and Hutch and a small handful of detectives still struggled to do their jobs, but it had become a downhill battle.

There had been no one in the squadroom Starsky could trust when he’d left, even if they’d noticed his departure.

Then he remembered…Len Roschenzky had seen him leave. As Starsky grabbed his leather jacket off the back of the chair, he’d seen the captain watching him from his office door, his feral dark eyes like a predatory hawk’s watching prey from a lofty perch. Starsky had never trusted the man. Dobey had been so good, such a solid, dependable leader, but Roschenzky was his complete opposite. It was almost as if he tried to control certain investigations, manipulating the outcomes for the benefit of the CEC.

“Got a lead, Detective?” Roschenzky had taken a coffee cup from the stack.

“Lunchtime. Gotta meet Hutch,” Starsky had said, still not entirely sure why he’d lied to his superior.

Finally, he slept and dreamed of Hutch again. This time, Hutch kissed him as he often did in the morning, and pushed Starsky down to suck his cock. Starsky tried to, but his mouth was dry as dust, his lips chapped and split and his tongue cracked. Hutch held him close, imprisoning his arms, and kissed him again before pulling on his penis. Starsky gasped in surprise; Hutch never let him have first dibs.

Then he screamed as the Foley was pulled out, leaving a burning swath as if the inner skin of his penis were being dragged out the pierced hole. The screaming just ripped up his lips and throat more, and Starsky could feel blood in his mouth. Why would anyone want a slave like him? He was grotesque.

“There, there, I know it hurts, Davey-lamb.” The Brit was talking again, but his words made little sense. “You’ve been so good for so long, we’re allowing you a few more freedoms. The IV fluids are turned off. You get to eat and drink. Isn’t that charming?”

Something thick and warm flowed through the tube inserted in Starsky’s left nostril and into his stomach. It landed like a pile of lead, sickening him. It had been so long since he’d had food, he cramped up. It could be lethal to vomit while wearing a gag. He held his breath, struggling to keep it down.

“More, my lamb?” The Brit gave a nasty laugh. “You can’t move your head to nod, can you? Oh, well, Fortun, give him another thirty cc’s. He looks hungry.”

The whole process was repeated twice, but Starsky had to admit, grudgingly, that eating, if he could call it that, did make him feel stronger. He was surprised to realize he could now move his arms and legs more freely.

“Fewer straps, Davey. And if you’re good, tomorrow there will be more rewards.”

He’d been good? How could he have been bad? He couldn’t move, couldn’t speak, couldn’t do anything on his own volition. How could that be defined as being good?

Starsky didn’t want to know what the rewards might be, and yet he did. Maybe he’d be taken down from the frame.

Maybe.

More time passed.

Hutch haunted his dreams, sometimes coming close, taking Starsky in his arms and loving him. Other times Hutch was a frightening stranger having sex with anything on two legs. Starsky saw Gillian, Kira, even Terry with Hutch. Then he was the border guard when Starsky was tied in the truck, and tried to force his way in, but Starsky was suddenly behind glass, only able to watch as a slave with his face was taken roughly from behind. He was terrified. He wrote his name, Starsk, on the glass, but the only thing he had to write with was blood.

Coming awake with a gasp, Starsky could feel his heart hammering in his chest, practically bouncing off the broad strap wrapped around his middle. In this dream, he wasn’t the only one terrified. Hutch had been scared, too. Of what?

He needed answers to questions he didn’t even know to ask. Maybe he should go back farther in his investigation of the day’s events. Back before the phone call. Even back before that morning.

What had happened to make Hutch take off on one of his mysterious trips? He’d taken a whole weekend just one month earlier, and another two months before that. That didn’t count evenings Starsky hadn’t been with him. They didn’t live in the same house, just spent — what had Hutch once said? — over seventy-five percent of their time together. So conceivably, Hutch could have been gone more often. Did he really need sex that badly?

The girls they’d once shared between them, forgettable bimbos with fluffed hair and pearlescent lip gloss, had long since been given up. Starsky wasn’t quite sure when, but he had stopped seeing them before his shooting, that he was sure of. Before the debacle that was Kira. Since then, he hadn’t had a single girlfriend, and only a few casual dates. Sex — not in ages, except with Hutch.

Only with Hutch.

As for Hutch, it was hard to say. He no longer dated. They hadn’t attended the police department’s annual picnic with girls on their arms. They hadn’t double-dated in years. If they went out, they went together. Stag. And yet, there were many evenings that he’d spent watching old movies, without Hutch.

Where did Hutch go? Why hadn’t he ever been curious enough to follow? Because it felt like betrayal? Or — Starsky managed to find enough fluid in his throat to swallow, but the action just seared a raw path to his stomach — was it because he was jealous and didn’t want to admit it? Jealous that Hutch found his release with strangers, possibly sexual slaves, instead of with Starsky?

What was he to Hutch? When it came right down to it, he was nothing more than a sexual slave. Hutch pointed, and Starsky sucked. The rest of the time was fine — great even — but Hutch’s sexual appetite had always come first. He knew Hutch loved him. It was palpable when they were together; the little pats, the gentle gazes just before a firefight with some crook, but Hutch’s dissatisfaction had become the norm. They were skewed, with no way to come back into plumb.

What was Hutch to Starsky? Everything. He wanted Hutch in his life, every day, every minute. So what was the problem? Why did Hutch go out so often without a word of explanation? Where was the trust they’d once sworn to one another?

Bound and gagged, with nothing to interfere with his thoughts, Starsky faced the ones he didn’t want to acknowledge. The ones that made him see his partner in a different light.

Hutch had wanted more from him sexually. Much more. Starsky had not only refused, but ridiculed his requests.

When Hutch gave him a studded collar with a silver S charm and a long leather leash, Starsky joked that he’d forgotten to go to the pound for the dog. He’d called a pair of solid gold nipple clamps, nested in a box like fine jewelry, fancy clothespins, and used them to hang his wet boxers in the bathroom. He’d teased Hutch about the stunningly crafted crystal butt plug Hutch bought him, telling him to put it in a museum where it belonged because it was never going up inside of him. Never. Nothing went in his anus. Not since that terrible moment in his youth.

Not until he’d arrived here.

Hutch wanted a sex slave. He’d made that obvious. Starsky knew Hutch didn’t want a fawning, bowing, subservient domestic to wash his clothes and cook his meals before kneeling to suck his toes at bedtime. He just wanted free reign to control the sex, whenever he demanded. Hutch liked it rough and hard, but Starsky wouldn’t provide. He’d made a vow at the age of fifteen that he never would allow any man to take him like that, ever.

In the process, he’d lost Hutch. Because of a vow made so long ago, a vow to forget what happened that night. The problem was he never had, although he’d buried the memory deeply. He couldn’t bear to remember the particulars because that would rip off the partially healed scab and he’d bleed out in Hutch’s arms.

But he’d already done that. In the parking lot, after Gunther’s bullets tore him apart. And he’d survived. He was still alive — if he could call this living.

“How is our little Davey doing this morning?” Neville called out gaily as the electronic door slid open. “Hungry? And craving so many things, I’ll wager.” When he giggled, Starsky wanted to cut his vocal cords in half. But when the Brit’s soft, long fingered hand caressed his throat, he moaned.

Touch. God, he craved touch.

“I thought so. That higher dose worked wonders, didn’t it?”

Starsky wanted to pull away, but there was no way he could. The hand stroking his cheek was so warm, so deliciously wonderful, that he could have kissed it. Then, incredulously, the Brit began to work the buckles at the back of Starsky’s neck free, loosening the gag. It was plastered to his lips and had to be pried out. Starsky groaned in pain, his jaw muscles practically locked in the open position. He’d been wearing the gag for such a long time that he couldn’t close his mouth on the first try, and every movement brought fresh stabs of pain in his cheeks and neck.

“You are not allowed to speak, but your poor lips look so sore, lammy-pie.” He squirted a tiny bit of water into Starsky’s mouth.

It was nothing but flat, unflavored water but it tasted like ambrosia. Starsky swallowed, grateful. If he wasn’t allowed to talk, he wouldn’t. He hated himself for wanting to please this man just so he could get more water. Another squirt of water was even more heavenly, and a third was divine, but after that, the water was put aside.

“Your master finally called; there’s been some sort of unfortunate delay, but he’ll arrive tomorrow. Which is good, because it gives us more time to get acquainted, don’t you agree?” The Brit touched Starsky’s cracked lips with the end of his finger. “Remember, no talking. Just nods. I do so love it when my little slaves agree with me. It’s so gratifying.”

Starsky couldn’t nod; with the blindfold on, he couldn’t see. All he could do was wait. He endured the Brit’s exploration and treatment of his pierced penis and fondling of his balls without a shudder of revulsion.

“You’re better looking that I first realized, Davey. Much. I would really enjoy a go with you in my dungeon, but your master won’t allow it. Such a pity, really. But I always say, the buyer is always right.” He kissed Starsky’s brow. “Fortun is going to take you down from the welcoming frame. Get you spruced up for the morrow. Wash off some of this stink. Then, I’ll come take a look at you this evening.”

Starsky trembled. He couldn’t stand the man’s fleshy soft hands lingering on his body, the slither of those silk shirts across his bare ass.

Fortun was much less demonstrative. He undid the straps and buckles with efficient speed, and held Starsky up when he nearly fell to the floor. His legs were wobbly after all the hours — possibly days — of being restrained.

Still, with nothing to lose, Starsky butted his head into Fortun’s abdomen, kicking out at anything near him. His right foot connected with solid flesh, the blow reverberating all the way up to his thigh, and he heard a heavy grunt. Hands closed around his ankle, but Starsky shoved off the metal frame and rejoiced when he scored a glancing blow off Fortun’s head with his left foot.

“Fucker!” Fortun shouted, letting go.

Starsky’s balance was off, and he couldn’t get his bearings because of the damned blindfold. He sucked in air, listening for the guards, then twisted fast and came up with both hands extended, grabbing hold of the Brit’s damned silk shirt. Fabric shredded as Starsky sunk his nails into soft skin. Neville screamed like a girl, and Starsky kneed him, aiming for his balls. For those few moments when he had freedom, he had power. It was incredibly satisfying, and he got half an erection before they overpowered him. By the time another guard, possibly Denato, had Starsky in a stranglehold, the Brit was berating them for letting things get so out of hand.

A sudden blaze of pain struck across his backside like nothing Starsky had ever felt before. He didn’t have time to react before the second blow covered the first, and a third snaked a line of fire in the same exact spot. He didn’t know what had hit him, but it had a fearsome power. Supported by both guards, Starsky couldn’t move.

Neville panted, tapping something narrow and snappy against Starsky’s abused butt. “That was the crop, darling,” he crooned. “You get three swipes every time you misbehave. Do you understand?”

Starsky refused to give him the satisfaction of an answer, but that didn’t prevent the Brit from forcibly bobbing Starsky’s head in an affirmative.

“Now, Fortun, give him the fireman’s shower and then chain him. He’ll be a docile slave by the time his master arrives!”

“When hell freezes!” Starsky shouted, but Fortun smacked him on the back of the head hard enough to stun. A red haze covered his vision even with the blindfold in place.

Since he was momentarily unable to resist, Fortun and Denato dragged Starsky over to another marble-floored room, and made him stand in a shower stall, his hands locked to an overhead bar the same way he’d been restrained in the truck.

The water was freezing, a spray that slammed into him full force, leaving him battered and gasping. He could barely hold his head up, but his thirst drove him to desperately gulp mouthfuls of water. He aspirated fluid into his lungs and start coughing. Afterwards he shivered, goosebumps riddling his body as he felt the rattle of water in his chest. Fortun made quick work of another enema, jamming the butt plug back in with stunning force. He swabbed a medicinal wipe to the healing pierce hole with a dirty laugh, and led Starsky back into his cell.

Starsky dug in his heels, suddenly terrified of being strung up on the welcoming frame again. Too torpid to fight, he resisted by going limp. It didn’t matter. There were two of them and only one of him.

Instead of dragging him to the frame, Fortun pushed Starsky onto the floor and pretzeled him into place with his hands grasping his own ankles, knees bent up until they were level with his shoulders. Starsky refused to be restrained, but the guards were bigger and stronger, and simply smacked Starsky’s head against the wall for his insubordination. They clipped the D rings on the ankle and wrist cuffs to lock them together, which would prevent him from removing the blindfold. The worst insult was when they linked a chain from his piercing ring to the floor. Finally, Fortun injected something into the IV sutured into Starsky’s groin and then fed him more slop through the feeding tube.

The guards were silent as they worked in contrast to the chatty Brit, which only reinforced Starsky’s solitude. It was a miserable experience, but better than being restrained on the frame like a quilt left on a line to dry. Or a rug to be beaten, as his grandmother used to do. The welts on his ass burned, and he’d been positioned perfectly to sit on the raw wounds.

Was that what they did here? Beat the slaves for every infraction? He realized he’d been so turned off by the idea of sexual slaves when the CEC passed laws legalizing ownership that he’d paid little attention to what happened to the unfortunates enslaved. He’d believed the party line, at first. That slaves were criminals or prostitutes who wouldn’t pay their legal fees. People who — in some way or another — deserved their fate. His eventual disillusionment with the way the CEC ran things had forever altered that bit of wishful thinking long before he found the VP’s wife pierced and tattooed, serving her former husband’s colleague. He remembered the marks flayed across her once-flawless white skin — marks made by a bamboo cane. He’d seen it propped in the corner of the room.

Would that be his future? Restrained and flogged, welts crossing his bare back as the straps had recently done? Or held down on a bed…over Hutch’s knee…feeling the stinging slap of skin against skin, the sound of it like a firecracker exploding on a hot summer afternoon.

Starsky shuddered, appalled at his wandering thoughts.

Sitting in a corner with his knees under his chin, Starsky listened as Fortun left, the door’s whine grating to his ears. It was weird to be restrained like this, as if they’d been aware of the way he often sat. He couldn’t count the times he’d sat on the couch in front of his own TV with his knees up under his chin, clasping his ankles while watching Dracula stalk poor Lucy Hawkens. Only he’d had a choice then. He’d been free. In his own home. On his own couch.

Not on an unyielding marble floor.

Fortun had smeared Vaseline over his chapped lips, and on the rubber butt plug. Chain looped around both of his legs, cutting into his groin, holding the plug in place. Those were an inconvenience, but the chain attached to the ring in his cock was ignominy. Chained like a dog in the back yard. Whenever he moved he could feel the drag of the chain along the cold marble pulling on the end of his penis. It hurt but in a strangely alluring way. As if someone’s hand, holding his penis gently, would soothe away the ache.

Hours passed, and Starsky grieved. Grieved all that he had lost. He’d pushed Hutch away by mocking his needs and what had it gotten him? Trussed up like a Thanksgiving turkey in a slave farm. Without Hutch. Without anyone.

When had Hutch’s behavior changed? He’d always needed sex more than Starsky, but recently, in the post-Corporation era, he’d grown increasingly demanding, yet remote and sarcastic. Not the same Ken Hutchinson who used to enthuse about wheat grass and fasting with Vitamin E chasers to improve performance and stamina. If he had stamina, Starsky never saw it. A blow job was over in minutes. Then Hutch was happy for a short while, but the coldness that froze Starsky out would return all too quickly. They hadn’t been emotionally intimate in months.

That’s why the murmured “Starsk,” said so endearingly on the phone, had enticed him. That was the Hutch he knew; the one he trusted.

Therein lay the problem. He trusted Hutch so completely, so absolutely, that he hadn’t given a thought to other possibilities. That Hutch might not be his trustworthy Hutch anymore. But Hutch couldn’t have ordered his capture. Couldn’t have paid exorbitant amounts for his slavery. So who did? And why?

Starsky felt like a rat running round and round in a maze, never able to find the exit. He was caught. He’d never imagined that an honest cop could be enslaved. A cop with a partner the top brass liked so much that he’d been offered a promotion. A promotion Hutch had refused because it would take him away from Starsky.

He waited there on the cold, hard floor, naked and chained. Waited because he could do nothing else. The waiting gnawed at him, tearing apart his masculinity. He should be fighting, or devising a scheme to break out of this freakish place. Not languishing like Sleeping Beauty dreaming of the Prince’s kiss. But even after he squirmed around so that one hand almost touched the chain connected to his cock ring, he realized he still couldn’t have gotten it loose or released the links attaching his wrists to his ankles.

Stupid.

He was stupid. No doubt Hutch would have figured out an escape plan by now. Hutch always thought things out logically, methodically walked through every step.

Hutch, where were you? And where are you now? Are you looking for me? I’ve been missing for days.

Starsky heard the series of beeps turning off the alarm code before the door slid open. He lifted his chin to give an impression of pride and strength. It was a sham, but the Brit didn’t know that. If he could convince Neville he couldn’t be subjugated, maybe he’d convince himself as well.

“You’ve gotten twisted all around, haven’t you?” the man tsk-tsked, leaning in to whisper in Starsky’s ear. “Not allowed to touch yourself, Davey. I thought you understood that. You were trying, weren’t you? But couldn’t get the right angle for a good handful.”

He palmed Starsky’s penis, milking it with the kind of action Starsky usually adored, hard, and fast — but every squeeze brought white hot shocks of pain from the piercing, An erection was impossible. His penis did not give one twitch, not a hint of swelling. Starsky turned to ice, the stimuli no more sensual than the brush of his jeans over his skin, or the feel of his sheets when he climbed into bed. Nothing. Not erotic, not the pleasure his body had craved for hours. He despaired, but only Hutch had what he wanted. Only Hutch.

“I usually elicit more of a response in my slaves,” the Brit said frostily, clamping down hard around his handful.

Starsky couldn’t move, the pain paralyzing. Even dragging a mere breath of air into his lungs was too much work.

“Under normal circumstances I’d have you back on the frame with half a dozen lashes of the strap for that.”

Starsky willed himself away from the pain, imagining ways to kill this guy with a piercing gun and two long leather straps.

At long last the Brit stepped back, panting. “You’re a trial to me, Davey, I must say. Luckily for you, your master is on his way, and he doesn’t want you harmed. Otherwise…Fortun! Come in here!”

“Fortun can’t come right now,” a familiar voice said.

Behind his blindfold, Starsky’s eyes popped open.

Hutch!

“This is a prohibited area. How did you get in here?” Starsky felt Neville straighten, his silk sleeve sliding like oil against Starsky’s overly-sensitized skin. “You don’t have to pull a gun on me, cowboy, I’ll come peaceably.”

“I knew the password. Get away from him and leave us alone. I own him.”

Hutch’s declaration was still shocking, even though Starsky had suspected the truth. Now he couldn’t deny it any longer. Hutch had paid a huge sum to have him kidnapped and brought here. Even without the gag, Starsky couldn’t speak. He didn’t know what to say.

“Well, you’ll have your hands full, I must say,” the Brit rambled. “You’re not quite what I expected, but then who is?” His voice took on a mincing sexuality that made Starsky grit his teeth. “Your chit of ownership?”

Starsky heard a clinking sound as something changed hands, and willed himself to stay still. Strangely, Hutch’s arrival didn’t give him the relief he expected. He felt off-balance, at a disadvantage. Did Hutch really want him like this, chained and dehumanized on the floor? Disenchantment sat in his belly like the slop they’d been feeding him, only more nauseating.

“Everything does seem to be in order,” the Brit said. “I’ll leave you two alone to get acquainted.”

“The key?” Hutch reminded him as the door hummed open again.

“Oh, you would want that,” he tittered, starting to leave.

Starsky heard Hutch move. He imagined the hard, fast lunge he’d seen hundreds of times when they were questioning suspects. People never expected Hutch to be the angry one — he looked too blond and beautiful — but he could be a jungle cat, powerful and lethal. The Brit gasped, and Starsky knew Hutch had grabbed him in a tight hold around the fleshy part of the forearm.

“I specified that no one could harm him.”

“We processed him like any other slave!” Neville protested. “Restraints, deprivation, alienation from all they used to know, isolation until the slave responds…”

“You. Didn’t. Follow. Instructions.” Hutch spat each word separately, as sharp as the blade of a filleting knife.

Starsky was riveted, almost panting. He should say something, but why? Not to defend the Brit, that was for certain. “Hutch.”

“Oooh, he knows you? That does make it more complicated,” the Brit said, breathing quickly, too. “You’ve got quite a grip, cowboy. I guess it wouldn’t do any good to tell you that unprovoked speech is a punishable offense. Usually three blows with a strap will show him his place.”

“Get out,” Hutch said in a voice that sent shivers up Starsky’s spine, and not in a good way. This Hutch was pissed and deadly.

Starsky had seen him that way before. Hutch was well known for his simmering anger. He let the small things get to him too easily, raging over gas bills and automated phone messages. But this was a volcano compared to those petty rants. This was the Hutch who had brought down Gunther by himself. Starsky had heard the stories and they scared him.

When the door slid shut behind the Brit, the silence was deafening. For a moment, Starsky thought he was alone again. Then Hutch took a single step and Starsky could hear his harsh intake of breath. The quiet lasted a long time, but it wasn’t the comfortable silence of the two of them on a stakeout, sharing the same Coke. This was painful, a slow agonizing slash that opened the wound between them with surgical precision.

“Oh God, Starsky.”

Starsky nearly flinched. Did he hear desire under the despair in Hutch’s voice? He had to swallow to bring up enough saliva to speak. “What are you doing here?”

“It’s simple. I bought you.”

Savage, intense rage burned through Starsky so fiercely, it nearly blotted out Hutch’s words. He wanted to refute that bland statement, force Hutch to retract the words, and make him beg forgiveness. This wasn’t what a man did to his lover. They’d been allies, partners, equals! Now he was chained to the floor like some half-breed mongrel while Hutch loomed over him, probably with a whip in hand. Starsky was almost glad he was chained so securely or he would have launched himself at his partner, battering Hutch against the wall for what he had done.

“How the hell is that simple?” he ground out, his belly on fire.

“Because if I hadn’t, you would have been killed.” Hutch’s earlier anger at the Brit was gone, evaporated like rain off a sidewalk on a hot day.

“Yeah? Couldn’t be any worse than this.”

“There are many things worse than this.”

Starsky inhaled sharply. He craned his neck, feeling the hard bite of the collar on the back of his skull, as he sought out Hutch despite the leather-imposed darkness. Maintaining his dignity under these circumstances was impossible. He needed to be on equal footing. “You gonna rescue me?”

He wasn’t certain if Hutch was going to remove the chains, and remembered, with the weird clarity that comes at the most inopportune times, Hutch fumbling with Starsky’s restraints at Cabrillo State. He could still feel Hutch’s big hands cupped around his wrists and the warmth of his breath on his neck.

This time, Hutch managed the locks handily, and Starsky groaned as he straightened his knees for the first time in hours. Damn, that hurt. It felt like millions of bees were stinging him from the inside, and his feet were numb. His fingers barely bent, but he reached up to pull the blindfold off.

Hutch pushed his hands away, working at a series of buckles and tiny padlocks that Starsky hadn’t even been aware of. The light was overly bright when the leather mask fell away. He squinted, blinking, staring at Hutch’s face. He needed to understand, to fathom just what Hutch had done to him. They’d always been able to read each other at a glance from the first day as partners. Right now, the man in front of him was a stranger.

Still half-blinded from the overhead lights, Starsky peered up at Hutch. His hair was wrong, a shaggy dark brown, and windblown as if he’d driven the car with the top down. A wig. Strangely, the mustache was gone, replaced by the peach fuzz down Hutch got when he hadn’t shaved in a few days. But the oddest thing of all was his expression.

Hutch looked aroused. And he looked gorgeous. There was no other word for it.

Starsky clung to his anger, refusing to give in to sheer gratitude. He’d anticipated this rescue for so long he wasn’t thinking straight. But he hadn’t expected to feel like a rabbit about to be taken down by a coyote.

“Hutch.”

Whatever motivation Hutch had started with was hidden behind those summer blue eyes, but there was no doubt what he was staring at. If this were an animated cartoon there would have been a dotted line from his eyes to Starsky’s pierced cock.

Suddenly aware of his aching bladder, and that sometime during the day he must have lost control, Starsky realized he was sitting in a cold puddle. He wanted to move, needed to get away from that gaze, but the chain linked from the ring on the end of his penis to a metal bolt in the floor held him fast. There wasn’t enough slack in the chain for him to stand.

“I’ve had fantasies about what that would look like,” Hutch said in a strange, erotic voice.

“You can’t be fucking serious,” Starsky said, his own anger growing stronger with every moment that Hutch continued to stare at him. “Get this thing off me, and let’s get out of here.”

The blow across his cheekbone came so hard and fast Starsky was knocked against the wall. The chain yoking him to the floor pulled taut, pain ricocheting up his cock to the back of his spine. He tried to pull in enough air to stay conscious, unable to believe what Hutch had done.

“You’re mine, understand? My property, under the law of this state and about half the other former states of the old U.S. And a slave never makes demands.”

“What the hell are you playing at?” Starsky eased his hip forward just enough to loosen the tension on his penis.

“We’re not playing, Starsky.”

Starsky had faced Hutch down before; he just had to stay cool. Find Hutch’s vulnerable spot and exploit it. Hutch might have freedom of movement on his side, but Starsky knew his weakness — sex. Hutch was putty in his hands whenever Starsky had his mouth on that oh-so tender part of his anatomy.

He stuffed his wrath down hard, sliding a seductive hand inside Hutch’s pants leg. “You want to act out a fantasy, I’m there, Hutch.” Sitting up, he was not quite level with Hutch’s groin; he tongued the lower edge of the zipper close to his mouth. Hutch hissed, responding instantly. “But I’m better on my knees, baby…with the ring off, I can move…give you so much more.”

“Starsky.” Although Hutch hadn’t moved, Starsky recoiled as if he’d been struck.

Starsky, not Starsk. This was different. He refused to cower, lifting his chin and staring at Hutch with defiance. David Starsky was no man’s slave.

“The ring can’t come off.” Hutch threaded his fingers through Starsky’s curls, pulling him up to his knees, the grip on his hair just a shade too tight. This was no caress; it was a show of power.

“Why not?” Starsky kept himself as still as possible, held in check on both ends. If he moved at all, some part of his flesh would be torn free.

“It’s made of a metal alloy that is impervious to most cutting tools.” Hutch bent Starsky’s head back just far enough that his lungs burned with the effort to breathe. The kiss that stole the rest of his breath was barbaric, a claiming. “Listen to me. This was the only way. We have enemies.” Hutch examined him intently as if he’d never seen Starsky before. It was unnerving and strange. But as close as they were, Starsky could see him now, too. The wig gave him a different persona, someone aggressive and tough, an alien with Hutch’s eyes.

“Things had to change,” Hutch said finally. “I tried to think of another way, Starsk, but there wasn’t. To keep you safe.”

“I haven’t felt safe in a long time.”

“No,” Hutch agreed, teasing out one of Starsky’s curls, his breath against Starsky’s cheek. Barely maintaining his balance, Starsky was bent back so far Hutch was the only thing keeping him upright. Starsky wanted to fight the lassitude, the languor Hutch’s caress brought. He was still angry and scared, but the old feelings kept asserting themselves. When Hutch beckoned, he came, in all contexts of the word.

Hutch worked his hand down Starsky’s arched body to the piercing, closing his hand over Starsky’s cock, causing the chain to rattle. He eased him to the floor, standing like a feudal landowner over his slave. “As my slave, they can’t touch you because legally you’re my property, and this chit proves that.” He brought out a silver disc, bigger than a silver dollar.

Starsky had seen them before; they were practically legal tender down on Lincoln Street where the slave houses were.

Starsky squirmed, not wanting Hutch’s proximity to sway things. He wanted to nurse this anger until he got his explanation, but Hutch was making things far too hard, in more ways than one. Starsky covered his blossoming erection with one hand, as if hiding it would make it go away. “Where’d you get the money, huh? The trainer said it was a big wad of dough. Where’d you get the money?”

Hutch pushed Starsky’s hand away. He began to tug gently on the ring. “You’re chained to the floor and all you care about is the money? I had it. Cash on the barrelhead. The CEC put out a contract on you — to get me to toe the line.”

“They don’t know you very well, huh?” Hutch was far too close. Starsky needed to move, to get away from the overpowering scent of him. Sweat, gunmetal, and dust mingled with that essential smell of Hutch that had always lured him so easily. This wasn’t right, wasn’t how he wanted things to be. And it was difficult to talk with his mouth so dry. He needed water and about two days worth of meals. He wasn’t sure he had the strength to evade Hutch’s advances. Was the Brit’s drug still affecting him, or was this all his own weakness?

“They offered me a job, a promotion.” Hutch came down on his knees on each side of Starsky’s legs, taking Starsky’s swollen penis into his mouth, cock ring, chain, and all. For a moment, an eternity, Starsky couldn’t think with his aching cock dipped in warm honey. He wanted to protest, to reject the sex. Hutch rarely went down on him! How could he hold out against this?

Cold air hit his wet skin when Hutch jerked back, scrambling to his feet with a curse. “Hey, it’s wet!” There was a dark stain on both knees of his khakis.

“Unfortunate side effect of not being able to use the john.” Starsky shivered at the abrupt change and took a deep breath. What exactly was going on here?

“You peed on the floor?”

“Yeah, you wanna make something of it? I was chained, Hutch, like some dog! And unless you unlock this thing pretty damn quick, I’m going to do it again.”

“They held your life out to me like a damned carrot on a string. Your fucking morality threatened a lot more than Roschenzky’s ability to restrain our investigations. In their eyes, you were expendable.” Hutch had the key in the same pocket he’d kept the chip, which made Starsky unaccountably angry again. He barely tolerated the few seconds it took to insert the key in a tiny lock, releasing the chain from the ring.

Standing on shaky legs, Starsky braced himself against the smooth, cold walls. He still needed to go, but Hutch’s words stopped him. “Why?” He found Hutch’s brown hair distracting, like he’d met Hutch’s doppelganger.

“The Corporation, the CEC. The job they offered me came with conditions — provisos. They wanted me to head up their private version of Internal Affairs. Roschenzky was moving up to oversee a whole secret network to spy on other cops.” Hutch’s jaw was tight, and he thrust up a violent hand up to jerk off the wig, throwing it to the floor.

“Because you’re corrupt-proof,” Starsky said softly. “They saw that.”

“They wanted to use me.” Hutch shook his head, but Starsky wasn’t sure which statement he disagreed with. Hutch coiled the chain into a pile, stepped over the puddle, and walked into the bathroom.

Starsky followed him into the small marble-walled room, taking the opportunity to relieve himself while Hutch found a rag and cleaned the wet spot on the floor. It felt incredible to finally empty his own bladder, to have the freedom to walk around unfettered, but Starsky was still very confused. What was going on that Hutch wasn’t telling him?

“But they weren’t trying to weed out the bad cops,” Hutch said. “They wanted to get rid of the good ones. Like you.”

“You’re a good cop,” Starsky said, acutely aware of a distance between them that went far beyond their recent inability to read one another. Hutch was operating on a whole different level than he was, and it was damned disconcerting.

“Starsky, I’m not like you…” Hutch wiped up the urine and dropped the rag into a trash bin next to the toilet. “I…never took money under the table to look the other way, or banged some hooker for information, but I’ve been tempted. More than tempted…I accepted favors…”

“Who hasn’t, Hutch?”

“You! You see everything so black and white!” Hutch bristled, his intensity returning so fast Starsky wanted to take a step back, but they were both crammed into the tiny bathroom with no room to move. “There are shades of gray you don’t even notice. Little pockets of shadow where good and bad don’t mean anything.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“No, you never did, did you?” Hutch moved too close. “All those times I went out without you, you never did follow me.”

Starsky could feel the heat of Hutch’s arousal in the front, and the press of the hard porcelain sink against his buttocks from behind. The plug in his anus shifted when he tried to ease away from Hutch, sending a wave of dizzying pain up his chest, just over his heart.

“I always wondered why,” Hutch said. “I kept expecting you to come after me. I thought you’d be jealous.”

“I was.” Starsky couldn’t move, caught between the sink and the toilet with the outline of Hutch’s erection pushing up his slacks as if it could skewer Starsky for barbecue.

“You never showed it. Just watched me walk out.” Hutch’s voice was low and sensuous, but scary. “I wanted you, Starsk, didn’t you understand that? I had to go out and get whores, slaves, whatever I could find.”

“You had me. But you wanted a sex slave, and I’m not that, buddy.” Starsky infused the nickname with venom even though he was as turned on as a light bulb. Sweat dripped off the back of his neck, itchy under the edge of the collar.

“That’s exactly what you are.” Hutch trapped him with an arm around his waist, pulling him closer. He sounded bitter, cynical. “I made you that way.”

Starsky exhaled noisily when Hutch jerked him close. There was not a millimeter of space between their bodies. He wanted to negate those words, force Hutch to retract them. Wanted to tell him to go to hell. “I would have done whatever you wanted if you’d ever asked,” he said instead.

“Funny, all I remember is ridicule. The collar was for a dog? Well, this one looks like it was meant for you.” Hutch traced the tight collar around Starsky’s neck, stroking a long line down his Adam’s apple to the dip just above his clavicle.

Starsky couldn’t breathe. He kept trying to inhale, but his arousal was making it too hard to get in air. Glittery sparkles twinkled in his eyes when Hutch clamped his big hand around Starsky’s throat and pressed his thumb against the pulsing artery below Starsky’s jawbone. Just a bit more pressure and Starsky would pass out. He nearly straddled the sink to relieve the strain, but Hutch tightened his arm around Starsky’s back, his left hand toying with the chains that held in the anal plug.

“I’ve got all the control now, don’t I?” Hutch whispered.

“H-h-hutch?” Starsky whimpered, barely conscious. When Hutch released his thumb, it caused a wave of afterimages to flash across his retina and an instant headache when the blood flooded back into normal circulation. His eardrums pounded as if he’d ascended from the depths of the ocean too rapidly.

“Starsk,” Hutch whispered in his ear, biting down on the lobe.

The tiny shock of pain was like a perfectly cut jewel, all sharp facets. It was too much, too fast, and too soon. Starsky was hard inside of a minute; the blood swelling his cock was intensely painful yet gloriously wonderful, making him finally understand the oxymoron of pleasure/pain. His cock tried to force its way between their closely pressed bodies, the metal ring jarring against Starsky’s warm flesh.

“All I ever wanted was you,” Hutch said. “But you ridiculed my desire, humiliated me for it. Even though I could tell you wanted me. Every time you went down on your knees, I saw it in your eyes. Your mouth on me was like…sweetness, ambrosia. I waited and fantasized that someday you’d present your ass and beg me to take you. But you never did.”

“All of this is about what you wanted,” Starsky ground out, the edge of the porcelain sink digging into his waist. “You never asked me what I wanted.”

“Funny. I really thought you wanted the same thing.” Hutch bared his teeth in a feral smile, and ran the flat of his hand down Starsky’s belly, fisting a tangle of pubic hair. “You went down on your knees the very first time we ever did it, Starsk. You practically came on command — except when I wanted to take it one step farther with the collar and clamps. Then you balked.”

“I had my reasons,” Starsky said flatly to downplay the raging need inside him. He was ready to orgasm if only Hutch touched him just right. Around the cock, hard and fast.

“Starsk,” Hutch whispered, tugging gently on the chains stretched over his hip bone between cock and anus. “I know. I know all about you — more than you think. And I know you want me.”

“No…” Starsky began, but the idea of Hutch sliding inside him could no longer be ignored. And it scared the hell out of him.

“Yes, babe.” Hutch pulled Starsky closer, enveloping him, and levered him out from the cramped space between the sink and toilet.

Starsky thought about fighting, about refusing to give in. But that was so much work and his defenses were in tatters. Trembling, he let Hutch bring him back into the main room. Grabbing hold of the door frame, Starsky put up a last resistance. In his condition, it was all he could manage. His anger banked, but not forgotten, he held firm. Except, he’d never been able to hold out on Hutch for every long.

“It’s now. It’s here. It’s time.” Hutch ran one hand down the curve of Starsky’s ass, following the path of the chain. “It has been for a long while, Starsk.”

“Not there.” Starsky squirmed, but Hutch unhooked the chains to the plug, investigating what was tucked into his core. “Not there.” All he could imagine was Hutch’s long fingers probing inside him just before Hutch’s giant cock claimed his forbidden territory.

Hutch let the links drop to the floor and wrenched the plug out fast. Starsky gasped, his rectum cramping. Hutch rimmed the outer edge with his finger, slowly, rhythmically, making hypnotic circles around Starsky’s sensitized hole.

“Roschenzky knew I went to the slave houses,” Hutch said, his hand still tickling Starsky’s anus. “He was there a couple times; saw who I was with, what I did. Offered me the promotion then and there. Promised me unlimited access to every kinky little thing my heart desired. Money, a penthouse in the new apartments over in Long Beach, power, prestige…as long as I let the CEC keep on doing what it did best, fucking the population to death.”

“How would I have gotten in the way?” Starsky tried to think rationally, but couldn’t ignore the distracting finger pushing in and out of his butt hole.

“They knew you were out to bring down the abusers like Dunfey…” Hutch tilted his head back so they could look eye-to-eye. “Roschenzky implied that if they killed you, it would be easier for me to go along with them. He discussed it as casually as he would drowning a cat. Did I want you murdered…or have you enslaved?”

“So you did it for them!” Starsky shouted, pulling away. Hutch’s grip was stronger, and he reeled Starsky back in, pinning him against the wall with one foot rammed into Starsky’s instep.

“I did it for us.”

Arousal warred with Starsky’s fear, tightening his belly. The overriding desire was winning out against his objections. He couldn’t fight both Hutch and the drug. Because he wanted to be touched, wanted to be…hurt, as irrational as that seemed. He wanted to have Hutch in his ass, but couldn’t let Hutch go there. Not here.

Not like this. Not like…that night so long ago when he’d had no options. Surely Hutch would listen to reason — give him time to adjust.

He tried to wiggle away from Hutch’s hand on his ass, the edge of the doorframe like a hard bar along his spine.

Without warning, Hutch jammed three fingers upward, impaling him. Starsky thought they might go right out the top of his head. Gasping, he ground out, “Go to hell, Hutch.”

“Be careful, slave.” Hutch thrust his groin against Starsky’s. “I could punish you for less than that.”

“You want me, Hutch?” Starsky hissed. “You got it all, right here, right now; so take it. Then get out of my life.”

“Can’t do it, buddy. You didn’t ask nice.” Hutch licked Starsky’s whiskery cheek, leaving a wet path from his jaw to his cheekbone, crossing over the feeding tube taped so inelegantly to the side of his face.

Starsky panted, forcing himself past the debasing physical desires that lured him. “Seems to me that was the problem on both sides. We didn’t ask.”

Hutch abruptly stopped all sexual advances, regarding Starsky for a long time in silence. He removed his fingers one by one, Starsky’s body ejecting them almost reluctantly, and took a step back to restore some modicum of personal space. “Roschenzky really wanted you out of the way. He even discussed selling you to Dunfey and making a small fortune off the transaction. Wanted to know if I liked the irony of that. The moment Roschenzky threatened you, I had to do something, find some way to protect you without revealing myself. So, I put the plan in motion.”

“What plan?”

“If you’d have followed me the last few months, you’d know. Sex wasn’t the only thing on the agenda.” Hutch turned his back, grabbing a towel from the bathroom to wipe his fingers.

Starsky didn’t move, sublimating all the contradictory emotions he couldn’t begin to sort out, and really looked around his prison cell for the first time. It was bigger than he’d expected. The huge metal slave frame dominated the space, leaving aisles about six feet wide on three sides, with the largest area in the back, where Starsky had been chained to the floor. Track-lighting like most art galleries used hung from the ceiling, creating weird pockets of shadow in the corners of the room. Hutch stood in one such pocket, the dark half of his face indecipherable and remote.

Forcing himself to examine the rest of the room, Starsky pretended he was at a crime scene, looking for evidence. It was a functional room without a single concession for the slave held captive. There was no bed, or any place to sleep. The bathroom was the only sign that a human being might spend the night here. Starsky closed his eyes briefly, bile rising in his throat. This was where he’d been tortured, abused by unknown people who gave no thought to his discomfort. He’d simply been another piece of the furniture, albeit one with openings to misuse and exploit.

Three black leather chairs faced the welcoming frame. For spectators. Starsky shuddered, remembering his examination in front of an audience. Not ready to look at the brutal frame for any length of time, he scrutinized the cream painted wall instead. Floor to ceiling shelves held every sort of cruel device meant to punish and humiliate. He saw the crop the Brit had used against his ass and a long-tailed whip. There were chains, gags, and leather bindings.

Starsky abhorred every inch of the place, and eyed the large metal door hopefully, but Hutch didn’t seem to notice.

“Abbey League meetings were on the top floor of Slave House number seven, on Lincoln,” Hutch said, moving around, taking in the chairs set to the right of the big door. Starsky tried to read his thoughts. Did Hutch know exactly what had gone on here before he’d arrived?

Interested that his assumptions about Hutch’s whereabouts had been on the money, Starsky stayed still, listening.

“We had to vary the meeting days to avoid suspicion. Anti-Corporation activities are a treasonable offense, and we were plotting the overthrow of the CEC.”

“When were you planning this coup?” He wasn’t even sure he meant to ask that. Starsky wasn’t sure what to ask, he was so astonished. He’d known Hutch was dissatisfied with the current regime, but overthrow the government?

Eschewing the chairs meant for torturers, Hutch sat on the floor with his back against the wall, face suddenly earnest and open. “When we have the strength. Up until now, the Abbey League groups have been too scattered, tiny cadres of resistance holed up wherever they could meet. The growing connections on these new computer networks have spawned a fledgling movement that aims to bring about a return to the old democratic government. But we have to be cautious. They could intercept us as any time, especially over the internet.”

“You’re crazy!” Starsky blurted. “If Roschenzky saw you there, then he knew the whole thing.”

“I couldn’t be sure. That’s why I went so often, to different houses. To throw them off track. And then Tompkins died.”

“Jerry Tompkins?” Starsky asked, surprised, the information so unexpected he had a hard time assimilating it.

Tompkins was an upper level CEC lawyer who had once been a District Attorney dedicated to helping the downtrodden. He had died from a highly publicized drug overdose. Police found illegal contraband near the body — non-CEC-produced whiskey and cigarettes, and Superhero, a synthetic heroin, the most addictive drug ever manufactured.

“He was one of the first Abbeyites,” Hutch said. “He was ready to run to Arizona where the movement is gathering, preparing for the initial strike. When they killed someone as well placed as he was, I panicked. If they could get to him, they could get to you. I had to act fast.”

“I don’t even know you anymore,” Starsky said. He couldn’t fight like this, naked and vulnerable with a ring through the end of his penis. They were unequal now; it felt wrong. “You used to be my friend, my partner. I was closer to you than anybody else on this Godforsaken planet.” He wanted to kick Hutch, punch him, but those blue eyes mesmerized him and the sense memory of those fingers digging into his most protected spot weakened him. He’d once fantasized about subduing his kidnapper, his owner, and threading a cruel ring though his cock. He could never do that to Hutch. “You talk about the CEC using your golden boy charms — well, you used me like a chump! I’m not your slave, Hutch, and I’m never gonna be!”

“Yes, you are.”

Hutch’s voice was maddeningly sweet, a gumdrop of persuasion, a drink of water on a hot day, and Starsky was so damned thirsty. He hadn’t drunk more than a few ounces in days, hadn’t eaten real food since he’d been kidnapped.

“Before we leave here,” Hutch continued in that same enticing tone, “you’re going down on all fours and beg me to take your ass. Like a real slave.”

Starsky shook his head. He was standing and Hutch was sitting. There was no fucking way.

“Because, slave, that’s the only way you’ll find salvation,” Hutch said with utter certainty.

“No. I never needed to be saved from anyone but you, Hutch.”

Hutch cocked his bright head to one side, all beauty and bedevilment. “Do you know why the movement is called the Abbey League, Starsk?”

That infuriating nickname had the power to bring Starsky to his knees, but he remained standing.

“Edward Abbey is an anarchist — devoted to preserving the wilderness. Refusing to give in to big business,” Hutch explained in that lecturing tone he got when he was lording his knowledge over Starsky. “He said, ‘A patriot must be ready to defend his country against his government.'”

There was much to honor in a man like that, but Starsky didn’t say it aloud, as he dropped into defensive mode. He couldn’t let Hutch coerce him.

“He hid in the Southwest, waiting for the downfall of the CEC, but I think you’d like him. His motto is, ‘Resist much, obey little’.”

Starsky shifted minutely, abruptly very tired. He barely had the strength to stand. How could he resist Hutch’s entreaties? Why hadn’t he heard very much about this Abbey League? Why hadn’t he known what Hutch was doing?

Hutch rose gracefully to his feet, reaching out to take Starsky’s hand. “We have to tear down the old life to start a new one, Starsk. My sweet slave.”

Oh, God. Starsky was suddenly sliding off his high horse, tumbling down a long shaft. He couldn’t. He wouldn’t. No.

“No.” He pulled his hand free, and Hutch didn’t stop him.

Instead, Hutch walked over to the big metal door and for one instant Starsky thought he might slide it open and let them leave. But Hutch only retrieved a bag from the floor and carried it over to the looming welcoming frame where there was more light. It hadn’t occurred to Starsky until now that he was almost unfettered, the chains binding him to the room unlocked. Why didn’t he just open the door and walk out? He just had to figure out the code.

Hutch rummaged in the old leather satchel, his back to Starsky.

Taking the opportunity, Starsky scanned the large exit. He’d heard the sequence of numbers on the keypad more than once, but there could be hundreds of combinations. He had to try. Pressing the top three keys across the pad did nothing. The numerals in a downward slant — one, five, and nine, were equally useless. He quickly reversed the code without success.

“Stop,” Hutch said with total authority.

Starsky ignored him, straining to hear the individual tones when he pressed each number.

“Starsky, you won’t get out that way.”

“Fuck off.”

“I have food.”

His treacherous belly rumbled loudly. Starsky cursed, resting his aching head on the cool, impervious metal. “Hutch, I can’t.”

“Eat? Never known you to refuse food before. C’mon. I’ll even take that ugly tube out of your nose.”

“I can’t…submit to you.”

“You already have. That first week, when you knelt at my feet in the shower.”

“That was…” There was no way to rearrange the past. He had submitted then, and every day of their partnership since. He’d always been Hutch’s slave, simply waiting for the time when Hutch would formally claim him.

“Did you think I didn’t know about your days on the streets, Davey?”

Starsky looked at him, the back of his throat spasming around the hated feeding tube, his belly threatening to expel bitter bile.

“I didn’t know that first time. But later, I heard the older cops talk, Starsk. They remembered a small, curly-haired chicken on the streets.” Hutch came close to him again, taking him by the scruff of his neck, fingers tangled in his curls. He pushed Starsky to his knees into his usual position. “I just knew what you needed, lover. I could read you like a book. You needed me. We’re two halves of a whole, Starsk. The giver and the taker.”

“Not always.”

“No — but it’s because we fit so well together sexually that we could mesh so perfectly on the streets. We know each other inside and out. There’s nobody else like you, Starsk.” Hutch zipped down his pants this time, and guided Starsky to his erection. “Just take some of the edge off, ’cause I need to stay hard for later.”

“Me and thee,” Starsky whispered against that fleshy log touching his lips. “On the streets, we were a team. Equals. How could that work now with me wearing your collar?”

“Fill your mouth, slave, and let me do the talking.” Hutch arched back with a wordless cry when Starsky swallowed him completely. “We’re on the run, and it won’t be long before the CEC bigwigs…ahhhh.” He grabbed Starsky’s shoulders, gripping him tightly, panting.

Long before Starsky expected, Hutch pulled free of his mouth.

“That’s enough.” Hutch pinched down on the base of his own erection, easing the pressure. His penis still jutted straight up from the gap in his pants.

Starsky sat on his heels, wiping the drool off his chin with the back of his hand. He felt stupid and confused, and weirdly, totally inappropriately, in love. His whole being ached to bring Hutch to completion, to finish the job he’d started, and his anus clenched as if in response.

No, not there.

In the back of his mind, the words “not yet” tried to force themselves out. Over twenty years ago, he’d resolved never to allow anyone inside. The huge metal rod his rapist had used to plunder his virginal ass in that plush hotel suite had ripped him apart inside. A maid found him the next morning, bleeding onto the white silk brocade bedspread. He never went back to that life. He’d gone cold turkey off the drugs, and made a vow to change. Becoming a cop had been the culmination of that promise, to fight against those who raped, forced, and victimized.

How could he allow himself to become a slave after that? How could he reconcile that he’d already become one?

“Hey.” Hutch held out a sandwich. It was squashed, peanut butter slopping out on both sides, but it smelled like manna.

Starsky ducked his head, ashamed of his own neediness, and widened his thighs, assuming proper presentation position for his master.

Hutch’s sigh promised so much more. Starsky suddenly understood that this was what Hutch had been waiting for. And Starsky could give it to him. Hutch’s eyes roamed Starsky’s body possessively, focusing on the permanent jewelry in his cock. “So pretty, Starsky. That ring looks so good on you.”

Starsky stared down at the ring in his penis. He hadn’t really looked at it before. Almost as thick as a pencil and heavy, it went through the urethral opening and out the fleshy underside of the crown. Staring at it for the first time, it frightened him, enslaved him…and enthralled him.

No, please, no. I can’t be thinking like a slave.

“You took away all my rights!” Starsky remained kneeling, and focused on Hutch’s scuffed silver-tipped cowboy boots to keep from obsessing on the peanut butter sandwich. He hadn’t noticed if there was jelly on it. Hutch liked boysenberry. “This ring changes everything.”

“I had to, Starsk. I told you.”

“To keep me safe, as your property.” Starsky swallowed against the foul taste in his throat.

“And as my property, you’re suddenly invisible.”

Starsky stared up at Hutch.

Hutch smiled, and put the sandwich between his lips. Starsky’s mouth watered as Hutch took a bite and chewed. “You want this?” Hutch asked, a hint of smugness in his tone.

“Yes, Master,” Starsky answered dully and wanted to weep.

Hutch nodded, and placed the sandwich on a crumpled sheet of waxed paper on the floor. “First, let’s get rid of the tube. Take a deep breath and swallow.” He touched the edge of a glass bottle against Starsky’s lips. “This will help.”

Starsky swallowed the water as Hutch pulled. It was awful coming out, more dreadful than it had been going down, and he gagged continuously, vomiting up the water when the tube slid out of his nose.

Hutch didn’t say a word, just got a towel and solicitously wiped Starsky’s bare chest clean. He kissed Starsky’s face, and tenderly caressed the slave collar. “I imagined you like this so many times, Starsk.” Hutch spoke so softly Starsky had to lean to hear him; for the moment, the food was forgotten. “With the collar I gave you around your neck, my golden clamps adorning your nipples, and my cock up your ass…you’d be perfect.”

Close to swooning, Starsky vainly tried to gather his swiftly diminishing wits. “I’m not invisible.”

“Not to me, no, never. But as a slave, the CEC won’t notice you. If you joined the Abbey League, you could be our secret weapon.”

“If I joined…?” Starsky protested. “Doesn’t look like I’ve got much of a choice.”

“No one pays attention to a kneeling slave. Slaves aren’t even considered human anymore, just receptacles. Mouths and tongues, openings to plug…” Hutch pointed to each of Starsky’s body parts, his face hard and cold.

Starsky was repulsed until he realized Hutch was leading him on, trying to make him angry.

“I could rent you out to the President-CEO. Roschenzky’s told me on more than one occasion that Cosgrove said he’d like to ream your tight little passage. He’d sodomize you in a room full of VPs, and then chain you to his chair while they held a board meeting, laughing because the mighty, righteous cop was licking his boots like any other slave.”

“You want me to be bait?” Starsky asked slowly. He rubbed his neck just above the collar, his throat raw inside. The thought of eating now didn’t hold much interest, but he had to keep up his strength.

“I want you to be our secret weapon. You could hear things and report back.”

“While getting fucked by everybody concerned?”

Hutch said nothing, just handed him the sandwich.

Inside, Starsky was screaming. Not again, not again.

“Your ass is mine,” Hutch said, and tore open a bag of chips.

“Italwayshasbeen,” Starsky muttered around a mouthful of peanut butter and jelly. He’d been right; it was boysenberry.

“What did you say?”

“It always has been,” Starsky repeated, realizing he was sitting flat on the floor. When had that happened? He couldn’t remember. Taking a minute to get back into presentation position, he added, “Master.”

Hutch used the toe of his silver-tipped cowboy boots to push Starsky’s thighs farther apart. “That’s better.” He ate some potato chips, and slipped one salty piece into Starsky’s mouth.

Starsky nearly bit Hutch’s finger in the process of taking it, but stopped in time.

“I want to see that ring at all times.”

“When do we get out of here?” Starsky finally managed to ask, taking another bite of the sandwich. He didn’t know when he might get another.

“When your training is finished.”

“What?” He came to his feet in a single motion.

Just as quickly, Hutch caught hold of the swinging ring, putting enough weight into it to stop Starsky in his tracks. That hurt, so much so that he had to remember to breathe through the pain.

“What good will it do if you don’t act like a real slave?”

“I’m never going to be a real slave!” Starsky needed to move, to get away, but not with Hutch holding onto his most vulnerable asset. “You’re the one who said we were on the run. What kinda sense does it make to stay here?”

Hutch took his hand away to pick up the bag of chips. “I had to arrange your kidnapping through Dunfey. It was the only way to make it look like I’d gone bad, yet keep you from being killed or sold off. Dunfey’s people took you out the main trade route in the horse trailer. I got out of Bay City and went through Oregon and down. That’s why it took me so long. If they were going to follow one of us, it would have been me. I had to be sure no one did.”

“You can’t be sure of that.”

“Is anyone sure of anything?” Hutch asked with maddening calm for someone who was still completely erect. “The queen who runs the place can train you in proper behavior in just a day or two. The rest, I’ll do.”

That knocked him for a loop. Hutch was going to abandon him again to that bastard?

“You don’t know a master’s behavior any more than I know a slave’s,” Starsky said when the aftereffects of that shock had reduced to a dull anger.

“How do you know?” Hutch glanced down at his own erection, the tension around his mouth finally betraying his inner pain.

“You were going to Lincoln Street for Abbey meetings.” Starsky knew there had been times when it was for sex, but he needed to be obstinate, to argue.

“Had to make it look authentic, didn’t I?” Hutch closed his eyes, fatigue etched in his features. But when he opened his penetrating blue eyes, everything was hidden again. “Starsk, I know it’s not easy, but there are layers here you don’t know about yet.”

“Then tell me!”

Hutch went so still he could have been carved from the same marble as the floor. “That’s what I’m talking about. You react to a command like that, slave, and you’ll get yourself killed, along with the rest of us.” He held out a potato chip like a peace offering, but Starsky chose to ignore the gesture. “I needed to protect you.”

“You’re repeating yourself.”

“It bears repeating. I don’t want you dead. Or worse…sold to Dunfey or Cosgrove or one of the other CEC VPs. Every person reduced to a commodity to be traded. You are worth so much more to me.”

Starsky stared at the potato chip so he wouldn’t be coerced by Hutch’s enticing eyes. “You just want me tortured, pierced, and enslaved?”

“No, not tortured, but…” Hutch said softly, and crumbled up the chip.

“Pierced is okay,” Starsky finished, feeling Hutch place the final bricks on his prison walls. “Hutch, he likes to hurt me.”

“And there are others who could hurt you a whole lot more. You don’t know what torture means, yet. What I’ve seen…”

“What about you? You want to hurt me?”

Hutch looked away. “It’s not that simple.”

“What do you want to do to me?” Starsky persisted. What did he want Hutch to do to him?

“Make love — but not the way…we once did.”

That wasn’t what Starsky expected. Not at all. As much as he’d always wanted Hutch’s love, there were now so many conditions attached to it. So many traps inherent in the plan.

Hutch suddenly shifted tactics. “It’s safer if you don’t know everything until we’re away from here. So you can’t reveal too much.”

“Right now I don’t know shit!”

“Right now,” Hutch said, “right here, as bad as it is, you’re safe. The minute we step outside of this place, we’re fugitives. Knowing how to act like a slave is your protection.”

“What’s yours?”

“You.” Hutch started to reach out, but stopped short of actually connecting.

Starsky copied the gesture; their fingers brushed in midair.

Hutch inched his hand closer, grasping Starsky’s finally, and tugging him down to sit next to him. “You’ve always been at my back. Trust me on this. A couple more days of…training and we’re out of here.”

“Then onto Arizona?”

“You’re catching on.” Hutch nodded, his eyes raking across Starsky’s naked body with searing desire. He wanted Starsky. There was such raw anticipation in Hutch’s gaze, Starsky shivered. He was suddenly very aware that he hadn’t worn clothes in days and Hutch was fully dressed. “But first,” Hutch said, in that hungry, dark tone, “you have to ask me to take your ass. Nicely.”

Starsky stared at his partner and forced himself to finish the sandwich. He could barely swallow; the peanut butter cemented his tongue to the roof of his mouth. He would not submit. He would not. “Go to hell.”

“I’m a patient man, Starsky. I always have been.” Hutch shrugged, opening a bottle of fruit juice and chugging most of it. “I’ve waited this long, a few more days doesn’t matter. Though, I expect some of that time you’ll have to be strung up on that frame.” He tipped his head back as if taking in the monstrous frame for the first time, seeing the leather straps and restraining metal for the torture device it was.

“You said they hadn’t followed instructions,” Starsky said stubbornly, sitting down. His brain refused to accept what was currently happening and looped back to earlier, less volatile events. “When you first got here.”

“There are crop marks on your butt, and you’re bruised. Didn’t you know that?” Hutch touched his forehead with a feather-light caress. “One eye is practically black.”

“From the truck.” Starsky evaded Hutch’s touch even though that was the last thing he wanted to do. “I hit my head in the truck.” That reminded him of Hutch’s phone call and walking into the warehouse. “So, that’s what you did? Went in with Roschenzky and Dunfey, you sick bastard? To arrange all this?”

“It had to look legit. They had to believe I was as corrupt as they were. And, Starsky…Roschenzky was one of the older cops.”

Starsky nodded, his eyes fixed on the fruit juice Hutch placed so casually by his own knee. If Starsky picked it up and drank some, would he get cuffed? What exactly was their relationship now? What were they to each other?

“Roschenzky was the one who told me, just after we got out of the academy, what you used to do.”

Just breathe. Starsky closed his eyes, feeling the betrayal all the way to his toes.

“I beat him up that day, pounded his head against the brick wall in back of the old Ramparts building. Remember it?” Hutch seemed surprisingly anxious for him to understand his reasoning. “I didn’t want to believe him, but then I asked around. A couple of the other old farts remembered you, too.”

Starsky recalled seeing Roschenzky with a fat lip and a gash over his eyes. Odd, what the memory dredged up. He’d been so small at fifteen, not at all the same kid as the one who came back from the war, angry, scarred, and trained to fight. He’d had vain hopes that maturity and rage would have altered him enough that those old bastards wouldn’t remember. Vain hopes.

“That’s what kept you from rising up through the ranks,” Hutch said. “They didn’t care if a low level sergeant used to do those things, but…”

When Starsky opened his eyes, wanting to believe that Hutch cared enough about him to have beaten Roschenzky over his honor, Hutch was quenching his thirst with the rest of the juice.

“Roschenzky reminded me about your past when he saw me in the slave house. Reminded me about the heroin ride I took with Forrest, too. Reminded me that there were things he could blackmail both of us with. But if I wanted to cooperate, I could be their poster child for playing both sides against the middle.”

“He didn’t know…about the Abbey League,” Starsky said reluctantly. God, he was thirsty. And hungry, too. The sandwich had barely filled a corner of his belly.

“I don’t think so. I just knew I had to act fast or you’d be right there in the headlines where Tompkins had been.” Hutch unwrapped another sandwich and a second bottle of juice. Grape, this time. He pushed it toward Starsky as if knowing his touch wasn’t welcomed. “Eat. I’ll bet that British queen won’t stay away forever.”

“Hutch, how are we going to work this?” Starsky gulped the juice, trembling. He needed to be Hutch’s partner again, needed to truly believe that Hutch had done all this to save him. But it was a hard pill to swallow. He had nothing left except his trust in Hutch. Right now that was as badly bruised as his eye. “Do I kneel at your feet? Or am I your partner? I just gotta understand this.”

“Starsk,” Hutch whispered, his voice husky with sex.

Starsky had to wonder how much longer he could keep talking with such an erection.

“I won’t lie. Yeah, I want a slave. Not just any slave; I always wanted you. I want to ride you, feel you moving under me, begging for release. But I want the Starsky I knew before. Not some blank-eyed captive who can’t think. I don’t want you to change.”

“Make up your mind, Hutch!” Starsky shouted. “You already changed me!”

“And you changed me. Are you the same man I met in the academy? Is any man the same after nearly fifteen years on the streets of Bay City?” Hutch spread his hands in a helpless gesture. “I wanted to protect you.”

“I’m ringed. I’m a slave. You want me to work with you in the damned Abbey League so maybe you can forget during daylight what I got in my cock, under my jeans. But can those others, huh?”

“They won’t have a choice.”

“Like I don’t,” Starsky said hollowly. He didn’t want to ask, but he had to know. “If I don’t…agree, what will happen to me? I can’t go back to BC.”

Hutch looked startled, caught in the act of paring an apple with a small knife. The glint of the blade in the overhead lights made Starsky shudder.

“You didn’t even consider that, did you? Some plan! You thought I’d just bow down, go along with everything?”

“Yes. I trusted you.”

That simple statement floored Starsky, and snatched away his anger. How could he keep fighting when Hutch was so…what? Pitiful? Not hardly. Hutch had the coiled watchfulness of a prowling cougar. He was still and patient, but not calm. Not calm at all. Again Starsky’s eyes were drawn to Hutch’s very prominent cock.

“I will be your slave — ” Starsky stopped, watching Hutch’s eyes.

For one second neediness and desire showed through, but then Hutch schooled his expression.

” — In private,” he continued. “I will kneel at your feet or submit to you in public only as is necessary to maintain…our cover. You want a secret weapon? It’s on my terms, and I’m in on all stages of the plans to infiltrate the CEC, whatever comes up.”

“Agreed.” Hutch still didn’t move.

Starsky stood, prowling around the confined space, trying to avoid any contact with the huge curved frame bristling with leather straps. He tried telling himself he had some modicum of control now, that the scales might slip slightly back into balance. “How much did you pay for me? I’ll find some way to get money out of my account, pay you back — ”

“Starsky, you can’t. The moment I arranged to buy you, all that was yours became mine.” Hutch had the honesty to look ashamed. “The money doesn’t matter, buddy. I’ll give it back to you, but you can’t get access to it without revealing where we are.”

Starsky could almost see a statue of a lady holding a scale aloft — the side that represented Hutch rose high, while the Starsky side fell lower. “I need…to find my way here, Hutch. I can’t just accept all this so easy.”

“I didn’t think it would be easy. It was just — ”

“The only way. You said that.” Starsky accidentally stepped on the coiled links of the chain still attached to the ring in the middle of the floor. His belly lurched, coming perilously close to returning all the food he’d so recently consumed.

He could no longer deny his reality. He was a slave. This was his future.

“Would you have left me here?” Starsky asked. “If I didn’t agree with your plans?” He was suddenly fearful, considering the possibility of a life with nothing but the welcoming frame, pain, and anonymous hands in the darkness using his genitals like playthings. At least with Hutch he had a chance of doing something significant, and the idea of obeying Hutch in the bedroom wasn’t a new one.

“Starsky, you don’t realize your own worth,” Hutch said obliquely.

Starsky shook his head, uncomprehending.

“You are so tough, such a fighter. Most people who meet you see this uncompromising cop, the one person on the force they couldn’t corrupt.” Hutch stood, his long legs going on for miles, his cock like a granite obelisk sheathed in crimson.

Starsky was so close to going down on all fours, giving up his last remaining possession, but he planted his feet, immobile.

“You’re what we all covet, such strength with the face of an exotic gypsy. You’ve been taken down, I know, but I never wanted you to stay there, Starsk. I just wanted you to go there willingly — for a few hours. If you’d only asked me.”

“You never asked me.” Starsky remained stubborn, although his knees almost bent of their own accord.

“Every time I went out, I was looking for you. Curly hair, a crooked smile, those are the ones I chose every time, Starsk.” Hutch paused, guilt and something like despair crossing his face so quickly that Starsky wasn’t quite sure he’d actually seen it. Closing his eyes as if the memories were too painful to bear, Hutch spoke, his voice catching in his throat. “If you do this for me, I swear it’s forever. I’ll never leave you again.”

Starsky waited without breathing. This was too hard. He had to believe in Hutch before he could give up everything for him. He was going around and around in a rat’s maze, trying to understand, trying to rationalize. There was no logic here; it was just him and Hutch, bound together in that indefinable way they’d always had since that first time in the academy shower.

“I love you,” Hutch said, barely above a whisper. He spread his broad hand across his chest, over his heart.

This was the Hutch Starsky knew, the man who had been his partner for so long.

“And I know you love me. You’re mine, but I am also yours,” Hutch declared, his sincerity bound into every syllable of every word. He put out his hand, palm up.

Starsky exhaled, thunderstruck. It was the first time Hutch had ever said it aloud. Was he only using the word because Starsky was finally his slave? Or was this the truth? Starsky wavered, working out the myriad subtleties of their long-standing connection. He’d loved Hutch from the very first, without rational cause — and always assumed Hutch felt the same, that he just had a different way of showing that love.

This had to be real. Why else would Hutch have gone to so much effort? Hutch loved him enough to risk changing every single aspect of their relationship. He must have believed that Starsky could see past his enslavement to find the love.

He did love Hutch. That was the basic truth. And he had to believe what Hutch said was real, or he had no hope left to cling to.

Starsky held out one hand, grabbing Hutch’s fingers tightly. Still, the memory of his rape overshadowed everything. How could he submit? How could he not? Did he have any choice? If he refused, would Hutch allow the Brit to take him by force for “training”?

He paused, mired in conflict — if he did this with Hutch, it would be the first time he yielded to someone he loved.

Still holding onto Hutch to anchor himself, he took a deep breath and reached out with his other hand to touch the welcoming frame. The feel of the cold hard steel was weirdly right.

“Please, Hutch…Master, take me…” Starsky said, barely able to get the words out. He was scared; he couldn’t deny it. It wasn’t just fear of the pain of penetration. It was relinquishing all he’d ever held on to. Of being laid bare on the altar, sacrificed in the name of love and trust. This would tear down his old life to start anew in a way he could never have imagined. But he would be starting over with Hutch.

Joy suddenly suffused Hutch’s face with such radiance, Starsky was dazzled. “That first time,” Hutch said softly, “in the academy shower, I pushed you down. I used you. But this time — you asked.”

“I’m…” Starsky had to strain to speak, quivering all over in anticipatory shock. He leaned his head against the cold frame. For the first time he could feel how swollen and sore his eye socket was. “I’ve never…”

“I know, Starsk. I know.” Hutch crooned like a man who’d found his most precious treasure. He kissed Starsky on the shoulder, stroking his spine with the touch of a lover. “You inspire me. You never give up.” He placed sweet kisses along the line of Starsky’s jaw, one hand gently cupping the back of his head, while two fingers touched the collar.

Starsky wanted to melt into that love, accept it as his due, but he was scared. Scared of being sucked up into Hutch’s need until he couldn’t think for himself. Where were the boundaries?

“This will be so good, baby. So good, if you just give it a chance.” Hutch encircled him with strong arms.

Finally relaxing, Starsky let Hutch take his weight. Resisting was so hard, and it hadn’t changed anything anyway. He turned his head, blindly seeking out Hutch’s mouth and was rewarded with full lips pressed against his. The insistent push of his master’s tongue parted them, and he took that long silkiness into his mouth, sucking on it like a nursing babe. He’d been so thirsty; this was all the moisture he needed to survive.

Hutch was right; this was good, better than it had been since…his addled brain couldn’t come up with a example. Hutch was surprisingly tender for someone who’d forcibly enslaved his lover, gently hugging Starsky so closely that he could feel the thud of Hutch’s heart against his own chest.

“You’re my slave,” Hutch whispered, his eyes shining. “And because you are, I’ll adore you. I’ll protect you. You’re mine.” He backed Starsky up to the welcoming frame, trailing the palms of his hands down Starsky’s torso. Both their cocks jumped when he grasped Starsky around the waist, pulling them together until their bodies were aligned, mirror images, opposite and yet the same. “My possession — to take when I want. And you’ll give me everything because you are my everything. What you have is all that I’ve ever wanted.”

Starsky was stunned to realize that as Hutch’s slave, he would be taken care of in a manner he’d never anticipated. He’d only thought of slavery as a demeaning, humiliating position, one of servitude without gratification. But with the right master, the slave could be so much more, a cherished being. His brain skittered away from all the other implications. There was only so much he could assimilate at one time.

“I know you’re having a hard time accepting this,” Hutch said softly. “And I know you’ll resist. You’re a proud man, Starsky.”

Starsky was caught in the allure of Hutch’s summer blue eyes, as if sinking in quicksand with no vine to grab hold of to hoist himself out.

“We’ll fight,” Hutch said, “but then we always have.” Hutch kissed him one last time and stepped back.

Starsky realized then Hutch was waiting for his final capitulation. Starsky raised his head, unwilling to lose sight of the eyes that held him in such thrall.

“Eyes downward,” Hutch commanded, going from lover to master with those few words.

Starsky dropped his gaze, unsure of his part. Should he kneel? Drop into presentation position with knees spread widely to show off the piercing? With his heart fluttering in his throat, Starsky knew what Hutch wanted. He turned to the welcoming frame, the curving steel bars a cruel but strangely compelling abstract sculpture. Made of black metal, the tallest point was the arched shafts that held the arms out to each side. The bars could be adjusted for anyone, and the leg stanchions could be raised so that the slave would be unable to stand on his feet. Leather straps hung from every part, enough to completely immobilize the prisoner. Once Starsky faced the brutal contraption, he couldn’t force himself back into its unyielding embrace.

“That’s it,” Hutch said encouragingly. “You’re so beautiful. So incredibly strong. Show me.”

“I…” Starsky so rarely admitted he couldn’t do something on his own. Hutch was the only person he’d ever revealed his fears to. “I need your help.”

“We’re both in this, Starsk. You and me, bound together.” Hutch took Starsky’s arm, helping him mount the apparatus carefully, then pressed Starsky’s head into the depression for his chin, centering him.

So right and so wrong, all mixed up. Just then, Starsky would have done anything to keep Hutch’s hands on his body. The Phenine was still fueling his desires, but then Hutch had always had that affect on him without any drug. Hutch was Starsky’s aphrodisiac. He leaned back, desperate to keep contact with Hutch, but his master had stepped back.

“If you don’t move,” Hutch promised, “I’ll leave the straps off.”

“I won’t,” Starsky vowed. At the same time, he wanted to beg Hutch to buckle the leather bindings so tightly it would be impossible for him to move. How could he endure this without support?

Hutch placed his hand on Starsky’s buttocks, right over the burning welts.

Starsky gasped, instinctively grasping the metal supports under his fingers. He had to accept his master’s touch, then realized that was all the support he needed. He couldn’t shut his eyes. He half turned his head, keeping Hutch in view, because without him, the visions threatened to drown him. The cloying odor of Glenfiddich came back with the memory of his rapist pressing him firmly against a white brocade bedspread. He felt the man push his buttocks in the air —

“I love you, Slave,” Hutch said, pulling Starsky’s attention back to this reality. “This may never get easy for you, but we’ve never done things the easy way. We’ve always fought, and then made up.”

“I love you, too.” Dispelling the dark memories, Starsky accepted Hutch’s love and took it deeply in every molecule of his being.

“Remember Kira?” Hutch asked suddenly, and ran a gentling hand down Starsky’s body. One finger lingered on the rubber port for the IV, sutured in the space where Starsky’s right thigh met his groin. Hutch’s touch was as delicate as the brush of a spring breeze. “That was such a fiasco. I was an ass, I’ll admit. But after everything, we came back together. Because there was no other choice. We’re bonded.” He paused, keeping one hand on Starsky’s butt while moving around, obviously searching for something with the other. Then, there was the sound of a tube being squeezed, and Hutch applied a cool ointment all around Starsky’s anus.

He shook, barely able to stay in place. This was going to happen. There would be intense pain like knives splitting him in half and agonizing cramps gripping his abdomen. He resolved not to scream. Hutch wanted this — had waited years for this moment. Starsky would not ruin it for him. Maybe afterwards, if he were conscious, he could bargain with Hutch — his master. Maybe negotiate — two hand jobs a day, plus oral, if only…not up his ass? Because, after all this time, after all the deliberate amnesia, the nightmares of that first time returned so clearly. He remembered every second of the smooth blond head bending over him, whiskey smell so strong little Davey had gagged. Imagine that, a boy so used to having cock jammed in his throat he could doze off during a blow job, had gagged from the fumes and screamed when the metal shaft was rammed into place.

“Sssh,” Hutch whispered. “Nothing’s happened yet, Starsk.”

Starsky couldn’t believe that he’d failed so completely. He’d cried out before anything had actually happened. He felt an insinuating pressure between his buttocks, and leaned forward, away from the intruder. “I can’t…tie me up, please.”

“This is for you as much as me, lover. I’m not locking you in.” Hutch leaned over his back and caught Starsky around the waist, holding him in place with the blunt head of his cock nosed against Starsky’s core. Hutch didn’t let him move, but didn’t push forward, either. “Tell me.”

“S-scared.”

“You were hurt once?”

“A metal…thing,” Starsky ground out, his eyes squeezed shut. “It hurt. Blood.” He could barely think coherently enough to say more, but Hutch seemed to understand.

“Babe, it will be so good this time, just let me in.” Hutch kissed his right shoulder and then thrust forward just enough to breech the opening.

Starsky whimpered, his whole body clenched so tightly he could barely breathe. There was no way Hutch could be enjoying this; it must feel like trying to punch a fist through solid rock.

“Relax.” Hutch repeated the spinal caress, once, twice, and a third time, all the while singing softly.

At first Starsky couldn’t hear the words, but he exhaled and the thrumming in his ears died away, filling up instead with the sound of Hutch’s voice.

“You belong to me…” Hutch whispered. “Every move you make.”

Starsky surrendered, utterly and completely, hanging onto the frame in limp resignation as Hutch continued his painstakingly slow entrance. At first, Starsky just willed himself into compliance, taking short little breaths to relax his clenched muscles until Hutch was fully sheathed. There was some pain, mostly because he hadn’t given in enough, he realized with surprise. Light cramps rippled up and down his gut, and the feeling of fullness in his rectum was almost too much to bear. But it wasn’t the horror from the past. Maybe, just maybe, this could be a tolerable, even a pleasurable, experience. Now there was a mind-blowing thought.

“This is a gift, Starsk. Perfect, you and I — like one…” Hutch’s adoration was evident in every catch of his breath. He pulled halfway out, drawing Starsky’s pelvis with him, and pushed in again more quickly, his full length fitting inside Starsky as if made to order.

Starsky shuddered, feeling the play of his muscles contract and release Hutch’s cock, and wondered just who was screwing whom.

Hutch moaned with ecstasy and rocked forward, his cock shifting inside Starsky in a most provocative way. He reached around, grabbing Starsky’s pierced organ with his big hand, milking it.

Starsky shouted, from pain or pleasure, he was no longer sure. Hutch’s hand on the still-healing wound sent bolts of pain up his cock, which spiraled around the quickening clamps clutching his belly. But this wasn’t really agony. More like something without a word, something raw and sexual.

Hutch was thrusting faster now, guttural grunts signaling his ascent into climax. Starsky was nowhere near orgasm; this was too new and frightening, but he felt Hutch’s release in every cell of his body. Hutch’s semen flooded his bowels, filling him, claiming him. The release was too sudden and too much; he wept.

“Hey.” Hutch slipped out, then pulled Starsky into his arms. “That was everything I’ve waited for. Why are you crying?”

“I don’t know.” Starsky tried to knuckle the tears away, but they kept falling. “Put that thing back!” He looked around at the mess they’d made on the floor — piles of leftover food, chains, and some of Hutch’s clothes — He felt frantic. He clenched his butt muscles down tightly, suddenly afraid of losing something valuable.

“What?” Hutch held his own deflated cock, as if thinking there was no way that was going back inside soon.

“The plug. Quick, before it all leaks out.” Starsky reached out blindly, still searching. He didn’t even know what it looked like; he had been blindfolded when it was shoved in and highly distracted when it was pulled out. In the bathroom. Hutch had removed it in the bathroom. He stumbled through the debris, unsteady, aware that he couldn’t preserve what was already leaking out.

Hutch was faster and his reach was longer. Two steps and he’d retrieved the thick red rubber anal plug from where it lay near the sink. “This?”

“Put it in, put it in,” Starsky begged, feeling Hutch’s essence dribbling down his thighs. He clenched his inner muscles and leaned against the wall outside the bathroom. After being thoroughly fucked, even the gentlest stimuli hurt. Starsky bit down hard on his bottom lip when Hutch carefully settled the plug into place, trapping some of the semen inside him. “Yes.”

“Starsky, are you all right?” Hutch clicked the links of the chain closed around Starsky’s groin to keep the plug secure.

“I don’t know.” Starsky sat with his back to the wall, pulling his knees up under his chin and wrapping his arms around his calves. This was too similar to the way Fortun had left him chained, so he straightened his legs, feeling the plug shift oddly inside him.

Somehow that cleared his mind, and he looked up at Hutch. “I’m all mixed up. I just don’t… Only you can have me, Hutch. Only you. Not him.” He jabbed a finger toward the metal door, sure that the Brit would come back any moment and order Hutch away. Then he’d be strapped into the frame again, and what? Raped?

The only good thing about all this was that Hutch had done it first.

“He can’t have you. I left strict orders about that. You’re safe,” Hutch assured him. “You don’t have to wear that plug for me.”

“I want to. This way I own part of you,” Starsky said fiercely. He needed to regroup, get his thoughts on something else. “When do we leave?” He was sure Hutch had already said something about that. Shouldn’t they be making plans? Then he remembered that Hutch wanted him to have more training. Well, fuck that.

“I have to get another car.” Hutch zipped up his pants and stuffed the last of their meal back into his bag. “Huggy arranged for me to meet a guy in Vegas. It’ll take some time — maybe most of a day to drive there, finish the transaction, and drive back here.”

So they weren’t actually in Las Vegas. Good to know. Any knowledge was important. “I ain’t staying here.” Starsky mourned the disappearance of the fruit juice bottles and bread crusts. He was still hungry.

“I’ll tell Neville he has two days to teach you what you need.”

“I can fake anything I don’t know,” Starsky said stubbornly, getting back into presentation position. “See? And I’ll keep my mouth shut, Hutch, but I ain’t staying…”

“You are, and that’s final.” His voice was like the crack of a whip, sharp enough to draw blood. “One wrong move when you’re alone with some master, Starsk, and it’s all over. You need as much knowledge as possible to pull this off. I’ll get some pointers too, when I get back.”

Starsky stewed, but didn’t break position. “Huggy knows about all this?” His chest ached when he realized that one of his oldest friends would see him collared and chained.

“Huggy’s got connections. He’s leaving BC soon; we just couldn’t chance all of us disappearing at the same time. He sold the Torino for you.”

“What?” Starsky shouted, jumping up.

“Starsky, that car is like a billboard spelling out your name. After you were picked up, Huggy drove it away so that no one would know you’d been there.”

“That was my car!” Starsky slugged the wall to bleed off the anger, but all he succeeded in doing was breaking the skin across his knuckles. Anger burned brightly again for all that he had lost.

“Starsk,” Hutch said. He didn’t fight when Hutch took him in his arms, holding on tightly. “Hurt yourself?”

“Yeah.”

“Don’t hurt my property, or I’ll have to punish you.”

“Would you?” Starsky asked, unsure if he wanted to know or not. Neville had whipped him with the crop. He’d never before imagined what it would be like to be whipped or claimed as someone’s property. He’d never imagined that he would ever willingly submit to being fucked, either.

“I’ve thought about it,” Hutch said, and there was a huskiness in his voice like the texture of raw silk against dry skin, just a tad too rough, but sensual, too. Hutch picked up Starsky’s hand, kissing the wound, and drew him down until they were cuddled together on the floor, their heads pillowed on the carryall bag. “I would press my hand into the small of your back, watching the way your ass curved down over the…” He seemed to be setting the scene in his mind, arranging details. “…Padded bar, and you’d stay like that, not moving a muscle, totally on my say.”

Starsky closed his eyes, almost afraid, but it was too easy to see that picture, Hutch’s words coloring every aspect. He could feel the thick leather under his belly and the firm placement of Hutch’s hand, holding him down.

“I’d use my belt, because I don’t have anything else.” Hutch wiggled around, sliding his belt out from the loops. He laid it across Starsky’s naked hip, one end just touching his bare butt. “Five strokes, to remind you. Not punishment. Just for us, because I want to.”

Starsky shuddered, sure the belt had slammed into him, leaving a long red mark. Hutch hadn’t hit him, but suddenly Starsky wanted him to. Badly. “Not here,” was all he said, and Hutch nodded.

Somehow, they both fell asleep.

***

“Well, you two certainly made yourselves at home,” a fey voice commented.

Starsky woke with a start, surprised that the whine of the door opening hadn’t brought him out of sleep. Hutch still held onto him as he woke up, too. Twisting out of his lover’s grasp and turning to face the speaker, Starsky had his first view of his captor.

Neville was all length and almost absurdly thin. Viewed from the floor, he looked like the reflection of a man in one of those funhouse mirrors, altogether too long and narrow, his height accentuated by sinewy muscles in his arms and legs. Starsky started to stand, if only to retrieve some of his stolen self-esteem, but Hutch pushed gently on his shoulder, urging him to his knees.

When Hutch got to his feet, Starsky was glad to see that the Brit only topped Hutch by a mere inch, maybe two at the most. He wasn’t a giant, just used to looming over his cowering slaves, relying on his height to keep them low.

“You’ve got two more days,” Hutch said, finger combing his tousled hair and buttoning his green shirt. “I need him day after tomorrow, so I expect his training will be completed ASAP.”

“That’s not at all possible, beautiful,” Neville said with a smirk, but there was that inkling of sadism in his voice that creeped Starsky out. He longed to buckle a collar around that narrow throat, extra tight, and then shove a stun gun into sensitive areas. “These things take time, and you’ve got yourself a fighter. He tried to bite me, did you know that?” He rubbed elongated fingers over his right bicep in a coquettish manner.

He was flirting with Hutch! Surprised at his own jealousy, Starsky shifted the weight on his knees, preparing to get to his feet. Once again, Hutch seemed to anticipate his thoughts and touched him on the shoulder.

“Ripped one of my best shirts,” Neville said. “There are definite penalties for that.” The coquet’s voice dripped with the desire to cause pain and a lot of it.

“I told you, I don’t want him injured.” Hutch pulled out his pocket watch, glancing at the time with a distracted air of someone who had to leave and soon.

Starsky could see the future clearly. Hutch would leave him and the asshole Brit would have him strapped to the frame and tortured inside of a minute. The fact that the IV port was still sutured into his groin gave Neville frightening access to his body.

“Any and all punishments, beatings, sexual intercourse, anything like that, have to go through me, and I say no.” He re-pocketed the watch and shouldered the carryall, preparing to go.

Just hearing Hutch — his master — say those words loosened the tightness in Starsky’s chest. Hutch wanted him protected. But Hutch would have no way of enforcing his rules when he wasn’t around. Starsky had full trust in his partner and none at all in the Brit.

“Too lenient on your pet,” Neville said, cocking a gold eyebrow. He was all gold. Starsky wondered what kind of hair dye the man used to get it that unique color. Hair like old flatware, gold without a sheen, skin tanned to an unnatural shade of golden brown, and gold rings adorning half a dozen fingers. Even his irises were the gold of a cat, as if he weren’t quite human. The silk shirt he wore had small gold figures printed over a blue background. Tiny slave figures with their legs spread wide open for their golden masters.

“However, the owner is always right.” The Brit waved a manicured hand as if shooing away flies. “It’s my credo, you might say. I’d advise you to keep this one on a short leash, because there’s no way I can break his spirit in that space of time. He’s liable to go for your throat one day.”

“Or I could go for yours.” Hutch slid his long barreled pistol from the carryall, bringing it out casually, as if he was showing off the weapon instead of making a threat. “I like his spirit the way it is. I find a mark on him that I didn’t put there last night, and I’ll put one right between your legs.”

“You are such a brute,” the Brit simpered. “With such a long…gun. But speaking of marks, that brings up the question — which do you prefer, a tattoo or a brand?”

Tattoo… Starsky inhaled sharply, which earned him a stern look from Hutch. There was something significant about tattoos. He could visualize the memo typed on official BCPD paper, but not the contents. All he could remember was the VP’s wife, her naked back a panoply of ink. She’d been servicing her new master orally when they burst into the house, and had dropped to the floor with her forehead on the carpet and arms outstretched when the VP jumped to his feet with his open dressing gown barely covering his withering phallus.

Hutch glanced at him again, a question in his eyes, but Starsky couldn’t answer.

“Haven’t I made myself clear?” Hutch said with menace. He stepped in close, the gun still held loosely in one hand. Neville went a sickly color under all that gold, but didn’t back away. “I’m not interested in ostentatious marks on my slave. The ring is sufficient.”

“Funny. You said you were a CEC cop. Yet, you’re not up on the current legislation.” Neville shrugged eloquently, and took two steps to the side so he could lean decadently on the welcoming frame as if displaying his wares to Hutch.

Hutch didn’t look the least bit interested. “What current legislation? I don’t read up on every new rule some Corporation bigwig dreams up. Next week, it’ll be obsolete.” Hutch started to move past Neville when the Brit’s laughter stopped him.

“You really don’t know! How delicious!”

“Electronic trackers,” Starsky said. He might be forced to stay on his knees like a placid dog, but his brain still worked. The new law stipulated that slaves must have tattoos placed either on the left hip, left flank, below the back of the neck, or on the left shoulder, with an electronic tracking device the size of a rice grain buried beneath it under the skin.

“Speaking out of turn.” Neville swung his arm back to strike Starsky, but Hutch moved like lightning, grabbing the Brit’s wrist in mid-swing, nearly crushing the delicate bones. Neville squeaked with pain and then moaned, his face taking on a dreamy quality. “I could get used to having you around, cowboy. And it seems your slave is the one who’s been reading up.”

“Why would I want an electronic tracker?” Hutch released him and dusted off his hands as if ridding himself of something foul. “He’ll wear my collar.”

“I’ve wondered the same thing, myself.” Neville tapped the collar around Starsky’s neck.

Starsky had to force himself to endure the touch and not pull away in disgust, but consoled himself by making a gruesome face behind the queen’s back, which almost made Hutch grin. He saw his partner lose composure for a spare second before tightening his jaw.

Starsky went still inside, suddenly aware of how tenuous Hutch’s position was. If the Brit realized that this master and slave weren’t on the up and up, he could call the CEC authorities. Hutch was right, damn him. Starsky needed to learn how to be a slave to protect both of them. He could see how little attention the free paid to a kneeling slave even when they were discussing his care. How hard would it be to kneel under the desk of some high-ranking official in the CEC, maybe catch a glimpse of some eyes-only document before sucking the asshole’s dick? Would it be any different than doing it in some dirty alley for a few bucks when he was a kid? He’d been training for this role since he was fourteen.

“If you have your own collar,” Neville said, “feel free to buckle it on him. It really improves a slave’s demeanor to know that his master has absolute control.” Neville stroked Starsky’s bruised cheek and tsk-tsked. “But wanting something and obeying the CEC’s ever-changing laws are two different things. Since you’re new to the master’s life, Detective, a little history might help you. When the slave law was first enacted, the ring through the male phallic organ, or the clitoris in the female, was enough. But some slaves escaped and removed their piercings.” He glanced down at the thick, gleaming steel ring through Starsky’s cock and raised an eyebrow. “So, we produced a special metal nearly impervious to cutting tools. But those anarchist rebels in the border states got their hands on a laser. Cuts through anything.” He laughed as if imagining desperate slaves running naked through the hot sun to the border to be free. “Owners wanted to keep tabs on their property, which I’m sure you can now understand.”

“Get to the point,” Hutch said impatiently.

“Tattoos have always been popular, therefore the owners of the most organized slave farms agreed that slaves should have them in certain designated areas for ID purposes. But a laser can remove a tattoo, as well. Leaves a scar.” He cocked his head with a smarmy expression. “Which is obviously not a problem for you.”

“I can give you a few scars of your own if you don’t finish with this overly long lecture,” Hutch growled.

“Electronic trackers under said tattoos,” Neville said. “Enhances the slave’s physical beauty, and logs him into a central data base so the owner can keep tabs on his property.”

Starsky watched Hutch, afraid. They couldn’t afford to let him be fitted with a transmitter. The only way he could tolerate his slavery would be if it helped the rebellion take back power from the shitholes who ran things now. David Starsky not going to be tagged like some endangered animal, and he wouldn’t be of any use to the rebellion with such a marker. If he had to, he’d attack the Brit now and cause as much damage as possible so Hutch could escape alive. If only one of them could get out, it had to be Hutch.

“You mentioned branding,” Hutch said. He was quiet, so calm, but Starsky could sense his tightly reined anger. He was once again a crouched cougar, ready to strike at the slightest provocation. It was obvious that Hutch hated this situation.

Starsky wanted to cheer. Instead, he held himself in perfect presentation position. He couldn’t dwell on the idea of branding. Hutch would think of some way around it.

“Ah, my favorite,” Neville said. “The mark left from a burning metal iron isn’t quite as pretty as a delicately drawn tattoo, but it’s permanent. Impossible to remove — and some owners who buy and sell human merchandise frequently are not as interested in chipping a slave, since they don’t care where they end up.” Neville smiled and placed his palm on the V of skin revealed by Hutch’s half-buttoned cowboy shirt.

Hutch removed the hand with a look of disgust. “I want him branded,” Hutch declared.

No.

No.

Hutch did not just say Starsky would be branded like a side of beef.

Starsky was frozen in place, unable to move, unable to look at Hutch or anything but the floor in front of him.

“Finish his training in positions and commands,” Hutch continued, as if he’d said nothing of consequence, “and I’ll be back soon to put him through his paces.” He moved to Starsky for the first time since they’d awakened, grabbing a fistful of curls to tip his head back so they could look into each other’s eyes.

Starsky could see the desperation in Hutch that mirrored his own. But they couldn’t say anything aloud.

“Starsk, you behave, or I’ll take the belt to you.”

What Starsky heard was I love you in code.

Hutch nodded once, his jaw so tense his cheek muscles twitched, and toed Starsky’s knees apart a fraction wider before releasing him. He glared at the Brit. “I will be there for the branding.” Hutch turned on his heel, and stalked out, leaving Starsky alone.

The steel door was still open.

Starsky scrabbled to his feet, compelled to run, to escape. Running naked through mountainous terrain suddenly didn’t seem as stupid as idly waiting to have his flesh cooked with super-heated metal.

He made it five steps before hearing Neville scream for Fortun, and then a bruiser of a man tackled him to the floor. He pulled in a breath to shout Hutch’s name, but the guard roughly shoved a ball gag into his mouth before he could get out the H. Starsky fought like a wild thing, arms and legs striking out, too enraged to place his blows with any precision. Fighting was fruitless anyway. Over the pounding blood drumming in his ears he could hear Neville yelling for Denato to bring a syringe, and then the sound of running feet.

It took three to subdue him, then strap him tightly to the frame and jam the contents of the syringe into his IV. Starsky hurt all over but within seconds he could barely move, restrained not only by thick leather but by the sedative. He howled around his gag, barely able to make enough sound to matter.

With Hutch gone, what would they do to him?

The Brit stood in the front of the frame, smiling like a cat who’d caught a mouse and was getting ready to eat him.

Starsky wasn’t blindfolded, and he stared defiantly at his captor. His arms, now attached to the metal struts that curved forward, made it seem as if he were reaching out to hug Neville — a repulsive thought — and yet he was utterly unable to defend himself in any way. The Brit had the upper hand, and Starsky could only wait and watch for an opportunity. That had always been the hardest part of police work. Leaping without looking first rarely worked to his advantage.

Strategy, Starsky, always strategy, was Hutch’s credo. Starsky vowed to follow his partner’s lead. He just had to lay low and keep his head down until Hutch returned.

Being brutalized would only give him more incentive to help the rebels. He’d never paid much attention to the plight of the slaves before. Sure, he hated the way the CEC could twist people’s lives so that one day they were just poor, and the next they were slaves subjected to every kinky whim a master could dream up. But he hadn’t really looked at the issue from a slave’s point of view.

How things had changed. Now, all he could think about was liberating the oppressed.

“Think you can fight me?” Neville sneered, his face so close to Starsky’s that their noses brushed. Starsky wanted to squirm to evade his proximity, but his chin was firmly planted in the metal depression made for that purpose, with leather straps wrapped around his head from chin to crown and ear to ear. He was forced to stare straight into those uncanny golden eyes. He preferred the blindfold.

The Brit seemed to read his mind. “You loathe me, don’t you?” Neville stroked Starsky’s injured cheek again, as if fascinated by the bruising pattern. “You itch to reverse our places and do to me what I’ve done to you.” He laughed, low and sensual, the cruelty clearly turning him on. “But my lamb, that’s never going to happen. Your owner is a fool. Someone like you, with such fire, needs to be beaten often and maybe…” He grinned, and turned to the two hulks lurking out of Starsky’s visual range. “We won’t feed our Davey today so he’ll be needy when his master returns. He’s like a wild dog. You can’t turn your back or he’ll attack, but that’s what makes him all the more attractive when he eats out of your hand.” Their affirmative grunts were punctuated by chuckling.

Starsky clenched his fingers, pushing on the smooth cold metal under his palms. As before, the sedative wore off quickly, leaving a tingly, half-numb feeling in some parts of his body and an almost unbearable need to be touched in others. He yearned to move, to run, to fight. With Hutch in the room, he could suppress those urges, but now the straps were the only things stopping him.

“Fortun, fireman’s shower,” Neville ordered sharply, wrinkling his long beak of a nose. “He stinks of that cowboy.”

Starsky saw Neville move away and a dark mass with a mono-brow take his place for a few seconds before the blindfold descended. He’d been expecting it and almost relaxed. He had to be let down for a fireman’s shower, right? To be taken to the bathroom?

The full force of freezing water hit his back with such power that he screamed around the gag, emptying his lungs. There was not enough air to fill them up again. The water was so cold it burned, filleting him to the bone. Then, insult of insults, Fortun pulled out the butt plug, directing the spray up inside him.

That hurt.

Bad.

Starsky screamed again, but no one paid any attention. They’d stolen the one small part of Hutch that he’d been able to hold onto, reducing him to nothing. He screamed until he lost sense of what was going on, and kept screaming in his nightmares, feeling the silver dildo repeatedly bludgeoning his fifteen-year-old virginal hole until he was cleaved in half and lay dying on a white brocade bedspread.

***

He came to later. Time was nebulous without establishing sights and sounds. Starsky wanted to float in semi-consciousness, pretending he wasn’t pinned like a frog about to be pithed in a high school science class, but his own thoughts kept intruding.

Hutch said he loved him. He’d said the words aloud, even while admitting he’d paid cash to strip Starsky of his freedom and every vestige of his old life. How did that work exactly? How could someone just turn a citizen into a nonentity? Why hadn’t this ever bothered him before? He’d been fully aware of the inhumane practices, but had done little except toe the party line.

He’d once been considered a rabble-rouser who’d just as easily bite the hand that fed him, but how true was that? He’d enjoyed the prestige of being a State cop and the attractive, fatter paycheck. The CEC turned So. Cal into one of the strongest of the now un-united states. They controlled everything, using their handpicked police to enforce their will.

So many things changed in a short time, like prostitution and slavery as two examples. Laws came and went like passing fads. It became hard to remember what was legal and what wasn’t. No wonder neither he nor Hutch had known much about the new tattoo ordinance. Around the squadroom, CEC memos were often treated like so much birdcage liner since the information could be obsolete the following week. Still, the Corporation played hardball, prosecuting those they determined to be criminals, and enforcing strict penalties and even death. They allowed no dissonance or upheaval. No vice that wasn’t sanctioned by their lawyers. Something once considered as mundane as importing out-of-state cigarettes could result in years of jail time, but there was no penalty for boffing a sex slave on the street.

The first time Starsky had seen that, he’d rousted the slave’s molester. For that public-minded spirit, he’d received a reprimand and a docked paycheck. He’d learned to look the other way, at least some of the time. Most of the time, to be honest. So much for the vow a fifteen-year-old had taken to protect the victimized.

The years on the street as a cop had changed him; there was no doubt about that. What ethics had he lost along the way? Had his blindness to the welfare of the slaves led him to this place? Or could he rest the whole weight of that on Hutch’s shoulders?

He could admit now he’d been Hutch’s slave from the first moment they’d laid eyes on each other. But in a strange way, Hutch was his slave, as well. Hutch might never go to his knees, but he’d debased himself in other ways to wait Starsky out. To wait for the so-called rabble-rouser to humble himself and consent. All the while, Hutch had been working for the rebels — preparing for a revolution. So who was the real agitator here?

Starsky had always hated self-examination. He liked simple, straightforward explanations. Except there were none here. Just layers on layers — sex mixed with politics, and love tainted by betrayal. The emotional morass hurt more than what Neville and his minions had done to Starsky’s physical body.

Hutch, do you realize what you’ve done to my soul?

As much as he ached inside, Starsky now knew the truth. He would go with Hutch. He would accept what Hutch had made him, because Hutch loved him. And he’d always loved Hutch.

Forgiveness, that would be harder. But even as he recognized the anger still closeted deep inside, he couldn’t stay angry at Hutch. From the moment Hutch arrived for his “rescue,” Starsky hadn’t been able to hold onto his anger for ten minutes at a time.

What did Hutch do to him?

He tried returning to his previous musings, walking the now familiar route of Ninetieth to Mission to Ninety-first, circling the warehouse for a way in. He wanted to change the outcome, fight off Dunfey’s goons and find Hutch, tell him there was another way.

But was there another way? Or was Hutch right?

“Starsk, Dunfey just went into the warehouse on the corner of Ninety-first, where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there.”

Oh God, if there was a supreme being listening, why hadn’t he questioned that? Why hadn’t he wondered for one minute longer? Or noticed that Hutch never spoke again. Hutch had meant to draw him out. He’d trusted his partner too far.

He loved his partner too much.

Was that possible?

If there had been another way to escape the CEC, Starsky could not think of one. Hutch’s way had become the only way, and Starsky had to believe that, ultimately, it would be the solution. He had to believe it or he would be lost.

He allowed himself the luxury of reminiscence, deliberately recalling the moment of their joining on the frame. He felt Hutch enter him again, those warm, wonderful hands gripping him around his hips. The smell of Hutch — leather, guns, and peanut butter — all merged together with the heady aroma of their lovemaking. And it had been lovemaking, not just sex.

He trembled and cried, alone in that horrible place, robbed of the tiniest bit of decency.

***

Starsky was surprised when he was taken down from the frame after only a few hours. The day took on an unreal quality as Neville trained him, putting him through his paces, forcing him to repeat the same moves and positions over and over again. His belly rumbled loudly, and Neville laughed, snicking Starsky’s shoulder ever so lightly with the knotted tip of a leather cord. Starsky swallowed with difficulty around his gag, correcting his posture, the small wound stinging. A few peanut butter sandwiches hadn’t offset days of near starvation and his weakness showed. He tired easily and couldn’t hold the more complicated poses for long, which just earned more wasp stings on his arms and legs.

Was this the way all slaves were initiated? Or was it worse for the ones without a master like Hutch to protect them? He didn’t want to think about what could have happened to him if not for Hutch’s refusal to allow him to be sexually abused. Now he understood why so many slaves seemed empty-eyed, clinging to their masters.

Starsky changed while kneeling at the feet of a man he despised. He learned how to be a true slave. Not for this foppish sadist who delighted when he messed up, but for Hutch. Helping the cause was secondary, however important. If he had to be a slave, he was going to be a damned good one until the time when slaves revolted and snapped their chains in two. He had Hutch, someone he trusted, and, more important, someone who trusted him in return. That was the key. Trust became hope and hope was freedom.

“On your feet, head to the floor, grasp your ankles, pretty ass as high as it will go,” Neville commanded, the lash biting Starsky on the sole of his bare foot as he tried to move quickly into the proper stance. “You have a knack for this, Davey. A positive gift.”

Starsky breathed in, his head pounding in the downward position. He was afraid that if he stayed like this too long he would pitch forward, and locked his knees.

“Use that whip on him one more time, and I’ll wrap it around your scrawny neck and hang you with it,” Hutch said harshly, almost too loud in the confined space of the room.

“Cowboy!” the Brit exclaimed, all signs of cruelty disappearing beneath a simpering flirtation. “You move as stealthily as a lion!”

Starsky would have laughed if he weren’t practically kissing his own knees. The blood pounding in his ears was as loud as a hurricane force wind. He swayed, coming perilously close to falling, but concentrated on maintaining his posture to show Hutch. He wanted to prove he was doing his part.

If only Hutch would do his and get them out of here.

“You startled me,” Neville said.

“Then don’t leave the door open so anyone can walk in,” Hutch replied tightly.

“The whip is a necessary part of the training process, but it’s only used as a reminder, not punishment.” The Brit caressed Starsky’s upturned buttocks, finding the tiny marks from the whip with unerring precision. He pressed just a little too hard on one at the top of Starsky’s thigh, where the hips joined the butt.

Starsky clenched his teeth on the gag, the pain like bright fireworks behind his retinas. Struggling to stay perfectly still, Starsky wasn’t sure what would happen first. Either he’d pass out from all the blood rushing to the top of his head or he’d vomit from the jackknifed position.

Both possibilities were in the running when Hutch said, “Starsky, presentation position.”

Starsky dropped so quickly his already bruised knees protested violently, pain roaring up to his hips, but at least presentation was a right-side up pose. He raised his chin, almost reeling from dizziness, and tried to rearrange himself properly. The familiar coolness of a silver toe tip nudged his thighs farther apart, and he rested his hands on his legs, palms down, waiting further orders. A part of the old Starsky stirred in the back of his brain, swearing and calling him a quitter, but he inhaled through his nose, straining to see through the blackness of the blindfold.

“You see, a mongrel cur can be taught to heel,” Neville said.

Starsky would have liked to prove the Brit’s assessment correct by biting him just above the ankle, but he held his place to prove to Hutch that he could do this. That he could learn what was needed and be of service to the cause.

Who was he kidding? In the end, he wanted to please Hutch. It had always been that way. For all their affectionate arguing, Starsky had always listened to Hutch and usually went along with his suggestions. There had been days when he’d been the one to lead investigations, especially when the case was illogical or bizarre. Starsky had a knack for those. But in the partnership, Hutch was the leader.

“You treat slaves like animals and they’ll turn around and bite you in the tail,” Hutch said dryly, and for once Starsky welcomed the gag, because otherwise he would have laughed aloud. “I know five positions; how many more is he expected to know?” Hutch asked.

Finally, finally, Starsky felt the brush of soft corduroy against his shoulder and a welcomed hand in his hair. He leaned into the warmth of Hutch’s body, catching whiffs of the outside world. The scent of the forest; wood, fresh air, and the sharp tang of eucalyptus were like exotic flowers after so many days in a sterile torture chamber.

“Presentation, obeisance, punishment, submission, and deliverance are the most common,” Neville began, and Starsky suspected he was about to start one of his long-winded explanations.

“I know those. What else is there?” Hutch unbuckled the gag, easing it out of Starsky’s mouth, but left the blindfold in place.

Grateful, Starsky sucked in the long finger that wiped spittle off his lip, but his mouth was too dry to provide enough moisture. It was like dipping a stale donut into an empty cup. Unsatisfying.

“What about more complicated ones?” Hutch asked.

“Spread-eagle isn’t hard, but requires the slave to remain immobile for long periods of time despite what the master is doing to it,” Neville continued. “Even the smallest movement is cause for punishment. And of course, there’s relinquishment, which you saw him demonstrating when you came in.”

Hutch put Starsky through his paces with exacting precision. He was an even harder taskmaster than the Brit. Without the whip correcting his mistakes, Starsky had to be alert for changes in Hutch’s tone. He listened carefully for tiny sounds of disapproval while holding absolutely correct positioning. One harsh word from Hutch stung far worse than the whip. He’d always relied on his ability to read his partner with a quick look or a glance before they rushed a building or brought down a criminal. The blindfold made things more difficult because he couldn’t judge Hutch’s body language. Starsky grew increasingly frustrated with his repeated mistakes of simple maneuvers. He was exhausted before Hutch called a halt to the exercises.

“He’s improving, but you really should leave him here for a full month to get the complete training,” Neville said.

“Didn’t you say the buyer is always right?” Hutch retorted.

“Touché, my dear.”

“There must be some decent food around here. A place to sleep that doesn’t look like a movie set for some Marquis de Sade flick.” Hutch crossed the room.

Starsky was aware of the click of his boot heels on the marble floor now that Hutch wasn’t trying to sneak up on the Brit. That could be something to remember when he might be restrained in some other master’s bed. He had to use all his senses, not just his eyes, to learn what he needed to know.

“The owner’s rooms are on the upper floors. I can provide you with a pretty slave with the meal, if you’d like, at no extra cost,” Neville said. “Chicken or steak?”

For a moment, Starsky thought the Brit was offering a choice between a virginal boy and an older man, but that was just the dinner menu. His belly rumbled loudly.

Hutch chuckled. “Starsky wants both.”

“He isn’t allowed above ground until his training is complete — or, until you take him away. He gets neither.”

“Now, why would I want some other slave when I paid good money for this one?” Hutch said in a voice that could have cut through the steel door. “I want a good night’s sleep after days in the damned car in the heat, with my slave, and a large, rare steak. For each of us. You understand?”

“Forceful indeed,” Neville said, but without his usual swooning. He obviously didn’t like Hutch’s take-over attitude. “He’ll have to be restrained and blindfolded while in the hallways. Who knows what an unbroken slave could do?”

“Who indeed?” Hutch hooked an arm under Starsky’s and pulled him to a stand, linking his wrist cuffs together in front of his body. “Just for the walk upstairs,” he whispered.

Starsky was reassured. This was all a show for Neville. Once they were alone, Hutch would revert back to his old friend and partner, right? The kinky stuff was only for sex play. He wouldn’t have to wear all this hardware daily.

The issue of the brand still had to be discussed, though.

He would not wear a brand.

But then he remembered…he’d said he would not be any man’s slave…and yet he was.

Starsky responded to the pressure of Hutch’s hand on his back and walked out of the torture chamber for the first time since he’d arrived. How long had that been? He was not sure, but his feet felt strange walking down the cold marble hall. Neville had made tiny wounds on both Starsky’s feet with his whip and each step renewed the fire in those welts. The ring made his cock hang heavily, and it swung when he moved, pushing against his fettered hands with every step.

They all went upwards in an elevator. Starsky wanted to know the layout of the place, the exits and entrances. Which direction was west, and how many guards were there? He’d never been held prisoner for so long without calculating all the escape routes. Come to think of it, he’d never been held prisoner for so long, period. He wanted to talk to Hutch, find out more of what he knew, but he remained silent as long as Neville was nearby.

“Oh, silly me,” Neville simpered in what Starsky now recognized as the voice he used when he was going to say something particularly unpleasant. “I totally forgot to mention the branding.”

Starsky bit down on his lip to stop himself from blurting out something that would get him punished. His belly twisted into a knot.

“Yeah?” Hutch grunted, tightening his grip on Starsky’s arm.

“Since you insist on taking this slave out before there’s been sufficient time to mold him into a proper specimen, he’ll have to be branded tomorrow morning before he leaves.”

Starsky bristled at being called a specimen, but that reaction paled in comparison when he considered the idea of having hot metal pressed into his skin. Sweat dripped down his back, stinging all the lash wounds.

“He’ll need to be shaved, of course,” Neville added, with a slow, dark chuckle. He sounded more than ready to take a straight razor and do the deed himself.

“Where does this brand go?” Hutch asked as if it was of very little consequence to him, but Starsky could feel how tense he was.

Fuck! C’mon, Hutch, use that college education to get us out of here. The tattoo and tracker were sounding better all the time. Surely, they could dig out the tracker once it was inserted? Throw it in a lake, smash it with a rock.

“The most common place is on the left inner thigh — where the owner will see it when he spreads his slave’s legs.” The Brit tittered nastily.

Starsky swallowed against the sick taste in his throat. He was reduced to a thing, like a schoolbook with a name written in marker on the front so others would know who owned it.

“I can send a slave in the morning to shave his leg. Could shave his whole body while we’re at it — a complete change of appearance really helps the slave settle into his role.”

“Hey!” Starsky blurted and would have said more, but Hutch’s nails bit down hard into his forearm.

“Starsky,” Hutch said sharply.

Resentment washed over Starsky. He didn’t want to resent Hutch, but he did. This wasn’t some game. Hutch was really going to have him branded!

“Should take a crop to his back. Beat the spirit out of him,” Neville said.

“If I want your opinion, I’ll ask,” Hutch retorted, rubbing his thumb over the small dents he’d made on Starsky’s arm. “I know how to use a razor. I’ll shave him myself.”

“I’ll have it delivered with your steak.”

When they stepped out of the elevator, the difference from the training floor was immediate, even to someone wearing a blindfold. There was carpeting underfoot and the air was warmer. The beautiful strains of Bach played softly from a sound system. At least Starsky assumed it was a sound system. There might be slaves sawing away on violins and tinkling the ivories of a piano, for all he knew.

“Here we are, kiddies, room twelve,” Neville said, unlocking a door. “The steaks will be up in less than half an hour. Don’t do anything with your slave that I wouldn’t do.” His parting chuckle had such a depraved sound that Starsky had no problem guessing what he would do.

Starsky didn’t relax until he heard the door shut behind Neville.

“You stink,” Hutch said, unbuckling the blindfold and easing it off Starsky’s face.

Starsky blinked in the light, looking around at the sumptuous room. This was no austere space filled with implements meant to punish and hurt. This was pure fantasy, complete with a four-poster bed draped with swags of silk and a white brocade bedspread.

A white brocade bedspread…

Starsky shivered and turned his back on the white spread, his stomach rumbling loudly.

A large armoire occupied one corner, and a love seat took up space in the other. Only someone with a keen eye would notice that the furniture was heavy and built to withstand writhing bodies restrained on the frames.

He didn’t know what to say, and yet was overflowing with questions. His feet hurt and his head was pounding. All he wanted to do was sleep, but the specter of the branding and the similarities of this room to the one of his nightmares gripped him. He told himself a branding wouldn’t be all that different from the time he’d accidentally bumped a hot iron with his hand, but couldn’t even convince himself.

“Do you want a shower?” Hutch asked.

“No.” Starsky hunched his shoulders, his hands still cuffed in front of him. He could still feel the savage battery of the fireman’s shower on his aching muscles.

“Okay,” Hutch agreed, sounding puzzled. He unbuckled and removed the wrist cuffs, leaving them linked together when he tossed them aside, and massaged Starsky’s chaffed wrists. “A bath, then? I need to relax.”

“A bath…with you?” Starsky asked, and hated how plaintive his voice sounded. He wanted his anger back, but it had been ground out of him. Hutch’s warm hands on his skin felt so good he could have stayed there all day, attached to Hutch more intricately than by any of the leather bands buckled around his body.

“Yeah, with me. While we wait for the food.” Hutch led the way into an elegant bathroom. Golden fixtures gleamed. There was a claw-footed bathtub, big enough for four, a glass-enclosed shower, and even a bidet for freshening up after a prolonged assignation.

“How are you doing?” Hutch asked softly.

That question broke the dam, the anger rushing back so suddenly that Starsky staggered. “How the hell do you think?” He braced himself against the green-veined marble counter. What was it about marble in this place? “I hurt in places I never even thought about before. That son of a bitch limey used a whip on every part of me, and then you act like I’m some kinda trained dog doin’ tricks.”

“Starsk.”

“How long have I been here, Hutch? Huh? Just tell me that. How long until we leave, ’cause I’m gonna kill that bastard.”

“Today is Saturday. Saturday evening, by now.”

Four and a half days since he’d been thrown into the truck. Starsky hissed as if he’d been stabbed and thrust out a hand to keep Hutch at bay. Why were they always having these confrontations in bathrooms? He’d picked up a telephone in the squadroom on Tuesday at noon and changed his entire life. He fought to catch his breath and would have fallen if Hutch hadn’t gripped his arm. A life saver — or was it a destroyer? How could he ever know Hutch’s true intentions anymore?

“Hey,” Hutch crooned, and wrapped his arms around Starsky’s trembling body. “Let it go. Let it be.”

“Who are you, John Lennon?” Staying in those strong arms was enticing, but Starsky couldn’t let his guard down. “Fill up the tub.”

It was heaven to finally slip into warm, soothing water and lean back against Hutch. Starsky winced when his various wounds made themselves known, and it was far too easy to let the brutality float away for a while. Hutch soaped his back, murmuring soothing words that made no sense; they were alien to the world Starsky lived in now.

Baby.

Lover.

He wanted to give in to Hutch’s sweetness, wanted it to go on and on, but the longing for what they’d left behind was powerful. They might not have had a perfect life, but it worked — most of the time. Sure, Hutch had been distant the last few months and Starsky had found more reasons to pick fights, but that would have passed, right? Things could have been resolved without such drastic measures…if he’d asked. Hutch had said that he was waiting for Starsky to ask. Ask to take it up the ass, ask to be treated like a slave.

So, after years of waiting to be asked, Hutch had laid down the law. Literally.

Starsky closed his eyes, feeling Hutch’s arms holding him tightly, feeling the friction of the washrag on his genitals, his cock rising effortlessly in the water. Hutch washed down Starsky’s right leg, negotiating around the prominent rubber-capped IV port, and then repeated his actions on the left, lingering for a long time on the inner thigh, right up against the scrotum.

“This is where I will shave you,” Hutch whispered, his breath tickling Starsky’s ear. “And then you’ll be branded there, as my property.”

“Hutch,” Starsky protested, but it was weak, without any substance behind it.

Hutch continued to massage his thigh, brushing the sac so enticingly, then moving away, engraving secret code into his skin. “I kept thinking about it, Starsk, all day. Thinking about seeing you naked in front of me, wearing my collar and my brand. Knowing it was all for me…”

Hutch took Starsky’s hand and guided it over to his own body. Hutch’s substantial erection seemed to levitate into his hand, so Starsky automatically began to rub the pulsing length.

“And then I thought of you dressed, looking the same as before…all this, in those jeans that are too tight for any sane mortal and a red shirt with some nipple showing.” Hutch was panting.

Starsky wasn’t breathing too well himself. How did Hutch do this? Turn the both of them on with just a description?

“You wouldn’t be wearing boxers,” Hutch murmured, “so in the front, the outline of the ring would be obvious, but not the brand. The brand would be a special secret. We’d be talking to people, doing normal things, and all the while I’d be waiting until we were alone so I could decorate one of your nipples with a clamp and take you — just push your jeans down far enough to see your ass and push on in.”

Hutch arched back as Starsky increased the tempo of his fisting, crying out. He came, his semen pumping into the soapy water. When Hutch opened his eyes again, he was staring straight at Starsky, those Nordic blue eyes like unending pools that could drown a man if he wasn’t careful.

“Get up on the edge. Pull a towel around you if you’re cold,” Hutch said.

Starsky wasn’t even sure why he responded, but something deep inside him needed to obey Hutch’s husky, sensuous tone. He sat on the edge of the big tub with his legs spread wide, leaning against the towels hanging from a gold rod. It was so warm and steamy in the room, he wasn’t cold, or maybe he was just becoming accustomed to being naked all the time.

He wasn’t prepared for Hutch’s next move. Hutch’s lovely mouth attached itself to Starsky’s cock, sucking for all he was worth. Hutch’s tongue slid around the barely healed piercing, irritating the raw wound, but it was oh so good in every other way. Hutch bit down on the metal ring, tugging gently, making Starsky shout inarticulately when sensual pain shot up his cock. How could agony and bliss be so intimately tied? Starsky panted, gripping the towel rod, his whole body trembling, and looked down with amazement at the wet blond head bobbing between his thighs. Hutch rarely gave him a blowjob, and now he’d done it two days in a row. Was this worth all the humiliation? All the pain? All the loss? It shouldn’t have been, but in that instant, it was.

He orgasmed and it was like an explosion demolishing whatever was left of his old life.

Wearing a thick terrycloth robe with a small moon embroidered on the left breast pocket, Hutch drained the tub and toweled Starsky down, then prepared a small basin of warm water. Just when they needed it, the razor arrived. A knock at the front door revealed a small, dark skinned girl with thick gold chains linking her pierced nipples to a collar around her neck. She pushed in a cart laden with silver-domed plates of food.

Starsky could smell the tantalizing odors of grilled steak and baked potatoes, but Hutch paid them no notice. He calmly took the straight razor from its case and laid it next to the basin.

“The beard’s got to go, too,” Hutch said. He swirled a towel around like a matador, a sly grin on his face as if he knew this might make Starsky smile.

In spite of himself, Starsky did smile. He was so mixed up. Half of him wanted to bolt and run like hell, escape this whole madness. The other half liked this very attentive Hutch. This turned on Hutch. He suddenly made the connection between the Hutch he’d known in the last six months and this new one.

“You’ve been planning this for a long time,” Starsky said bluntly, staring at himself in a full length mirror. He’d hadn’t seen his own reflection since before the kidnapping. Now he stared at the five-day-growth of beard on a surprisingly gaunt face covered in fading bruises. His long torso was pocked with black-and-blue marks and small welts. They’d removed all the leather cuffs and belts before the bath except for the collar, since Hutch did not have the key for it. The collar was tight against his throat, and seemed to grow tighter with every inhalation. The collar and the ring in his cock marked him so absolutely that Starsky couldn’t imagine why he would need a brand.

His body was no longer his. Hutch owned him.

“Even before Tompkins died, I knew that we’d need to get out at some point.” Hutch waved Starsky into a chair. He lathered Starsky’s face and ran the razor down his right cheek, leaving a smooth, naked patch behind. “And I’m making no apologies, Starsk. When Roschenzky first brought up the idea of slavery, I went hot all over.”

“Why’d you make me feel like I was an outcast half the time?” Starsky turned his head, feeling the cold swath of the razor against his jawbone and gently around his mouth. This was too close to being pampered, and he didn’t want to pay the price. “And if you say it was to protect me, I don’t wanna hear it.”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed, and wiped the last of the lather off Starsky’s face with a hot washrag. “I was preoccupied. People to talk to, favors to call in, markers, taking it slow with Dunfey so he wouldn’t suspect anything. You were always on my mind.” He turned the chair around so Starsky could see himself in the mirror again. He was smooth shaven, his own eyes dark and guarded…and standing above him, Hutch. The man’s magnetism hit him like a bullet. This was how Hutch had done this, by sheer force of will and determination.

“Now spread your legs,” Hutch commanded, totally in control. He was the master again. Starsky’s owner.

“Fuck off.” Starsky snapped out of the daze and launched himself out of the chair. But days tied to the frame had sapped his strength. He was weak and slow. Hutch simply grabbed his arm and slammed him back into the chair, jamming a finger into the soft spot under his chin until it almost impossible to breathe, much less swallow.

“This could be the razor, Starsk,” Hutch growled. “This could be so many things that could get you killed for doing something like that.” His face was so close Starsky saw two masters. “So spread ’em like a good slave in presentation and do not move a muscle, or I could cut your balls so damned easy.”

Starsky never moved when the razor scratched over his skin, creating a bare circle in the hairy forest on his thigh. There was no turning back, no fairy tale ending where he was rescued from the dragon. He wouldn’t think about the morning, and fell back on the trick that had gotten him through the entire ordeal. Focus on something else. “Where’d you go after you left? Didja get what you needed?”

“Las Vegas,” Hutch said shortly, eyeing the shaved area critically. Then, in a surprising and sweet gesture, he bent and kissed the naked skin of Starsky’s inner thigh with amazing reverence. “Starsky, this is a major commitment — for both of us. Things will be very different for a long time, but I guarantee you that everything will be better in the future.”

“I don’t want to know about the future; I just want to know about now.”

“I got a car, made sure our funds were safe. Talked to Huggy on a secure line. He’s going to meet us in Arizona in a couple of days.” Hutch flipped the razor closed like a gang member would a switchblade and placed it back in its case. “You’ll like the car.”

“Yeah?” Starsky took a slow deep breath, trying to assimilate. Trying to chart his course in this new world. Should he be kneeling now? When was he Hutch’s slave and when was he the best friend? The line was so blurry it was invisible.

“It’s metallic blue. Some kind of Ford. A sedan with a bad paint job.” Hutch actually shuddered with a rueful grin. “I guess that’s what sells in Las Vegas.”

“Fluffy dice on the mirror?”

“No dice.” Hutch laughed. “I draw the line at dice.” He held out his hand, inviting and warm. “You hungry?”

There was no honest way to answer that one. Starsky nearly beat Hutch to the food cart. The steaks were excellent and the potatoes overflowing with melting butter. Starsky ate until his belly hurt, and then polished off the rest of Hutch’s steak for good measure. He sprawled in his chair, almost happy. No thoughts of the next morning, just blissing out on good food. The meal would have been absolutely perfect with the addition of a glass of red wine and a slice of chocolate cake for desert, but he wasn’t going to complain.

“Huggy told me that Dunfey disappeared,” Hutch said, “but not before spreading it around town that you’d been taken as a slave.”

“Damn.” Starsky’s heart pounded against his sternum unpleasantly. With his full belly, that hurt.

“No, actually, I think that gives us an advantage.”

“Funny way to put it.” Starsky pushed his chair back from the table, thinking of all the people who might have heard that he was naked and wearing a cock ring. “Makes me the butt of jokes — pun intended.”

“Yeah, and if they forget about the old Starsky and only see the new one, then you really will be a secret weapon.” Hutch pushed holes in what was left of his potato with the fork tines. “You want anything else?”

Oh, how many ways could he interpret that innocent question. Starsky looked up at Hutch and was once again caught in the strength and salvation those pale blue eyes offered. If he could only turn off his brain, stop thinking about betrayal.

He needed to forgive. Because if he forgave Hutch, would he then be able to forgive himself? Stop obsessing about all the times when he knew Hutch wanted something more and pretended not to understand. Hutch was right — he should have asked. But if he should have asked, Hutch should have made himself clear instead of paying criminals large sums of money to get his own partner in chains, even if it was, as Hutch insisted, to save his life. Ah, there was the crux of the matter — secrecy. Not lies so much as sins of omission.

Forgiveness. Letting go of the past. Resolving to change. He’d done it once, in that seminal moment when he was fifteen. Then, he’d had nobody. Now he had Hutch. Someone he trusted, but wasn’t sure he forgave. That had to be enough for now.

“I’m going to bed,” Hutch said, stepping out of his clothes.

Under other circumstances, Starsky would not have found that perfectly ordinary action interesting, but so much had changed now. Hutch was naked in front of him, just as he was. Suddenly they were equals again. Except it felt odd, and he had to resist the weird urge to rearrange himself and slip into presentation, or the nose-to-knees redemption pose.

“I can’t.” Starsky had managed to avoid looking at the white brocade spread all evening. He’d kept his back to the bed as much as possible. When that blond head bent over the covers, pushed back the pillows and then the spread, Starsky nearly threw up, the phantom smell of cigarette and whiskey choking him. He had been fighting overwhelming nausea every time he faced the bed, and now, he bent forward with his head between his legs. Even there, he was nose to cock ring and had to close his eyes at the sight.

“Hey,” Hutch murmured, one hand rubbing the sweat off the back of Starsky’s neck. He massaged the place where the collar chaffed just below the hairline. “What’s wrong?”

“Not used to sleeping in a bed, I guess.”

“It’s more than that.”

Starsky wet his lips, glad that he could. Would he wear a gag tomorrow when the superheated iron pressed into his flesh? He raised his head, seeing the bed out of the corner of his eye. Hutch had pushed back the spread so that now the ivory satin sheets gleamed in the light from the bedside lamp, and the white brocade was no longer visible.

“It’s stupid — I just never liked that kind of… whaddyacallit, comforter.”

“I can put it in the armoire.” Hutch bundled up the puffy coverlet without batting an eye and stowed it in the spacious rosewood cupboard. “Never knew you to be so particular about the décor.”

He’d kept that night bottled up for so long. Never told anyone, not even Huggy Bear who had been his only real friend back then. How could he begin such a tale? Where exactly was the beginning, anyway? With Mary Elizabeth, the girl who’d taken his virginity, or with the blond man who’d stolen what was left of his self-worth?

“You said you heard about me, when I was a kid,” Starsky started, bracing his elbows on his knees. He couldn’t look at Hutch, but he could feel his partner’s support as if Hutch were holding him close.

“Yeah.”

“This ain’t easy to say.” Starsky stared down at the ornate pattern on the Oriental rug. “Wasn’t one of my regular…y’know, clients.”

“Were you raped?”

Starsky sucked in air fast with that disorienting sense of falling through space while remaining perfectly still. He was glad he was sitting down.

Raped.

He’d said it to himself, privately, but never used the word out loud.

Men didn’t get raped.

“Starsky?” Hutch ran a gentle hand through his hair, teasing curls around his fingers. “Can you talk about it?”

“He…uh…” Starsky went hot and cold and thought about throwing up again, but swallowed, his Adam’s apple rough against the hard collar. “He looked like you.”

“Damn.” Hutch’s fingers tightened on Starsky’s head, but he realized it quickly and rubbed circles on Starsky’s scalp to sooth the hurt. “How did you ever give in to me after that?”

“You didn’t smell like him,” Starsky confessed, and pulled Hutch in close, burying his face against his lover’s — his master’s thighs — preserving the rich aroma of Hutch in his sense memory. “You…weren’t him. I knew that. He had blond hair — it was creepy. He had something big, metal, I think, and shoved it up my ass. I just about died on a white bedspread in a big swanky hotel room.” Some of the deep down fear drained away, the wounds from that night no longer festering.

“That’s what you were talking about the other day. No wonder you never wanted what I did,” Hutch said in a strangled voice. “You never said.”

“No.” Starsky barked a strange laugh, the past pain sharp enough to slice him in half. “I just wanted to forget about it.”

“And I shoved it right back in your face.”

Starsky looked up, expecting to hear some kind of an apology, but while Hutch looked sad, he made no admission of guilt.

“I told myself that was the last time,” Starsky said raggedly. “No more tricks for old farts who got their rocks off with underage kids.” He released Hutch’s legs and fell back against the mattress with exhaustion. From that angle, Hutch looked impossibly tall. “I stopped, cold turkey, changed — went into the army, then to the Academy — and now you’ve got me back on my knees again.”

He hadn’t meant to let that resentment creep back in. He loved Hutch. Loved that they were finally communicating. But hated that Hutch was proud because he was wearing a damned ring in his penis.

“It’s impossible to make promises I can’t keep.” Hutch sat down on the bed next to him. “I can’t even predict what’s going to happen when we leave here. But I swear, Starsky, I am not in this to hurt you.” He interlaced his fingers with Starsky’s. “I wish I could go back and beat that blond guy senseless and save that boy.”

“You might have saved him,” Starsky said.

“I didn’t save him, I just believed in him.” Hutch kissed Starsky, snuggling up against him, hip to hip, and then chest to chest. “He saved himself.”

“I don’t know how to do this, Hutch.” Starsky melted into him, so tired. “Every instinct tells me to fight hard and run like hell.”

“As long as you don’t run away from me.”

“I wouldn’t even know which way to run.” Starsky closed his eyes, so very aware of his cock against Hutch’s thigh, the ring warm with their combined body heat, the throb of his pulse making the metal vibrate in time with his heart. “You’re stuck with me.”

“That’s all I ever wanted.” Hutch smiled at him, pushing back the sheets. “Now will you come to bed? ‘Cause, I’m beat, Starsk. And I would like to sleep next to you.”

Starsky waited until Hutch was stretched full length, curled onto one side, facing him, before lying down himself. Who was he right then? Hutch’s partner? Hutch’s slave?

No one had issued him the official slave handbook, but weren’t slaves supposed to sleep on the floor? Or maybe across the end of the bed like some pet? He couldn’t assimilate all the scattered parts of Starsky back into a whole. His past was bleeding into the present, the scrappy kid on the street corner high on uppers merging with the slave wearing leather cuffs high on Phenine. Where had the tough soldier in ‘Nam gone? Or the respected Bay City detective?

“C’mon, get some sleep,” Hutch murmured, half asleep himself. “Got enough to worry about in the morning.”

The branding.

Starsky stiffened, but Hutch pressed his big hand, palm flat, against Starsky’s abdomen. “Move again and I’ll chain you to the bedpost.” The threat was said in jest, with a chuckle for punctuation.

Starsky breathed in deeply, feeling Hutch’s hand move with his respirations. This was similar to those long nights before a dangerous undercover assignment, when they’d go over and over everything that could go wrong, searching for loopholes and pitfalls.

Everything had gone wrong. He was a slave.

I have Hutch.

One thing had gone right.

Sleep came long after Hutch was snoring softly beside him. Starsky turned away from him, facing the window, only to have Hutch’s hand slide down his abdomen onto his thigh, the fingers curling over the newly shaved skin.

Sunlight streamed through the mullioned window when Starsky opened his eyes. He lay unmoving, trying to adjust, but half a dozen welts and abrasions vied for attention, all reminding him of his status.

“Got about half an hour, Starsk.” Hutch was dressed, the green shirt from the day before replaced by a familiar sight, a blue button down the exact shade of his eyes. Starsky had given it to him on his birthday the year before.

Half an hour until —

Starsky knuckled sleep out of his eyes, fear pricking his throat. How could he endure a red-hot iron pressed into his flesh branding him for life?

“Hey.” Hutch sat on the bed, the mattress dipping with his weight so that Starsky slid toward him. “You didn’t sleep much, huh?”

“Got a lot on my mind,” Starsky ground out, and started to get up.

Hutch stopped him, inserting his finger through the slave ring like a just-married groom. “Don’t move. I want to see you one last time unmarked.”

“Then don’t have me marked!” Starsky shouted, but he didn’t dare pull away and risk further injury to his most sensitive organ. “You can stop this with one word, dammit. Hutch, it does not have to happen.”

“Yes, it does,” Hutch said with an intensity that shook Starsky deeply. “Because I want it to. It legitimizes you as a slave.” His eyes burned into Starsky’s, hot enough to sear. “And it makes me hot in ways you will never understand, Davey.” He closed his fist around Starsky’s cock, pumping hard and fast.

Davey.

Not the beloved Starsk, but the enslaved Davey.

“Fuck off.”

“I am, baby.” Hutch increased his friction, jerking Starsky off with expert technique.

Starsky didn’t want to enjoy the ride. He wanted to be angry, blame Hutch for torturing him, but the slide of skin against skin was bliss. He felt stretched across a precipice, dangling over the gorge with only Hutch’s hand on his cock holding him safe. Starsky came fast, the afterglow not enough to offset what was to come, but almost enough to let him forgive his master.

He watched through slitted eyes when Hutch unzipped his slacks, taking himself out with the same hand he’d used on Starsky. Starsky’s semen coated Hutch’s cock, providing lubrication for him to masturbate. Starsky had never watched Hutch like this before, watched the strong, masculine face go slack, head thrown back, eyes closed in coital bliss. If Starsky could have managed another erection, he could have orgasmed on the sight alone.

“Starsk!” Hutch climaxed with a joyous cry.

Starsky shut his eyes, torn between adoring this man and wanting to slug him right in the nuts.

A knock on the door startled them both. “Master Ken, I’ve been sent to escort you to the treatment room,” a male voice called out.

“We’ll be right there!” Hutch scrambled off the bed, trying to stuff his shirttail into his pants and zip himself up simultaneously.

Starsky simply wiped himself off with the sheet. There was something to be said for going nude to the party. Flicking the wet bedclothes away, he took one last look at his unmarked, shaved thigh.

This was it.

***

The walk down the hall was nerve-wracking. Since his destination was only a few doors down, Starsky was allowed to go there without a blindfold. This was his first real glimpse of other slaves. Like the girl with the serving cart, all were pierced and tattooed. He hadn’t seen another person with a brand, but unless the slave spread his or her thighs widely, would it be visible?

Their slender young usher stopped in front of a heavy white door and dropped to his knees, never once looking up at Hutch. “Please go inside. Master Neville is waiting for you.”

He assumed that Hutch would go in first, but Hutch, no doubt, expected him to bolt. He gripped Starsky’s arm, pushing open the door so they entered together. The room was unlike any Starsky had ever seen except in some sci fi action flick. It had smooth, white, featureless walls with stark, angular furniture, all upholstered in shiny black vinyl, and a large brazier filled with glowing red coals. Bristling along one side of the brazier were three long handled irons. Instinctively Starsky shrank back against the comforting bulk of Hutch standing behind him.

“Enter the room, slave,” Neville said coldly. “No dawdling.”

“Starsk,” Hutch said sotto voce, rubbing Starsky’s goose-pebbled arm. In a louder voice, he added, “Starsky is my slave; I’ll give the orders. I’m assuming you want him restrained on that table?” He pointed to one with a Y-shaped opening on one end, and leather straps to secure a slave in any position.

“You have done this before,” Neville said coyly, all but batting his golden lashes.

Starsky hated him.

Hutch didn’t raise his chin to acknowledge the Brit’s height advantage. “Give us ten minutes alone, and I’ll have him ready.”

“There’s a right way and a wrong way to everything, cowboy. Don’t assume you know every angle, or you could slip up in the worst way.” Neville walked past Hutch, almost too close, but Hutch never moved, forcing Neville to swerve so that they didn’t bump when he went out the door.

Starsky looked back, past the departing Neville, and caught the flash of fear in the otherwise dulled eyes of a naked slave standing outside. Every slave in the place was probably terrified of this room, especially with an angry Neville inside.

Heated metal on fragile skin.

Just like the accidental brush of the arm against an iron or stove burner. Not bad at all. That had become his mantra.

But if he touched a burner, he could pull away immediately. Here, the heated iron would be held down for a count of five, according to Neville. He was afraid he’d scream. Maybe a gag would be a good idea.

“This is it,” Hutch said unnecessarily.

“Yeah.” Starsky tried for a grin and knew he failed miserably. “Personally, I always liked my thighs fried ‘stead of grilled.”

Abruptly, Hutch looked like he was going to cry, and shook his head to abolish the emotion. “I’ve seen you fried in the sun, it isn’t pretty.”

“And this is?”

“It can be.” Hutch inserted one leg between Starsky’s two, the twill from his pants indescribably erotic on the bare patch of Starsky’s skin. “It will be to me.” He kissed Starsky’s mouth, latching on with a fierceness that surprised them both, and then his lips moved southward, over the jut of Starsky’s jaw and onto the artery pulsing strongly above the slave collar. Hutch suckled like a vampire needing blood, raising a hickey in the process. Starsky couldn’t believe how turned on he was by the forceful way Hutch was handling him. Who knew that this was his trigger?

“I’ve got your real collar,” Hutch said breathlessly. “Neville sent me the key for the Luna one this morning.” Without stepping back far enough for Starsky to see what was happening, Hutch unlocked the thick collar from around his neck.

“Luna?”

“The name of this place.” Hutch pulled several things out of his roomy pockets and placed them on the black vinyl table. “That’s why the brand will be a crescent moon.”

“So now I’m a lunatic,” Starsky joked, feeling desperate. He wanted Hutch’s mouth back sucking on his skin, and his neck felt weirdly vulnerable without a collar.

“Touched by the far side of the moon.” Hutch fastened a newer, stiffer collar around Starsky’s neck so that a small ‘S’ charm bumped his collarbone. It was the collar he’d refused to wear when Hutch offered it as a gift years before.

Starsky dragged in air, perilously close to passing out. The collar was so tight, yet so incredibly right. He remembered feeling trapped as he’d walked into the warehouse on Mission and Ninety-first, sure that the place was as deserted as the moon and twice as remote. Had Neil Armstrong felt this way? Stepping out into uncharted territory without a net, into a whole new world?

“One small step for mankind…” Starsky quipped, and then cried out when Hutch twisted his nipple to a point and attached a small, savage nipple clamp. “Fuck, Hutch! That hurts.”

“Ever hear of fooling the brain with adverse stimuli? If something already hurts, the second pain doesn’t seem so bad.” Hutch kissed his sternum, holding down Starsky’s left arm, the one that wanted to reach up and pull off the offending clamp.

It hurt more than he’d ever imagined a tiny silver ornament could. “G-got the concept, but only one, okay?” Starsky panted against the pain radiating across his chest, but Hutch didn’t listen. He gave the right nipple an even sharper tug and the second clamp bit down with unrelenting intensity.

Starsky hadn’t given much thought to his nipples. They were small and half hidden in chest hair, nothing to write home about. He’d never been a breast man when admiring the ladies, either. More interested in faces and legs. But — shit! There were a hell of a lot more nerve endings in a nipple than he’d ever known. Each breath jittered the hanging clamps, doubling the pain. Like the ocean waves pounding on a shoreline, the clamps felt like an unceasing elemental force of nature.

“Take them off!” Starsky demanded, and was rewarded with the Hutchinson finger leveled at him with deadly precision.

“Get on the table, slave. Lie back with your legs spread.”

“Hutch.” The fear was so strong Starsky couldn’t think. He’d endured a great deal in his life — shootings, poisonings, but nothing voluntary. If this could be called voluntary. Nothing had been his choice since he’d landed head first in the truck.

Except Hutch. Hutch was his choice, and always had been. It was just so hard to give in, to accept. He belonged to Hutch, and in turn, Hutch would belong to him. Was this pain the price of love? How much more would he have to endure to prove that love?

How much more pain could he take?

As if in a dream-state, Starsky sat on the glossy black table and lay back. The vinyl stuck to his naked skin, holding him fast while Hutch wrapped heavy leather straps around his body, arms, and legs. Hutch gathered Starsky’s genitals into a tight leather bag, tucking them away from the damaging heat. Starsky tried to move, dread forming icebergs in his belly, but the straps completely immobilized him.

“Just look at me, Starsk,” Hutch whispered. “Don’t close your eyes; don’t look anywhere else in the room.”

A lighthouse in the wilderness, a sanctuary in the storm, that was his partner. Starsky locked onto Hutch’s face, desperate for reassurance. This would turn out all right. It would be over soon.

Just as the door opened and Neville returned, Hutch pinched down on both nipple clamps at the same time, tightening their grip.

Starsky howled, hating the vicious things.

“Keep looking at me,” Hutch ordered, filling Starsky’s vision with blond hair and summer blue eyes. “Nothing else exists, just you and me. Like before. In the beginning, before the Corporations took over, when they were just irritating vultures who broke down the monopoly laws and impeached the governor. Before, when we used to cruise the city in that old red-and-white striped tomato.”

Starsky could see those two impetuous cops so clearly. Impossibly young and so idealistic. Ready to save the world. They hadn’t even been able to save themselves.

He feasted greedily on Hutch’s love, basking in the glow, but he couldn’t tune out the sound of Neville moving around and speaking imperiously to some other hapless slave. The temperature around the table suddenly rose, and Starsky broke out in a sweat, rivulets pouring down his back to pool under his butt. The heat was so intense he could smell it, like a car overheating in the sun. He whimpered.

“Starsk. Davey,” Hutch said, blocking any view of the lower half of the table with his body. He grabbed both of Starsky’s hands, leaning over Starsky’s bound body to do so. “Just you and me, babe. Together forever. Riding in the car with the wind in our hair, the highway so long and straight it goes on forever.”

Searing, agonizing fire stamped Starsky’s thigh, binding him to the pain. He couldn’t escape, couldn’t fight it, so he simply stared up at the center of his universe as Neville burned a crescent moon into his flesh. It smelled like meat burning on a barbecue.

The branding iron had been back in its brazier for over a minute before Starsky realized that the eerie, keening wail he could hear was coming from his own mouth. Hutch still held tightly to his hands. Had the nipple clamps helped? Starsky couldn’t say. How much worse could the branding have hurt without them? He’d never know, because he was never going to get branded again. Was he?

“Ssh, you’re doing great, Starsk.” Hutch kissed his wet cheeks and took possession of his mouth.

Starsky shuddered, reassured, although by no stretch of the imagination could this be called doing great. His leg was on fire, an inferno that was eating away at his flesh and threatening to bore a hole right through the bone. He was glad Hutch still held his hand tightly.

“There, it’s finished for all your fuss,” Neville said gaily. “And it will look quite pretty when it’s all healed. Just the thing for the master to play with when spreading his slave’s legs.”

Starsky resolved to murder this bastard someday, and bit down on the lip that Hutch had just kissed. He wished he could taste his partner there.

“He can have two doses of morphine,” Neville continued, “as long as there’s no silly problems with allergies and such. And usually there’s a check-up in a day or two, but since you’re so resolved to be on your way — ”

“We are.” Hutch let go of Starsky’s hand, but patted his belly once before turning to talk to the slave trainer. “How about something for the road? He can’t just go without anything.”

“We’re not entirely heartless. He’ll get some Phenine. Slaves seem to do very well on the stuff.”

Drawing in strength from Hutch’s brief contact, Starsky lay very still. He didn’t have the energy for much except breathing. Now that the initial pain was dampening, he could think more clearly. He was now a branded slave. Even if, someday, the slave laws were abolished, he’d still bear the marks of that life. Even if no one ever knew, never saw the brand and pierce hole under his clothing, Hutch would know. Hutch wanted him like this.

He’d gone through this pain for Hutch’s sake. To bind them together. Hutch would be part of him for the rest of his life, and he a part of Hutch. They were now conjoined twins with something extra, a love that only revealed itself fully after so many years of hiding in the shadows. It was a scary, exhilarating love that was both life-affirming and darkly twisted.

The real question was, now that David Starsky was this man’s slave, did he want to regain his freedom?

How far had he come since that fateful Tuesday when he’d vowed never to bow to any man?

“This is Tink,” Neville said, waving a limp wrist at a smaller Asian man. “He’ll do the bandaging and whatnot. Cheerio, chaps, I’m off to polish a miscreant’s rosy ass.”

“Hello,” Tink said with the careful consonants and syllables of someone who had learned English as a second language. He was barely as tall as Hutch’s shoulder, delicate and spare with a narrow, angular face and sharply canted black eyes. He wore nothing but the usual ring in his cock and a small caduceus charm on his collar to denote his former profession. “I was a doctor, before.”

Before. The word echoed in Starsky’s head. From now on, everything would be reckoned as Before Slavery and After. Even Hutch had used the term.

“I have worked with many burn patients. This is deep, as all brands are, but will heal well as long as it is kept clean.”

Starsky hissed when Tink touched the wound lightly. The doctor spread a cooling gel over the entire area and taped a light bandage in place. “One dose of morphine now and another in six hours,” Tink explained, injecting the narcotic into Starsky’s rump. “That is all slaves are allowed.”

Starsky wanted to curl over on one side and let the drug take him under for a while, but the straps still held him fast to the table in that uncomfortable legs-spread position. Morphine was good stuff, even if it gave him vivid dreams. After the surgery to repair the damage of Gunther’s bullets, when he was still on regular doses of the painkiller, he’d had a dream that had never made sense.

Until now.

Prophetic, really. He’d dreamed he’d been strapped to a table with surgical implements clamped to various open wounds while the surgeons did their work. Only in the dream, they hadn’t been repairing his bullet wounds, they’d been changing something inside, turning him into some sort of bionic man. He’d been awake but unable to speak, only able to listen to the nurses’ comments on his well-formed body and heavy sac. They would touch him, fondling his cock and giggling, not the least concerned for his modesty. As a doctor cauterized some vessel, the sizzle and pop sounded like gunshot, underscoring the nurses’ raunchy talk. Oddly, he hadn’t been so much frightened as resigned. Somehow, this was his fate, to be some sort of lab rat, without any right to protest his violation.

In the dream, the name “Starsk” uttered in a low sensual voice had caused him to open his eyes. Hutch stood at the end of the operating table dressed all in black leather — jacket, slacks, and a low-brimmed hat — watching. The surgeons gave Hutch no mind, continuing to place more bits of metal and wire inside Starsky’s body. Just when the stink of heat against skin had been overpowering, Hutch had leaned in and kissed him. Immediately, he’d been healed, the incisions magically closed. When Starsky looked down at his body, the scars spelled out the word “Hutch” from just above his cock straight up to his breastbone.

Starsky had always considered it the result of morphine-induced paranoia and watching too many reruns of the Six Million Dollar Man. Now, held down with straps, with Tink carefully snipping the stitches that held the IV port in place, he knew differently. He’d seen his future in that dream, and it was here. He cried out once when the snaky IV tubing slithered from his body, and looked over to see Hutch press his fingers against a gauze pad to staunch the bleeding.

“Sssh,” Hutch whispered, and stroked the tangle of hair just above the black bag protecting Starsky’s manhood. The bag seemed to rise of its own accord, the knots holding it closed suddenly far too tight, and Starsky moaned. He wanted — no needed — Hutch’s hand there, warm against his belly, but it was too much. System overload; all circuits fried.

“Almost over, tiger, then some food and a nap. You look like you could use it,” Hutch said, the corners of his mouth turning up at the sight of the dancing codpiece.

“No food.” Starsky shook his head, and was proud that he had that ability. Apparently, he had less control over his nether regions, because the erection was growing limp as his nausea level rose. That nap sounded good. How long would he be kept here? Hours, like on the hideous frame?

“You must eat and keep up your strength,” Tink advised. “I can only give you a small jar of ointment, but aloe vera works well. Be very careful to keep the brand clean and lightly covered. If infection sets in, that could be fatal. More and more doctors will not treat slaves. In fact, recent laws have made it impossible to give more than a single dose of antibiotic to a slave.”

“That’s ludicrous!” Hutch exploded, and pressed too hard on the gauze pad.

“Hey,” Starsky reminded him, and caught the apology in Hutch’s eyes. Hutch looked haunted, as if the whole experience had been more than he’d bargained for. “It won’t get infected,” Starsky said, but he was still appalled by the law. Was there anyone left in the world that gave a damn about slaves’ welfare?

“It may be different in other areas.” Tink shrugged, obviously used to schooling his emotions around owners. “I only know our small patch of Nevada, and little enough of that.”

“Where were you from?” Starsky asked, deciding it was about time he entered the conversation. The ointment and narcotic were taking effect. It must have been a low dose of morphine because he wasn’t drifting off in a languid daze. His leg still hurt, but he felt disconnected from the pain. Quite a nice feeling.

“When I was taken? San Francisco.” Tink pursed his lips together. “I couldn’t pay my medical school loans, so my bank called in the hunters.”

“Your bank!” Starsky responded too quickly, forgetting the straps that held him. He jerked upward and was rewarded with a huge backwash of intense hurt from all over his body. The straps dug into the flesh of his chest and belly, cutting off his oxygen for a moment and he panted, waiting out the agony. Both nipple clamps seemed to pinch down twice as hard, and he was sure there would be bloody pinpricks circling his nipples when Hutch removed them.

“What was that Phenine Neville mentioned?” Hutch asked with concern, when Tink taped a clean gauze pad in place. Hutch’s hand went back to that nest of hair over Starsky’s groin, but this time there was no arousal.

Starsky recognized the name of the drug and thought he knew what Phenine did, but was loopy enough that he couldn’t put his finger on why he didn’t want Phenine again.

“A painkiller made especially for slaves.” Tink ducked his head, tidying his scissors and bandages on the procedure tray. “It is a new formula. So many drugs are available only to those who can afford high prices charged by private physicians.”

“The CEC cut off health insurance late last year,” Hutch agreed.

“Just so,” Tink said. “That alone had a huge impact. We’ve had many slaves added to the fold since then — those who’ve lost everything because of astronomical medical costs.”

“Barbaric.” Starsky sounded hoarse to his own ears, and swallowed, feeling the pressure of the collar on his Adam’s apple. Not his collar, Hutch’s.

“This whole thing is barbaric,” Hutch snarled, unbuckling the stiff leather straps. His anger made him clumsy and Starsky would have loved to help him, but Hutch had started with the ankle bindings first.

“So now, a whole new market,” Tink said. “Drugs for citizens and others for slaves. Phenine isn’t strong, but it is better than having nothing at all.” Tink took no notice of Hutch’s frenzied movements, and scooped a portion of ointment from a larger tub into a small white jar. He tucked that and a bottle of pills into a bag marked with a crescent moon. “I will come to your room, Master Ken, later, to administer the second injection. Thank you for speaking so kindly with a humble slave.” He bowed formally, and went to his knees, touching his head to the floor for a moment before backing to the door on his knees.

With half the straps unbuckled, Starsky was able to see this remarkable sight just before Tink stood with his head lowered and keyed the door opening sequence. Starsky shuddered at the tangible example of what he might become. Then the clamps hanging off his chest jittered violently.

“Take ’em off!” Starsky hissed, at the limits of his endurance. He would have thrown up if he had eaten anything.

Hutch obeyed without comment, taking the wind out of Starsky’s sails. Yesterday, Hutch had been predatory, totally turned on by Starsky’s debasement. Today, he seemed shell-shocked, his face pale and unreadable.

The removal hurt, sensation coming back to his nubs with sudden intensity. Starsky bit down hard on his lip, refusing to play the victim. If only he could rub the offended areas, but Hutch had somehow left the straps holding his wrists down for last.

“Having second thoughts?” Starsky asked, confused.

“Just finding out that reality is a great deal different than fantasy,” Hutch muttered, releasing the buckles restraining Starsky’s left arm. Starsky half sat up and awkwardly unthreaded the strap from the buckle on his right arm by himself. “I had these daydreams. You down in front of me, wearing the collar and cuffs…so damned beautiful.” He turned away, picking up the bag of medications absently. “But the rest of the time our lives would be like they were…”

“Before,” Starsky said.

Hutch sighed, nodding. “What you just did for me, Starsk.” Hutch put the bag into the pocket of his jacket, looking down the length of Starsky’s body, his gaze so hot that the dried sweat on Starsky’s back rehydrated, drenching him. “It’s unbelievable.”

“Like I had a choice?”

“No.” Hutch touched Starsky’s left thigh, fingers delicately poised at the edge of the bandage. “Neither one of us have since I got caught up in this mess. If you want to blame someone, blame Roschenzky.” He dropped to his knees, head bowed as Tink had done.

Starsky was appalled. This wasn’t Hutch. This wasn’t how it should be.

“Master,” Starsky said, his voice breaking and twisting so that he could barely get the words out. “Hutch, please.” He wanted to pull Hutch up, but when he swung his legs over the side of the table, the world tilted like an amusement park ride.

“I’ve turned your life into hell,” Hutch said.

Starsky was stunned to see that Hutch knelt directly between his knees, his mouth so close to Starsky’s cock he could have opened up those narrow lips and sucked him on in.

“I didn’t mean to,” Hutch said in a tight voice. He loosened the ties on the leather bag protecting Starsky’s genitals, easing out his penis and sac with infinite care. “I was so busy with my own agenda I didn’t think out every angle.”

“Not hell.” Starsky was as astonished as Hutch to hear himself say that. If this wasn’t hell, what was it? A life with Hutch, forever. How could that be hell? “Just different.”

Hutch rubbed his fair hair on the inner skin of Starsky’s right thigh, a ticklish yet wonderful sensation. If he hadn’t been about three-quarters high on morphine, it would have turned him on, but his cock only twitched once. Then, Hutch leaned in and bestowed a reverent kiss up in the junction of his left thigh and groin, right above the newly minted brand. That did it. Starsky sucked in a startled breath, even the gentle pressure of Hutch’s lips causing pain, but his cock jumped for joy, nearly poking Hutch in the ear.

“Baby,” Hutch murmured, rubbing his head against Starsky’s erection. “Lover, slave. You’re all I ever wanted, do you know that? After stakeouts, on those nights when you’d do me with your head practically under the steering wheel…I had the best dreams after that. I knew it was sick, but I loved you most then.”

“I loved you, too.” Starsky closed his eyes, aware of nothing except the feather light brush of hair against his sensitive organ. A few strands caught in the metal of the ring, pulling sharply until Hutch reached up and untangled himself. Even the most minimal touch of skin to skin was perfection. Starsky came suddenly, splattering Hutch’s hand with semen.

“Lick it.” Hutch stood, raising his sticky fingers to Starsky’s mouth. “Clean me off.”

When Starsky opened his mouth to obey, Hutch did the same, both of their tongues lapping up the cum together. Salty, almost bitter, musky, Starsky’s own essence. Wet tongues met fleetingly, warm breath mingled, foreheads so close together that Starsky was convinced their thoughts could transfer back and forth without a single word spoken.

Desire. Need. Infatuation. Devotion.

That described how he felt about Hutch. Then, other words filtered up through his consciousness.

Enslaved. Owned. Branded.

Scary words, but they described him as well. Just as master, owner, and enforcer marked Hutch.

And partner.

Always partner, no matter what other things were said.

“Partner,” Starsky said aloud.

“Yes,” Hutch agreed and helped him down off the table.

Starsky wobbled, his legs shaking, and remembered Hutch helping him down off another treatment table after he’d been injected with a deadly poison. They hadn’t known how to save him then, but had worked together to find the culprit as Starsky got sicker and sicker. He wasn’t sick now, just stripped of all that had once given him status in the world. But with Hutch beside him, maybe they could restore order. Return the world to the way it had been before the CEC moved in. He remembered that Hutch had to go on alone once Starsky was too sick from the poison to help.

This time, he planned to be right at Hutch’s side. He forced himself to stand erect, ignoring his trembling knees.

Tink came in when the afternoon sun was slanting through the windows of Hutch’s suite, casting weird shadows that made alternating black and bright patterns on the ornate carpet. Starsky had slept since the branding and endured a second injection without comment. He still didn’t feel like eating, but knew he should because there was one more hurdle to jump over before they could leave that evening.

Despite the stupefying effects of the morphine, the fresh wound on his leg, and his weakness, he had to show Neville that he’d learned the basics. Going through the slave positions with the new brand would be an ordeal and really brought home his status. No one was concerned about whether he felt well enough to perform; they just expected that a slave must satisfy his master.

“Get any rest?” Hutch asked, looking up from some papers.

“Feel like crap,” Starsky muttered, his mouth furry. Low-level nausea still sat heavily in his belly. He tottered over to the bathroom to clean up and brush his teeth. The brand felt huge, like it covered him from groin to knee, and throbbed with every step. In fact, it was fairly small; a four by four inch gauze bandage covered the entire thing. Starsky had the urge to pull the tape off and look at his new adornment, but wasn’t sure of the protocol. It was on his body, but he didn’t own any part of himself. Hutch probably wouldn’t punish him for such a minor indiscretion, but Neville might. Still, Starsky just wanted to see what it looked like.

Unable to staunch his natural curiosity, Starsky carefully slid a fingernail under the edge of the gauze, and gasped, pain flaring up with fiery intensity. “Shit.”

“You want to see it? Wait until it heals,” Hutch said, leaning against the doorjamb. “It will look better then.”

“It’s part of me,” Starsky said, gritting his teeth to remain strong.

“And every part of you is part of me.” Hutch took his arm, leading him out to a small table covered with scattered papers and some bread and cheese. “If nothing else, slavery may teach you some patience, Starsk. Bravery, you already had.” He poured a glass of orange juice. “Now eat something before we have to go see that ponce, Neville.”

“What’s all this?” Starsky indicated the papers as he placed some cheddar on slice of sourdough and chewed without much interest. Surprisingly, it went down well, and his stomach was quite happy for another piece, which he supplied.

“Reports that the Abbey League needs; information that the CEC didn’t want to fall into the wrong hands.” Hutch grinned.

“But it did?”

“Only if you consider ours the wrong hands.” Hutch shuffled some of the pages then pulled one out to show Starsky. “Names of the major players, CEOs, who knows what about who…”

“Shouldn’t that be whom?”

“When did you suddenly become the grammar expert?”

“A lot has changed recently.”

“Yeah.” Hutch put down the list he’d been squinting at, looking at Starsky with something of the old Hutch.

This silly back and forth, as if they’d been whiling away the hours on a stakeout instead of ensconced in an overly decorated bordello, felt like old times. Starsky could ignore for a moment that he was naked and Hutch dressed. He could ignore all the ways the CEC had fucked them over as long as what Hutch and he had between them stayed essentially the same.

“Anyway,” Hutch said after a pause, “we’re learning the ways to squeeze back, to grab them by the nuts and make it hurt. Which ones regularly use slaves is the most important, because that’s who we — you can target first.”

“I thought you said we were wanted men in BC. How can we go back there?”

“We’re not. The transfer of power happened a while back. Very few of the bigwigs live in Bay City anymore. Many have places in states without extradition to California like Vegas, or in neutral territory like New Mex-Arizona. My assignment is to infiltrate the mob, get an invitation to the council meeting supposedly taking place in Phoenix, and take Dunfey down anyway I can.”

“Hutch!” Starsky dropped his piece of cheese and didn’t bother to pick it up. He’d never suspected that his partner had such a devious scheme. “But he’s gone.”

“There are logical places he’ll have to surface,” Hutch said enigmatically. “We’ll be there first.”

“So suddenly we’re the perps? Breaking laws ‘stead of bending ’em?”

“When was the last time you felt like we were upholding any law worth having, huh?” Hutch went hard and cold in a second.

“Seems like the day we left the academy,” Starsky admitted, thinking back on all the assignments he’d been a part of that had rubbed him the wrong way. Jailing old men because they cheated a little on taxes, looking the other way when those in power used the less fortunate for their own means, rapes that went unreported, robberies that were recorded as misunderstandings… He’d always been the maverick, accused of taking the law into his own hands to arrest those who broke the real laws — the ones that said murder, stealing, and extortion were wrong. It had gotten him into hot water more often than he could count.

“Exactly,” Hutch said. “The men running the government are the biggest criminals of all. So, we switch sides to fight back.”

“You think they’ll believe we went traitor?”

“We never went traitor to ourselves, Starsk.” Hutch entwined his fingers in Starsky’s, squeezing tight. “Unless you consider this…”

“No.” Starsky exhaled with a loud whoosh. “I’m still getting my brain wrapped around this whole thing, but I get why you had to do it. At least, I understand intellectually; the rest’ll come eventually.”

“Your brain’s working just fine, lover.” Hutch picked up a square of cheese and popped it in his mouth. “You’ve already got the physical in line. The emotion will follow.”

Nodding soberly, Starsky poked at the remains of the meal, piling cheese cubes into a mini stairs and walking his fingers down. His emotions were all over the map. He wanted to kneel in front of Hutch, but not that British prick. He gloried in the way Hutch looked at him now, lusted after him in a way that had never before been so obvious. It was the rest of the world he worried about. What would happen once they left this place? For all that Starsky hated the cruelty, humiliation, and punishments at Luna, they were nothing compared to what it would be like to walk in public nude, collared, and branded. Could he hold Hutch to the promise that he would only have to be a slave when it was necessary? Could he withstand the pity in the other Abbey Leaguers’ eyes?

“There was a woman here…” He thought back, not sure which day he’d been so roughly examined. “Harriet.” He stuffed down memories of being watched by an unknown audience while Harriet and Neville had played with him, and the shame that drugs coursing through him made him crave their callous handling. “Sr09;she mentioned going to a council meeting. That she had to leave soon.” He couldn’t trust his own senses anymore, though. He could have conjured her up just as he’d done visions of Terry and Hutch making love.

“Harriet.” Hutch rifled through his papers. “I’m sure I saw her name here. Good. The more information we have, the better.” He located the right document and circled a name with a pencil. “Harriet Roget. She owns Luna.”

“Looked like a VP, one of the CEC’s lawyer or something.” Starsky hated the fear that her name brought.

“She is. Probably bought this place as an investment and found she liked having men at her feet.”

Not me.

Not ever.

“Is today Sunday?” Starsky worked hard to keep the sound of a whiny child from his voice. He had to maintain dignity, prove that he was still a man.

“You know it is. Why, you plan on writing a diary?”

“I need to keep track,” he snapped. “Take about a day to drive to Arizona?”

“I think so.”

“Where are my clothes? Cause I ain’t driving through the desert naked.”

“Don’t worry. When the time is right, I’ll give them to you.”

“When the time is right?” Starsky bristled. “I’m not some baby that needs to be led around by the hand, Hutch. Give me my clothes.”

Hutch didn’t move; his eyes were the pale chips of a glacier. He licked his lips and seemed to come to some decision. “The other day we agreed that you would be my slave in private.” His gaze raked across Starsky’s nude body with blistering heat, but there was censure for Starsky’s behavior. “I’m the one in charge here, Davey.”

Starsky felt the slave name like a punch in the gut.

“Once things have settled,” Hutch continued in a softer tone, “once we’re really in private — it won’t matter so much. But there are so few people we can trust. You have to believe that. Follow my lead or you could get badly hurt.”

“Worse than what you’ve done to me?” Starsky retorted bitterly.

“Worse than what you did to me for all those years, buddy.”

Starsky went down on his knees, his belly burning with shame and anger. “Master, accept my apology for ridiculing your fucking fantasies.”

Hutch smacked Starsky so hard he fell back against the bed, his lower lip split. Starsky stared up at his partner, knowing he’d provoked the blow, and fascinated by the montage of rage, guilt, passion, and confusion that played across Hutch’s face.

“Why?” Hutch demanded.

“To prove that you would.” Starsky tasted his own blood and sucked on his lip. “Even in private. What’s that old saying? Absolute power corrupts absolutely. Hutch, you gotta be careful. Playing in their sandbox could change you forever.”

“And as you said, so much has already changed.” Hutch massaged his temples, a sign that he was getting a major migraine. “Your clothes are in my bag. I went to your house and got a few things before I left the city.” His jaw muscles spasmed before he continued. “I stood in your bedroom feeling like I’d killed everything we ever had together.”

“What we’ve got now is different, but I’m beginning to think it’s a lot more honest.” Starsky judged that it was safe to reassert his independence and stood. He was about to rummage through the suitcase for something to wear when a knock on the door stopped him.

“Get back on your knees,” Hutch said, flashing him a sympathetic smile. He brushed his hand fleetingly through Starsky’s curls and keyed the door open.

Neville stood in the hall, dressed all in green and gold. A silky kimono covered a gold net shirt that revealed a hairless chest. The sprayed-on leather pants were eye-popping green, but Neville was far too skinny to pull off the style.

Starsky knelt stiffly in proper presentation, his eyes cast toward the floor, hands resting loosely on his thighs and his legs spread as widely as he could tolerate. Even so, Neville made a rude sound and grasped Starsky’s shoulders, pulling them back until he thought his backbone would snap. Starsky imagined snapping the twig-like trainer in two without breaking a sweat.

“Shoulders back, and work on keeping those legs spread, Davey lamb. Need to show perfect posture at all times.” He snickered. “I see that you’d delivered a bit of necessary discipline to the lad, Hutchinson. With his gypsy boy looks, he really should have a couple of bruises and that oh-so winsome smear of blood at all times.”

Hutch stood just behind Starsky. The solid warmth of his legs against Starsky’s back was exactly what Starsky needed to sustain him.

“We’ve got somewhere to be, so get this over with,” Hutch snapped.

“A demonstration of all the common slave positions,” Neville said, sounding bored. “Showing that the slave has learned at least the most basic of skills and listens closely to his master’s voice.” He circled Starsky, gold alligator-skin shoes and slick green leather all that Starsky could see. “Hutchinson, put him through his paces.”

“Obeisance, Davey,” Hutch said formally.

Moving as quickly and gracefully as he could, Starsky bent forward at the waist, still on his knees, and placed his cheek on the floor, arms stretched out in front of him. The next command was for Punishment, which only required raising the buttocks up in case the owner wanted to paddle his slave. Submission was the first of the standing positions, hands clasped behind the waist, head bowed, legs spread. Starsky found it appallingly similar to the Army’s parade rest. Everything he’d done in his teens was coming full circle, even his stint in the armed forces. Hutch’s uninflected tone sounded exactly like the whip-crack voice of Staff Sergeant Morgan, back in basic training.

“Slave!” Hutch roared.

Starsky looked up, astonished. He’d been daydreaming instead of paying attention.

Hutch was fearsome in his anger, his jaw as pale as marble and just as hard. His blue eyes bore straight into Starsky’s soul.

Dropping to his knees, Starsky didn’t even notice the pain of hitting the floor, only aware of a hot blush of shame that burned across his cheeks. He’d made Hutch look bad.

“Well, you’ll have to punish him now,” Neville drawled, a delighted grin making him look like a ghoulish jack o’lantern. “Breaking position. Eye contact. Can I interest you in a whip or an old fashioned tawse?”

“I prefer a belt,” Hutch said as if he did this every day. “Punishment position, slave, and don’t move a muscle. Five strokes for disobedience.”

Steeling himself to hide his trembling, Starsky folded himself into the pose he’d held shortly before. He wasn’t sure that he could maintain it without flinching. The brand on his thigh throbbed; heat radiating off the wound. How hard would Hutch hit him?

“I’d use my belt first, because I don’t have anything else.”

What Hutch said that first night left Starsky incredibly aroused, but reality was another matter. He wasn’t turned on by the prospect of a beating.

“Five strokes, to remind you. Not punishment. Just for us, because I want to.”

He waffled between anger and desire, with a bit of fear to spice things up. The five strokes were Hutch’s code for love, that much was clear, but he didn’t really have to do the deed, did he? He didn’t have to prove his worth as a master to Neville. Or did he?

Hutch slipped his belt out of the loops and wrapped the end with the metal buckle in his hand, holding it down to Starsky’s mouth. “Kiss it, Davey,” he said loudly, then added, “Starsk, I…” almost too softly to hear.

“Just do it,” Starsky hissed, pressing his mouth to the leather. His bottom lip stung, and left a tiny drop of blood on the pressed leaf pattern on the belt. With Hutch this close to him, he could smell Hutch’s musky arousal. Hutch wasn’t doing this to prove himself to Neville; he was proving his domination, and love, to Starsky.

Starsky held himself immobile when the first blow slapped his bare bottom. He suspected Hutch wasn’t putting his whole weight into the swing because the pain wasn’t bad. But when the second and third blow landed in exactly the same spot, Starsky had a harder time remembering this was a show of love. He bit down on his abused lower lip, tasting the bright, sharp tang of blood. The fifth blow landed precisely over the first four, blistering that one place on his left ass cheek. Starsky hiccupped, barely able to keep from crying. He hadn’t moved, but it was a near thing.

“Magnificent artistry, cowboy,” Neville crowed. “I knew you’d look right at home striking another man.”

“Now, Davey.” Hutch stepped in front of his partner, banishing the Brit from Starsky’s view. “Let’s start from the beginning. Presentation pose.”

Despite nipples still tender from the clamps, his aching butt, and the renewed pain from the brand, Starsky did his routine flawlessly, determined not to lose concentration this time. Deliverance was the hardest of the standing poses, staring straight ahead without looking at the master, hands locked behind the neck with the elbows stuck out like angel wings. Hutch took the opportunity to palm the welt on Starsky’s backside, and it was all Starsky could do not to squeak in pain. The touch hurt, and yet, perversely he liked Hutch’s hand there, covering the hurt, soothing it away. The same hand that caused pain also brought pleasure.

“Spread eagle,” Hutch directed, pointing over at the bed.

Starsky didn’t hesitate, lying down on the rumpled bedclothes without pushing them out of the way. He knew the drill — nothing was done for his comfort, even though the twisted sheets made a lump in the small of his back. Everything was for the master. Whatever the master wanted, the slave provided. He grabbed hold of the upright posts on either side of the bedstead, which were just far enough apart to strain the muscles in his shoulders. He reached out with spread legs to touch his toes to the posts at the foot of the bed and waited.

Spread eagle was always a test of the slave’s endurance and ability to obey without being restrained. When Neville had trained him in the position on Saturday afternoon, he’d used the whip on him again and again, creating tiny stinging welts on his feet, belly, and cock. Starsky caught his breath, wondering if Hutch could top that, and if he could hold out against whatever pain Hutch inflicted without removing his hands or feet from their stations.

Hutch trailed the end of the belt down Starsky’s body. It was provocative as hell, and scary, too. Was Hutch planning to smack his front? The leather flicked lightly against Starsky’s penis, sliding between his legs, but never to the left, only on the right, the unmarked thigh. It snaked under his balls, making him gasp and want to writhe, but that was not allowed. Starsky tensed, he could barely stand the pressure of the sheets against his blistered ass, and the ticklish sweat dripping under his collar into the hollow of his throat and down his back burned like fire on the welts.

Oh, God, Hutch. What you do to me.

The belt was narrow and fit through the metal ring piercing Starsky’s cock. It was a tight fit. Hutch had to curl the edges of the belt to get it in, but once through he was able to thread the leather strap to the midpoint.

Starsky closed his eyes, his breathing erratic and labored. How could he remain motionless with this going on? Each time the belt inched a little farther, the ring tugged on the end of his cock, sending the most amazing and alarming sensations to his brain — to every sensitized part of his body. He was abuzz.

Hutch held Starsky’s organ tightly, pinching down on the base as he pulled and prodded the belt along its course. The feeling of that hot, big hand on his skin was the most electrifying thing Starsky had ever encountered. He literally had to hold his breath not to thrust up into Hutch’s hand, and cried out when Hutch tugged the belt up to wrap it around Starsky’s waist.

“Lordy, cowboy, you do know how to play a mean flute…” Neville said faintly.

Starsky had forgotten he was in the room. The only person he was aware of was Hutch. His whole universe was Hutch. He moaned when Hutch pushed the belt under his body, and tightened his grasp on the bedposts.

“Hu…”

“Sssh, no talking, mushbrain.” Hutch straddled him, knees tight against Starsky’s hipbones, his hands scrabbling under Starsky’s back to get a purchase on the buckle of the belt. He finally tipped Starsky’s body over to the right to snug one end of the now sweat-slicked leather into the tight fastener.

His body twisted like a piece of Christmas candy, Starsky panted, feeling the hard jut of Hutch’s knees holding him firmly, and the moist heat of Hutch’s penis pressing into his side through a layer of clothing. Hutch was incredibly turned on.

Starsky grunted when Hutch finally secured the belt; his cock was strained to the limit of its length, pressed tight against his abdomen. Every breath, every movement, was agony, but incredibly erotic at the same time. Starsky had managed to keep contact with the four posts, but felt more wrung out than he’d ever been after an hour at Vinnie’s gym.

“Good work, Starsk,” Hutch breathed into his ear as he eased Starsky back onto the mattress.

“I’m all aglow, I’ll tell you that much.” Neville fanned himself with one limp hand. “Oh, Hutchinson, we could go places together, you and I. You have the gift, my dear.”

“It takes the right partner,” Hutch said dryly, holding out a hand to Starsky. “Did you get my car all gassed up and pack some food for the road?”

“As you commanded, lover.” Neville tittered, watching Starsky stand gingerly. “It hurts, doesn’t it, lamb? We always have to suffer for the good stuff. That’s what makes it so good.”

Wanting to smack the limey scarecrow across his supercilious mouth, Starsky almost started to speak when Hutch dug his fingers into his wrist.

“We’re out of here, then.” Hutch looked at Starsky.

“Oh, I did forget to tell you something.” Neville paused at the large door, standing coyly like a winsome model in some fey fashion magazine.

“Why am I not surprised?” Hutch ran a long finger down Starsky’s spine, tugged once on the belt, making Starsky grunt, then turned away to pick up a piece of luggage.

Starsky swayed, standing unsupported, his cock tight and hot on his belly. God, Hutch isn’t going to make me sit in the car like this, is he? He looked down, staring at his imprisoned organ. The pull on the ring strained the head of his cock, making it look like the point of a rocket. That’s exactly how he felt, like he was about to blast off. If Hutch touched him even one more time, he would climax with Neville still in the room.

“These little details always seem to get away from me,” Neville sighed. “He’ll have to be masked and cuffed until you are past the gates of Luna — house policy, Davey.” He glanced over at Starsky, golden eyes smoky. “Not that I don’t prefer most of my slaves wearing a mask and manacles, but in your case that pretty face with all the bruises really shouldn’t be covered for too very long.”

“I’d like to see a few bruises on your face, too, but then we don’t always get what we want, huh?” Starsky managed to get the whole sentence out before Neville slapped him hard. It was an open-handed womanly slap, which stung but didn’t do much damage.

“He deserves days alone on the frame with a rocket launcher shoved up his butt,” Neville shrieked, high color on his bony cheeks. “Tell your slave to apologize, Hutchinson!”

“If he’s speaks the truth, why should I punish him for it?” Hutch shrugged, but pointed a dagger finger at Starsky.

Knowing he’d probably crossed the line, Starsky dropped his head, tucked his hands behind his back and took an absolutely perfect submission posture. “I would never lie in front of my master,” he said through his teeth.

“See, he obeys me to the letter.” Hutch stepped in front of Starsky like a shield. “Why the blindfold if he’s leaving?”

Neville sighed as if both ex-detectives were totally stupid. “So he won’t know the location of our little haven, of course. In case he turns rogue and wants to come back to murder us in our beds.”

“I know the location,” Hutch said ominously.

Starsky risked raising his head, knowing both were ignoring him. Hutch was once again the sleek, tawny cougar on alert, ready to strike. He didn’t move, but Starsky could see the muscles of his back rippling with suppressed energy under his shirt.

“But why would you tell, cowboy?” Neville asked, but his voice had this odd little squeak of fear, and he smoothed the lapels of his kimono nervously.

“Why wouldn’t I?” Hutch countered, holding out his hand. “You’ll have to supply the mask, we’re traveling light.”

“I’ll have Neela bring one pronto. She so enjoyed serving you last night.” Neville palmed the door and was out before Hutch could take another step forward.

“I think you scared him.” Starsky chuckled. He relaxed his stance, groin now continuously aching in competition with his brand. And he had to go to the bathroom. He fingered the buckle in the back, trying to work the belt loose from the opposite direction than he was used to.

“Damn fool,” Hutch muttered. He looked up and down Starsky’s bound body, and licked his lips like a man who hadn’t eaten in a long time. “You’ll still be wearing a mask when we leave here. And leave that thing alone.”

“I gotta go,” Starsky said belligerently. “Especially if we’re going to be driving a long way.” Still, he’d wanted Hutch’s hands on him for the last ten minutes, and thrust his hips toward his partner. “I can’t take a wiz like this.”

Hutch wrapped his hand around Starsky’s cock, and, amazingly, it swelled, a tiny pearl of fluid appearing on the upright end. Starsky gulped, but held steady, all of his nerve endings praying for Hutch to bring him off.

“Don’t come,” Hutch said.

Starsky’s heart stalled, then restarted, slamming against his chest with startling force. He clenched down, forcing all his pleading hormones to back off. “Wr09;what?”

“I have a few things planned for later — once we’re away from here.” Hutch squeezed, not enough to hurt, but enough to take the edge off Starsky’s rampant need. Then he swiftly unfastened the belt. Starsky had to make a mad dash to the toilet, but he made it.

When he emerged from the bathroom, Hutch had laid clothes over the footboard of the bed. Familiar clothes. His own clothes, from his own drawer back in Bay City. Jeans as soft and worn as flannel pajamas and a red Henley shirt, most of the buttons missing from the open placket. No underwear, which didn’t surprise him. And no leather jacket, which was probably on the back of one of those mouth-breathing mooks who’d stripped him in the truck. Real, old leather, soft as the hide of a baby calf, the heady scent a comfort on those days when he was cold and alone because it smelled like Hutch.

Hutch favored leather almost more than Starsky did — and it suited him the way popcorn went with movies or peanut butter with jelly. Perfection. That blond hair just dusting the folded down collar of his sleek, tan jacket with the blanket stitching down the lapels…

“You looking at me?” Hutch half turned from stuffing his papers back into the carryall, knowing Starsky’s mind, his heart, his very being so completely. Even more than Starsky knew himself.

“Is there a law against that, too?” Starsky jerked his pants all the way up and hissed when the denim crushed the brand and fresh welts.

“If there is, I can always give you a warning and then release you into my care for safekeeping. C’mere.”

“I’m not so sure I’m safe around you.” Starsky pretended to protest, but he liked the give and take, the easiness of the moment. He couldn’t quite find his footing anymore with Hutch. He wasn’t sure of the new protocols, but told himself their basic bond hadn’t broken, just shifted to one side.

Hooking a finger into Starsky’s empty belt loops, Hutch reeled him in. “I went over to your place to look for that old pair of jeans you used to have. Remember them? With the rip on the right knee?” He ran one hand up the inner seam of Starsky’s pants, but instead of a rip in the knee area, he split the thin fabric right over the brand, fraying the edges all the way around until the white gauze showed through like a tiny flag.

Starsky couldn’t move, caught in a tractor beam of those hungry summer blue eyes like the Millennium Falcon being towed along by the Death Star.

“And right here, under the fly, the threads were so loose I could have just grabbed hold and yanked.” He suited action to his words, but didn’t touch Starsky’s flesh, just eliminated the last vestiges of denim, bringing the silver cock ring into view. “But I couldn’t find them. So I had to bring these.”

Starsky had to try twice before he could speak, rampant desire leaving him weak and trembling. “I cut ’em off…t’wash the car.”

“Ah.” Hutch nodded as if he were a music lover hearing Bach for the first time. “I knew there had to be a good reason why they weren’t in your drawer. You never throw anything away. Which is why I was able to find the collar and the nipple clamps.” He reached up languidly and pinched one pert nipple hard, using his fingernails like the teeth of the clamp.

Starsky hissed, but had learned enough to remain absolutely still. Weirdly, the sharp little pain just intensified the ache in his groin, his erection jutting out like a beggar hoping for a hand job.

“Finish getting dressed, slugger,” Hutch said, “so we can blow this pop stand.”

“Kinda hard with you attached to me like that.” Starsky looked straight at his lover, his partner, his master, and his best friend, and knew exactly what Hutch was doing. This was his anchor.

“I’ll always be attached to you,” Hutch said fiercely, letting go. The pain of release, millions of starving cells finally reclaiming circulation, was as piercing as the initial pinch had been. “Owner and slave are yoked together, Starsk.” His voice was raw silk, raking over Starsky’s ravaged soul. “Others might sell their property, but you should have been branded ‘all sales final, no returns.'”

“Yeah?” Starsky had to look away from all that intensity or he’d lose whatever remnants of self-reliance he had left. He jerked the red shirt off the bed with a shaking hand and yanked it over his head while trying to arrange his thoughts. Not being able to see Hutch, even for that short period, helped. “Hutch, I gotta have some…independence. I ain’t gonna be on a leash from now on or…” Or what? He couldn’t fathom leaving Hutch, but being branded and pierced had never been something he’d imagined, either. The world was changing too fast.

“Starsky, I promise.”

“You keep saying that.” Starsky tugged the shirt down, hiding what he could of his body. It felt good to have a boundary, even something as thin as cotton fabric between his nakedness and prying eyes. “But how can I be sure? Slavery is legal, and you seem pretty happy about that.” He hadn’t meant to add the last, and couldn’t hide the bitterness in his voice.

“You don’t trust me?” Hutch had backed up, an expressionless mask hiding his face.

“I trust you. It’s the rest of it I don’t trust.” He’d hurt Hutch, but couldn’t stop. “What if we can’t change this? What if everyone in the Abbey League gets picked up and enslaved, too? Huh? If you’re a slave, Hutch, who’s my master then?”

“You are.” Hutch jabbed that long pointed forefinger at him. “You have my permission to take down as many people as possible before you break free and save yourself. If that happens, Starsk, don’t look back.”

“Then all I’d see would be you,” Starsky whispered bleakly, wondering how the conversation had gotten so twisted around. Just like everything else. He was saved by a knock on the door.

Hutch shook his head as if shedding cobwebs, blond bangs flopping into his eyes. He brushed them aside, walking rapidly to the door. Hutch didn’t like the way things were turning out any more than Starsky did.

“My apologies for being so tardy, Master.” It was the girl from the night before, Neela of the dark skin and luscious curves. This morning, chains linked her pierced nipples with matching rings in her labia. When she walked into the room, Starsky could see the chains tighten and loosen with every step. It must have been excruciating, yet somehow arousing at the same time. He knew the feeling.

“No problem,” Hutch assured her, laying a pale hand on her brown shoulder. He took the black mask she held out, but didn’t remove his hand from her body. “Neela, may I ask you a few questions? There’s no right or wrong answers, but I want an honest opinion, not one dictated by Luna or any of the masters.”

The girl’s dark eyes flashed fear, but she didn’t look up at him. She was too indoctrinated to look into the face of a master. Instead, she glanced over at Starsky, seeking solace.

“You can talk to him, Neela.”

“Yes, sir. I’ll try,” she mumbled to the floor.

Starsky could see her knees start to bend. She wanted to kneel in front of a master, but Hutch’s hand on her shoulder prevented that.

“What did you do before you became a slave?” Hutch asked.

“B-before?” Neela shifted uncomfortably, the chains linking her nipples and labia stretched as taut as a tightrope against her flat abdomen. “My father couldn’t pay the fines imposed by the Corporation. He’d had his own shoe business, but taxes went up and he lost customers…”

“Go on,” Hutch encouraged in the gentle tone that had soothed many frightened witnesses. Hutch was a master at this, as well.

“My father sold me,” she said, her voice breaking with tears. “Me and my sister, Nasha. To pay the CEC.”

“Damn,” Hutch said softly. If there had been any lingering illusions that all slaves were prisoners and criminals, this blew them out of the water. “If slavery was abolished, would you want to be free?”

Neela looked up, her obsidian eyes boring into Starsky’s, but she was speaking to Hutch. “Yes. Yes.” With that, she fled the room.

“We have to stop the CEC, before every person in this country but corporate CEOs are on their knees giving VPs blow jobs,” Hutch ground out, his face savage. “C’mere.”

Starsky wouldn’t have disobeyed for a million dollars. He knelt at Hutch’s feet, but looked straight up with defiance. “This comes off once we pass the Luna gates.”

“That was always the plan,” Hutch said, and strapped on the heavy black leather blindfold. The band was tight, bringing on an instant headache. Starsky wanted to rip it off just to read the determination in Hutch’s eyes. As if sensing his thoughts, Hutch quickly cuffed Starsky’s hands in front of him with the heavy leather manacles.

Starsky hated the darkness. It was too easy to remember when he’d been a prisoner bound for who knows where, almost raped, and freshly pierced. He raised his bound hands to feel the small charm that bumped against his collarbone. This was Hutch’s collar. Wearing it felt like winning a prize and losing the battle at the same time.

“That looks right on you,” Hutch said softly and helped him stand.

Starsky appreciated the hand at his back; his knees were wobbly, but he couldn’t let Hutch know.

“Sit on the bed,” Hutch said. “I want to check out the brand before we leave.” Hutch levered him down onto the mattress; his fingers probed into the hole in the jeans to rip away the bandage.

“Fuck!” Starsky suppressed an urge to scream. The wound was too fresh to tolerate much handling. His thigh muscles twitched when Hutch spread the cool gel over the raised brand. It was all Starsky could do to stay still.

“How’s the pain?”

“It hurts.”

“You can have that stuff…”

“Phenine,” Starsky said. Was it really a painkiller? He recalled the weird sensory effects all too well, not so sure he was willing to endure that kind of induced desire again. What about aspirin? Would that work on the deep pain of a burn?

“That’s all I’ve got, Starsk.” Hutch sounded apologetic. At least the gel was working, cooling the fearsome heat of the burned flesh. “I’ll get a glass of water for the Phenine. They’re as big as horse pills.”

There was nothing to do but sit on the bed, blindfolded and cuffed. Starsky clenched his hands, pressing the palms together to sublimate some of the pain from the rest of his body. He was a slave about to go out into the world for the first time. A non-entity, a possession, with no rights whatsoever under the current constitution of most of the once democratic Western states. There were some states that didn’t recognize slavery, just like in the 1860’s when the Southern states battled the North over the same issue. Would it come to civil war again? Did the Abbey League have the power to start an uprising, or was Hutch deluding himself?

Starsky had to trust Hutch or he had nothing. He had to trust in their bond.

“Swallow this.” Hutch put a huge tablet into Starsky’s mouth and held a glass of water to his lip.

The pill was massive and got stuck halfway down his throat. Starsky coughed and sputtered, nearly choking before the painkiller made it to his stomach. It was hardly worth taking if it took that much effort just to get it down.

“You okay?”

“I’ll manage.” Starsky raised his manacled hands to wipe his lips. He had a brief flash of himself, masked and cuffed, kneeling at Neville’s feet like a good supplicant. Then, striking upward like a rattlesnake, he’d jam his joined hands into the Brit’s groin, smashing his so-called manhood into purple pulp. Starsky smiled. Even a bound slave had some ability to fight back; it just took planning.

Together, he and Hutch could do just that.

***

Hutch told him the new car was a convertible. Starsky was amazed Hutch hadn’t included that pertinent fact in his first description of a metallic blue Ford with a bad paint job. Driving away from Luna, with the hot wind in his hair and scent of pine trees in his nose, Starsky was exhilarated. If he could have moved freely, he would have been over the moon.

Neville, as expected, managed to cop a last feel and make a snide comment as they climbed into the car. “A little more training, cowboy, and you could have had yourself a real stallion there. Of course, some people like that raw, untamed ride. I’d just be afraid that an unbroken horse would buck me off.”

“That’s the difference between an English saddle and a Western one,” Hutch drawled in his Charlie McCabe, Texas oilman voice. “I’ve always preferred to go bareback, myself.”

“You all come back now, you hear?” Neville reached down to insert the buckle into Starsky’s seat belt, lingering a beat too long before breaking contact. His hand brushed the ring in Starsky’s cock intimately. Starsky was so repulsed by such close proximity to his trainer, he didn’t pay much attention to the strange tingling spreading warmly across his pelvic area.

The engine started with a roar that rivaled Starsky’s lamented Torino, and they were off. Neville yelped as the car pulled away. Starsky hoped that the rear tire rolled over his foot.

“Take this thing off me,” Starsky insisted when they’d been driving for a while. He’d enjoy the wind whipping across his face a great deal more if he could see the road, take in the night sky, and most of all, their location. So he could come back some day and burn Luna down until there was nothing left but scorched earth.

“We’re not off the property yet,” Hutch said.

“How big is this place?”

“Remember that map that caught fire in the opening credits of Bonanza?”

“We’re on the Ponderosa?” Starsky was appalled. He wasn’t about to let bucolic memories of his favorite Western TV series be warped by the likes of Neville and Luna. Although the image of the burning map was apt.

“In the right vicinity.”

“That’s just terrific!” Starsky kicked the floorboards. “You see any of Little Joe’s brides’ graves around here?”

“It’s dark; hard to see much,” Hutch said dryly. “Mostly live oak, pine, and old growth trees. Some eucalyptus. But if we hit a crudely lettered headstone, I’ll let you know.”

“Was Luna a big underground enclave or were there buildings? Like a mini-town?”

“One main above-ground structure with several smaller buildings. I didn’t wander around after I found where they kept you.”

Starsky swallowed. It was still hard to reconcile his feelings about Hutch having paid money for his enslavement with the memories of their previous partnership. But he could not deny he was glad Hutch owned him instead of a vicious sadist like Dunfey or anyone else from the CEC. He blew out a noisy breath, antsy and on edge. He wouldn’t feel safe until they were far, far away. Maybe not even then.

“Is Lake Tahoe close by? There are houses there. You think we could stay a night?” Starsky was tired. He didn’t want to say it out loud, but fatigue dragged at him, compounding his achiness. He tried to tell himself that getting away from Luna was too important to give in to petty physical frailties.

“Starsky, I think the lake is over to our right, but not actually within the boundaries of the property.”

“Good, then it’s not actually Ben Cartwright’s land.”

“I can’t be sure, however.”

Starsky nearly stuck out his tongue in Hutch’s direction. He could hear the amused sarcasm in Hutch’s voice. “How long until we get to Arizona?”

“Roughly two days; I told you that.”

“And towns around here? I mean, if we’re near Tahoe, there used to be hundreds of houses. Casinos. All that stuff.”

“When I drove to Las Vegas the other day, many of the houses were boarded up. Bank foreclosure signs on a lot of them.”

“Which way was Vegas?” Starsky fidgeted in his seat. His head was killing him, and the tuck and roll upholstery was uncomfortable on his abraded butt. He was also becoming aware of a low level but growing nausea combined with a strange itchy need to be touched.

“Starsky! Will you shut up? It’s that or a gag, I swear.”

Starsky shut up for all of thirty seconds. The threat was an empty one, anyway. He was fairly sure Hutch didn’t own a gag — unless he’d brought along one of Neville’s. “You really get off on this.”

Hutch apparently had taken his own advice; he didn’t say anything.

“I mean, I know you had a thing for all this kinky stuff — I’ve seen you whenever we rousted Milty at the Triple X House of Love, looking at all the leather stuff.”

“I’ve never made any secret of what I wanted.”

“Yeah. Me. Trussed up like a virgin in one of those novels written by Anonymous.” Starsky held up his hands, the twin urges to throw up and be ravaged so strong he couldn’t take in enough air. He coughed, lowering his arms until he could grasp the end of his penis with both hands.

Oh, sweet Jesus. Hutch, please…

Pleasure coiled up his spine to the top of his skull, threatening to blow his brains apart. All from one touch.

Hutch grabbed his hands to release their hold. “What the hell are you doing? Are you jerking off?”

Starsky orgasmed suddenly, cum spurting forth and splattering his jeans. He’d rarely come so fast or so hard, and riding on the coattails of the climax came the undeniable compulsion to puke — now. His throat spasming, Starsky screamed, “Stop the damned car!”

As the vehicle slowed, he fought with the door handle, shoving the heavy car door open and falling out of the rolling vehicle onto hard, packed earth, heaving up his guts. Nothing else mattered, not whether Hutch stopped and came back for him, or if the planet continued to revolve around the sun. All he could do was rid his belly of its contents. He’d eaten very little in the last day — hell, the last week — and soon all he could do was dry retching, his stomach cramping as if it might implode.

“Starsk! What the hell?” Hutch must have jumped from the Ford. He skidded to a halt, his silver-toed shoes digging into Starsky’s leg.

That small nudge, barely felt, sent Starsky spiraling back into hyper-arousal. “Fuck,” Starsky panted between heaves, pounding the flat of his hand on the ground. “That bloody Neville.” He heaped curses on the Brit when he could speak, and hauled in huge gulps of pine-scented air when he couldn’t.

“The Phenine,” Hutch guessed, rubbing Starsky’s back.

It should have been a soothing massage; instead, it was a lit match thrown into bone-dry tumbleweed. Instant conflagration. Starsky rolled over his right shoulder, ending up on his back, which pulled Hutch almost down on top of him. Only Hutch’s quick reflexes saved him from covering Starsky like a big blanket.

“Drive it in, Hutch,” Starsky wheezed, sweat dripping off his body like rain. “Fast! Like you wanted to that first night.”

“No.” Hutch scrambled out of reach, his anger crackling in the heated air.

Starsky reached his cuffed hands out imploringly, hating his urgent need. This was worse than when he was thirteen and first found out how much fun sex with someone else could be. Mary Elizabeth Dominico, three years his senior, had taken him into a boarded-up grocery and popped his cherry. After that, she gave him uppers and taught him how to go down on a girl. He’d joined her in that abandoned dusty store, between counters that had once held fruit and vegetables, for six weeks until she declared him too old for her exacting standards. She left him literally with his pants down. Needing more drugs, he’d used the lessons she gave him to supply his fix.

Just like Hutch later used me to supply his.

Things did come full circle. He’d have cried, but he couldn’t bring up any tears.

“That shit, Neville, gave me somethin’ in the IV when I was on the rack.” Starsky lay on the ground, not caring that there were prickly things in his hair and dried evergreen needles spearing his palms. “Phenine. It was like this, only since there wasn’t anybody around, I just hurt. Had a hard-on like a tree limb with that damned ring stuck through the end. I kept thinking of you. Of sex. Your hands all over me. But nobody touched me at all.”

“It’s some kind of aphrodisiac,” Hutch said, his voice coming from a safe distance.

“Please, Hutch. You wanted to before.” Starsky tried to get up, but he was so damned tired. At least his belly had stopped complaining. “I need…”

“Not here. Not on their property.”

“You said you had plans,” Starsky insisted. He strained to orient to Hutch’s voice, aching to see through the dark blindfold. “You had plans!” He staggered to his feet, lunging at where he thought Hutch had to be, the siren song of desire humming in his veins. “You and me, naked. Please, Hutch…”

Hutch caught his arm, but didn’t bring him close. “Starsk, they can monitor us while we’re inside Luna’s fence. There are cameras on the telephone poles, and a guard at the gate. You want them to see everything?”

Resentment threw water on his raging inferno. Starsky jerked out of Hutch’s grasp, slamming into the hot metallic side of the car hard enough to hurt. “Don’t touch me if you’re not gonna help me.” He still wanted that big cock in his mouth. Still wanted those beautiful hands closing around his penis, tugging on the ring and wringing the semen out of him. But the intensity had faded enough for him to climb wearily back into the passenger seat. He couldn’t do the seat belt with his hands locked together and couldn’t bear to have Hutch close enough to snap the buckle into place.

Hutch started up the car without another word. Huddled down in the seat, Starsky shivered in spite of the heat, his belly roiling from the exhaust fumes. The drawbacks of having a convertible.

“I think I see a light up ahead,” Hutch said eventually. “The gatehouse.”

“You think I give a shit?” Starsky lashed out verbally because he couldn’t do anything else. He was sick, his stomach rebellious, and his head pounding. Perversely, the brand didn’t hurt at all. Wonder of wonder, the Phenine was good for something. “That Limey bastard just had to fuck me over one more time. God, I hate this.” It was impossible to think straight when all he wanted was sex, rough and fast. Need burned through him, crowding out any intelligence. It was all he could do not to hook a leg over the gear shaft and impale himself on the rounded end.

“Stop the car!” an authoritative voice called out.

Starsky shuddered when the engine vibrations changed and the car slowed. He could have orgasmed from that alone, but the presence of guards dampened his arousal. Hutch was right; he didn’t want Luna personnel seeing them grapple like hormone-crazed teenagers.

“Hutchinson,” a guard said.

Starsky wasn’t surprised they recognized his partner; Hutch had been in and out three times in the last week.

“Finally got your slave trained? He’s a real looker. Must have put down a wad for a piece of ass like that.”

“Open the gate.” Hutch sounded angry.

Immediately, a creaking groan signaled a metal gate sliding open. The car bumped over a hump in the road designed to keep speed to a minimum, and then Hutch let out the throttle.

They must have hit sixty in thirty seconds, a feat that would have impressed Starsky on any other day. The engine whine deepened as they accelerated, wind whipping Starsky’s hair around in a frenzy. The ends of his hair snapped painfully against his cheeks and neck. It almost hurt to breathe with the dry, hot air pushing against the back of his throat. Hutch never, ever drove like this. Not this raw, aggressive, let-the-gas-pedal-bleed-off-your-anger speed.

Starsky did — frequently. And long, flat roads like this one were perfect. He dimly recalled the first car he’d owned, a busted up Thunderbird that he’d overhauled, sweating out the withdrawals from the drugs he’d given up, using the frantic, desperate need to change his life to fuel his labors. When the car was drivable, he’d sped across the emptiness of the Mojave, letting the wide-open spaces scour the nastiness from his brain. Like Hutch was doing now.

Starsky pulled his knees up, bracing his feet against the dash, sure that if they hit something he’d go flying through the windshield. Like they’d done years ago. When Hutch drew the line at Starsky’s reckless driving and played amnesiac for twenty-four hours. Scared the crap out of Starsky. But not as much as this did. Hutch’s demons were busting loose.

The car jerked violently to the right, Hutch using a sharp turn to bleed off the forward momentum and slow the car. Starsky was thrown sideways against the door, centrifugal force gluing him to the vinyl. He clung to the handle with both cuffed hands, waiting out the car’s power. It was shockingly quiet when the engine finally switched off, the softer sounds of the wind in the trees and the car ticking as the metal cooled suddenly audible.

“Hutch?” He felt hesitant, uncertain. At least it had distracted him from his rampant arousal.

“C’mere.” Hutch pulled Starsky roughly into an embrace, kissing him so hard their teeth knocked together.

Desire blazing up all over again, Starsky leaned into his master, the gearshift between them poking him in the groin. He couldn’t have cared less. His hands were caught awkwardly between their bodies, but he felt Hutch’s cock stiffen and grow rapidly hard. Hutch bit him on the bottom lip, sucking and kissing with a need that matched Starsky’s own.

Growling with lust, Hutch scrabbled at Starsky’s jeans but there were too many barriers. He sucked in a deep breath, blowing it out. Starsky felt the warm whoosh on his wind-chapped cheek, and knew whatever had bedeviled Hutch was waning enough to be manageable.

“Time for this thing to come off.” Hutch unfastened the complicated series of buckles at the back of Starsky’s head.

The night sky was overly bright when the blinders fell away. The yellow moon, like half of a Dutch cheese, rode just above Hutch’s head. His blond hair shimmered in the moonlight, dazzling Starsky’s starving eyes.

“Do you hate me, too?” Hutch rasped, his hands shaking when he unlinked the cuffs, and then miracle of miracles, removed the tight leather bands from Starsky’s wrists. The cuffs were lined with a soft chamois, but over time, the close fit had left abrasions.

Starsky massaged his wrists, enjoying the feeling of his own bare skin, and pondering Hutch’s question. “I wanted to hate you.” He waited, sorting out his thoughts, listening to Hutch breathe. “I kept tryin’ to convince myself that you wouldn’t do this to me. That you — the partner I thought I knew — wouldn’t pay money for my body like all those shits did when I was a kid.”

Hutch gasped, but said nothing.

“But you know what, Hutch?” Starsky put out his unfettered hands, reaching for his lover. “Given the right circumstances, I might have paid money for you.”

Their hands connected in the middle, fingers wrapping around each other in solace. Arousal slammed back, and Starsky had to clench his jaw to keep from going off like a rocket. Most of the need was from the drug, but Hutch had always had that effect on him. He’d always been attracted — and frightened — by the big blond, but Hutch’s resemblance to his long ago rapist had only registered recently.

“So, where do we go from here?” Hutch asked plaintively.

Starsky was confused. Hell, he was more than confused, he was lost — on a tree-lined mountain road with a crazed person. One moment Hutch was loving, the next strict, then by turns angry, demoralized, and aggressive. It was difficult to decide if he’d always known this Hutch and never fully seen him or had just met a whole new Hutch.

“Didn’t you bring a map?” Starsky had to let go of Hutch or risk ravaging him for his own ends, which would not be wise considering Hutch’s volatile condition. “S’been a while but far’s I know, it’s a straight shot down past Vegas to Arizona.”

“My motives may have been suspect — and calculated,” Hutch said as if it was hard to talk. “But your safety was always the prime concern.”

“Your methods left a little something to be desired.”

“Yeah.” Hutch kissed him with such tenderness that if Starsky had been standing, his knees would have wobbled. “Let’s get out of this car. Give me a minute.”

“Not goin’ anywhere, you big idiot.”

Starsky got out and looked around while Hutch opened the trunk and arranged a blanket a few feet from the car. The far off call of some bird sent a chill up his spine. What kind of birds flew around at night? He finally pulled up “owl” out of long-term memory and relaxed, inhaling deeply to slow his palpitating heart. He was too old for crap like this. Out in the middle of nowhere, wearing a pair of holey jeans. It was surprisingly warm, the air soft and fragrant, but there was a hint of chill in the air. Typical when in the mountains.

Watching Hutch, Starsky felt a curious twinge in his heart. Was he insane to still be in love with this man? “Babe,” Starsky said softly. “I missed seeing you.”

“I missed seeing you, too.” Hutch pulled Starsky close against him, burying his face in Starsky’s curls.

This was home.

Assuming their accustomed roles like misplaced robes, Hutch gently pushed Starsky down on his knees. Starsky unzipped his partner joyfully and extracted his hidden treasure. He knew how to comfort Hutch, how to give him what he needed. With pleasure, pure and sweet.

“Star-ssk,” Hutch moaned, drawing the syllables out in a long hiss of pleasure when he climaxed, pumping into Starsky’s mouth.

Reaching down, Starsky palmed his own organ. That was how he often satisfied himself on those long stakeouts when Hutch wanted relief from the boredom of sitting in a car for eight hours. His cock felt like someone else’s, the prominent piercing changing its familiar contours; the crown was far more sensitive than before. Still sucking Hutch, Starsky slid one hand down his own length, wincing. The Phenine drove him on, whispering its dark desires, forcing a desperate need for sex even though handling himself hurt. He panted, pulling off Hutch, feeling the rampant need take over again.

Please, Hutch…

“Hey.” Hutch went to his knees, cupping his hands around Starsky’s. “Sssh, it’s okay. Slower.” He gentled Starsky’s frantic pace, then fondled his heavy scrotum,

“Oh, yeah!” Starsky shouted, pain transforming into ecstasy. Hutch closed his thumb and forefinger around the base of Starsky’s penis, giving four rapid strokes. That did it. Starsky came, panting with the exertion. “Thank you.” He dropped his head onto Hutch’s shoulder, the after-sex euphoria a far better drug than Phenine. And almost as good a painkiller. He was numb.

Remarkably hungry, to boot. He sat down on the blanket to investigate what was packed in the carryall this time.

Swigging a beer, Hutch settled next to him, drawing Starsky into the circle of his arms. He looked relaxed and tender, all signs of his anger wiped away. Tracing a finger across Starsky’s eyebrows, he smiled. “I hated covering up your eyes. Like hiding precious jewels behind a tarp where no one can see how beautiful they are.”

“You think my eyes are beautiful?” Starsky joshed. He tipped back the beer Hutch provided, savoring the luxury after so long. Slaves couldn’t buy alcohol — or be seen consuming it without a master’s permission. Just one more right he’d lost with a single monetary transfer.

“Sapphires or something really rare and valuable.” Hutch played his finger down Starsky’s eyelid, his touch lighter than a butterfly’s wing.

Starsky blinked, feeling the brush of lashes against Hutch’s palm. “Is that why you paid Dunfey? So you could own my eyes?” Starsky couldn’t regret the words even though they spoiled the moment.

Hutch pulled back his hand as if burned.

“Tell me how much you paid, Hutch? Where’d you get the cash that easily?”

“None of this was easy.” Hutch snatched up his own half-empty beer bottle and tossed it against an oak. The glass shattered, contents spraying the surrounding area with fermented malt and hops. “You want to keep harping on this? Fine. My father died; I inherited a fortune.”

“You didn’t tell me.” Starsky thought back, remembering Hutch taking off one weekend and coming back looking dazed and stiff instead of content with his usual post-coital languor. “I mean about the money.” Even the announcement about the senior Hutchinson’s funeral had been after the fact, as though Hutch needed to explain his abrupt departure to forestall future questioning. Well, the future was now, and Starsky had questions. “Did you find out about the inheritance right away?”

“Not the total amount, but I suspected it.” Hutch busied himself with the food, cutting up apples and doling out salami. “I knew how much he was worth, and I’m the only son.”

Never one to refuse food, Starsky helped himself. “How did he die?”

“Heart attack. I got the call one day when you’d gone to a court appearance, last November,” Hutch recounted, sounding exhausted. “My aunt said come right away, but it’s not that easy to leave California these days. She didn’t understand. My mom might have…”

Starsky nodded. Hutch’s mother had been a lovely woman, bred from generations of politicians. She’d served as governor of the sovereign state of Minnesota after the break-up of the United States. But the job had killed her quickly, two years ago. Hutch’s father, a bastard who’d made millions by foreclosing on the poor and indigent, had lived without a heart for decades. Starsky was surprised that a heart attack could kill him. He’d always assumed only a wooden stake would fell the old man.

“I had to pull some strings,” Hutch added. “Had to agree to things…”

“Which set the ball in motion.”

“You know why we never got Dunfey, even when we had him dead to rights over that cigarette smuggling thing?” Hutch folded a slice of salami between two wedges of crusty bread. “One of the CEOs had paid for the cigs. He ordered me to drop the charges.”

“You were forced to do that?” Starsky jumped up, furious at what Hutch had had to go through, and angry that they hadn’t arrested the mobster six months before. Maybe he never would have been kidnapped if Dunfey’s operation had folded then.

“Schaffer — the CEO, traded his — ” Hutch gulped reflexively, his face anguished. ” — traded his own daughter for the contraband. Dunfey took the girl away — to Luna.”

“Did you see her there?” Starsky felt the girl’s debasement and humiliation to the bottom of his soul. Sold by her own father. Like Neela and Nasha.

“No. I saw her a few months later, in Slave House ten on Lincoln, with track marks on both arms and nothing left in her eyes.” Hutch bit his sandwich savagely as if biting off part of Dunfey’s anatomy. “I tried…to get her back. Tried to buy her, but she was already spoken for. It had been planned all along, which is why I was ordered to drop the charges. I was already peripherally involved with the Abbey League, but this spurred me to fully commit to the cause.”

“How much, Hutch? How much did I cost?” Starsky repeated, his words slicing open wounds. He paced around the scrubby ground cover, keeping as far away from his partner as possible.

“Half a mil, Starsk.” Hutch’s eyes pleaded, begged, for forgiveness. “I paid top dollar so they wouldn’t hurt you worse than they had to.”

“Had to?” Starsky spit. He wanted Hutch inside him so badly he could feel the withdrawal pains ripping up his guts. Wanted him and hated him at the same time. “So, because you had to go to a fucking funeral to get your inheritance, you got special permission to leave Bay City without papers, handed over a girl to a slave ring, joined up with the rebel forces like Luke Skywalker, then gave your alliance to the dark side, and sold your best friend up the creek to keep him from bein’ enslaved by the CEC. Is that about it, buddy?”

“They would have killed you. Or Dunfey would have, if he’d gotten his hands on you.”

“So you keep sayin’. And you said something about being a fugitive, but here we sit out in the open like picnickers waiting for the ants.”

“I don’t have to explain everything to you.”

“You being the master, I guess not.” Starsky had tears in his eyes — from rage or sadness, he wasn’t sure. “You paid five hundred thousand dollars to let Neville string me up and torture me.”

“They didn’t follow my orders…but yes, I did.” Hutch’s voice held remorse, but also something else. Not pride and not quite satisfaction.

“How much money do you have left?” Starsky stared hard at Hutch, trying to comprehend, and knew what he’d heard in Hutch’s voice. Resolution; that was it. But what exactly had been resolved?

“What?” Hutch asked.

“How much money do you have left?” Starsky repeated, having purged some of his anger. He was still a slave and couldn’t change that. Acceptance would come slowly, and possibly someday, forgiveness. “A couple of thou? What?”

“Twenty million.” Hutch looked up from his half-eaten sandwich. The moon was doing incredible things to his hair. He was stunning, a paragon of beauty from some far off land to grace the citizens of the former United States of America. To grace Starsky’s life with the illusion of perfection.

“How much are you giving the Abbey League?” Starsky willed himself to be strong against Hutch’s beauty.

“As much as they need.”

“Give me one million.”

“You’re not allowed to have money.”

“Then spend one million on me.”

“I will,” Hutch vowed. “Ten million, Starsk. If you’ll forgive me.”

“Forgive you?” Starsky was surprised how closely Hutch’s thoughts paralleled his own. He let the words sink in until he felt them in his bones. If only forgiving Hutch would take away all the pain, degradation, and cruelty from the last week. “You are the only person who ever meant anything to me in my whole life. But…I don’t know how to forgive you, yet. This hurts, down deep.”

“For what Neville — and the rest of them at Luna — did to you, I’m sorry,” Hutch said.

“What about what you did to me?” Starsky asked. He didn’t expect Hutch to answer.

Hutch had wanted this for a long time. He obviously hadn’t expected it to come at such a cost, and that wasn’t even factoring in how much he’d paid.

Half a million dollars.

Starsky had only seen that much money once, while they were undercover. It had filled an entire suitcase. It boggled his mind. Hutch paid five hundred thousand dollars for the right to fuck Starsky whenever he wanted.

The owl hooted again, wind rustling the leaves in the Ponderosa pines.

Starsky looked up, still spooked by the eerie sound of the birdcall. He could feel the damned sex drug thrumming in his veins, pushing him into irrational desires. All he wanted was to thrust into Hutch’s naked body, pound him into the ground. Take back some of what was stolen from him. He tried to banish such thoughts with Hutch sitting so near. Starsky could feel the heat coming off his body, smell spilled beer mingling with Hutch’s distinct odor. He’d never been able to ignore Hutch’s presence, but with the Phenine on board, it was harder than usual.

Get back to forgiveness.

If he totally forgave Hutch, would that mitigate the anger he had for what had been done to him? Could he hold onto any kind of self-respect if he prostrated himself to the man he loved? He tucked his anger away, forcing it down to a manageable size that didn’t rip his heart in two.

Starsky let himself look at Hutch and see his flawed partner. He’d always understood that Hutch needed sex like a drug. Understood and accepted it. It wasn’t much more difficult to understand that Hutch wanted sex with bondage. Bondage with pain.

“D’you forgive yourself?” Starsky asked.

“That’s forever a work in progress,” Hutch admitted.

“I keep goin’ over all the stuff in our past — reliving conversations…You never came right out and said you wanted to tie me up or take me hard, but it was there. I just didn’t want to hear it.” His brand sparked a sudden flash of fresh pain as if reminding him of what he’d gone through.

Hutch raised his chin, fingering the neck of a second beer bottle. “I’ve been into this for as long as I can remember.”

“I want you bad, Hutch.” Starsky whooshed out a pent-up breath. “I want you so much sometimes it scares me. I always wanted more than we had before, but I wasn’t ready for anything like this.”

“And now I’ve pushed you too far,” Hutch said as if his last hope had just gone headlong over a cliff.

Making a decision, Starsky knelt next to Hutch on the ground. Maybe it wasn’t true forgiveness, but acknowledging Hutch’s nature and his own tendency to bend to Hutch’s will was as close as he was going to get tonight. “I’m your slave,” he said, supplicating.

“And I’m your master,” Hutch said breathlessly.

Starsky pulled off his shirt and started unzipping his jeans, but Hutch pushed his hands away, then stripped him quickly. When Starsky lay back naked on the earth, he saw tears on Hutch’s face, the moonlight caught in each drop. “Take me, Master. I’m asking you.”

“Yes.” Hutch had never zipped up his pants. Now, he palmed his big cock, bringing it to full size.

Starsky tented his knees, watching in amazement as the thing continued to swell. His own was of decent proportions when completely aroused, which it had been for some time, but Hutch’s was of mythic stature. To Starsky, he was Michelangelo’s David in living flesh. Starsky had felt it inside him once before, but this time he would be able to fully appreciate the experience without the terrible memories of his rape ruining the pleasure.

“Legs up on my shoulders,” Hutch said, producing a tube of something squishy from the carryall on the blankets. “Eyes front, right at me. Never look away, ever.”

“I thought — ” Starsky grunted, raising his feet to hook them around Hutch’s neck.

“Slave rules are made to be broken.” Hutch smoothed ointment into Starsky’s anus, probing with his finger in that forbidden place. “Gotta keep you on your toes, Starsk.” Hutch said that name like a long drawn out hiss of desire.

“Sometimes you’ll be my love slave,” he continued, “but most of the time, you’ll be my partner. That’s a given.”

Starsky gazed into Hutch’s eyes to see the inner man. He barely noticed when his lover tossed away the crumpled tube and eased himself forward. A blunt thickness pushed against Starsky’s opening, and he sighed, emptying himself of everything but Hutch. The huge bulk entered him, stretching Starsky’s inner walls until he was sure he couldn’t take any more. It was not pain exactly, but there was excruciating pressure; his body felt too full to be believed. He cried out once as he merged with Hutch. Small cramps came and went as fast as lightning on a hot day, but he focused on being part of Hutch and Hutch being a part of him.

Hutch yelled, thrusting faster, pushing Starsky into the dirt. Underbrush and pebbles scratched his bare skin, but Starsky didn’t care. Arms spread wide, he felt like a midsummer sacrifice on Mother Earth. Not a virgin and definitely not a sacrificial lamb, he was forging an alliance of his own. Their union instilled strength in his ravaged body.

“Davey,” Hutch whispered, pumping faster. He’d started gently, but like driving the car, revved up quickly.

Starsky rocked in Hutch’s rhythm, arching up to take each thrust until only his shoulders and the palms of his hands were in contact with the ground. The rest of his body was bowed like a sapling in a windstorm, his lover planting seed deep inside his core.

“God, I love you, Starsk.” He caught hold of Starsky’s cock, twisting the ring around, the pain singing in Starsky’s blood.

Starsky came so hard he thought his back would snap, and he shook, unable to stop the overwhelming shudders. Hutch was still pumping semen into him, chanting the name Starsk over and over. His arms buckling, Starsky slumped back on the ground, Hutch coming down on top of him with Starsky’s ankles still locked behind his neck.

“Baby?” Hutch shifted around so that they were lying side by side. He drew his hand down Starsky’s cheek, stroking his eyes and brows.

“That’s how it’s gonna be from now on?” Starsky curled against Hutch’s sweaty side, feeling every ache and pain he’d received at Luna overlaid with a wonderful lassitude. He could sleep here for a week, at least, with the crushed leaves and bugs…Were there scorpions in Nevada?

“Yep,” Hutch said, answering Starsky’s question about their future. He tidied a damp curl off Starsky’s forehead, twining it around his forefinger.

“I can live with that.” Starsky bumped his head on Hutch’s ribcage. “Gonna sleep now.”

“Inside the house would be a better idea.”

“There’s a house?” Starsky sat up too abruptly and bit back a scream. The Phenine had definitely started to wear off. The brand felt as fresh as the moment the iron had imprinted his thigh. “Whoa.” He panted, accepting the hand Hutch held out to haul him to his feet. Starsky swayed, glad of Hutch’s support. Peering past the car, he could see a jumble of houses far enough away to be shrouded in darkness. At this distance, it was impossible to make out the architecture, but none of them had lights or any outward sign of habitation.

“They’re deserted,” Hutch said.

“Where’d all the people go?” With civilization in sight, Starsky was suddenly conscious of his nakedness and cast about for his clothes.

“Don’t know. I think some states had more…” Hutch paused, contemplating the houses, “…more objections when the CEC took over.”

“You think they were killed?” Starsky asked softly, pulling on his shirt and ragged jeans as if they were armor against dangerous forces lurking out of range.

“Killed, chased off, who knows? Many people from California disappeared, too.”

“Like we have.”

“Help me clean this stuff up,” Hutch said. “With any luck, we can get a bath and clean sheets. The Abbey League maintains the first two houses.” Hutch balled up scattered food wrappers while Starsky stuffed the beer bottles and uneaten food back into the hamper. “It’s like an Underground Railroad for modern slaves.”

“That make you Harriet Tubman?” Starsky asked.

“I prefer to think of myself as a conductor.”

“I always did want to ride in the caboose.” Something loosened in Starsky’s heart. Could he live like this long term? Could anyone? He had to jettison the past and look forward or the weight of all those memories would surely kill him.

***

The house had been lovely at one time. Remnants of the former inhabitants still remained: a few pictures of a blond happy family on the wall, a pinball machine in the rec room, and tins of rattlesnake meat in the back of one cupboard. The furniture was mismatched, probably culled from more than one formerly elegant house, and there were two to three beds to a room to accommodate as many people as possible.

Starsky found it odd to walk freely through the echoing halls, peering into rooms empty of all furnishings except beds and mattresses, many just lying on the floor. Besides the main living areas, the place had six bedrooms and as many bathrooms. The water was still on as well as the electricity. But no one lived here. There were a few hand scribbled notes in the kitchen, from the slaves that had passed through recently. Many just said thank you, or, “You saved a life.” Hutch had added a handful of twenties to a small cash box that had a sign reading, “Take what you need to make a new life.”

Feeling creepy, Starsky reversed direction and headed back to the room he and Hutch had selected. Hutch was finishing his shower. Starsky had let him go first in exchange for a chance to wander the house without an escort or chains binding him. He’d been a slave for a week and already understood how precious these rights were.

Starsky paused in the doorway of a library. Bookshelves covered most of the walls, but what captivated him was a framed piece of parchment. Elaborate curly-cue writing on the top declared this to be the Declaration of Independence. It looked like it could have been one of the original copies. Priceless.

Thomas Jefferson knew the truth. All men had the inalienable right to be free.

He touched the collar still encircling his throat, fingering the silver S charm. He’d been given no choice. He wondered what would have changed if Hutch had come out and asked him again, a few months back. What harm would it have done their already bruised relationship at that point?

“Starsky?” Hutch’s voice echoed eerily in the hall. Starsky stuck his head around the doorframe to see Hutch bare-chested, wearing only a pair of old khakis. “What did you find?”

“Something precious.” Starsky pointed to the antique document.

“Oh, my God,” Hutch said reverently. “We should take this to a safe place.”

“Why’d you think they left it?”

“This looks real.” Hutch touched the glass and tried to slide his fingers under the frame. “Well, there’s the answer; it’s bolted to the wall.”

“It’s the kind of thing that oughta be here, anyway.” Starsky stood shoulder to shoulder with Hutch, trying to make out the familiar words in the old-fashioned script. “Where people come to escape — ”

“Captivity?”

“‘We hold these truths to be self evident, that all men are created equal,'” Starsky read. “‘Life, liberty and the pursuit of happiness.'”

“‘But when a long train of abuses and usurpations,'” Hutch read farther down, “‘evinces a design to reduce them under absolute despotism, it is their duty to throw off such a Government, and provide new guards for their future security.'”

“That’s what you’re doin’, Hutch.” Starsky slipped his hand into his partner’s.

“At the expense of your freedom.”

“Yeah, y’know, I’ve been thinking about that.” Starsky turned from the document to look at Hutch. “That pursuit of happiness thing. This made you happy, didn’t it?”

“I thought it would, yes.” Hutch’s face was grave. “I rushed so fast toward the goal, I never stopped to think about what it would be like for you.” He blushed, all sign of the strong, tough master from Luna gone. He looked tired and older than the cop who’d policed Bay City a few weeks before. “What you had to do as a kid…”

Hutch was so close that when he spoke, Starsky could feel his voice rumble through his skin. Hutch touched his lips to Starsky’s closed eyelids, but didn’t actually kiss him, just maintained that slight pressure until Starsky wanted to sink to the floor.

Was I fooling myself when I thought I could escape this life? Starsky gulped, trying to keep breathing steadily. He wanted to see Hutch, look into his fathomless blue eyes, but he couldn’t move, chained to his master by nothing more than two lips.

Hutch completed the kiss finally. His tongue washed down from Starsky’s nose to his mouth and pushed between his parted lips. “You’re beautiful, Starsk.” His breathing was ragged as he plundered Starsky’s mouth.

Was it worth losing one freedom to gain another? Starsky had no time to think about such esoteric things with Hutch’s tongue halfway down his throat. Lifting his arms, Starsky tried to signal that he needed air when Hutch drew back, sucking on his bottom lip one last time.

“We have to stop,” Hutch panted. “You need a shower.”

“With you?” Starsky opened his eyes, briefly distracted by the odd colors and flashes that flared across his retina.

“Not tonight. I want to get on the road in the morning, rested.”

“Take off the collar?”

“No.” Hutch stroked the leather band.

“Why? You said I didn’t always have to kneel to you when we were alone.”

“You don’t have to, but the collar stays on.”

Enraged, Starsky stalked away, trying to loosen the collar from the back. Like the blindfold, it seemed to have extra buckles, and he couldn’t pull the ends free. Surprised that Hutch didn’t try to stop him, Starsky fingered a miniature lock. Giving it a tug, he discovered it was fastened securely at the back, looped through one of the D rings. There was no way he could get the damned thing off by himself. He swore and kicked the dark-paneled wall.

“Are you finished?” Hutch asked in an annoyingly reasonable tone.

“What the hell do you care? I can’t get it off.” Starsky glared at him. “Are you satisfied?”

“I am, and do you know why?” Hutch looped a finger through the ring holding the S charm. “Because I like the way my collar looks on you.”

“So you’ve said.”

“Pursuit of happiness, Starsk.” Hutch held up one finger, but there was smug amusement on his face.

“I think I need to propose an amendment,” Starsky muttered. He didn’t strip off his clothes until he’d closed the bathroom door behind him. Hutch got to see him naked often enough. However, he had nothing else to wear to sleep in. He’d once thought nothing of sleeping in the nude; now it was one more thing he had no choice in.

He luxuriated in the shower, washing away the stink of Luna. The water softened the tape around the bandage on his groin and Starsky started to pull it off, but stopped, thinking of Hutch. This whole thing was so confusing. He lived in his own skin, but didn’t own it.

Hutch owned him — everything but the thoughts in his head.

Starsky stood with the water sluicing over him, staring at the sodden gauze. He’d waited weeks to see the healing surgical wounds on his chest after the Gunther shooting, but he hadn’t really wanted to see them. They’d stretched obscenely across his shaved chest like tumbled railroad ties. Just looking at them had scared him, and made him ashamed of his own body.

The brand was small, judging from the size of the bandage. He’d have to crane his neck and swivel his leg to one side to see the wound. The only time it would visible was when he knelt with his thighs spread and eyes lowered. The brand was something shared between master and slave, not for the whole world to see.

Shame welled up again. Shame that Neville planted the mark and shame that Hutch wanted it.

Starsky growled low in his throat and pulled off the dressing. Water landing on the burned flesh nearly made him scream. He shut off the tap, bending to examine the brand more closely. A sickle moon rode the curve of his inner thigh, only inches from the base of his scrotum. It was reddened, puffy, and warm to the touch, but strangely, Starsky could see the appeal. When it healed, the result would be eye catching. Something for the master to play with, as the damned Brit said. Something, perversely, to be proud of if Starsky had had it done on his own. He’d withstood the pain for Hutch. He tentatively traced the contours of the moon, hissing softly from the renewed burning.

He toweled off quickly and emerged from the bathroom naked. Despite all his conflicted feelings, he wanted to be with the man he loved.

Hutch was sprawled on the bed, still clad only in khakis, reading a briefing.

“Will you put more ointment on this?” Starsky canted his leg to let the brand show.

“Dressing came off in the shower?” Hutch asked dryly, and pulled the carryall onto the bed, extracting the first aid supplies.

Starsky held himself carefully when Hutch swirled the cooling gel around the wound. It was difficult to avoid getting some on his sac, and every time Hutch touched him there, he had to remember to breathe. The Phenine had completely worn off, but having Hutch between his legs was an aphrodisiac on its own.

Taping the bandage back in place, Hutch banged the thick penis ring with the back of his hand. It swung like a pendulum, doing amazing things to Starsky’s libido. He dropped down on the bed, barely aware of the ache from the brand with so many other sensations bombarding him. He suddenly wanted to be up inside Hutch, something he had never considered before. Since he’d always guarded his own ass, he’d assumed Hutch wouldn’t welcome penetration, either.

Now, like Alice, he wanted to go down the rabbit hole to see what was inside. He used to imagine anal penetration to be brutal and agonizing, but recent experience had taught him otherwise. Hutch preferred being on top. Would he take it from the bottom, as well? From his own slave?

Starsky pulled Hutch down beside him, enjoying the feel of skin gliding over skin, their arms tangling together and heads bumping when they tumbled around on the sheets. “Hutch…I want to do you like you did me. Like when we were out under the stars.”

“Yeah.” Hutch’s voice rasped, raw and turned-on. He nipped at Starsky’s ear lobe, ticking the interior of the ear with his tongue. “But the ring…”

Starsky knew it was too good to be true. That must be what the ring was for. Not just to visually mark him as a slave, but to prevent him from using his own body to pleasure another. “It’s too big to fit in.”

“No, it’ll fit. After a while.” Hutch panted, relinquishing Starsky’s ear.

He could feel a throbbing hickey there, where Hutch had marked another part of Starsky’s body. Would Hutch really let him do that? Or would he keep putting it off with one excuse after another?

“It’s an open wound, Starsk,” Hutch said softly. “Once it heals more, we can do it.”

“You gave me oral,” Starsky said.

“Not the same thing.” Hutch mouthed Starsky’s shoulder. He sucked the skin stretched over his collarbone, then kissed the small hurt. “I promise. My ass will be yours — as soon as it’s safe.”

Starsky mourned the missed opportunity, tucking away the promise for the future. It was more than a promise of reciprocation — it promised equality. This was a big change for Hutch. He’d always wanted complete control, and rarely had given back much sexually. As convoluted as it seemed, was it possible that becoming Hutch’s slave would reestablish their partnership?

Hutch was getting undressed, his eyes caressing Starsky in a way that sent shivers over his scalp. He scooted all the way to the middle of the bed, ready and willing for anything Hutch might have in mind.

Hutch rolled over onto him, their cocks bumping with rising heat. Sweaty friction, incredible lust, and frantic thrusts soon propelled them. Starsky howled, Hutch joining him as if they were two coyotes rutting under the moon. Mutual need quickly brought them to the point of no return.

Afterward they slept, Hutch still draped across Starsky’s body.

***

Every city/state and territory now had border crossings. Starsky soon discovered how low his status was. Even with his master standing beside him, as a slave he had to endure lewd glances, groping hands, and cruel remarks. Entering the Las Vegas city limits had been bad. The guards frisked Hutch and took him into a small office to interrogate. While he was gone, an acne-scarred cretin with foul breath forced Starsky to undress to access his slave markings, even though the ring showed plainly through the rip in his jeans.

“Kneel when you’re in the presence of your betters, slave,” Acne-face snarled.

Starsky was ready to stand his ground. If the guards kept Hutch away long enough, he was sure to be raped, and he wasn’t going down without a fight. If Hutch was right and they were on any fugitive lists, then the Las Vegas authorities could imprison them for an undisclosed length of time for no specified reason. The BC authorities did it all the time. He’d just raised his fists to prepare for attack when a hand pushed him down from behind.

“Do as you’re told, Davey,” Hutch said. “Grab your clothes and thank the nice man.”

“Oughta put a chain on that one,” Acne-face leered, staring directly at Starsky’s penis. “He’s the kind that could get took right out from under your nose.”

“Not likely,” Hutch said over his shoulder. “He’s got the clap and about four other VDs besides. Taking him for treatment, but there’s not much hope of recovery at this point. Syphilitic dementia. You can have him, though, if you want him?”

“Aw, get out of here.”

Starsky stuffed his jeans and shirt under his arm, not needing the push Hutch gave to get him back into the car. They were over the border of Las Vegas and driving on the outskirts of town before he had a chance to pull his jeans back on. “What the hell did you tell him that for? I don’t have the clap!” He’d had it once, while in ‘Nam, but a single dose of penicillin had cured that quickly.

“They’ll enter it into the records.” Hutch grinned roguishly at him. “Not a guard on the way out of Las Vegas will touch you.”

“Smart thinking.” Starsky buttoned his fly. “For a blond.” He wrestled the shirt over his head, afraid to be bare-chested in the relentless sun for too long. “Where’d you get my papers? The goons that grabbed me at the warehouse took my ID and badge when they stole my jacket.”

“I own you, Starsk, remember? Your old ID isn’t even legal any more. But I picked up your passport and some other stuff when I went to your house.”

“Didn’t grab any shades while you were there, did you?”

“Sorry.” Hutch grimaced as if thinking he should have.

They didn’t stop, bypassing downtown Las Vegas and all the casinos for the open road and miles of cactus and Manzanita. Getting out of sin central took even longer than getting in. The exit guards demanded an even higher bribe than the entrance guards had, and Hutch had to break into a locked box from the trunk. Starsky watched in amazement when he pulled out two bundles of hundreds and handed them over. Two thousand dollars, to get them out. He hadn’t asked how much it cost to get them into Las Vegas.

Hutch’s warning had worked like a charm, not one guard fondled Starsky other than to look at the brand and piercing. And they did that with rubber gloves on, although that didn’t stop the raunchy comments about his prominent assets. He almost laughed, staring at a mid-point past the jack booted legs planted in front of him. It took supreme effort not to react when two guards checking off license plates proposed chaining his cock to the back of a moving car just to see if he’d come that way.

“Everything seems to be in order.” The booted guard waved them back to the Ford while another counted the money.

Starsky looked back at the car behind them, watching a homely woman and six small children pile out. The guards seemed fascinated by the oldest child, a lovely girl of about 16. Where the hell had all the goodness gone? All the morals and values the average person had once held true? Nothing was left — the old United States was now a wasteland, stripped bare and raped. Even if the Abbey League succeeded in their plans to restore order, would there be enough left to start again? Who could bring back democracy when the anarchists had taken over so completely?

“Gonna go broke quick if you keep handin’ out Grants like that.” Starsky focused on the flat desert in front of the car, once again wishing he had dark glasses for protection against the glaring sun.

“Doesn’t matter how much I hand out, as long as we keep moving and the guards keep their hands off you…” Hutch held the steering wheel tightly, his face grim. “I have a great deal of money.”

“This ain’t what I meant when I asked you t’spend a million on me,” Starsky said softly, touched but confused. Hadn’t Hutch realized what would happen when he enslaved Starsky? How was he going to react when Starsky went undercover as a true slave to bring down the CEC from the inside?

“You hungry?” Hutch asked as if Starsky hadn’t spoken. Or maybe he had heard, after all. He was pointing to a wooden board covering an old official green US highway sign. Black painted letters spelled out McDonald’s, Last one on Earth, 17 miles. “You think that’s for real?”

“Ain’t had McDonald’s fries in years,” Starsky said wistfully.

“I never thought they’d go under.” Hutch squinted even with his sunglasses on.

Once again, Starsky wished he had something to cover his eyes as long as it wasn’t the blindfold. Putting up the ragtop on the car would help. His nose was boiling in the sun.

“But Taco Bell bought out every single place in the west,” Hutch added.

“You see a burger place when you went to Duluth?” Starsky asked. It was the first time he’d ever asked about that fateful trip. Hutch had been so distant and closed off afterwards. Now Starsky knew why.

“Wasn’t exactly looking for a burger, Starsk,” Hutch drawled with half a grin. “But now that you mention it, no. Lots of Dairy Queens. Lots of them.”

“A Blaster,” Starsky said reverently, his mouth watering. Ice cream covered in chocolate, so cold his brain seized up and his nuts shriveled when he ate the heavenly concoction.

“Is that all you ever think about? Fast food? I bring you peanut butter sandwiches and fruit, and you want charred beef and potatoes dipped in grease.”

“With cheese,” Starsky reminded him. “Charred beef topped with cheese. Just to really piss off the Jewish ancestors.”

“You’re weird.” Hutch laughed, looking at him with happiness.

If he hadn’t already loved this complicated, mercurial man, Starsky would have fallen hard right then. Hutch was shiny in the sunlight, all golden beauty and subtle strength. He had been the captain of the football team, the favored child of rich parents, and an awarded member of the police force. He was also a fierce defender, loyal friend…and kinky master.

“You willing to spend some of that inheritance on burgers and fries? Just to feed me. That ain’t the old Hutch.” Starsky grinned fecklessly at him. “I call that weird.”

“Pot calling the kettle cracked,” Hutch intoned with just the right amount of snootiness and they both began to giggle.

Starsky put his head back against the car seat, totally happy. Every once in a while another giggle would bubble up, rising up into the cloudless sky like party balloons filled with helium. He’d waited so long for Hutch to come back to him. Who knew it would be at such a cost?

Golden arches were visible from a mile off. Lots of golden arches of every height and width. The proprietor of this roadside diner must have purchased every cast off piece of McDonald’s architecture left after the fast food giant folded. The largest set of arches curved over the off-ramp, directing the traveler to this fantastical destination. The rest ringed the white enameled building like a fence made of yellow M’s. Inside the perimeter were plastic Ronalds, his loony smile offering fake cheer for all the hungry passersby. There was an old play area with tunnels and tubes for children to crawl through, a plastic replica of a hamburger with a face and legs, and a dozen picnic tables. The fare, while probably not up to McDonald’s standards in 1980 before they closed, was decent. The menu was simple — grilled burgers, French fries, and vanilla ice cream shakes — but Starsky wasn’t disappointed.

“This is terrific.” Starsky slurped loudly on the last of his shake and eyed Hutch’s with greedy intent. He shrugged innocently, dragging a French fry through the catsup.

“You want mine?” Hutch offered as if that weren’t quite obvious. He’d eaten most of his French fries but Starsky had finished both cheeseburgers.

“You sure?” Starsky took the paper cup without waiting for an answer and stuck his straw into the hole in the top of the lid. Thick, creamy milkshake melted in his mouth and down his throat.

“You need the calories more than I do.” Hutch ran a gentle but ticklish hand down Starsky’s ribcage. “Doesn’t take much for you to drop a couple of pounds.”

“The Luna diet.” Starsky shivered, the cold from the shake suddenly going to his bones. Just the name stirred up bad memories. “That’s the last time I ever mention that place.”

Hutch’s hand had traveled south, under cover of the table, and was carefully investigating the gap below Starsky’s fly. He turned the ring around in the pierce hole like a child from a century before playing with an old fashioned hoop. “Were you pierced at Luna, or before?”

Starsky put down the cup, his mouth inexplicably dry. “In the truck. Two guys, I never saw their faces, held me down and…” The remembered pain swamped him, needle bright and as sharp as a laser. He jerked back, trying to escape Hutch’s touch.

“Hey, hey,” Hutch whispered, one hand firmly on his back to keep him at the picnic table. “I didn’t mean to start something, but…I think I knew when they did it.”

“Huh?” Starsky braced his head with tightly closed fists, shaking. Hutch’s hand stayed at his back, unmoving but so good.

“I was maybe two hours out of Bay City, maybe two o’clock, when…this sounds ridiculous, but I felt you. Here.” Hutch tapped his chest.

“Yeah.” Starsky stared at him with astonishment. “I don’t know what time it was, but that would be about right.”

“Strange. Maybe it was because I was thinking about you so much. I didn’t expect to feel such a connection…” Hutch trailed off, his face grim, the furrow between his eyebrows deep enough to hold an ocean.

“We always had a connection, babe,” Starsky pressed his thumb against Hutch’s forehead, smoothing out the wrinkles. “Just sometimes the wires get crossed.”

“You saying I’ve had bad reception lately?”

“Goes both ways.” Starsky mimed holding the police radio mic, hissing and sputtering against his fist. “Ze — brazzzz three, psst fsst calling Hut ckh — sssss.”

“Wise ass.” Hutch swiped at him and ended up with a finger in the catsup.

“Can’t take you anywhere.” Starsky handed him a napkin, looking around at the kitschy drive-in with satisfaction. “Hutch, you ever thought about owning a McDonald’s?”

“No.”

“What do you plan to do once we run the CEC outta town?”

“Go back to the way things used to be,” Hutch said.

“You really think that’s possible?” Starsky felt a strange fear in the pit of his stomach. That there was nothing left for them, one way or the other. They’d lost their jobs as cops. How the hell could things ever go back to the way they were in the ’70s when life seemed so promising? Once, the scariest things on the horizon were gas shortages, drought, and a bunch of companies banding together in what they claimed were not technically monopolies.

“I don’t know.” Hutch tossed the greasy wrappers and wadded napkins into the trash, showing great potential for some future over-the-hill basketball team. “But with democracy, all things are possible, so I have to hope.”

“You optimistic. This I gotta see.” Starsky laughed, getting up from the picnic table and arching his back in a vertebrae-cracking stretch. A family with two small brown-skinned boys had been about to take the table next to him, but when the father saw Starsky’s ring, he shooed the children over to the play area, whispering to his wife.

“Damn,” Starsky said softly, the ache in his groin and penis suddenly ten times stronger. Those people saw nothing but a slave when they looked at him. He glanced at Hutch, trying to smile to cover up the hurt. “Me, I could go for a place like this. Have to find a chocolate concession, that’s a must, but I bet the owner would sell for less than a million.”

“Keep dreaming, Starsk,” Hutch said, his voice like a caress. He didn’t touch him, not in front of strangers, but Starsky could almost feel the print of a kiss on his lips. “I did see some Ray Bans in the gift shop, though. Take your pick, and I’ll throw in a pack of gum and some peanuts.”

“You like gum and peanuts,” Starsky groused. “I hope they got Snickers, or anything chocolate.”

Chocolate didn’t keep in the desert; at least, that was the excuse. Starsky ate slightly stale Lorna Doones one by one as they sped down the highway. He’d complained about the decreasing number of sweets available in recent years, but it had never seemed as bad as this.

He insisted on taking a turn driving, which helped a lot. Driving had always been his balm and his salvation. Taking control of something tangible. Those long ago solitary races through Death Valley had saved his soul. He felt invigorated behind the wheel, despite the enervating Nevada heat. He floored the gas pedal, sure Hutch would say something, but not caring one iota.

“You wrap this Ford around a cactus, you’re walking the rest of the way to Phoenix.” Hutch braced himself against the dash. The car hit a crack in the pavement, launched into the air, and came back to earth with a teeth-rattling thud.

Starsky laughed, with the wind in his hair and sand in his teeth, gunning the motor for all it was worth.

He found himself staring at his wrists on the barren, straight-aways where he didn’t have to pay much attention to the road. There were few cars going either direction to distract him. His hands looked foreign, not the same ones that had driven the Torino.

Hutch had buckled the wrist cuffs on tightly before they left the safe house. Smooth, brown leather, a color similar to Starsky’s lost jacket, wrapped around his wrists, accenting the paler skin of his hands. He’d always been told he had nice hands, small for a man of his size, but he’d never paid very much attention to them. They were just part of his arms. Now, he was very aware of how the narrow column of the cuffs put his hands on display, reducing them to playthings for some master waiting for a handjob. No longer the hands of a free man.

Every time he turned his hand on the wheel, the twist of wrist bones under the form-fitting leather cuffs reminded him of what he had become.

Night found them over the border into the incorporated territory of New Mex-Arizona, but not yet at their destination. Starsky could see a blue shimmering light on the horizon that turned into a neon Indian teepee as they got closer. The blue coalesced into a huge neon sign mounted above ten conical cement huts shaped like the apocryphal native dwellings.

“Wouldja look at that!” Starsky pointed, sitting up straighter. “We gotta stay there, Hutch.”

“That’s the plan.”

“So sometimes you do have plans I like,” Starsky said with a grin and steered off towards the motel.

The inside of the first teepee was not quite as cute as the pink and blue trimmed outside; a round office in drab tan with a long counter complete with a bell, a rack of out of date brochures, and a plastic sign advertising credit cards that had stopped being accepted two years ago. The whole place seemed like set decoration from a movie in the ’60s just waiting for Hitchcock to direct a scene.

A nut-brown woman who had to stand on a box to see over the counter watched greedily while Hutch counted out the fee in advance, her black eyes darting back and forth between the two men. Since Starsky still had no official ID other than his slave papers, Hutch had to sign in for the both of them, showing his California passport and detective’s badge as proof of citizenship.

The woman glanced at Starsky with contempt, and pushed the key toward Hutch. “Slaves gotta be dressed around here. We’re good Christian people. We don’t abide by any of those free sex shenanigans they do up in Vegas.”

“Just passing through, ma’am,” Starsky said quietly, the joy of staying in a teepee completely drained away.

“He don’t talk to me, either, you hear?” she snapped at Hutch, disapproval pinching her face.

“Lady, we’re giving you our business, so I’d suggest you behave like a civil inn keeper unless you want a lawsuit on your hands,” Hutch said quietly.

“Slavery ain’t even legal in this territory.”

“Exactly why we’re coming here instead of Vegas.” Hutch towered over her. The counter was between them, but Hutch could have easily picked her up and shaken her like a rat. He didn’t. He simply stared at her with pale, ice-cold eyes, picked up the key, and walked out.

Starsky glanced back at the woman who was rooted to the spot. He wanted to laugh except the fist-sized ball in his chest kept getting in the way. He had to get another pair of jeans without a ring-sized rip in the groin.

Number seven was painted yellow with a red zigzag all around the exterior. “Looks like Charlie Brown’s shirt,” Starsky said, trying to lighten the tension. He plucked the keys out of Hutch’s fingers and opened the door. The usual musty smell of a cheap hotel wafted out.

“I wanted to shove those keys in her nasty little face and arrest the shrew.” Hutch kicked at the old-fashioned air conditioner.

“Hey, turn that thing on ‘stead of abusing it.” Starsky raised his arms, he was covered in sweat and even the insignificant breeze from the open door was a relief. The room was stiflingly hot. “This is the only hotel for miles around. Let’s get some shuteye and get out at first light.”

“Starsk…” Hutch began, and his eyes slid down Starsky’s body with heat that had nothing to do with the ambient temperature.

“She don’t take with none of that free sex stuff,” Starsky said wolfishly, pushing the door shut with his sneaker.

“Good, I won’t try anything with her.” Hutch leaned forward just enough to nip Starsky in the sweet place where his neck met his shoulder. “You smell like sweat.”

“Big surprise.” Starsky slid his arms around Hutch, his cock jutting out with insistent demands. “We gotta turn on the A.C. or we’ll bake in here.”

“I like sweat.” Hutch took a big sniff, snuffling under the edge of Starsky’s T, which sent a delightful shiver down Starsky’s spine. “You know, every time one of those guards patted you down, every time somebody pointed or made some crude remark about the slave, I had this rush of anger, and following it came…”

He looked up, their eyes locking and Starsky felt a visceral sensation of absolute love. “Madness?” Starsky asked, just to see the play of annoyance, embarrassment, and adoration play across Hutch’s classic features.

“Love, babe. Love. Passion.” Hutch molded his hands around Starsky’s skull, pressing his hair flat and kissing him. “That you were all mine and they’d better get their filthy hands off you or…” They grappled for supremacy, each trying to take control of the kiss, sucking and licking each other until they had to declare a tie. Hutch breathed in deeply, his chest expanding and contracting against Starsky’s, and gently pushed him downward.

Starsky settled on his knees, Hutch still holding his head like a precious treasure, and unzipped Hutch’s fly. That magnificent phallus sprang forth right into Starsky’s mouth. He knew what to do and did it gladly, giving Hutch all his expertise. That they were master and slave had no meaning at that moment. This was the greatest freedom, giving and taking without expecting anything but joy in return.

“Wait.” Hutch stopped Starsky, and bent over him, fumbling just a little with the tight buckle on the collar.

“Hutch?” Starsky asked, and waited until the leather band was removed from his throat. His neck felt wobbly, as if he needed the support of the collar. But his head didn’t tumble off its perch and he smiled, looking up at Hutch.

“No slaves in here tonight,” Hutch whispered and pulled him onto the bed.

The air conditioner eventually got turned on, sometime after they showered together in the miniscule stall. They slept close together on one bed, sheets pushed down to their bare feet, Hutch’s lips touching Starsky’s chest the whole night.

 

Book Two

Starsky had never before been to Phoenix but it looked like any large city in the post-Corporation era. Huge stone buildings dominated the cityscape. The streets were clogged with cars, buses, and every conveyance possible, all belching noxious pollutants and sending the already mind-boggling air temperature even higher.

Hutch directed them to an area outside the main city where a huge mall had once reigned. The CEC owned all the department stores and it was difficult, if not impossible, for small shop owners to make a living. Most of the spaces that once housed boutiques and specialty shops were now used for housing and storage. Zoning laws were a thing of the past. The average citizen could barely afford to pay for telephone service, much less electricity or gas, so many families had just moved into the abandoned malls where there was water, air conditioning, and support from other folk.

The place was packed with people, all engaged in various aspects of everyday life. Women washed clothes in what had once been an ornamental fountain. A circle of small children surrounded a teacher giving a lesson in adding and subtracting oranges. A man wearing leathers so old they appeared to be crumbling off his body was repairing motorcycles under the watchful eyes of two Hell’s Angels.

After asking for directions more than once from the inhabitants of this improvised town, Hutch pointed down one wing of the mall. Halfway along was a sign cobbled out of mismatched letters from other storefront signs: The Pits, part deux.

“Huggy didn’t waste any time!” Starsky skirted a gang of surly teens who called out insults as he passed. The ring showing through his holey jeans, plus the wrist and ankle cuffs made his ownership obvious. Hutch had attached the cuffs lovingly this morning, but for some reason known only to him, left the collar off. That small freedom had meant a lot to Starsky — until now.

Hutch casually flicked his jacket open to reveal the long barreled Python that he’d strapped under his arm. Their comments quickly changed to admiration and speculation.

“You think he has any beer?” Starsky continued, ignoring them. He’d developed a tough hide in his years on the street, but it took all he had to remain passive with the cruel remarks the ring and his slave cuffs generated. Slavery might not be legal in Arizona, but it certainly was recognized, and from what he’d seen when they were in downtown Phoenix, well practiced by rich businessmen.

“When didn’t Hug…” Hutch started but got no farther when a loud voice called out cheerfully.

“Bay City amigos, come inside!” Huggy Bear, as usual, was wearing a peacock array of colors that shouldn’t go together peacefully, but somehow worked on him.

“Huggy!” Starsky had rarely been so happy to greet an old friend. He and Huggy did have some past history, but none of that mattered. Seeing him was like coming into a safe harbor after a brutal storm. “Some place you got here.”

Hooking a long arm around Starsky’s neck and a big hand on Hutch’s back, Huggy drew them into the low-lit saloon. A long bar stretched along side one wall, and the place was obviously popular judging from the many patrons. “My Southwestern cousins have been here for a while, and found the bar trade to be surprisingly lucrative. I’m just giving them a hand.”

“Looks a lot like your old place.” Starsky started to sit down on a bar stool, but he’d been in a car for nearly two days. The fabric of his jeans had rubbed the welts on his butt raw, and standing suddenly was a much more comfortable position. Hutch hitched a leg over a bar stool, perching on the edge so that his knee pressed against Starsky’s hip. Starsky was aware of the heat from Hutch’s body along his right side, reminding him of the way they’d always been; unconsciously touching whenever they were near one another.

“The original Pits had style, my man,” Huggy scoffed, drawing beer from a wooden keg with a spout on one end. He slid the mugs toward his friends, and, with practiced ease, poured shot glasses of rotgut for two men at the other end of the bar. “This is just bargain basement cast-offs masquerading as a bar until Raoul can get some more cap-i-tal.”

Starsky gratefully accepted the mug, tapping his to Hutch’s in celebration of having made it this far. He took a long swallow of the cold beer. It had a strong flavor of malt and hops. “This ain’t Coors.”

“A local brew. That crap the CEC sells tastes like gorilla piss water,” Huggy groused. “I took the liberty of securing rooms for the two of you on the second floor here. Hutch, there be a few friends waiting impatiently for you. Seems you’re a day or so late.”

“Couldn’t be helped.” Hutch grabbed a handful of pretzels out of a bowl on the bar. “Who’s here?”

“I am.” The bass voice seemed to come from the bowels of the earth.

Starsky turned around to see a giant of a man, probably six foot six at least, with smooth chocolate-colored skin and shoulders that could have fit on an ox. He had the thick neck and broad chest of a former football player, which he was. “Gary Manetti?”

“The same.” Manetti flicked a glance at Hutch then looked down at Starsky, lingering on the ring showing through his jeans before looking him straight in the eyes. One of the few people who’d ever done that since he’d been pierced. Starsky liked him immediately. “You’re Starsky. Heard stuff.”

“Good or bad?”

“Depends.” Manetti grinned, revealing a gap in his front teeth, and stuck out an enormous hand that engulfed Starsky’s own. “Glad you got here in one piece.”

“More or less.” Starsky held up his glass. “You a drinking man?”

“Been drinking, waiting for the Blond Prince.”

Hutch blushed at the nickname and started to protest, but Starsky laughed. “The Blond Prince, huh? I’ll have to remember that.”

“People anxious to talk, Hutchinson,” Manetti said, his face apologetic. “Alone.”

“Starsk, I gotta straighten a few things out before we bring you into the fold.” Hutch frowned, obviously unhappy about something, but he didn’t say what. Starsky appreciated the way Hutch kept his hand on his arm until he drained his beer mug, imprinting a warm memory there that stayed for a long time after Hutch had disappeared.

“Big things going down around here. The moon’s full and the tide is turning,” Huggy said cryptically, dunking half a dozen glasses into a basin of soapy water.

“Lunatics, all of us.” Starsky bit into a pretzel and grimaced when the remaining half looked like a crescent moon. “Me most of all.”

“Starsk…” Huggy started and blew out noisily. “That place — it’s considered one of the best — which ain’t saying a lot, I know, but…”

“The best? You knew where I was?” he asked savagely.

“No! Not specifically. I figured it out after Hutch left. He asked me — months ago — which slave farm produced good…” Huggy shook his head. “I figured Hutch got some bug up his ass to roust the slave houses and then go after the trainers. You two were always trying to bust Dunfey, and he had an interest in Luna.” Obviously trying to avoid Starsky’s gaze, he rinsed off two glasses, setting them carefully on the drain board.

Starsky felt like a pawn in a chess game, buffeted by forces he had absolutely no control over. Luna’s gold star rating didn’t change his mind one iota. He wanted to burn the place to the ground with that bastard Neville inside — and Harriet Roget, too.

“I asked around. No slave’s ever died at Luna,” Huggy said after a long time. “The trainers follow the buyer’s orders, and the slaves…”

“How long did you know?” Starsky said low and nasty, tensing his belly, his body still expecting Neville’s blows after two days.

“Hutch had some agenda goin’ on. He’d asked me… some specific questions, over a long period of time, and when shit started hitting the fan, I put two and two together and got some really bad vibes.” Huggy paused, his black eyes pleading with Starsky to stop him from going on, while his hands were still immersed in sudsy water. “I hear things. I already knew where Dunfey took those folk that got spirited away.”

“So you suggested I get spirited?”

“No! He didn’t tell me that part,” Huggy said a little too loudly, grabbing a dishtowel. “Raoul!” he called to a small-boned man with the same elfin cast to his face that Huggy had. “Take over the bar while I get me a smoke.”

“Sure thing, Unc…uh, Huggy.” Raoul grinned toothily, pouring a frosty mug for someone farther down the long bar.

“Your cousin, huh?” Starsky observed wryly, even though he was still churning inside.

Huggy came around the shorter end of the bar to where Starsky was, gesturing for him to follow. When Starsky didn’t, Huggy stared at him, a strange anger warring with something else in his expressive eyes. “What is it you want?”

“The truth,” Starsky answered. He followed his old friend out the back into a cramped indoor alley filled with the debris of hundreds of people all living in the same space. The smell of rotting food and rank humanity was overpowering, especially since the air conditioners didn’t seem to operate this far behind the businesses.

“Garbage detail ain’t been keepin’ up their end,” Huggy said shortly, and went up a flight of metal steps to the second floor. Here the mall had stores on one end and, what had once been an apartment complex on the other. He inserted a key into apartment sixteen, swinging open the door. The place was pure Huggy, bright colors and fabrics all vying for attention; although it had the unfinished feel of a place someone had just moved into.

“Hutch says that the CEC offered him a job, but a partner wasn’t one of the side benefits,” Starsky said before the door had even closed behind him. “That they wanted me out or dead, so he went to Dunfey to make a deal. You set that up?”

Huggy swore under his breath. “I didn’t know you were the pigeon. Not at first. And when I found out, I tried to talk Hutch out of it. But he thought you’d be killed unless he got you out fast — and in a way that would convince Roschenzky.”

“So everyone was in on this plan but me, huh?” Starsky snarled. “Keep Starsky out of it; he’s bound for the slave farms anyway.”

Huggy exhaled noisily, clearly at a loss. “Starsk, I’m nothing but a bartender, and my opinion rarely changes anything.”

“And what was your opinion?”

“On that, Hutch and me agreed. Getting out of town was the right thing to do, so I did.” Huggy leaned against the wall of his kitchen. “That puppet President Cosgrove drove Bay City into a shit hole; the city was emptyin’ out like rats fleeing a sinking ship. Dunfey went out the same day you did. He’s here in Phoenix.”

“I been going after that whippo for a fucking year, Hug. And you were tight with him the whole time?”

“If you think that then we ain’t got much to talk about, Starsky.”

“So tell me how it was, cause I wanna hear.”

“I done tol’ you all I know. I’m not even the middle man; I’m more like a sign post. You wanna talk to him, he wants ta talk to you — I whisper in ears, direct traffic. I didn’t know Hutch wanted to get you out of Roschenzky’s way until it had already happened, Starsk, and he told me to go get the car.”

“Hutch was with you? On Tuesday?” Starsky whispered, nearly reeling.

Huggy nodded, his earring glinting in the sun slanting through wide windows in the western wall of the apartment.

That made sense, Starsky realized. The Pits was about five blocks over — a world away from the warehouse. Hutch had been safe, sitting at the bar, nursing a drink while two goons threw Starsky into a truck with a bag tied over his head. He wanted to throw up.

“I heard him call you,” Huggy said, barely audibly.

“Starsk, Dunfey just went into the warehouse on the corner of Ninety-first, where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there.”

He’d been so afraid Hutch had been captured, too. Captured or dead. Maybe Starsky had had a concussion, his brains all scrambled from hitting the truck, because Hutch had never been the one in danger. “He set me up.”

“Hutch sat there with his hand on the phone, looking like a man who’d just shot his best friend,” Huggy continued. “Tossed back a finger full a’Jack Daniels and told me to go get your car. He looked like Superman carrying the weight of the world on his shoulders when he left.”

“Think how I felt.”

“Dunfey was crowin’ all over town that he’d caught one of BC’s finest. Was gonna get you for himself, that’s what he said.” Huggy patted his jacket as if looking for a cigarette, but came up empty. “Don’t know how Blondie managed it, but he bought your chit right out from under Dunfey’s nose. The big man was outta his mind — had his goons out looking for Hutch. One of ’em came in just after I got back from moving your car.”

“Hutch went to my place…” Starsky trailed off, the puzzle still missing a few pieces, but forming more solidly in his mind. Hutch had been like one of those performers at the circus, twirling plates on flexible wands. One wrong move and everything would have come crashing down on his head.

“Musta cost Hutch a bundle of cash, and I don’t wanna know where that kinda scratch came from.” Huggy licked his lips, standing despondently in the middle of the room. “I knew I had to take my curtain call before it was too late.”

“You ever going back?” Starsky looked around the room, taking in familiar keepsakes and pieces Huggy had kept with him for years. This move was permanent.

“Maybe. Maybe not. I was never one to abide by the strict letter of the law, but BC turned into Dodge City when my back was turned.” He made a derisive sound. “When the ones running the place are more corrupt than the criminals, then the Bear takes a powder.” Huggy began to shift boxes, digging into one before poking around in another, obviously looking for something. “Worked my way up from mopping floors to owning my own place in BC, and now I gotta start all over again.”

“Meanwhile, I’m back on my knees, getting fucked.” Starsky sat down on a pile of pillows heaped in one corner of the room. His brand hurt. There was no telling when Hutch would be back, and the ointment was out in the car.

“Arizona’s a whole new place, Starsky.” Huggy’s voice was muffled with his head half buried in a box, triggering a memory.

Huggy’s first place, a hole in the wall a mile from the once and future Pits, called Chez Huggy’s. Not much to look at but all his own; paid for in cash after a phenomenally lucky weekend of craps. Starsky had been just back from the war, jangly as a pair of hooker’s earrings, sweating out the last of in country, and wondering where his next meal was coming from. He’d gone from three squares a day and a cot in a shared tent in Southeastern Asia to nothing back in the old U.S of A. No job, no home, and no prospects.

Huggy was his oldest friend, someone who’d once kept an eye on an undersized fifteen-year-old plying his trade to barrel-chested bankers and businessmen. Huggy had always had a job and a place to hole up in, even if it was the back of a bar. He’d let Starsky curl beside him on many a cold winter night, especially the year Starsky was fresh meat on the corner. Huggy used to coax him inside with the promise of food and friendship, and they’d bonded, two teenagers living on the streets. Their friendship had lasted through many changes in both their lives.

The barware for Chez Huggy hadn’t even been unpacked when Starsky showed up on the front stoop, jet-lagged after a fifteen-hour flight from Vietnam. He’d walked in to the same sight, skinny butt upturned over a box, and felt like he’d come home. What twist of fate had put them on two sides of the law? Not exactly opposite, more like one hand washing the other. As a cop, Starsky overlooked minor infractions, like the possession of stolen goods or the occasional working girl plying her trade in Huggy’s bar in return for information that he couldn’t get from any other source. Huggy had been the man to go to for so long now that Starsky sometimes wondered if he didn’t owe the Bear more. Well, all debts were paid up now, that was for sure.

“Chez Huggy,” Starsky said.

“Oh, yeah.” Huggy pulled out a pair of fairly disreputable jeans. Very old jeans, with Starsky’s old Army squadron insignia sewn on the back to cover a hole. “Knew these must be in here. Kept ’em.”

“The question is why?” Starsky was stunned. Memories surfaced, him and Huggy curled against each other, pale skin against dark. They’d never been anything more than a safe haven when life was too hard to handle alone, but Huggy had saved his butt on more than one occasion. And his pants, apparently.

“The night you got your cadet uniform.” Huggy grinned triumphantly. “You came in wearing these and went out a cop.”

“Last time we ever…” Starsky breathed in and breathed out, weary.

“I don’t do it with cops, Harpo.”

“Ever do it with a slave?” He hurt so much. The revelations of Hutch’s whereabouts on Tuesday at noon opened wounds he’d wanted to ignore. He’d tried to forgive his lover, but that didn’t change the fact that he’d feared for Hutch’s life when Hutch was throwing Starsky to the hounds.

“Never had the pleasure.” Huggy knelt down and tentatively touched the ring so prominently displayed between Starsky’s sprawled legs. “That hurt?”

“Yeah, it hurts!” Starsky bristled, acutely aware that he wore slave gear: the leather wrist and ankle cuffs. “It still does. You try having something like that shoved in your dick.”

“Pierced my ear with my mama’s sewing needle and a cold potato,” Huggy said. “Got the damned thing stuck half way in and was sure I’d have to go around with a needle poking out my ear.”

Starsky laughed, wishing Huggy’s hand would venture farther, just wrap around his cock for a little while. To make him feel something other than anger. Until Hutch got back.

His erection pushed the ring out even farther, nudging against Huggy’s palm.

“Had to get my brother to pull it out,” Huggy continued. “He liked the earring so much he took the needle and did him one, too.”

“Brothers and nephews and cousins. You got one for every state and country, Hug?”

“Just about.” Huggy sighed, just once, his eyes closed, long, elegant fingers still resting lightly on Starsky’s ring. He coaxed it around as Hutch had done once, turning it in the pierce hole before letting go. “I don’t do slaves, and I don’t trespass on another man’s claim.”

“Huggy.”

“There’s you, and there’s me, and there’s Hutch, you dig?” Huggy said roughly. “The minute I met that man, I knew I was yesterday’s news. Didn’t surprise me, ’cause we weren’t ever more than fuck buddies, so I never looked back. Starsky, there’s no use in it.” He stood, tossing Starsky the jeans. “Put ’em on; cover up that damned thing.”

“Thank you,” Starsky said because there was nothing else to say. That one decorative piece of metal, curving through a body part, could change so much. Huggy had worn an earring long before anyone else Starsky knew. That was a time when an earring might hint that a man was gay, or maybe bi, or possibly a pirate.

A Prince Albert, like Starsky’s, had meant even more. It was a definite come on, an indication that a man was ready to have a certain kind of fun. Now, it signified that the wearer had no rights over his own body. He wasn’t straight, gay or bi; he was simply a slave, available to all. That Huggy had refused Starsky’s opening spoke much about the man’s integrity.

“You get a tattoo?” Huggy hunted through a different box with his back turned while Starsky changed. “I heard of a guy who’s got a do-hickey that’ll turn those tracker chips off.”

“Yeah? Won’t do me any good, but get his name.” Starsky grit his teeth, buttoning up the fly. He’d lost some weight so the pants weren’t tight, but the lightest pressure on the brand still hurt like crazy, and it was the first time he’d ever imprisoned his ringed cock so securely. The ring felt cold resting up against his perineum. “The Abbey League will be interested.”

“You were branded?” Huggy asked, horrified, as he unearthed a can of coffee beans and two mugs.

“You know an awful lot about Luna for someone who doesn’t use slaves.”

“I talk to people. All people,” Huggy emphasized, plugging in the coffee maker and then grinding up the beans. “Don’t matter to me if they got rings in the places your mama always said to hide from strangers. They all got a story to tell, and the Bear don’t discriminate.”

“No, you never did.”

“Helped a few of ’em fade into the woodwork, too.”

Starsky knew that. He remembered a girl Hutch had tried to help — blonde and vapid — what was her name? Jeannie. How could he forget after her former owner had hooked Hutch on heroin and left him for dead? Hutch had first brought Jeannie to Huggy, sure that he would know what to do. Once Hutch went cold turkey off the H, Jeannie had disappeared as if she had never been there.

“You with the Abbey League?” Starsky asked.

“Nah, the Bear doesn’t do organized sports, but never let it be said that I didn’t support the underdog.”

“You think they have a chance in hell of ousting the CEC and bringing back democracy?” Starsky drew in the heavenly aroma of freshly brewed coffee.

“At least they’re trying, which is more than anyone else is doing.” Huggy handed over a cup of coffee and some Oreos.

Starsky could have kissed him. “Where’d you get the cookies?” He popped one whole into his mouth to savor the mix of chocolate wafer and creamy filling with his first sip of coffee, and then unscrewed the second one in the proper manner.

“I always have connections.” Huggy drank his coffee fast. “I gotta get back to the bar. Raoul can draw beer like a pro, but he can’t mix a drink worth shit.”

“Go ahead,” Starsky encouraged. “Mind if I sack out here? I haven’t had down time in a while.”

“I can believe that.” Huggy carried his cup back to the kitchen and rinsed it out, the habits of a bartender deeply ingrained. “You and Hutch got a place next door; I put the keys on that hook.” He waved a hand at a set of keys hanging on the wall. “You could go over there, but there’s no furniture. Stick around until Blondie shows up.”

“Thanks, Hug.”

“Oh, hey, I forgot.” Huggy paused on his way out. “Hutch wanted a computer. One’a my cousins scrounged one up and tol’ me it had all the right parts, but I don’t know one end of a computer from t’other. It’s in your apartment, waiting for his Blondness.”

“As long as I don’t have to wrestle with the damned fingerprint ID program, I know how to set a computer up,” Starsky said, wondering why Hutch needed one. He was beginning to feel like the pawn in a chess game — moved around from space to space but without any knowledge of the rules of the game.

He was tired, but once Huggy left, Starsky prowled around the small apartment cluttered with boxes. He didn’t know what to do with himself. How exactly would he fit in here? He was no longer a cop, and legally a slave, at least by the laws in states that recognized slavery. He wasn’t clear exactly on the laws here in Arizona. If he was found alone on the streets and his brand or ring discovered, what would the police do? Send him back to Luna? Shuttle him into some privately maintained slave house? He doubted if anyone would look the other way, or help him get to a city where a pierced man could walk freely. Only the Abbey League seemed to have maintained a liberal ideology.

He couldn’t keep still, and the wild mélange of colors in Huggy’s place was suddenly too bright. Grabbing the keys off the hook, he investigated the apartment next door. The layout was identical to Huggy’s but flipped; a main living room with a small kitchen off the left and a bedroom suite to the right. The computer monitor, keyboard, and tower were in the front room with about a mile of electrical cord coiled around everything. There was nothing in the apartment except a mattress in the bedroom with some blankets and towels piled neatly on top, and a couple of boxes with dishes and non-perishable foods on the kitchen counter.

Starsky ate Oreos while he looked around, planning to set up the computer, but the mattress beckoned. Unfolding a scratchy wool blanket, he curled up, falling asleep in an instant.

***

“Da-vey,” Neville said, elongating the syllables in a caricature of an upper crust British aristocrat. “All alone?”

Starsky froze, staring into the feline gold eyes of his trainer. He should be on his knees, thighs spread, eyes downward. Shit, he was going to be punished now.

He struggled to get into presentation, but he couldn’t make his limbs coordinate and was hopelessly tangled in the blanket when the Brit’s cool hand smacked hard against his bare butt. The gag was next, a huge thing that stretched his mouth.

“This simply won’t do, darling.” Neville drawled. “Your cowboy lets you get away with murder. A session on the rack for you.”

Starsky was bound upright, arms tight to the curved struts of the welcoming frame, legs pulled apart a shade too far. His groin ached, inner thighs burning from the pull of his muscles. This couldn’t be happening! Hutch had promised they’d never go back.

“Fortun will be in for a fireman’s shower, and then something to cure you of that insolence…” Neville floated away, one hand trailing down Starsky’s cock to tug on the ring.

“Starsk.”

Starsky thrashed, trying to break free of his confinement, moaning with frustration.

“Starsky, wake up!” Hutch said more sharply.

Starsky gasped, opening his eyes. He was still in the empty apartment, staring into Hutch’s soft blue eyes, safe.

“Hey.” Hutch unwound the blanket, freeing Starsky’s tangled legs. “Having a nightmare?”

“Something like that.” Starsky pushed his hair off his sweaty forehead, dispelling the last of Neville.

“Thanks for leaving the key over the door,” Hutch said with a smirk. “You hungry?”

“I smell Chinese!” Starsky scrambled to his feet, following his nose.

“This place is amazing, so many folks banding together to make a community. There are restaurants, shops selling handmade items, barbers, and daycares.” Hutch looked over at Starsky with an odd expression, but smiled when his partner discovered the food. “The spring rolls are great; I already had one.”

Typical Chinese restaurant cartons were waiting on the breakfast bar that separated the kitchen from the living room, smelling of orange peel and soy sauce. Starsky dived in, practically inhaling his first spring roll whole. “What’s going down with the Abbeyites?”

Hutch made a vague gesture like brushing annoying pests away. “They were put out because I didn’t announce Project Grab Starsky in advance. Some of the members felt I was taking matters into my own hands.”

Project Grab Starsky. Starsky winced inwardly at the title. “Well, weren’t you?”

“If I’d run it by the committee ahead of time, we’d still be waiting for authorization, and you’d belong to Dunfey or Roschenzky. You’d be gone for good.” He turned away, ostensibly to grab plates from the box of provisions, but his voice was rough with emotion when he spoke again. “I couldn’t let that happen.”

“They forgive you?” Starsky asked quietly.

“They always do,” Hutch said evasively, making Starsky wonder what else Hutch had done to disrupt the group. “Especially with the information I brought with me.”

“The stuff you were reading the other night?” Sitting on the living room floor with his back against the wall, Starsky spooned Kung Pao chicken onto his steamed rice, popping a few peanuts into his mouth before using his fork like a proper gentleman. Did slaves have to follow Emily Post etiquette anyway?

“That info was far too valuable to get into CEC hands.” Hutch leaned against the bar to make himself a plate. “More and more people are sending stuff through computer servers, but they’re too easily intercepted.”

“Hacked,” Starsky said with his mouth full. “That why you wanted a computer?”

“Hacked?” Hutch mulled the word before taking a large bite of rice and chicken. “Yeah. There was a raid on an Abbey group in Ore-Washington because they’d revealed too much in a communication sent by computer.”

“What happened?”

“Only a few escaped. Those who weren’t killed that night were taken into custody. Ore-Washington doesn’t have the bloodthirsty tendencies that prevailed in So Cal; they just send them to slave labor camps to work them to death.” He shook his head, blond hair falling into his eyes. He suddenly looked like a man carrying a heavy burden, one that wouldn’t get any lighter for a long time. “Those papers I had were information that survived from the group in Oregon — luckily, the courier hadn’t reached the meeting when they were raided. I got there a few days later…” He didn’t go into it further, but it was obvious that whatever he’d heard was terrible.

“So, based on that, you think it’s a good idea to keep sending this stuff through computer channels?” Starsky shifted on his abraded buttocks trying for a more comfortable position. The floor was hard, but a chair wouldn’t be much better.

“One of the older Abbey members had sent coded messages in World War II.” He ate more rice and Kung Pao chicken, crunching down hard on a peanut. “They used a code that incorporated the Navaho language back then, but we’re using numerical-based codes now. I’ll send scrambled batches of numbers and letters, and whoever receives it in BC will have the key to unlock it.”

“You never knew that much about computers before,” Starsky said. Hutch kept surprising him.

“Had to learn, didn’t I?” Hutch answered irritably, putting down his plate. He sat down next to the computer on the floor, the length of his thigh brushing Starsky’s. “We’re in the forefront of a revolution, Starsky. Lots of things had to change. All over the country, people are joining us. If we can chip away at the foundation, we can pull the CEC down brick by brick.”

“Been taking Inspirational Speaking 101?” Starsky asked sourly. “I’m all for having a positive attitude, but the U.S. fell apart damned fast once the military disbanded. Who could blame ’em? The Corporations paid the military way more after our dipshit president labeled half of the generals incompetent and the rest traitors. Once they were gone, and the states started declaring their independence, there was nothing left to hold it together.”

Hutch shook his head, probably remembering those disastrous days when no one could predict what might happen next. After the president had proclaimed Washington D.C. a sovereign state and declared war on Maryland, he’d been pronounced insane. He apparently hadn’t even noticed the rest of the country falling into ruins during his two terms of office. He was the last president of the former United States.

“Where were all these people when the battles first broke out? When families were killed and regular people enslaved?” Starsky demanded, suddenly angry.

“Not believing that it would go this far, same as you and me?” Hutch rubbed Starsky’s right thigh, slow and easy, not sexually, but as a reassuring gesture.

Starsky wasn’t sure who it was supposed to reassure, him or Hutch, but it felt good. “You think that fifty states that couldn’t get along before are gonna just meld back together into one big country again, like nothing happened?”

“No.” Hutch looked around with a frown. “Thought I brought some drinks up — couple of beers and some orange juice. Must have left it in the Pits.”

Starsky was almost dizzy from the abrupt change in subject, but it helped to cool his head. “There are glasses in that box on the counter. I’ll get water from the tap.”

“Right now, there are twenty-two territories and city-states, although that threatens to change from month to month. Some are well established, others mostly banded together because there’s strength in numbers.”

“Like Proto-Canada that used to be upper New York and Vermont and the Original Colonies back east.” Starsky carried over two glasses of water. He bent to sit back on the floor, his brand protesting as the denim scraped painfully over his sensitive skin. Damn, they needed to get some chairs in this place.

“New jeans?” Hutch asked lightly.

“Ancient.” Starsky schooled his face against the pain and crunched his spring roll.

“They look good…but I’d like them much better off.”

The temperature in the room rose about ten degrees in less than sixty seconds. Starsky could feel sweat beading on the back of his neck. Hutch hadn’t moved, but he was staring at where the ring hid under blue cloth. If looks could ignite fabric, Starsky’s clothes would have gone up in smoke.

“When we’re alone, I want you naked,” Hutch said, his voice both whiskey smooth and rough as silk.

Starsky could have gotten drunk on that sound, but it confused him. How had they gone from discussing politics to sex so fast? His hand went to the five buttons that protected his privates, the flame from Hutch’s ice blue eyes bringing his blood to a boil.

“Now?” Starsky asked lamely.

“I could rip that pair, too, but then you’d have nothing else to wear. That would be a pity.” Hutch rose to his feet. From Starsky’s perspective his legs suddenly seemed ten feet long.

“Hutch, what about the Abbey League? Aren’t they all about changing the system?” Starsky undid the first button, finding it strangely difficult to breathe, the air suddenly as thick and humid as a sauna.

“Exactly, giving the government back to the people — the way our forefathers did. A democracy.” Hutch watched greedily as if he’d never seen the package Starsky unwrapped. “We aren’t far from our goal — bringing down Cosgrove’s rule any way we can. We have a number of influential and very committed Abbey members, all poised to strike when we can make the most difference. And that will be soon.”

“So, do any of them hold slaves, too?” Starsky asked bluntly, without unbuttoning another one. He was surprised that he was so turned on, almost as if his anger were fanning the fire.

Hutch glanced up from Starsky’s groin to his eyes, going still and remote. “I haven’t asked.”

“But they met at slave houses.”

“Doesn’t mean any of them kept…” Hutch paused as if realizing that he was putting his foot in his mouth and changed subjects abruptly. “Talk around town says Dunfey has arrived, as I’d suspected. I’ve sent word that I want to join his organization, that I’m on the run from the BCPD, that I have CEC information he’d want such as who uses slaves, who are the easiest people to blackmail, and other information.” He reached out to slip one of Starsky’s buttons free, but Starsky batted his hand away. He was too aroused to tolerate Hutch’s hand on his groin.

Hutch made an urgent, needy sound but backed off, talking all the while. “My fee for all this would be a seat on his council. That would prove I’ve switched sides.”

“Then you’d let him use me…” Starsky forced himself to think logically past the smoke clouding his brain. He’d managed only three buttons and the tight pants were about to strangle his erection. “So I could take him down?”

“Killing him would be best.” Hutch pulled Starsky up to a standing position and bracing his chest against the breakfast bar. Pushing Starsky’s hands away, Hutch shoved them against the edge of the breakfast bar as if he were under arrest and about to be frisked.

“Hey!” Starsky yelled, but Hutch forced him forward over the bar with his elbow in the small of Starsky’s back.

Pulling Starsky’s arms behind him, Hutch snapped the links on the wrist bands together. “You were taking entirely too long.”

Their bodies were so close Starsky could feel the jut of Hutch’s erection pressed against the warm place between his butt cheeks.

Hutch reached in front of Starsky, holding him in place with his arms, and palmed the V of skin showing between the flaps of his jeans. “Things could get rough with Dunfey. And he might not be the only one.”

Starsky’s heart jumped into his throat. He had a sudden vivid image just as Hutch had described it: Starsky kneeling at the feet of the most powerful people on the west coast…naked…fondled and abused by strange hands moving over his body, sliding lower towards his cock — the way Hutch’s hands moved now.

“This isn’t just for fun,” Hutch said. “This could be a rehearsal for your debut.”

“I didn’t prepare a show tune,” Starsky gasped.

Hutch turned him around so they were facing each other. Then Hutch shocked him when he sank down to mouth the heated space his hand had left.

Starsky shouted loudly as Hutch’s warm lips sucked his cock out of its hiding place in his jeans. “Ah! I know this song by heart…” Starsky’s legs shook, his whole body trembling when Hutch licked down his length and did incredible, indescribable things to the pierced end. It burned and stung, but sent Starsky into orbit, his will to protest his captivity gone. The last two buttons on his jeans were still fastened when he orgasmed, panting with the aftermath.

Leaning his weight against the breakfast bar barely kept him standing, with Hutch slumped on his knees, head bowed. “Hutch?”

Hutch gave no response.

“What are you thinking about?” Starsky asked.

“I’m putting you in a dangerous situation without backup.” Hutch raised his head to gaze up at Starsky with haunted eyes. “All I wanted to do was keep you safe, with me. But this is more dangerous than what we were running from.”

“I got some tricks up my sleeves,” Starsky boasted, even as his heart thudded against his breastbone.

“You’ll be naked. Can’t carry any weapons.”

“Did you know I was double jointed?”

Hutch smirked. “I’ve noticed.”

“Watch this,” Starsky said, hoping that he hadn’t lost too much mobility. Easing himself to the floor, he moved away from Hutch who sat on the floor cross-legged, alert and interested.

Starsky sat, his arms still bound behind him, then bent forward until his forehead touched the ground. Slowly, he worked his arms and bound hands inch-by-inch around the widest part of his hips. The strain on his wrists and shoulders was excruciating, the short length of chain linking his wrists had no elasticity. For a few tense seconds, he wasn’t sure it was possible. Then his left shoulder shifted, ligaments and tendons loosening, and his hands cleared his butt. Sitting back with his hands now directly underneath him, Starsky took a deep breath and tried to relax. This was harder than he thought, but gave him a cocky optimism, nonetheless. Being restrained didn’t mean being helpless. Starsky finished his act by bending his knees and sliding his legs through his arms while pulling his hands up until he could stand with his cuffed hands in front of him.

“That’s fantastic.” Hutch grabbed Starsky, kissing him enthusiastically. “As long as you have enough time alone to wiggle around like that.”

“Got more than one.” Starsky winked and knelt in perfect presentation, his head bowed. “Stand directly in front of me as if you were gonna grab me.” He watched Hutch’s cowboy boots come into position, the overhead lights winking in the silver toe tips. In one graceful move, Starsky shot straight up, his bound hands clasped together. He stopped short of slamming Hutch in the gonads, but the implication was clear.

“Okay.” Hutch smiled. “You’re no babe in the woods. You ever use any of those techniques when you were on the streets?”

“Nah. I didn’t let any of ’em tie me up.” Starsky held out his wrists, hoping Hutch would get the message and unlatch them. “Used to be fast, though. I was small and flexible, and could hide in unorthodox places.”

“You’re still flexible.” Hutch unclipped the cuffs apart and pulled Starsky’s jeans off completely. “Do I want to hear about the hiding places?”

“Probably not.” Starsky toed the rumpled jeans on the floor.

“Leave them there and take your shirt off,” Hutch said with quiet authority.

“This how it’s gonna be?” Everything was off-kilter. One minute they were bantering and the next he could feel the persuasive strength of Hutch’s need to dominate him thrumming in his veins.

“Today, yeah.”

“Am I ever gonna know which way is up?”

“This is all new, and I want…” Hutch laid a seductive trail down Starsky’s naked hip with the back of his hand. “I need…to discover what we have right now. Learn to use it.”

Starsky could have backed away so easily, out of reach of that sweet swirl of skin on skin. He could have done a lot of things, but he didn’t. He just let it continue, feeling like a sex toy about to be used and like he’d won the lottery all at the same time. This was so damned complicated. “What if I don’t want to?”

“I own you, dammit!” Hutch smacked him hard on the butt and stalked into the kitchen. “Starsky, I don’t have answers here! I’m not sure I even have the right questions.”

Starsky didn’t move a muscle, the sting of the slap taking his attention away from the pain of the brand. He and Hutch had thrown a few punches in their day, but he’d never been hit so often by the man he loved. “Don’t do that again.”

Hutch was breathing so loudly that Starsky didn’t hear his response at first. “God, I want you so much, Starsk. All the time. All the time. For years, it tortured me that you didn’t want this, too.”

“What about all the times I went down on you? That was nothing?”

“That was…everything…if it was all I could get. I was grateful.”

“But you never gave back.” Starsky still wouldn’t look at him. Hutch was a shadow in the corner of his eye. It was easier to talk this way, when he could resist Hutch’s enticing allure.

“I’m a bastard half the time. I know it — you call me on it,” Hutch said harshly. “I punished — both of us. You wouldn’t play it my way, so I didn’t give you any. At the same time, I denied myself your body. Then I’d spend a lot of time with those dark gypsy boys in the slave houses.”

“So you said.” Starsky was losing this fight. He’d already discovered that forgiving Hutch came as easily to him as loving the man. He couldn’t help it. But he wasn’t a damned sex toy, and didn’t want to be treated like one. “I can’t kneel for you every day of my life, even in private.” He stripped off his shirt and knelt, expecting to feel defeated. Strangely, as he lowered his gaze and widened his thighs in presentation posture, he felt a curious sense of anticipation. When Hutch came to stand in front of him, Starsky thought his heart would burst.

Damn, I am so screwed.

“I, Kenneth Hutchinson, being of sound mind and body…” Hutch recited, “I think….”

Starsky looked up. Hutch stood with his right hand over his heart as if pledging allegiance to the flag that had once hung in their squadroom, valiant stars and stripes that no longer represented a United States. The old pledge was gone. Was Hutch supplanting it with something new and startling? A pledge of loyalty…to his slave?

“…Promise to hold what we’ve always had as sacred — ” Hutch continued. “As friends, partners, and lovers. I will honor the autonomy of David Starsky as a man, giving him all rights as a legal citizen. I maintain the right to use him, within reason, as my slave.” He gave a funny little shrug as if suddenly self-conscious, and touched Starsky reverently. “I can’t change what I am, Starsk.”

“Neither can I.” Still kneeling, Starsky spread his arms. “We’re goin’ around in circles, Hutch. It was simpler before.”

“Maybe. Now I’m getting what I want — are you?”

Starsky considered that while trying to sift through the abusive minefield of the last week. “I never thought I’d…like is the wrong word…but I do get off on what you do to me. Not anyone else….”

“What about being restrained?” Hutch asked, a strange mixture of hope and eroticism giving him a husky tone that went straight to Starsky’s cock. Hutch cupped Starsky’s cuffed wrists in both hands, rubbing his thumbs on the shiny leather bands.

“If I said no,” Starsky began, willing himself not to simply fold automatically. Hutch had promised autonomy; Starsky didn’t have to earn it. So where had his will power gone? He could say no, but he didn’t want to. ” — It would be a lie.”

“My collar, tight around your neck?” Hutch whispered.

He was so close that Starsky felt Hutch’s breath on the side of his neck, just where the collar had been until that morning. His mouth went dry, remembering Hutch’s big, warm hands curved around his neck, removing the thick leather band.

“I…” Starsky said, failing miserably at asserting any control here. “I get to say when and where. With all of it. The cuffs, butt plugs — ”

Hutch raised one eloquent eyebrow. “Even nipple clamps?”

Starsky didn’t want the bite of metal on his nipples, but he wanted Hutch’s hands on him, cock inside him. Compromise, always compromise. He clenched his jaw, and nodded once.

“Starsk,” Hutch said like a judge, stern and hard. “You already know what I want. State your demands.”

“I want the freedom.” Starsky bit down on the word, emphasizing how important the concept was. “To be me. To…do you and then have you reciprocate. To ask for you to come inside me, and know it’s what we both want.”

“Are we going to have to negotiate terms every time?” Hutch was fighting anger. Starsky could hear it, feel the vibration in the air. “Can’t I just establish rules you’ll stick to?”

Bursting out laughing, Starsky shook with mirth. “I’ve never been too good with rules, Hutch.”

“You’re the one the CEC was afraid of…” Hutch hunched his shoulders, coming down to his knees. “I want you on whatever level we can make work.”

Starsky kissed him, hard, without touching any part of his lover but those luscious lips. Hutch’s mouth opened, letting himself be plundered, taken. There was no battle for supremacy here, no challenges. Simple give and take.

“Got those nipple clamps?” Starsky whispered, bracing himself.

Hutch looked startled, then grinned fiendishly. “As a matter of fact…”

It was Starsky’s turn to look shocked when Hutch pulled them out of his pocket. “You come prepared,” Starsky said, unnerved.

“I have to, I was a scout.”

“Sea scout,” Starsky corrected, his whole body shaking.

Hutch leaned forward to suckle one of Starsky’s nipples. “Don’t move unless I tell you to.” Hutch’s lips brushed across Starsky’s chest like wet silk, setting off little incendiary bombs. When Hutch kissed and then bit his skin, he baptized Starsky into the tantalizing realm of pain and pleasure with the sweetness of honey mixed with the bite of chili powder.

Staying still was harder than anything he’d ever done. He wanted to beg Hutch to continue, yet push him away from his overly sensitized skin at the same time. Finally, Hutch paused long enough to adjust Starsky’s hands, making him clasp his ankles instead of resting them on his thighs. Nothing Neville had ever done had been this erotic or this adoring.

“You’re all mine tonight, lover.” Hutch kissed each eyelid, his fingers toying with an already tingling nipple.

Starsky had forgotten that he’d asked for the nipple clamps until one sank heavily into his flesh. “Fuck!” he exploded. Somehow, the pain was even worse than the first time Hutch had used them on the branding table. He couldn’t possibly handle this for very long. “Hutch, get it off!”

“One more.” Hutch attached the second clamp, then added a light chain to connect the two fearsome things. So tiny and yet so awesomely powerful.

Starsky moaned.

Hutch toyed with the chain, making it sway, tugging lightly on one nipple, then the other.

Red bursts of stars exploded behind Starsky’s retina. Yet, he couldn’t imagine being anywhere else on earth at that moment. How did Hutch do this to him? Every slight pull on the chain jacked his libido higher. He’d been erect since before unbuttoning his fly, which was too long by half. He needed relief, now. His cock pulsed in time with his heart, standing up against his belly. Was it possible to get addicted to erotic pain? And if so, how had it happened so quickly? This was bliss wrapped in metal spikes, like smelling a rose while the thorns pierced his skin.

“Can you take more?” Hutch blew lightly on Starsky’s right nipple, causing goosebumps to flush across his skin.

No, no! What the hell did he mean?

“Yes,” Starsky hissed on an exhalation.

Hutch added tiny metal teardrops — three of them — to the chain.

Starsky cried out, his hands leaving his ankles to pluck off the erotic weights.

“Sssh, Starsk.”

That sound, the one he’d heard on the telephone, the way Hutch said Starsk, went in deep. He left the weights hanging as he breathed raggedly.

Hutch pushed firmly on Starsky’s wrists, resettling them on his ankles. “Feel the weights lift you up. How it feeds into your arousal.”

Starsky didn’t have a clue what he meant, but he was so turned on, he could have shot a load if only Hutch would take Starsky’s penis in hand, maybe milk it for all its worth. His swollen cock arched higher, as if trying to reach out to its abused siblings.

“Get up on all fours, carefully,” Hutch instructed him, kissing and stroking whatever bit of bare skin he could reach as Starsky released his ankles and changed position.

The drag of the weights intensified when gravity pulled everything down. Yet, the pain diminished as long as nothing disturbed the tenuous modicum of control he’d managed over his own body. Starsky hung his head so that he could watch Hutch, who was kneeling behind him, between his legs.

“This is the last chain,” Hutch promised, slipping a link through the cock ring and attaching the other end to the center of the nipple chain.

Panting, Starsky discovered a whole new level where he couldn’t decide what hurt and what felt good. Layers on layers, oil sliding on water, never quite mixing, yet never just one or the other. It hurt, it hurt, it hurt, it was heaven.

Hutch slid into him so quickly, Starsky didn’t feel his initial breach. What had once been so wrong, felt so right. He swayed, and would have fallen if Hutch hadn’t been holding his hips in place with both hands.

“Hutch?” Starsky asked, the quaver in his voice a surprise. He didn’t have a clue what he was asking for.

Fortitude, or just some time to adjust?

Or maybe, release?

Starsky’s balls were so tight, he wondered if it were possible for them to burst.

“Starsk,” Hutch said against his back. “This is what I’m giving to you.”

Hutch came out as quickly as he went in and then re-entered more slowly, stretching Starsky exponentially until there was nothing but the amazing burn in his ass and the firm grip of Hutch’s hands against his hipbones. The pain from the nipple clamps and the insistent drag from the silver drops were background sensation as long as Starsky kept very still. He didn’t move when Hutch shifted, coming halfway out. Starsky gasped, barely holding on, the pain sending shockwaves of pleasure zipping through his core.

“More,” he heard himself whisper.

Hutch thrust in so hard he rocked both their bodies; the connected chains swung in constant motion, weights clacking together, the vibration of their collision adding yet another layer of sensation. Starsky didn’t have time to experience one sensation before another slammed into him. He fell adrift in a fantastic welter of opposing stimuli. He moaned when he came, as Hutch jerked a final time, depositing his semen deeply inside Starsky. Blanketing Starsky’s body with his own, Hutch curled them onto their sides, scattering the remains of the Chinese take-out.

An all too brief respite. Hutch didn’t even give him long enough to take a post-coital nap. Hutch sat up, holding out a hand to pull Starsky into a sitting position, too.

Only then did Starsky realize that the chain connecting the clamps to his cock ring was too short. Without an erection, the chain pulled viciously on his nipples, elongating the sensitive tips.

“Don’t look at them,” Hutch said, tilting Starsky’s chin up so that their noses almost touched. “Look at me.”

Starsky tore himself away from obsessing on the pain, and how different the clamps felt during sex and afterwards. A whole new world.

Each time he inhaled, the chain shivered; he and Hutch were so close that when Hutch breathed, the chain shivered again. The pulling tug of the chain quickly became a potent reminder of the metal gripping his flesh.

“Can you think straight like this?”

“You have something in mind?” Starsky said slowly, sitting back on his heels because it was the safest way to keep his thighs from brushing against his stretched cock. It was hard to concentrate.

Hutch eyed him critically, miming for him to put his hands flat on his thighs in proper presentation position. “If you were in some CEO’s office chained at his feet, maybe wearing clamps or something else that caused pain, could you still pay attention to what was going on around you? Memorize conversations? Read documents?”

“Oh.” Starsky closed his eyes, internalizing the hurt. This was his life now; he had to learn to use it. “I’m distracted, but I can get past that.”

“Good.” Hutch turned his back and walked across the room to grab the familiar carryall. It lay in a heap near the front door, along with other things from the trunk of the car. He extracted the collar with the S charm and a long leash. Kneeling beside Starsky, Hutch quickly locked the collar in place, attaching the leash in front. Then Hutch stood, tied the leash to a drawer handle in the kitchen, and went about tidying up, leaving Starsky kneeling on the cool linoleum.

Silently, surreptitiously, Starsky watched Hutch’s long legs going this way and that. Hutch unpacked the rice, beans, and flour from the box and stowed the single frying pan and saucepot under the counter, turning the cookie cutter apartment into their home piece by piece. He pinned the Chinese takeout menu to a cork board beside the sink, and put the red chopsticks in a glass to create an odd bouquet. The carryall went into the bedroom closet.

Hutch whistled while he worked, and Starsky latched onto the tune, the words of the song running through his mind. Sweet dreams are made of this, who am I to disagree? Travel the world and the seven seas, everybody’s looking for something —

Hutch stopped whistling and started singing in his husky tenor. “Some of them want to abuse you; some of them want to be abused. Hold your head up; keep your head up…”

Strange song. Starsky had never thought about those lyrics, but realized that if he focused on what Hutch was singing, it helped take his focus off his nipples. He’d almost get used to the clamps, and then the chain would vibrate, or the weights would shift, or both would reassert the fearsome pain, adding to the discomfort of his brand. Focusing on Hutch’s voice worked, helping to clear the fog of pain he could so easily lapse into. Starsky tucked that knowledge away, adding it to his arsenal. Keep listening. Stay aware of your surroundings.

Hutch ignored Starsky as if he weren’t there. When Hutch stepped directly over him, he didn’t say excuse me. It was a sobering reminder of the disregard most men had for slaves. Slaves were furniture, useful and amusing object to bring out when wanted, and keep tied to the wall the rest of the time.

Similar to a pet.

Humiliating.

Degrading.

Starsky understood why Hutch was doing this. He didn’t like it, but if he was going to act like a slave then he had to think like one. Hutch was toughening him.

A piece of paper drifted to the floor on one of Hutch’s trips through the kitchen. Starsky could see it was a memo with the subject line: “FYI — all CEOs must change their passwords weekly.” After that, there was a list, combinations of letters and numbers similar to license plates. Starsky had always been good at memorizing plates. He scanned the list, committing about a third of it to memory before Hutch made a noise and scooped the paper off the floor.

While focusing on the numbers, Starsky could almost ignore the nipple clamps as long as he stayed still.

Then Hutch plucked off the first clamp.

Starsky gulped air fast and screamed. Millions of oxygen-deprived cells shrieked their displeasure as the blood rushed back to his nipple. The second removal was just as bad. Damn! Starsky fought to maintain presentation, clenching his fists against his thighs, because everything in him begged to reach up and to rub away the sensation of needles jabbing into his nipples.

Hutch unhooked the nipple chain from the chain trailing off the ring in his cock, but left that chain attached, slipping a tiny weight on the chain’s end. Starsky was loath to even try to stand up with that hanging off him.

Hutch eyed him in full master mode, then signaled him to rise. Starsky stood, regretting it instantly. He wanted to cup his genitals to relieve the strain. The dangling chain and weight was probably an ounce or less, but it felt like much more.

“Repeat after me — dog, horse, cow, cat, man,” Hutch said fast, then motioned for him to turn around. He was holding something in his right hand, but Starsky didn’t have a chance to see it before he was facing the counter.

“Dog, horse, cow — ” Starsky froze, as something long, smooth, and far too cold to be human entered his recently stretched rear opening.

“Keep going,” Hutch said in a flat way that did not reveal what he was thinking. His detective voice. The one that kept criminals in their place and soothed victims.

“Cat.” Starsky tried to arch away from the intruder, but Hutch kept him still. It had to be the solid glass dildo Hutch had bought for him so long ago. He could barely speak when it was fully seated, and the notion of walking around was laughable.

Hutch blew a raspberry, rude and explosive, startling Starsky out of his funk.

“Cat? Man.” Starsky finished the string of words, looking up at his master.

Hutch gave nothing away. He stood like a drill sergeant, leaning into Starsky’s face. “What song was I singing?”

His nipples were so tender the air hurt, his brand throbbed in time with his heart, his cock hung longer than it used to, his asshole felt like it was plugged with a tree trunk, and he was supposed to think? That was the exercise; this wasn’t a maniacal sex game. Starsky squared his shoulders. “Annie Lennox, Sweet Dreams.”

Hutch nodded his approval and Starsky felt relieved. He had to wonder, though if this would be worth it someday.

“And for the final Jeopardy question, contestant,” Hutch said, “what was the list of numbers?”

Starsky blinked. “Passwords. CMZ 134, K…” He paused, distracted by his body’s complaints. He could usually do better than this. “KTA 755, and LMA 430.”

“The five words, in reverse order.”

Reverse? This was like some bizarre drunk test. Touching his nose with both forefingers, Starsky recited, “Man, cow, cat, horse, dog.”

“One out of order, but on the whole, you passed.” Hutch grinned this time, a full-on, sunny, the-world-is-a-wonderful-place thing that crinkled up his cheeks and brightened his eyes. “Touching your nose could have got you punished for insubordination.”

“It’s a lot like bein’ in the Army,” Starsky groused. He looked down at the silver bauble hanging nearly to his knees. “Going fishing?” He shifted slightly, feeling the butt plug move inside him, sending weird sensations that were half mild discomfort and sharp aches along his lower back and upper thighs.

“For a lot more than salmon.” Hutch kneed the teardrop, making it sway maddeningly.

Starsky had to close his eyes and filter out all other distractions to keep from grabbing hold of the deviant pendulum. Luckily, Hutch came so close that their chests touched, their breath synchronizing immediately.

“This is going to be the most dangerous undercover you’ve ever done,” Hutch said. “We need to work out the kinks ahead of time.”

“The kinks, huh?” Starsky chuffed a laugh, feeling Hutch’s erection rubbing against his stretched cock. He’d once humped his own billy club, back when they were both rookies and Hutch had left him aching with need after a quick one behind Huggy’s bar. This was nothing like that and yet the same. Hutch’s organ was rock hard and velvet soft, sliding with just the right amount of friction against his. The pull of the weight on his ring intensified every sensation to a degree he wouldn’t have thought possible before. He emptied out everything but Hutch, filling himself up with Hutch. His scrotum drew up, his groin tightening, cramping around the glass rod stuck up his ass.

Back and forth, slip and slide, grind and thrust.

So good, so good. Pain built up in waves, drawing power from a primal source, until his body simply couldn’t contain it. Starsky jerked against Hutch, losing all sense of self, amazed that he’d come again.

***

Walking next to Hutch down the hall of an old building in downtown Phoenix the day after their arrival, Starsky relived Hutch’s training sessions with every step. He ached, and not in a pleasant, post-active-sex way.

They’d gone for a run just as the sun was rising over the Phoenix Mountains, jogging along the desert near the mall. Hutch wanted them in shape for whatever came up — but Hutch didn’t have to deal with bruises from nipple clamps, residual pain from weights hung from his cock, and aches from the rigid positions he’d held while Hutch scrutinized every line and curve for flaws. Starsky was tired. It had been a long time since he’d had a day off just to rest. Everything he did, every move he made, reminded him of the ring in his cock and the healing brand. Even though he wasn’t wearing the damned cuffs and collar, he felt as if they’d been burned into his flesh like the crescent moon on his thigh.

Starsky glanced over at his — what should he call Hutch? Not master, not in public. He realized suddenly that they were walking in sync. It had been months since they had been on the same page, starting a new investigation together, standing shoulder to shoulder, knowing they could be walking into danger. Especially here, where the Abbey League held court. Just then — for the first time in so long — partner suddenly felt right.

Even though he wasn’t carrying a gun. At least Hutch was packing.

This office building had picturesque architectural touches, inlaid wooden floors, wainscot molding, and air conditioning that wasn’t up to the ninety-degree heat outside. There was a dusty, forgotten feeling about the place. It wasn’t the part of town Jack Dunfey frequented, so it was unlikely he would crash their party. But it didn’t mean they were safe from the CEC. The raided Oregon group proved that the Abbey League was vulnerable.

So far, Starsky had only seen one other person in the hall, a man in the lobby who had recognized Hutch and nodded them on. The elevator they’d entered rose so slowly Starsky thought they could’ve saved five minutes by walking up the five flights of stairs.

“There you are!” Manetti poked his head out of a doorway as soon as they exited the lift. The hallway was lined with the closed doors of dark, abandoned offices. Manetti’s door read A Division of Underhill-Blaylock Publishing, with a smaller hand-lettered sign that read “Author’s reading in progress — Private.” Glancing up and down for stragglers, the ex-football star beckoned them in.

“We’re not late,” Hutch said huffily, wiping sweat off his forehead.

“Nah, I got here early to help set up.” He grinned at Starsky, giving him a slap on the back that almost sent him sprawling. “Good to see you again, Starsky.”

“Good to be here.” Starsky ignored the sparks of pain from Manetti’s friendly gesture and looked around. He liked to keep his eyes open for anything interesting, different, or potentially dangerous.

The room was filled with mismatched chairs and folding tables leaning against the walls. A typical office once, it had marks on the floor where heavy desks had sat and scrapes from chairs from people working to publish books. But that was before the takeover. Now, like the rest of the building, it was just empty space.

The low hum of a fluorescent bulb diminished as the room filled with people and conversation. Several people assembled chairs into short rows, and Manetti walked over to join them.

Hutch’s shoulder brushed Starsky’s, pulling him out of his head. They were by themselves for the moment.

“You’ve been hobnobbing with some influential people…” Starsky said. He didn’t want to sound jealous, nor probing, but recently, Hutch had more layers than an onion.

“I really haven’t been with the group all that long,” Hutch said, looking around with an air of apprehension. “For a long time, I hovered on the outskirts. Only really started attending the meetings last year because I recognized a cause I could believe in.”

“Did you meet Manetti right off?” Starsky asked, intensely curious to find out all he could about what Hutch had been doing without him.

“No.”

Hutch lay his hand gently on Starsky’s belly, an old gesture that brought back memories of working the streets, when that pat — often done in passing — assured that they were there for one another. Starsky wished that hand would linger but Hutch turned to survey the people coming into the room.

“The Bay City meetings were limited to three to five members,” Hutch said. He was speaking softly, making sure they weren’t overheard. “Most of the people here today will be meeting the others for the first time. The less we knew about the organization, the less we could reveal if we were caught. So a small group would meet, make plans, and then connect with another small group later to share information. None of us ever knew more than four or five of the other members. It kept the organization safe.”

Starsky listened, but didn’t react. This was Hutch the Partner bringing Starsky up to speed on the case. The familiar rapport, so suddenly in place, made the hair on his arms rise.

This was the way they used to be — at least, until the last few months. More than just their relationship had slid off its foundation. Their work had suffered. Hutch’s preoccupation — his self-proclaimed punishment — and Starsky’s lack of response had fundamentally altered how they investigated cases, leaving them out of step with each other, fumbling when they once had been so in tune. It was no wonder they hadn’t been able to bring Dunfey down. They’d been at cross purposes, running solo investigations without consulting the other each step of the way.

An older man with a face like a hawk entered from the hallway, greeting a few of the members.

“That’s Victor Sinclair,” Hutch said quietly. “He’s the President of Bay City’s biggest bank, First National Holdings. One of the A-list in Bay City and a trusted insider of the CEC.”

“I’ve heard of him,” Starsky murmured, impressed.

“He’s been involved with the League since the beginning. As the Chief Treasurer, he’s quietly bankrolled a lot of our operations.”

“Double agent, huh?” Starsky asked softly.

“He’s not the only one.”

Starsky figured he had to be at least sixty-five, but looked like he was in great shape, with a full head of white hair and a posture that spoke of past military service. His business suit was definitely not off the rack. Starsky was oddly relieved that Hutch wasn’t the only funding source for the League.

The banker stopped to talk to a mousy, middle-aged man with a bad comb-over.

“That’s our Chief Secretary, John Smith — ”

Before Hutch could continue, Starsky snorted. “His real name?”

“I don’t know.” Hutch smiled slightly. “He doesn’t work out of Bay City, so I’ve only met him once before. No idea who he is in his ‘real life’ or what he brings to the group.”

Starsky nodded. The less you know —

Sinclair and Smith threaded through the gathering Abbey members, acknowledging each one until they’d walked over Starsky and Hutch.

Sinclair grasped Hutch’s hand in a firm shake. “Ken! It’s so good to see you again,” the banker said sincerely.

“We’ve all been really worried,” Smith said, speaking the same quiet tone everyone in the room was using, so their voices wouldn’t carry to the hall. “None of us were able to learn anything about you once you went underground.”

Hutch nodded and put a hand on Starsky’s shoulder. “Victor, John — this is my partner, David Starsky.”

Sinclair smiled, grabbing Starsky’s hand in the same hearty grip. “You mean the famous Detective Starsky. Whenever you two broke a case in BC, you were always front-page news, pictured side-by-side. You can’t know what it means to the League to have you joining us.”

Startled, Starsky returned the man’s handshake. Joining us…? Did Sinclair have any idea how Starsky had arrived in Phoenix? Did he know about the slavery? He glanced at Hutch, but his partner was making small talk with the innocuous “Smith”.

Hutch greeted other Abbey members, calling them by name, introducing them to Starsky as his partner. He was obviously well-known and respected. If they knew about Starsky’s enslavement, they weren’t making an issue of it. Are there other slaves here undercover? he wondered. Perhaps legally owned by other members?

As more people arrived, several sought Hutch out, anxiously asking questions about what was happening in Southern California and, in particular, what had caused the tragedy in Oregon. Hutch deferred each time, explaining that he’d report to the group later.

Throughout the meet-and-greet, Hutch stayed close to Starsky, clearly working to re-establishing their partnership. Easily falling into old habits, Starsky stayed alert for trouble, tuned into Hutch’s slightest signals.

When the room was almost full, Starsky saw an attractive woman entering.

Manetti inclined his head in her direction. “There’s Ariadne. I gotta get her briefed before the meeting comes to order.” He walked quickly over to greet her.

Taking Starsky’s arm, Hutch guided them to a table piled with bagels and raw vegetables. Hutch food, Starsky thought disdainfully.

Hutch started filling a plate with carrots, celery, and broccoli. “Do you want to grab a bite?” Hutch indicated the meager spread. “These meetings can drag on. I don’t know when we might get to eat again.”

There wasn’t any cream cheese, butter, or even jam to smear on the bagels. Starsky glanced up, ready to gripe, and caught Hutch gazing at him intently. Something primal rushed through him. The head of his cock suddenly throbbed in time with the ache in his nipples. Instead of complaining, he tried to speak, his voice catching in his throat. “Yeah, uh, thanks…”

Hutch looked away with obvious effort, and surreptitiously adjusted himself. He picked at his vegetables, biting down on a celery stalk as if he really wanted to be putting something else in his mouth.

Starsky grabbed a bagel and bit into it. At least it was fresh.

Aware of his new status, even though it wasn’t visible in his clothing, Starsky felt vulnerable in a way he’d never imagined. If what Hutch had paid was any indication, Starsky was worth quite a lot. If Hutch were incapacitated or killed, Starsky would be a commodity that could be sold for a handsome profit. He could be hunted, captured, sent back to Luna, and resold to the highest bidder. He eyed the wealthy banker surreptitiously. Sinclair had plotted with the Abbey League while doing business with the CEC. Starsky suspected he might not be the only one.

He had no reason to trust any of these people. Hutch said the Abbey league recruited members from all over the former United States. Any of them could just as easily be double agents working for the CEC.

“Would you like a cup of coffee to go with that bagel?” Hutch asked, one hand pressed lightly against the small of Starsky’s back.

“I’m hungry, not thirsty!” Starsky stuffed the rest of the raisin bagel into his mouth. Hutch’s hand grounded him, pulled his mind away from his concerns, if only for the moment. He was glad to change the topic. “You had us running five miles after only oatmeal — with no sugar — for breakfast, you slave-driv — ” Starsky stopped abruptly. The title might have been a joke a year ago, but now it was appallingly apt.

Hutch went very still and removed his hand.

Starsky regretted the loss and tried to catch Hutch’s eye, but Hutch looked away, clearly stung. They had a long way to go before the old partnership was back on track.

“I’ve got to sit with the governing board,” Hutch said stiffly. He turned back to Starsky, his eyes soft, as if pleading for understanding.

Starsky felt like he was inching across a minefield. “Where am I supposed to be…while you’re governing?”

“Right there.” Hutch pointed to a chair in middle of the front row.

Where Hutch can see me.

Starsky felt conflicted. He wanted to be near his partner, but he didn’t want to feel like he was kowtowing to his master’s whim, even one as simple as where to sit. “I thought slaves were supposed to kneel at their master’s feet,” he said, intentionally snide.

Hutch flinched and toyed with a carrot stick. “So you did read Ariadne Underhill’s book.” He glanced over at the woman speaking privately to Gary Manetti.

“Just the one…And the picture on the back of that novel didn’t do her justice.”

The tall, slender woman was easily recognizable from her bio photo, with dark red, silver-streaked hair. She’d braided it into a thick plait that coiled over her head like a crown, held in place with an ornate barrette. Large gold discs glinted at her ears, catching the light. She wore a red, yellow, and blue skirt, white blouse, and rakish scarf with a South American design. Her bright, primary colors contrasted sharply with the staid suits and informal work clothes of the other members. She was the center of attention, with a circle of admirers around her and Manetti.

“Why do you think Cosgrove made her his press secretary?” Hutch said.

“I figured it was because she wrote fiction,” Starsky said to get Hutch smile. It worked. “Everything that came out of his office was make-believe from the start.”

“Touché.” Hutch raised a mocking eyebrow. “I suspect that he wanted her because she was hugely popular, had credibility with the people, and the camera loved her — far more than it did him.”

Starsky paused, thinking of Sinclair. “I’m trying to get my head around the fact that someone as rich and comfortable as Sinclair and as famous as she is — who’s written so many books, and works side-by-side with President/CEO Cosgrove — is a member of your bunch. People like her and Sinclair — can you really trust them?”

“Believe me, Starsk, they’ve been checked out every way possible.” He cut his eyes to Starsky, clearly nervous about being with the governing board despite the warm welcome he’d gotten. “One of the advantages of being a detective. You don’t have to settle for the ‘official’ word. You can find plenty of dirt out on the street, as you well know. Ariadne isn’t just a pretty romance writer. She was the campaign manager for the last legitimate California governor. Another reason Cosgrove wanted her.”

“You’re the one who brought her book, Railroad North, to our last stake-out,” Starsky reminded him, intrigued.

“But you read it before I did.”

Starsky shrugged. “The lady’s got a way with words.” He’d practically inhaled the novel. The relationship between the master and his main slave started out as a brutal coercion, but had evolved into a passionate, deep love affair rife with kinky sex and complex human emotions. With a start, Starsky realized that Hutch had probably loaned him the book as subtle plea for the sort of relationship Hutch wanted. Starsky had never admitted how arousing Railroad North was. When Hutch had asked him what he thought, he’d dismissed it with a shrug, tossing the book in the back seat during the stake-out. Suddenly, he couldn’t look at his partner.

Hutch recognized the awkward moment and changed the topic. “Ariadne has more to lose than anyone else. As Cosgrove’s press secretary, she has clout and influence, she’s part of the CEC’s inner circle. If any of the rulers and shakers of the CEC find out she’s working to overthrow them, she’d become their primary example on how to handle their enemies.”

Starsky saw the fear on Hutch’s face, remembering Huggy telling him that no slaves ever died at Luna. If they found out what this woman was planning, he shuddered to think where she’d be “trained.”

“Her position with Cosgrove makes her our most important ally.” Hutch’s earnest, I-want-to-change-the-world enthusiasm was back, like a snapshot of a much younger Ken Hutchinson. “She’s been working behind the scenes for years, gaining power and influence where it matters. She’s determined to reunite the United States, reinstall the Constitution, and bring back a democratic government.”

“You think she can fix what the CEC fucked up?” Starsky asked. It wasn’t Underhill’s being a woman that was unsettling — Hutch’s mother had been governor of Minnesota. It was her lack of experience as a leader.

“She’s got a Ph. D. in political science and history,” Hutch said. “And she’s been a driving force behind the Abbey League since the beginning.”

Okay, so not just a pretty face.

“We’re ready to bring the meeting to order,” Manetti called out. “Can we have all the officers up here at the main table?”

Hutch glanced at Starsky again, starting to walk away.

Before he could leave, Starsky grabbed a folding chair at the end of the front row, flipping it around so that he could straddle it backwards. Not exactly where Hutch had asked him to sit, but close enough. He saw Hutch’s mouth quirk as if fighting a smile.

“Hey!” Starsky caught sight of a familiar face over Hutch’s shoulder as the board convened at the front of the room. “You didn’t tell me Peter Whitelaw was involved, too.”

Hutch paused, then leaned over to speak to Starsky privately. “After the CEC dismantled the Senate, Peter lost his seat.” They watched Manetti lock the door after the last few stragglers entered.

Starsky nodded, remembering. “Then he had that radio show on KBAY. I used to listen to him on the way to Metro.”

“That’s right,” Hutch said. “Although the press was censored, he got access to important information. Even if he couldn’t reveal it to the public, he wanted the info to get out, so he joined the Abbey League.”

Hutch sounded so comfortable around these people. Starsky told himself that he had no reason to feel insecure about Hutch’s casual use of Whitelaw’s first name. But each revelation of how much Hutch had kept from him hurt.

Hutch could obviously read Starsky’s expression. “Starsky…”

“I know, you wanted to protect me.” Starsky turned away from his partner, watching the people take their places at the front table. “Did you ever think I didn’t need — or want — so much protection?”

Looking stricken, Hutch started to speak, but Manetti called his name. Clenching his jaw, Hutch walked away.

Five people, including Hutch, sat down at the front table. Manetti called the meeting to order, and identified the officers. Ariadne sat in the center, with Sinclair on her right. Whitelaw was on her left, with Hutch beside him. The two spoke quietly together. John Smith, their secretary, sat on Hutch’s left, scratching industriously on a legal pad. Manetti stood at the other far end, next to Sinclair, as sergeant of arms. Fifteen others were in the audience, including Starsky.

The meeting came to order with a brief account of their last one and a short report from the treasurer. The coffers were full. Starsky wondered how many of those dollars came from Hutch’s bank accounts.

Then Ariadne Underhill, the president of the Abbey League’s Western Alliance, had the floor. “All right, let’s get started. As some of you have heard, about a dozen members from our Oregon group were having a strategy meeting like this one at Dominic Pace’s home outside Portland.” Ariadne took a deep breath, clearly finding it difficult to tell the news. “It was the first time most of them had gotten together — they were from all over Ore-Washington. Paramilitary troops broke into Dominic’s home. Four League members were killed resisting arrest, five were captured, and only three managed to escape.”

She paused, shuffling her notes, composing herself. The grim news rocked Starsky as much as it did the rest of the group. No one made a sound, giving her the time she needed.

She touched the bright scarf around her neck, giving it a minute adjustment and continued. “Ken Hutchinson was on his way there, but hadn’t arrived yet. Another member who was also late was Eduardo Pace, Dominic’s brother. Eduardo had copies of the information the group had planned to share with each other. Because Eduardo arrived after the attack and escaped, he managed to get the information they’d gleaned about the CEC’s activities in the Northwest and news of the attack to Ken.”

The silence in the room was unnerving; the grief palpable. A woman sitting off to the side covered her face, weeping silently.

While Starsky felt bad for their loss, he couldn’t help but focus on one thing. If Hutch had been taken in that attack, Starsky wouldn’t even be here — he’d still be at Luna. If the CEC had taken Hutch into custody, Starsky would have been sold to the highest bidder. Probably to Dunfey. Realizing how tenuous his rescue had been, how much danger Hutch himself had been in while fleeing Bay City — without a partner, without backup — made him view things differently. Hutch’s seesawing emotions when he arrived at Luna, his anger and hyped up sexual need, suddenly made much more sense.

“The truth is, we weren’t prepared for this sudden, well-orchestrated, savage assault on a small, unarmed group,” Ariadne said forcefully. “Before this, the CEC only went after individuals, usually within Southern and Northern California borders. Now, they’ve stepped up their offensive. This means we must be even more cautious and practice better security. What can you tell us about the attack, Ken?”

Hutch colored slightly with the same expression he always wore when he had to report to the Metro brass. “I arrived two days after the attack, but was able to find Eduardo and the three survivors. They believed the CEC has improved their technology and is getting our messages off computer servers — tracing email back to the source and using it to find our meetings.”

That gave Ariadne the opening to introduce John Smith. He had a report on hackers, computer specialists who were developing sophisticated codes on global community bulletin boards and new software with safer encryption. “Most of the hackers we’ve talked to are, basically, kids,” Smith explained. “They’re anarchists who love the idea of working against the current corrupt system. Some of these kids are brilliant, and they’re developing not just codes and software, but even new hardware systems. However, they are just kids. Dealing with them is risky. And if they get caught…I’m sure the CEC can convince them to work for them instead.”

“So, realistically, we’re barely a step ahead right now,” Ariadne said. “Without the fledgling internet, we have no way to communicate. We’ll be giving you floppy disks with the new codes and software before you leave.”

Remembering his own battle with the newest fingerprint software, Starsky quickly lost interest in the software discussion. Instead, he watched Hutch. He was finding out he didn’t know as much about his partner, lover — and now master — as he’d thought. Hutch had always more liberal leanings than Starsky, but he had never realized the true depth of Hutch’s convictions. Hutch had been with the Abbey League long enough to be a leader.

Shoulda paid more attention to your partner, he thought ruefully, looking away from Hutch’s blond beauty before he lost himself. As if in response, his nipples throbbed from the touch of his shirt. Hutch had bought those clamps as a special gift. Hutch almost never gave him presents, and when he did, it was never what Starsky wanted.

A tree planted in a park.

A collar to enslave him.

But, they’d been important symbols to Hutch.

That hadn’t occurred to him before. Starsky should have looked deeper, examined the motives for the erotic restraints instead of brushing them aside as jokes. He was meeting a whole new man in Ken Hutchinson — a man willing to risk everything to overthrow a corrupt government, a man who needed something from his lover so badly, he’d risk everything to get it. Starsky was surprised that he wanted to know this man better.

Even if it has to be on your knees in presentation position?

His cock answered for him, swelling slightly in the tight confines of his old jeans.

He was suddenly very aware Hutch was watching him. Starsky lifted his chin, meeting his partner’s eyes. Here, in this room, Hutch was the same man who had stood beside him as a cop for so many years — the only man Starsky had ever trusted. Right now, that’s all Starsky cared about.

“We can’t let this set back stop us,” Ariadne said, pulling his attention back to the meeting. The audience was eagerly listening to her every word. “We know what information the CEC captured in Oregon. The system we’ve set up — revealing only certain parts of any plan to specific leaders in certain groups — means they still don’t know the true scope of our strategy. But because of the Oregon raid, we’ve had to redirect certain actions. And every time we have to do that, we lose precious time. It’s still important to stay focused. All our regional leaders agree that we have no choice but to overthrow this corrupt government, and bring down any groups supporting it.”

As the other members murmured approval, Starsky remembered Hutch reading from the Declaration of Independence —  “…it is their duty to throw off such a Government….”

“Reports from Bay City are grim.” Ariadne stood resolute, the high color in her cheeks accenting her beauty. “And I can personally confirm that Cosgrove — as if he weren’t bad enough — has done so much business with Dunfey, he’s become his puppet. Many of us suspect that Dunfey will arrange an accident for President Cosgrove at some point in the near future. And that Dunfey plans on becoming Cosgrove’s ‘legal’ successor. So our time to effect change is growing short. If Dunfey takes over, with the power of the criminal underworld behind him, Southern California could slide into total anarchy, and the rest of the citystates could follow. The CEC has already destroyed our democracy and demoralized the people they govern. Now, more than ever, it’s imperative we bring down the CEC and reestablish a democratic state. Once we prove it can be done, other states have pledged to join us and maybe…” she paused, speaking directly to every person in the room, “…just maybe we could live in the United States of America again.”

Starsky got caught up in her excitement, no doubt the same way she’d once caught Hutch. Ariadne Underhill oozed confidence, intelligence, and power. The Abbey League members murmured approval, keeping their voices low, ever conscious of being discovered.

“First, we’ll take control of the Bay City government and establish order and legal rule,” Ariadne continued. She’d abandoned the papers she’d brought and was now speaking from her heart. “We’ll have to convince our citizens that they’re safe, that they can run a business without fear of foreclosure or illegal seizure, that they can again raise a family, own a home, drink clean water, afford to buy food. They won’t trust us as a new government until we prove that our citizens can walk the streets without fear of being snatched in broad daylight and sold into slavery.”

Her words suddenly slammed Starsky into a brutal flashback. He heard her statement superimposed over the last words he’d heard Hutch say before he was kidnapped.

“Starsk, Dunfey just went into the warehouse on the corner of Ninety-first where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there.”

He had to force himself to stay in the present without being distracted by terrible memories. Starsky brushed a finger over his hidden brand, welcoming the flare of pain because it helped clear his mind.

“We’ve been working with many groups,” Ariadne said, referring to her notes again, “on the actions that will give us control of Cosgrove’s seat of government. The timing is undecided, but strategies are in the works.” She nodded at Manetti with a look of pride and determination. “Gary, you have the floor.”

Manetti stood as she resumed her seat. “We have former military leaders training ground troops in hidden locations for an assault on the CEC. While we can’t reveal our timeline, we want you to know that myself, Peter Whitelaw, and Ken Hutchinson, are coordinating with these groups.”

Starsky tried to keep the surprise off his face.

Manetti continued, “Our backgrounds — Hutchinson as a police officer, mine as an attorney and football player — ” He smiled briefly, and there were chuckles from the audience. ” — And Whitelaw in politics and the media — give us specific knowledge to help these groups develop an aggressive plan.”

A woman in the back row raised her hand, and Manetti recognized her. She stood and asked, “And if we lose? What then? My husband was captured in the Oregon raid. How many more will die?”

Starsky glanced around, seeing the faces of several audience members. She wasn’t the only one with that concern.

Peter Whitelaw murmured something too low for Starsky to hear and raised his hand.

“Mr. Whitelaw?” Manetti recognized him and stepped aside.

“We’re looking at every possibility, and a nonviolent takeover is, of course, what we would prefer. But the organization we’re fighting doesn’t play fair. They’re corrupt, brutal, and won’t hesitate to destroy us. Oregon proved that. And if Dunfey succeeds in ousting Cosgrove, he’ll bring every other city and state under his thumb. Frankly, we have to win. Or there’s no future for any of us.”

Whitelaw’s experience as a public speaker gave his words power. “The CEC has stripped away every one of our human rights. Yes, opposing them is dangerous. Yes, we will suffer casualties. Our only other choice is to tolerate living in a totalitarian state.” He paused as if giving the audience time to decide for themselves.

In the growing silence, Hutch signaled for a chance to speak. When Manetti recognized him, he leaned forward and spoke with a quiet conviction. “We need to remember history. During the Nazi regime, every country they overwhelmed had a resistance movement. Most of the resistance fighters had few weapons, few chances to communicate with the Allies, and no way to know if their own comrades might betray them — but still, they resisted. They used their brains and raw courage to fight a monster. Their actions gave them hope for their future. While we have better resources than they did, we can’t kid ourselves. The risk is huge. But it’s still the right thing to do.”

Starsky watched him, feeling his passion and wondered how he had completely missed it for so long. Hutch was right — even if it was the most dangerous thing they’d ever done.

Members of the audience murmured their agreement and Manetti gave the floor to Ariadne again.

“Before we separate into our planning committees, I have another matter to discuss.” She looked troubled. Manetti frowned, glancing at Hutch and shaking his head. “President Cosgrove has ordered me to attend Jack Dunfey’s meeting — this was supposed to be secret, not mentioned publicly because he is at odds with some of his cabinet. Cosgrove wants me to make connections for him with members of Dunfey’s inner circle and other underworld and criminal elements of the west coast.”

The entire membership reacted strongly, clearly upset. Several voices clamored for attention, two or three people raising their hands to demand more answers.

“What possible good could come from that?” Sinclair demanded.

As Manetti restored order, Ariadne laced her fingers together. “It’s a direct order from the President. I can’t refuse it without raising suspicion. Dunfey is powerful and has gotten dangerously close to Cosgrove. I’m Cosgrove’s press secretary. He feels my presence will give Dunfey’s meeting legitimacy.”

Hutch met Starsky’s gaze, obviously troubled. Starsky knew they shared the same concerns. If Ariadne attended Dunfey’s conference, they’d have to watch her back as well as their own. That would complicate things considerably.

When both Whitelaw and Manetti started to protest, she shushed them, her bangles clattering. “We have two objectives here — and they’re not in conflict. We want to overthrow the current despots to form a legitimate government, and we want to take down Dunfey’s organization. Knowing what Dunfey’s plans are can help.”

Starsky leaned forward, communicating silently with his partner. Hutch frowned. It was plain that he and Starsky were in accord.

“Dunfey has been close to Cosgrove for years,” Hutch spoke up.

Starsky suspected he knew exactly what he was going to say.

“He evaded every single raid on his warehouses,” Hutch continued, “and got out of every single charge ever brought against him. He had Cosgrove in his pocket, and if Ariadne’s right, plans to replace him as soon as possible. It’s risky, but does give us a possible chance to turn the tables on him.”

Starsky watched his partner with new insight. Hutch was a dichotomy inside a beautiful blond exterior. The cop was the one Starsky knew best. But this man, who could sit comfortably with movers and shakers, who was used to having money and power, was a left over from Hutch’s childhood, when his mother had been governor of Minnesota and his father head of a bank. Because Hutch had shunned his privileged past, Starsky had forgotten about that. Hutch seemed at home here.

“It’s too dangerous,” Sinclair protested. The membership seemed inclined to agree with him. “Ariadne — I’m not sure the League could survive if we lost you!”

Manetti struggled to maintain order as the group muttered comments, most agreeing with Sinclair.

Ariadne shook her head as the room quieted down. “You give me too much credit, Victor,” she insisted. “The Abbey League, like the other resistance movements, is stronger than any single individual. And as for the danger — I’m fully aware of the risks. I take similar risks in my position as Cosgrove’s press secretary. I’ve asked Gary Manetti to attend the meeting with me, posing as my fiancé. And both Ken Hutchinson and his partner, David Starsky, will be attending the meeting undercover. What better back-up could I have?”

Starsky felt a flush of conflicted feelings. Hutch’s blue eyes bore into him, and Starsky looked directly back at him. Your partner…He wondered if he’d still believe in that partnership while kneeling at Hutch’s feet at the meeting.

Sinclair sat back, defeated, but not convinced.

Manetti once again established order. “It’s time for our individual committees to confer. I’ll pass around a sheet with assignments. We can separate into some of the empty offices to do our work.”

The single list passed from hand to hand, every person accepting their job with serious resolve.

Hutch broke away from a quiet moment with Manetti and Ariadne, and came over to him.

“Lemme guess,” Starsky said, once they were shoulder to shoulder again, “you’re in charge of launching the primary attack.”

Hutch almost smirked. “Not me, Manetti. Whitelaw and I are just…lieutenants, I guess.”

“Lieutenant Hutchinson.” Starsky tried the title out. “Has a ring to it.”

“Better than master?” Hutch asked distantly.

“Fuck off, Hutch!” Starsky whispered, not exactly sure why he was instantly hot and bothered. Because he liked the idea of Hutch as his master a little too much for comfort? Hutch went poker-faced as if he’d pulled shutters down over his soul.

Without looking at his partner, Starsky headed for Whitelaw and Manetti’s enclave. “Can I sit in?” he asked.

Hutch was right behind him. He was sure Hutch wanted him there, but felt manipulated.

“Starsky!” Peter Whitelaw said warmly, extending a hand to shake. “What have you been…” He trailed off, obviously aware of Starsky’s situation, and not quite sure what to say. “Your experience as a police officer, soldier in Vietnam, and…recent events, gives you unique insights that can only help our operation.”

“Thinks he can sweet talk me,” Starsky said to Hutch as an olive branch. “Just like a politician.”

Peter and Manetti laughed.

“I don’t know,” Hutch said, clapping Starsky on the back, restoring the balance between them for the moment. “Manetti, do you remember Peter’s senate campaign?”

“Before my time,” Manetti joined in with just the right amount of mockery. “I was just a poor boy from Watts praying for a visit from the Buccaneer’s recruitment fairy.”

“All kinds of fairies around here,” Peter said with a straight face.

A faint smile turned up Hutch’s mouth.

“You fought in Vietnam?” Manetti asked Starsky. “What branch?”

“Army,” Starsky said, unconsciously standing straighter.

“I was in the Marines — but never saw action.”

“You had some luck.” Starsky reclined in a chair, tipping it back.

“You managed law school, too,” Hutch added.

“Most people don’t know that Peter helped me get my scholarship,” Manetti said.

That surprised Starsky. Hutch’s expression said it was news to him, too.

“You earned it,” Peter said with fondness. “Shall we discuss the updated plans?”

“Both what I brought from BC and what Ken smuggled out of Oregon.” Manetti unrolled some schematics onto a table. Whitelaw leaned forward, his head almost touching Manetti’s to examine them.

Starsky watched, seeing their closeness, their ease with one another. Was he reading something into simple friendship? Was this what people saw when he and Hutch worked together? Or had Manetti earned his scholarship the same way Starsky earned cash and drugs when he was a kid? He immediately felt ashamed of that thought, especially after both these men had treated him as an equal.

Hutch sat close, leaning against him lightly, pulling his attention away from his dark thoughts.

“There are four doors on the main floor of CEC’s headquarters,” Manetti said, pointing out the exits. “This back door, used for maintenance and deliveries might be the easiest to breech.”

Hutch circled his finger on the side of the blueprint. “The Mulberry Street entrance is used less, and the trees there make it easier to get a large group close to the building without being seen.”

The four men discussed different assault and infiltration scenarios for the rest of the hour.

***

By the time the smaller committees rejoined the governing board to close the meeting, Starsky was worn out. Hutch also seemed beat. Strategizing had never been Starsky’s favorite activity. He was more inclined to jump first, not talk the what-ifs to death. But he could see the need for planning something this ambitious, and admired the Abbey members who’d taken on the burden of command — including Hutch.

Gary Manetti helped Starsky and Hutch fold and stack chairs after most of the membership had left. “Listen, Ariadne wanted to invite you both to dinner with us.”

“Really?” Hutch said, clearly surprised. He grinned. “Starsky never passes up free food.”

“Hey, all we’ve got at our place is oatmeal and canned soup,” Starsky joked. He folded the last chair, handing it to Hutch. “Good thing I read her last book, the one with the slave uprising. Might need it for small talk.”

Manetti laughed. “She tol’ me she used t’watch the Buccaneers play while she was writing, and that she based Constantinople, the slave who fights off the owner, on me. And that was before she found out what a charming, witty guy I am.”

“As if getting a Superbowl ring wasn’t enough,” Hutch teased. “Now you’ll be insufferable to live with.”

“Ariadne says I already am.”

“You and Ariadne?” Starsky remembered her saying that Manetti was posing as her “fiancé.”

“Looking more like that every day.”

“You dog.” Starsky punched him in the bicep. Manetti didn’t flinch, but it was like hitting a brick wall. Manetti had to be a decade younger than Ariadne, but if they found each other in this chaos, he was all for it. He glanced at Hutch. The hard times were so much easier with a partner at your back.

Ariadne had a car, less than a year old, with California plates. Starsky gave a wolf-whistle when she pulled it up, admiring the sleek lines of the gleaming gold vehicle. Not many people could afford a Mercedes. Manetti took the driver’s seat and Ariadne slipped into the passenger seat beside him. Starsky settled next to Hutch in the back, missing his Torino with a pang. He’d never see that sweet machine again.

“Close your mouth; a Mercedes was always out of your league,” Hutch said quietly, the length of his thigh pressed against Starsky’s.

“You sold my car!” Starsky couldn’t resist the dig.

“And I bought you.” Hutch just looked at him, giving nothing away. “Which do you think meant more to me?”

Brought up short, Starsky started to speak when Ariadne leaned over the front seat and pointed to a non-descript three-story building. “This is one of the most exclusive places in Phoenix, and may be the last time we can be extravagant before the excrement hits the fan.”

“You’re a writer; you can’t come up with something more descriptive than that?” Manetti laughed, piloting the car easily.

The drive to the restaurant took moments, but was less taxing than walking in ninety-five-degree heat. Just standing on the sunbaked sidewalk long enough for a valet to take the car nearly cooked Starsky. He was grateful for the air conditioning as they entered the plush restaurant. There had been no sign out front, just a discrete notice, “For members only.” He didn’t expect to be eating here again.

The maitre d’ led the four of them past the main dining room to an area where there were separate private rooms. As they walked, Starsky glimpsed kneeling slaves serving a group of well-dressed men. Surprised, he stopped abruptly. After being treated like an equal at the Abbey League meeting, and helping the others plot the overthrow of the government, he’d been able to forget his status — until now. Then Hutch latched onto his elbow, urging him forward. Having Hutch at his back — covering his back — was just what he needed.

The maitre d’ showed them into their room. “Patricia will be your waitress,” he said. “The sommelier is opening a bottle of Silver Oak, and will pour it momentarily.”

Starsky kept his eyes on Hutch as they were seated, following his lead. He’d always been ill-at-ease in fancy places, but Hutch would know all the right moves, like which fork to use.

A server brought bread, while a man with a pencil-thin mustache poured garnet red Cabernet Sauvignon. Starsky had already taken a gulp of the heavenly stuff to settle himself by the time the sommelier left after depositing two more open bottles.

“To the Abbey League,” Manetti said, holding up his glass, his eyes on Ariadne.

Hutch elbowed Starsky and raised his glass to Manetti’s. Belatedly, Starsky did the same, feeling the wine’s warm glow all the way through his chest. This was more like it.

“To the Abbey League,” the others chimed in. The ring of crystal glasses clinking sounded like bells.

Starsky took another healthy mouthful. Best tasting wine he’d ever had. Since he no longer had a watch, he wasn’t sure when he’d eaten the bagel at the meeting, but it wasn’t like he was drinking on an empty stomach.

“David,” Ariadne said, leaning over to cover the hand he used to hold the wine glass. “I’ve wanted to meet you ever since I heard about the sacrifice you made for the Abbey League.”

“Well, it wasn’t exactly my idea, ma’am,” Starsky said honestly, glancing sideways at Hutch. What had his partner told them? Why hadn’t he thought to ask? He felt unprepared and Hutch’s nondescript expression wasn’t helping any.

Her touch was seductive, sincere and very distracting. He couldn’t shake the feeling she was inviting him to her room even though she hadn’t said a word.

“My friends call me Starsky,” he said, aware of her earthy sensuality. This was a woman used to the finer things — food, clothing, and — he glanced at Manetti — men as well. Having had sex with Hutch so recently didn’t make Starsky immune to her. It unnerved him. He pressed his leg against Hutch’s and felt the warm pressure of Hutch’s palm on his knee.

“Starsky,” she said on a slow exhale. Raising her glass, she tasted it. “I wanted the best tonight. Partly in your honor,” she nodded at Starsky, “partly to acknowledge the risk we’re about to take together…at Dunfey’s.” She took another sip, and indicated the glass. “Wine is one of my passions.”

Manetti grinned. “But not the only one.”

“Behave!” She laughed.

Starsky was fascinated by the two sides of her — commanding leader and sensual woman. Did she come on to everyone this way? Had Hutch felt the tingle of her allure?

“Whenever I start a new novel, I order a case of Silver Oak,” she admitted. “It smoothes out the rough spots.”

“I’ll have to remember that the next time I read one of your books,” Starsky said. “Written to be read with an expensive bottle of vino.”

“Instead of beer?” Hutch asked.

“Gotta go with my gut.” Starsky liked Hutch’s little smirk. It softened him. He could feel Hutch’s eyes on him, and that felt nice, too. As if they were on a double date instead of the last meal before they went to war.

“So, you’ve read one of my books?” she asked, raising her eyebrows.

“Hutch brought it on our last stakeout,” Starsky said. “The Civil War story, Railroad North.”

“He couldn’t put it down,” Hutch teased. “Left me doing all the work!”

“Well,” she prodded, “I have to ask — what did you think of it?”

“It was — compelling,” he admitted. He wasn’t ready to admit to his other feelings about it. “How long does it take you to write a novel?” Starsky forced himself to look away from Hutch.

“Depends on the subject,” she answered. “The research takes the most time.”

“What attracted you to such different eras as ancient Rome and the American Civil War?” Hutch asked. “The politics and philosophy of the times? Comparisons between Cesar Augustus and President Lincoln?”

“You didn’t read Fires of Pompeii, did you?” Manetti rolled his eyes. “Not much philosophy in that one.”

“I was just following the standard romance formula in the early days.” Ariadne pursed her lips. “Once I was established, I had more freedom to express my own ideas. But, I’ll admit I was never interested in writing about politics.”

Starsky recalled the scenes that had aroused him so much on that last stakeout.

“Well, since your Civil War novel kept Starsky’s attention the entire time he read it — ” Hutch said, ” — a feat in itself. It must have had some pretty intense — ”

“Sex scenes,” Starsky said boldly, turning to him. Which is why you brought it. Now we both know.

Ariadne and Manetti laughed at the same time. “Well…true,” she admitted. “But I’m writing about more than just sex. I’m interested in the emotion in the scene, the intensity. The ability to hurt someone we love so intimately, yet still be bound by that person in every way.”

A perfect, disquieting description of him and Hutch. A thrill ran down his spine when Starsky caught Hutch looking straight at him with haunted eyes. Disconcerted, Starsky grabbed a slice of French bread and a pat of icy cold butter. His hand was so hot he thought the butter would melt.

“What I hope people get from my novels,” Ariadne added, “is the depth of two people who come together through passion under harsh circumstances.”

“Unfortunately, I didn’t have a chance to finish Railroad North,” Hutch said, never taking his eyes off Starsky.

“Babe, you barely started it,” Starsky shot back. They were connecting, their ability to speak without words reforming between them. It was like electricity sparking down a wire.

“I’ve had…other things on my mind the last few months,” Hutch said, that predator lion back again.

Starsky breathed in, suddenly and improbably aroused. Hutch’s voice echoed in his ear from that first moment when he found Starsky, chained and collared, at Luna. “Oh God, Starsky…” As if everything was impossibly wrong and yet so erotically right.

“Not much time for reading,” Hutch said, and Starsky was jolted back to the present.

“I can identify with that,” Ariadne said. “This has been the longest I’ve ever gone without writing.”

“Like me throwing a football.” Manetti nodded. “Helps draw those convoluted legal phrases outta my brain when I’m working on a brief. But my writing will never be anything but dry, five dollar words next to your beautiful prose. I kneel at the altar of your talent.”

Ariadne palmed his cheek. “You have your own way with words.”

“Words are powerful weapons.” Hutch unfurled his napkin, but seemed uncomfortable. “Ariadne, do you write your own speeches?”

“I’ve had to.” She leaned back, her bangles jingling softly. “As Cosgrove’s press secretary, I couldn’t trust anyone else. It made Cosgrove believe in my loyalty. I wrote everything, even when I had to…say things I hated.”

“Which makes her a damn sight more qualified to be a president than Cosgrove,” Manetti said.

“Also makes a person more dangerous,” Starsky said softly.

“Why?” Ariadne asked, apparently both amused and curious.

“Because you’re smart.”

“Thank you, Starsky.” Ariadne clinked her wineglass with his. “That’s one of the nicest things anyone has said to me in a long time.”

Starsky swallowed more of his wine. “Smart people can be devious.”

Hutch sat up straighter as if he was hearing something more than the surface conversation.

“An important talent,” Ariadne agreed. She didn’t appear the least insulted at being called devious. “But since we were initially speaking of research, I would like to ask a few questions…if I may.”

All four sat back as Patricia, the waitress, brought in appetizers. Plates of caviar and pate arranged beautifully with sprigs of parsley and slices of lemon. Hutch and Manetti both scooped up caviar, topping it on the bread. Manetti fed the first slice to Ariadne.

Hutch caught Starsky’s eye over the caviar, handing him a portion. Starsky had never much liked fish eggs, but Hutch’s gesture brought him back to the first time he’d eaten the delicacy. Their first Bicentennial bribe, he recalled —  the mobster Amboy had offered them caviar. Taking the sliver of bread topped with caviar that Hutch prepared sent Starsky’s memory into fast forward. They’d brought Amboy down, together, despite his money, his power, his lawyers. Just two cops working doggedly for what was right. Starsky ate the caviar, his eyes never leaving Hutch’s. Hutch heard the silent message and smiled back.

Feeling like the memories could drown him, Starsky wanted something new, so he tried a sliver of pate. It smelled like his grandmother’s homemade liverwurst. This French version was richer and heartier. He took another slice of bread and heaped on the pate, suddenly ravenously hungry.

“The food is wonderful, Ariadne,” Hutch said. “What did you want to ask us?”

Starsky noted Hutch didn’t agree to answer. He phrased it like an interrogator; as if he were working a suspect, hoping she would reveal herself. He and Hutch exchanged a glance.

Ariadne delicately dabbed her mouth with a napkin. “I’m asking as a researcher. Someday, this period will be history, discussed as a dark time we survived. As a writer — and an Abbeyite — I need to know as much about it as possible.”

“Gotta survive it first, my lady,” Manetti commented wryly.

“You make it sound like we’re going to lose.” Starsky’s belly dropped at the thought. He didn’t know how long he could go on, caught between what he had been forced into and what he once was.

“Just bein’ realistic,” Manetti said. “You learn right away in football and in court…somebody’s gonna win…and somebody’s gonna lose.”

“We’re not going to lose,” Ariadne said quickly with that same bright confidence she’d shown at the meeting. “We can’t. Too many have sacrificed so much. Like our friends in Oregon. And…you, Starsky. Which brings me to what I wanted to ask. I don’t want to pry, but I think it’s important I understand…your sacrifice. How bad was it?” She glanced at Hutch, including him in the question. “Since your capture? And since Hutch rescued you?”

Hutch’s expression was grim. He started to interrupt, placing his hand on Starsky’s arm. “Starsk, you don’t have to — ”

“Of course, only talk about it if you’re comfortable,” she said sympathetically.

Starsky looked at Hutch, trying to gauge what Hutch was objecting to. He regretted not pressing Hutch on what he’d told the Abbey League members about “Operation Snatch Starsky.” But he hadn’t, and now this was becoming one of those times when there was a disconnect between them — because the whole incident was a disconnect of massive proportions.

“Wha’d’ya think? It was hell,” he said, speaking more to Hutch than Ariadne. He had a burning urge to see Hutch squirm, to make him understand exactly what had happened to him. The memory of being held down and pierced was so vivid, he could still feel it. As much as he wanted to shove that in Hutch’s face, he didn’t want to reveal how deeply humiliating it still was.

The steel ring was tucked up in his jeans so it wouldn’t pull on his cock, but he was constantly aware of its presence. That rhythmic pulse that echoed his heart rate when he was scared or turned on was even more accentuated; the slightest touch hurt, but conversely, in Hutch’s hands, it was a hurt that felt incredibly right.

“I was grabbed by three men,” he started, reciting the events emotionlessly, the way he’d make out a verbal report to his superior at Metro. “And cuffed and tied down like an animal, with a bag over my head.” Starsky remembered the stifling press of the canvas sack like a shroud. “I had no idea what was happening and wondered if…my partner had been grabbed, too. I was almost more worried about Hutch than — ”

“You don’t have to talk about this.” Hutch’s voice sounded strangled. It tightened a wire around Starsky’s chest. “It was a decision made in desperation. I should have — ”

“You wanted me pierced,” Starsky said sharply, to wound. He regretted saying it in front of the others almost immediately.

Hutch hid his feelings behind that damned poker face of his. “Starsk,” he said without a hint of emotion, but Starsky could hear the pleading.

He stared into the depths of his red wine. “They threw me in a horse trailer. At first, I kept thinking — this is some kinda mistake. Or, maybe they’d just shoot me in the head and be done with it. ‘Cause that would have been more — what’d you say earlier?” He pointed his glass at Manetti before taking a swallow. “Humane? For a long time after I was snatched, nothing that happened to me coulda been called anything close to humane.”

He watched Hutch over the rim of his glass, feeling the alcohol permeate his body, loosening the tension and opening the dam. Or maybe he was just getting used to the freedom.

Starsky hesitated before reliving the next part. No amount of wine could ease those memories. “After driving me out of the city, they stopped the truck long enough to strip me, hold me down, and pierce me. No warnings. No explanation. No anesthetic, either. It was barbaric. Then they wrote an invoice number on my back. Letting me know I was just another piece of livestock. And that was just the beginning.”

Hutch flinched as if he’d been struck. Neither Ariadne or Manetti said a word. They had all stopped eating.

“When we got to the border, on the way to the slave training facility, one of the guards tried to rape me.” He could feel his captor’s hot breath on the back of his neck, feel the aggressive thrust of the man’s body against his own. “He didn’t succeed, but that was luck. I was chained, blindfolded, my legs spread apart by a metal bar. I couldn’t do anything to stop him.”

Hutch’s hand was still on his arm, but he seemed unaware that his fingers were pressing down so tightly they made dents in Starsky’s skin. Hutch’s face was pale.

“I didn’t…didn’t know why they took me, who’d arranged it. I had no idea who my master would be for days. Days when I was restrained, unable to move, to eat, to piss by myself — drugged on that damned Phenine.”

Although Starsky didn’t want to further damage what he and Hutch once had, he had to make all of them understand how demeaning his experience had been. If he and Hutch had had the luxury of starting over, of coming together through a mutual understanding of what each other wanted, that would have been sublime. But they couldn’t. However, it was in his power to alter how they continued.

Hutch let out a noisy exhalation, his eyes like pale slate. He seemed almost shocky as he pulled his hand from Starsky’s arm. “Do you want me to say I was wrong? Again?”

Starsky was wiped out, all his fight gone. His urge to shake everyone out of their comfortable, privileged lives drained away. His experience was not yet over, might never be — but he would survive.

“No,” he said quietly to Hutch, “not anymore.”

A footstep in the hall alerted them that the waitress was coming. Ariadne caught her breath, taking a quick sip of wine. Manetti glanced surreptitiously at her, tapping the edge of his plate. Hutch was frozen in place, high points of color on his cheeks.

Patricia entered the room carrying a tray laden with steaming bowls of soup. Starsky was no longer certain he could choke down a mouthful of food.

She placed the bowls in front of the silent group, and Ariadne immediately dived in as if determined to save the meal. Starsky stared at the bowl without appetite. Somehow the chef had divided the soup into green and white halves like a yin and yang symbol. Starsky had never seen a menu or put in an order, so he had to assume the menu was fixed. No choices, just like everything else in his life.

He forced himself to pick up a spoon, aware of the widening rift between him and Hutch. To give himself something to do, he dipped his spoon into the bowl, breaking the borders of dark and light, mixing them together. He couldn’t bring himself to try the unappetizing mess. What was that green stuff, anyway? Spinach or broccoli, maybe, neither of them vegetables he’d eat except under duress.

“I can’t imagine how you got through that,” Ariadne finally murmured when Patricia left.

“Man, that’s horrible,” Manetti said. “I don’t understand — I mean…they act like slaves are a valuable commodity. If they’re valuable, why don’t they use a humane, clean, surgical way to do that, to minimize pain and damage.” Manetti didn’t look at Starsky as he spoke.

“I’m so sorry you were forced,” Ariadne said, staring into her glass as if she couldn’t bear to face him. “No one should ever have to endure something like that.”

There was a long moment of awkward silence while the four of them swirled their spoons through their soup, though no one actually ate. Hutch’s jaw flexed, his eyes shadowed.

As if to break the impasse, Ariadne shifted position, sliding her finger around the rim of her glass. “As a student of history, I’ve studied the development of nations for years — the rise and fall of Rome, the beginning of slavery in the United States in the 1700’s, the rise and fall of Nazism, of Communism, Pol Pot’s regime…. It was all so distant and impersonal…until it was my country, my people…my friends. When I was very young and adventurous and foolish, long before the CEC, when we were all enjoying the sexual revolution of the 60’s, I dated a man who — ” she hesitated as if unsure she should continue, then shrugged and went on, ” — had had himself pierced. He’d had it for years before we were together.”

Starsky remembered his kidnapper joking about a relative who’d removed a piercing so he wouldn’t be mistaken for a slave.

“Back then, it was just a piece of body jewelry.” She shrugged again, apologetically. “I hope someday it will again be a matter of personal choice, not a mark of… ownership.” She looked at Starsky without pity.

He grimaced, downing the last of his wine. Grabbing a bottle, Starsky splashed more into his glass. Hutch frowned but didn’t say anything.

“At the time I dated that man,” she continued, speaking directly to Starsky, as though they were the only ones at the table, “I thought his piercing made him look…exotic and provocative. Even beautiful.”

Starsky banged the wine glass on his front teeth, stunned. He didn’t dare look at his partner. Hutch, no doubt, agreed with her. He wanted to say something, but stopped when Hutch suddenly tucked one hand into his left back pocket, sliding it down the curve of his ass. Atonement? Regret? Or just the simple need to reconnect — something they had been struggling with since they left Luna.

“Well, mine’s not real provocative,” he finally said, his belly burning. “They shoved a fucking needle through the end of my cock, then jammed the ring through. They weren’t worried about how provocative it might look. They just wanted to make sure it never came out.” He threw back the rest of his Cabernet and glared at the empty goblet.

The room started closing in on him. Hutch’s hand in his pocket was the only thing connecting him to his body, and he wasn’t entirely sure he wanted it there.

“There are other Abbeyites who are serving masters,” Ariadne said finally. Her intelligent brown eyes were full of compassion. “And there are masters among us, too. Some own slaves to avoid suspicion. Some took on slaves to rescue them from a worse fate.” She nodded at Hutch.

Starsky shifted, moving just enough to escape Hutch’s hand. Hutch looked away and pulled his hand back to adjust the perfectly aligned silverware.

“Paradoxically,” Ariadne continued, “I also know slaves who wouldn’t want to be freed. But those had chosen their roles long before the CEC takeover, when so many personal freedoms were lost. Surely, as police officers, you’ve met people involved in that lifestyle?”

Lifestyle? Starsky thought, confused.

It must’ve shown on his face. “She’s talking about people active in bdsm,” Hutch said quietly, but wouldn’t meet Starsky’s eyes. “Like at leather bars and sex clubs. People who take on roles of dominance and submission.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said quickly, wanting him to stop explaining. He felt flushed all over. When he tried to pour more wine in his glass, he almost knocked it over. Hutch took the bottle from him, poured a smaller amount than Starsky wanted, then moved the bottle out of his reach.

“In those days, that was a lifestyle choice,” Manetti said. “If that was your thing, it was no one’s business if you wore a collar, or a Prince Albert, or a tattoo — ”

“Or a brand,” Starsky said softly. He doubted anyone except Hutch heard him.

” — But,” Manetti continued, asking Ariadne directly, “when you chose — I mean, did the people you knew who chose that lifestyle have any idea what was looming on the future horizon? Could you foresee a time when the country would fall apart and enforced slavery would become a state-approved institution?” Manetti looked around the table as if he didn’t know how to phrase his question.

“No, of course not,” Ariadne said. “We were young. We were sexually adventurous. Rebelling against bourgeois middle-class mores of marriage, home, family. It was exotic and sexy…at the time — ”

“Slavery has to be outlawed,” Starsky said tightly. He felt like he was losing track of the conversation.

“No question,” Hutch agreed. “But what they’re talking about is different.”

“Is it?” Starsky said, reaching for his wineglass. Hutch had only poured him a swallow. Of course. Slaves weren’t supposed to get drunk. He’d love to get blotto, but that wouldn’t help his argument any.

“In those days, before the CEC, people choosing to be slaves were thrilled to serve their masters,” Ariadne said. “The relationship involved mutual trust, respect, and often love. The slave was cherished, a treasured prize. The master had the responsibility to care for his slave, nurture and protect him, and satisfy him. Or lose him to a better master.”

Starsky felt slapped. Images of himself on the welcoming frame while Hutch penetrated him blindsided him. Hutch’s gasp was nearly inaudible, but Starsky saw him flush red. He knew they were seeing the same thing.

Ariadne tipped her glass, watching the play of dark liquid coating the crystal. Even when she wasn’t looking at him, Starsky could feel the intensity of her attention. He still didn’t know what Hutch had told her about the circumstances surrounding Starsky’s capture and “rescue,” but she obviously had figured out their current relationship. And he realized something else. She wasn’t talking about other people’s lifestyle. She was talking about her own. Something she’d participated in. Something she’d enjoyed. And missed. Was that why Manetti was asking those questions? What was he willing to sacrifice for a relationship with her?

“Of course, everything’s changed now,” she said regretfully, lifting the glass to her mouth and taking a taste. “We had no idea what was coming. It’s interesting how perspective alters your attitude.”

“The truth is, I never paid much attention to slaves before,” Starsky began, staring hard at Ariadne. He could still feeling her intoxicating charisma, but he was angry and confused by talk of “choice” and “lifestyle.” What did that have to do with the ring in his cock and the brand on his thigh? “But this got personal for me real fast. You want to reinstate a democratic government? Then you have to abolish slavery!”

“Absolutely. But there hasn’t been a United States of America since the fall of Washington D.C. and the secession of the East Coast,” Manetti said mournfully.

“The Abbeyites consider the U.S. Constitution a sacred document,” Ariadne agreed. “We’re committed to restoring it completely. Including the Thirteenth Amendment.”

“I’m sure you’re aware,” Hutch said to Ariadne, after taking a spoonful of soup, “that both Thomas Jefferson and George Washington owned slaves. It’s ironic that a number of us do, too.”

She nodded and started to respond, when Starsky interrupted her.

“You own slaves yourself? Now?” He was asking about her lifestyle choice, but realized too late that in the context of Hutch’s comment, she would take him more literally.

“Yes, I do. I had no choice,” she said. “Cosgrove would’ve suspected my motives if I didn’t have at least one. I was able to purchase the young man who’d been my assistant at Underhill-Blaylock when he lost his job and went bankrupt. Robbie’s still with me.”

“Did you get him before or after his training?” Starsky asked pointedly.

“I didn’t even find out he was enslaved until he was on the auction block.” She met his eyes coolly. “If I could have spared him that, I would have. But he’s safe now.”

“As your slave.”

“My personal slave. He lives in my house, works only for me, and answers to no one else.”

Starsky nodded.

As if she wanted him to put this in perspective, she added, “As I said, other Abbeyites own slaves. Like Sinclair. He has at least ten, all of them rescued from terrible circumstances. All of them safe with him now. We’re doing what we can, Starsky.”

What we can… Starsky felt like he’d been stabbed in his chest. He understood now. He wasn’t getting out of this. Not ever. After all, he was safe with Hutch. And the what-ifs were too large…what-if they didn’t succeed in overthrowing the government? And if they did, what-if they couldn’t reestablish the Constitution? Or if they could do that, but couldn’t reinstitute the Thirteenth Amendment — ?

Starsky pushed away his soup.

“Starsk, once we have the government in hand — ” Hutch started. He wore a frown usually reserved for an argument about how to question a suspect or whether to bend the rules to get results.

Starsky stared straight into his master’s eyes, in defiance of Neville’s rules. “You believe nobody here has any kinda bias?”

Ariadne raised her eyebrows. Hutch tightened his mouth, and Manetti seemed to be wrestling with an internal demon.

Starsky swallowed. “Well, I guess it’s okay, as long as slaves get rescued, huh?”

“That would depend,” Ariadne said so softly, he had to stop speaking to hear her, “on the master.”

That blew some of the air out of his sails. An uncomfortable silence descended on the table.

“Starsky,” Ariadne said at last, with sympathy and something else that Starsky couldn’t decipher in her tone. “I’m humbled by your courage. This subject can’t be easy for you to talk about. If I ever do write a book about this era, I hope I can create a fictional character with your resilience.”

Starsky tried to get a grip on his emotions. Struggling to dredge up his sense of humor, he grinned. From the disturbed expression on Hutch’s face, it probably looked like a death mask. “At your service, madam.”

Ariadne inclined her head graciously. “I know some time has passed since your ordeal, and you have Hutch by your side. But I wanted to offer some of my resources if you need them. I know a doctor who will care for slaves. Do you want to see her? Are you still in pain?”

Surprised by her offer, Starsky shook his head. “I can handle it. Had enough Phenine to last me a year.”

“I’d like the name of that doctor,” Hutch said quietly. “Just in case.”

“Of course.” Ariadne took a last swallow of soup, then set the bowl to the side of her bread plate.

“What’s Phenine?” Manetti asked.

“A drug used as a painkiller for slaves,” Hutch spat out. “With one convenient side effect — makes the slave horny as hell.”

Ariadne nodded, obviously familiar with it. “I suspect the analgesic properties are a side effect. I remember when one of the CEC chemists discovered it about a year ago. Under the right conditions — ”

“Turns anybody into a fucking nymphomaniac.” Starsky reached for the bottle closest to Ariadne, bypassing the one Hutch had moved away. He poured a healthy amount into his glass, but when he took a mouthful, he could no longer taste the expensive vintage. It was just something to get drunk on.

“Man.” Manetti squirmed in his seat. “They used it on you?”

“Unfortunately,” Hutch said in a tone that brought the topic to a close.

Ariadne sat back, and ran her hand down Manetti’s arm. “Call the sommelier? We seem to be out of wine. And find out when we’re getting the main course?”

“Sure thing, my lady,” he said amiably, leaving the room.

“We should focus on the upcoming meeting at Dunfey’s,” Ariadne said to Hutch.

“Good idea,” Hutch said.

Being reminded of the undercover assignment he’d never volunteered for didn’t help the wine settle in Starsky’s stomach.

Patricia entered to clear away the soup bowls, and the conversation ceased. Manetti returned with a man pushing a small cart containing a mini wine cellar. The sommelier poured fresh glasses all around, and removed the used stemware.

As Ariadne swirled her new glassful with a contemplative air, Patricia served the salad course.

“The chef has prepared a salad of radicchio, purple cabbage, and dandelion greens with goat cheese garnished with a dressing of raspberry vinaigrette,” Patricia recited before leaving.

The plateful of brightly colored leaves did nothing to inspire Starsky’s appetite. Instead, he reached for his refilled wine glass.

“Eat,” Hutch said into his ear, his breath warm as summer in a room that was suddenly too cold.

He waited to see which fork Hutch selected before picking up his own to move his greens around. He found a lump of white cheese. Even though it was from a goat, he tasted it, enjoying the tangy flavor. Starsky distracted himself from thought of Dunfey’s meeting by poking through the salad for another.

“Hutch,” Ariadne said, “you told me you sent word to Dunfey. How soon do you expect a reply?” She sprinkled pepper on her salad. “Gary and I are relieved you’ll both be there. While I’m used to working with Cosgrove and playing the double agent, Dunfey’s is a whole different ball game.”

“I expect a call any time now,” Hutch said, tucking into his salad as if it were the best thing he’d ever eaten.

Starsky was grateful to find candied walnuts underneath a mound of what looked like yard clippings.

Ariadne smiled. “We don’t have the experience undercover you two have, so you being there is reassuring.”

“Having amateurs involved is risky,” Starsky said.

“He means going undercover is never safe.” Hutch touched Starsky’s thigh, high up, his long fingers just brushing where the ring was hidden. “There’s always an element of chance, even for us.”

Starsky considered shifting out from under Hutch’s touch, but chose not to. What was the point? Instead, he spread his knees, forcing Hutch’s hand against the ring, welcoming the sudden, sharp sting that caused.

“Dunfey doesn’t trust me yet,” Hutch said. “But doing some things I’m not proud of helped establish my cover as a cop gone bad.”

“Have you met him yet?” Ariadne asked Hutch.

He shook his head, finishing the last of the salad except for several small lumps of goat cheese. All that remained on Starsky’s plate was a pile of leaves. He dumped it onto Hutch’s dish, startling him.

Hutch smiled, fishing out his goat cheese and placing the cheese on Starsky’s plate. It was a familiar routine between them, one Starsky had almost forgotten. Feeling a bit warmer, Starsky ate the crumbly white cheese.

“I’ve met him — unfortunately,” Ariadne said. “He’s loathsome. Establishing a democracy is critical, and Dunfey’s a serious threat.”

“The action can’t come too soon for me,” Manetti agreed. He polished off his food. “I’m ready for launch. There’s an army in the San Bernardino mountains just waiting. Peter’s on his way to coordinate with them.”

“First, we’ve got to deal with Dunfey.” Hutch forked up Starsky’s lettuce.

Manetti leaned forward and said to Hutch, conspiratorially, “You’ve been a cop a long time. You must know a bunch of ways to kill someone and get away with it.”

Hutch didn’t respond, but the look in his eyes said volumes. Hutch’s cold, deadly calm was so unlike the man Starsky once sat beside in the Torino. He understood some of Hutch’s skewed logic, now.

Finally, Hutch spoke. “I don’t know if it’ll come to that. If it does…so be it. If not, we’ll press Dunfey to let me into his organization.”

“But if we can pull that off — actually kill the son-of-a-bitch,” Starsky said, pleased that he could still speak clearly when he’d had so much wine, “that would prove Hutch is the baddest mother on the block. After all, he’s a man who collared his own partner. Removing Dunfey would let him step in to control the biggest criminal organization on the west coast.”

Ariadne nodded, her eyes bright with interest. She and Manetti listened intently.

“Even if some of Dunfey’s lieutenants jump ship,” Hutch continued, “word will go out that an ex-cop went over to the dark side. I’d be the man in Bay City to go to. Then, if we can take the CEC out of the picture — we can use my position to wipe out organized crime in the west.”

Starsky had to admire Hutch’s chutzpah; this was the loosest plan they’d ever come up with. Neither of them knew what they might have to do to prove Hutch’s conversion once at Dunfey’s.

Hutch nodded at Starsky, smiling softly although his eyes were still unreadable.

Starsky was afraid. Would Hutch enjoy his role too much?

“Once you have the mob under your thumb, you go back to Bay City?” Manetti asked.

“Yes. Starsky has a key part to play there.” Hutch’s hand went down the length of Starsky’s thigh and back again. His fingers slid up the inside of his left leg, high in the groin, as if the brand were a magnet that attracted them. Starsky stifled the gasp that pressure on that painful spot brought.

“I purchased a slave house on Lincoln to use as a base of operations. The one where we always had meetings,” Hutch continued.

Starsky was surprised by how much forethought Hutch had put into this. The row of old Victorians and Edwardian houses on Lincoln had been a tourist attraction before it became part of the most notorious street in town.

“As my personal slave,” Hutch continued, “Starsky will help around the place, be there during appointments between me and the customers — and other criminal types, and act as a go-between. He’ll also have access to listening devices, cameras, and whatever he needs to record what’s going on in every room in the place.”

Starsky noted what Hutch didn’t say, that there could be occasions when the only thing that might satisfy one of the rich and powerful bastards might be Starsky’s immediate and personal attention.

Starsky clenched the stem of his wine glass so tightly, he had to stop before he snapped it in two.

“You’ve put a lot of thought into this,” Ariadne said, raising her glass in acknowledgement.

“And if Dunfey doesn’t go for it?” Manetti asked. “What if he isn’t willing to give you a place on the council in spite of your ‘corruption’? I heard he’s a mean motherfucker.” Manetti poured himself another glass of wine.

Ariadne peered through lowered lids at the two cops. “Starsky and Hutch look like they can handle whatever comes up.”

“That guy you talked about with the Prince Albert,” Starsky blurted, looking straight at Ariadne. “You weren’t dating him, were you? He was your sex slave. You were his master…uh, mistress. You were in that whatchamacallit — lifestyle. And the assistant you saved. Isn’t he the same thing to you? Your slave? You probably don’t even want slavery abolished, do you?” He’d definitely had too much to drink, the wine filling him with fire. At this moment, he hated her, he hated Hutch…hated anyone who’d enslaved another human being.

Ariadne blinked hard and drew back. “Just a minute! Robbie is my assistant. While it’s true, I legally own him, I bought him to keep him out of the Lincoln slave houses. He was my friend before he was enslaved. He’s still my friend. He’s my trusted assistant, and nothing more. I’ve never laid a hand on him, and that’s the truth. And I never will.”

“And the guy with the piercing?” Starsky pressed.

Hutch looked back and forth between them as if trying to figure out how the conversation had changed so abruptly. He grabbed Starsky’s glass out of his hand, moving it away. “You’ve had way too much to drink.”

Starsky glared at him.

Ariadne amazed him by answering. “It’s all right, Hutch. His question is only fair. I asked him hard questions, too. And he answered me. It’s his turn.” She looked at Starsky with clear eyes. “You’re absolutely right. ‘The guy with the piercing’ was my willing slave for two years. He introduced me into the life, took me to the right places, and made sure I met the right people. He made sure I played safe. And I liked it. I liked the power. It wasn’t easy for a woman to have any power in the late sixties, but as a man and a cop, that isn’t an issue you’d be very familiar with, so I’m not sure you could understand. But, like I said, that was a lifestyle choice. We were two consenting adults enjoying a sexual relationship that pleased both of us. When our relationship cooled, and we decided to go our separate ways, we did. As friends.” She turned to Manetti. “Now you know.”

Manetti stared at her, clearly surprised, but just as clearly still interested. “Now I know.”

Starsky wasn’t sure what he’d expected Ariadne to say, but this bald admission wasn’t it. And Manetti’s cool acceptance was more than he could handle. He stood, his whole body vibrating with anger and resentment he couldn’t contain or articulate. How nice that she and her pierced lover had chosen this path. What choice had he had?

Hutch clamped a hand on his wrist as tight as one of the wristbands. It was the only thing keeping him in check. Starsky felt the unrelenting grip of the collar around his neck, even though it wasn’t there. Did Hutch have it in his pocket? Would he put it on to stake his claim in front of Ariadne and Manetti? To show them what Hutch had chosen for them both?

He was drowning, pulled under by his abrupt plunge into slavery, and kept in check only by his reluctant willingness to submit to Hutch. He was very aware of Hutch staring at him, all at once his partner and his master, and felt his master’s undeniable draw.

He wanted out. He wanted what once had been normal. But what was normal? He and Hutch were so good together now, so powerful. Before, he’d submitted to Hutch without question and enjoyed friendship with sex, but he’d never felt he had Hutch’s heart. Now he was bound to Hutch by law, and their relationship had changed drastically. If he had submitted to Hutch all along, would that have prevented his enslavement?

Still standing, he opened his mouth before he even knew how to respond.

“Hey,” Manetti said suddenly, before he could get the first word out. The big man gestured at the stunned waitress who had arrived with their main course.

Starsky had no idea when she’d arrived, how much of their argument she’d heard.

Hutch tugged his arm, and he finally sat down as Patricia placed a plate of salmon in a Dijon sauce in front of each of them. There was asparagus on the plate. He hated asparagus. No choices, no turning back. This was the way it had to be. Hutch was still gripping his arm, his thigh pressing against Starsky’s was a physical anchor, as much a part of his body as the ring and the brand.

The four of them ate in silence, sobered that the waitress might have overheard personal details. Starsky ignored the vegetable, shoveling the fish into his mouth. It was nice and spicy, and he needed energy. He would rather have had a good steak, but fish was brain food, and right now, his brain wasn’t any too clear.

When they were almost finished with the fish, the sommelier arrived to pour another vintage. He filled new glasses with a pale white wine that caught the light.

Starsky downed the wine before Hutch could remove it. How many glasses had he had? He’d lost count. It was nice, for a change, to feel disconnected from reality. He let his anger drown in vino.

The conversation, though strained, had drifted into lighter subjects when dessert, a dish of chocolate mousse, was served, but Starsky was no longer following. He couldn’t help worrying about Ariadne. She said she believed in the rights of free men, while practicing something darker. He was afraid of her influence with the Abbey League.

“Ariadne?” Starsky said, words liberated by the wine, “be honest. All those Abbey League meetings you had in the slave houses. When they were over…did you have sex with the slaves there?”

“Starsk!” Hutch admonished, clearly surprised.

“Starsky,” Ariadne said, sounding weary. “You of all people should understand. We were using those houses as cover for our illegal activities. If we’d been discovered discussing the overthrow of the government, we would have been enslaved. So, the simple answer is, yes, Starsky, I covered my activities there by using those slaves. Just like every one of the Abbeyites who met there with me. Including Hutch.”

He’d already known about Hutch’s activities, but he didn’t like being reminded of it. For a moment, he gazed at his partner, and thought of him in those houses, finding a young man with dark curly hair —

“Ariadne…” Starsky could tell he was slurring his words, but he was past caring. “Is…are you more on their side than ours? You like having slaves way too much for my taste.”

“How dare you accuse me of siding with the CEC!” She was angry now, and spoke quickly. “I was involved with the Abbey League from the beginning, before any of you, actively working to overthrow those despots.” She pushed away the dessert dish, wiping her mouth with a linen napkin big enough to diaper a baby. “I’ve spent years working from the inside to bring about an overthrow.” She lifted her chin in defiance.

Starsky put his hand flat on the table, half to steady himself. He thought back to Manetti’s comment that she was more qualified to be president than Cosgrove. That idea scared him. With her sexual interest in slavery, would slaves ever be freed? Would he have a chance of ever being his own person again?

“Are you trying to weigh my use of a few slaves — something I had to do to maintain my own safety — against my ability to govern?” Ariadne went very still.

“If the shoe fits, lady,” Starsky growled.

Hutch said his name, pitched for his ears only. Starsky was ready to slug him.

“Hey, this isn’t accomplishing anything,” Manetti said, playing the peacemaker.

“Starsky’s right to have concerns,” Hutch said quietly. He was staring at the table, as if facing his own failings. “Were the slave houses the best places for us to meet? Possibly. But every time we went there, we compromised our own values. We used the slave houses instead of taking a stand against them. We say we’re operating on a better value system than the people who took over, but instead, we’ve — ”

“Allied ourselves with the ones we despise?” Ariadne dipped her chin, her deep brown eyes troubled.

Hutch leaned forward, about to say more, but the maitre d’ opened the door.

“Miss Underhill,” he said formally. “Do you have a Mr. Hutchinson in your party?”

Starsky froze. Who knew they were here? Very few people even knew he and Hutch were in Phoenix.

“Why do you ask?” Ariadne said, all evidence of their dispute gone.

“There’s a telephone call,” he said, glancing at the other three in the room.

“Who’s calling?” Hutch asked, as calm and in control as Ariadne. But Starsky felt the coiled tension in him even without touching him, and for some reason, that released a little of his own.

“A Mr. Dunfey.”

Manetti swore under his breath, looking at Hutch in surprise. “You really did get his attention.”

“Never doubted it,” Hutch said softly. He touched Starsky’s hand with the back of his own; a caress, or maybe for luck, Starsky couldn’t tell.

“Frederick, please bring us a phone,” Ariadne said. “It’s a private business matter.”

“Of course, ma’am.” He gave a slight bow and the phone was delivered moments later.

Hutch set aside his barely touched mousse, and placed a hand on the phone. He looked at Starsky as he shifted into his cover.

“Dunfey?” Hutch said into the phone without preamble. “How did you find me?”

Gone was Hutch-the-cop who tended a greenhouse full of plants and gave twenties to addicts on the street. This was Hutch-the-master, dominant and dangerous. Starsky gritted his teeth, fighting the attraction he had for this side of Hutch.

Hutch frowned, listening to the other man speak. Nothing on his face gave any indication of the subject matter. “Yes, I just met her. I’m having dinner with her right now. In fact, we’re still eating.” He glanced at Ariadne with a tight nod. “All right. I’d like that. I’ll be expecting him.” He hung up the phone quietly, staring at it worriedly.

“Well?” Manetti asked, scooping up more mousse as if he needed to do something to ease the strain.

Hutch looked at Starsky, though he was speaking to the group. “We’re in. He’s very interested in having an ex-cop like me at the meeting.”

“How did he find you?” Starsky asked. Were they followed after the Abbey meeting? Were their covers blown already?

“Apparently,” Hutch explained, “President Cosgrove suggested Ariadne find a way to connect with me before the meeting. Told her to ‘keep an eye’ on me. Cosgrove assumed you did as he asked, and that we’d be together. He told Dunfey you always ate here when in Phoenix, so he took a chance. Told the maitre d’ to check your table.”

“Actually, Cosgrove suggested I sleep with you,” Ariadne told Hutch. “So, I could find out what you were up to. You’re considered a very dangerous man. People in power like to know everything about dangerous men.” Ariadne pushed her mousse in front of Manetti with an indulgent expression. “Have mine; I enjoy watching you enjoy it.”

Hutch peered at Starsky, transitory questions flitting across his features, but didn’t ask them aloud.

Starsky heard them just the same. Can you stay in character — be a slave — for the entire time? Can we pull this off? And, more importantly, Do you know that I love you?

“In spite of working for Cosgrove, I don’t have the training or experience the two of you have in dealing with criminals,” Ariadne said. She was all business now, the dispute with Starsky forgotten.

“Since we don’t know what will come up during the council,” Hutch said, “we’ll just have to play it by ear, being careful to keep each other informed without being obvious. At least Dunfey knows we’ve connected on a social level. And with Cosgrove’s blessing. This is how most undercovers pan out.”

Starsky felt torn in two. Part of him wanted to kneel for Hutch, to be the slave Hutch wanted. But the rest of him needed to fight, to defend all those enslaved.

“I think it’s time we got going,” Hutch said, his tone thick with concern.

“I agree.” Ariadne paused as the maitre d’ returned to collect the phone.

“The bill is all taken care of, Miss Underhill,” he said graciously. “We hope you’ll come again, soon.”

“Of course, Frederick.” Ariadne smiled. “When I’m in California, I long for your cuisine. Gary’s polished off two servings of mousse.”

“Couldn’t eat like that when I was in training for a game…” Manetti trailed off with a wolfish grin, but it was a show. He was in training for a far greater battle than on the football field.

The waitress came to clear away the dishes and Starsky snatched the last of the sauvignon blanc to splash into his glass.

When Patricia left, Manetti nodded, all signs of the goofy jock gone. “There’s a lot to do and very little time to do it in.” Like all of them, he had two sides, and this was the lawyer who would commandeer the attack. “Coordinating with the team is critical — but being secluded at Dunfey’s will make that harder.” He swirled Ariadne’s bright colored scarf around her shoulders, drawing her into him; protecting her while he could.

“Do you need a ride?” Ariadne asked them, briefly leaning against Manetti before she picked up her purse.

“We’ll walk,” Hutch said abruptly, standing directly behind Starsky’s chair, effectively trapping him. “It’ll be cooler now that the sun has gone down.”

“Then we’ll be in touch in the morning,” Ariadne said, smiling at Manetti. “Gary loves driving the car on these flat desert roads.”

“Gets the blood running,” he said to her. He held the dining room door open, inclining his head to her.

Starsky hid a smirk, Ariadne wouldn’t have to frequent the slave houses on Lincoln any longer. Manetti knew what she was into, and he was willing to accept that. For some reason, thinking of that big man subjugating himself to her made his belly churn. Why was that worse than what he and Hutch were into? He was too drunk to figure it out.

Starsky tossed back the last of the wine, not even tasting it. It was just something to dull the pain.

“What exactly is your problem now?” Hutch asked through clenched teeth after Ariadne and Manetti left.

“Nothing.” Starsky tried to shove the chair back, but Hutch was too close. “I just love getting fucked, master.”

“You’re being an asshole.”

“Isn’t that what you want?” Starsky jerked his elbow, which would have been at groin height if Hutch hadn’t already backed up.

“No,” Hutch said softly, his face blank, but Starsky could feel all the conflicting emotions bleeding off him. Hutch filled him up even when they were three feet apart.

“No?” Starsky stood and the room swayed like a porch swing. He really had had too much to drink.

“I just want us — together. We’ve always worked best that way, Starsk. Whatever else is going on between us, we are partners. And that’s what I need now.”

“Yeah?” Starsky snapped. “What if Dunfey discovers you’re a spy, Hutch? What then? What if they kill you?” If Dunfey decided to eliminate Hutch, Starsky was as good as dead, too. “I gotta get out of here.” Starsky concentrated on exiting the room and walking slowly through the restaurant, looking neither left nor right, confident that his partner was behind him.

The air outside was like an oven, although cooler than two hours earlier. Starsky’s head hurt and his belly roiled. He wasn’t sure if he could walk back to their car. Without glancing back at Hutch, Starsky set out down the sidewalk — no way was he walking two steps behind his master.

But his head and stomach had other ideas. Within a block, he was hunching weakly on his knees in the dim cavern of an alley. Pressing against the warm metal of a dumpster, he wished he were dead. Would he actually have to service a room of executives after they talked business with Hutch? To have Hutch watch while Starsky sucked another man’s cock brought back too many memories of his teenage years, when he’d often get paid to service one man as someone else paid more just to watch.

“Starsk?”

Starsky spat onto the cracked sidewalk. The stink from the garbage rotting in the heat was nauseating. “We’re fucked, Hutch.”

Hutch stood just out of reach at the mouth of the alley. “You always feel like crap after too much wine.”

“Vino de casa…” Starsky focused on Hutch’s cowboy boots when he stepped closer. Somehow, Starsky felt comforted by the tooled silver toe tips. This was just the two of them, bound together inexplicably. He reached up without looking, feeling the soft khaki of Hutch’s slacks, the warm, inviting bulge just under his fly, and pulled Hutch’s zipper down. Hutch made no move to stop him. Instead, he wove fingers through Starsky’s sweaty hair, kneading and caressing away the headache that plagued him.

“Please,” Starsky whispered against the soft steel of Hutch’s cock, not even sure why he said it. He was dying every second, evolving into someone who had never been a cop in Bay City. Someone he was afraid to be. The only thing real was the flesh jutting near his lips.

“You’re mine, Davey,” Hutch said. With his fist bunched in Starsky’s hair, Hutch tugged Starsky’s head up, away from his groin. Then he pulled a thick loop of leather out of his jacket.

So Hutch did carry the collar in his pocket. Starsky ached for the loss of his prize, but held still as Hutch buckled and locked the collar around his neck. He swallowed against it. The snug fit was exactly what he needed to ground him. He belonged to Hutch and the erect phallus hanging right at mouth level, ready for him.

Hutch laid the back of his hand on Starsky’s temple, murmuring something low. The simple sweetness of Hutch’s touch overwhelmed Starsky’s soul. He latched onto Hutch’s thick penis as if he’d never get enough.

This was what Starsky knew. He dredged up every old trick guaranteed to satisfy, his nose nearly buried in Hutch’s wiry blond thatch, almost suffocating from the blockage wedged in his throat. He didn’t think, didn’t feel; he existed only to serve.

Hutch gasped, his feet planted on either side of Starsky, and leaning half against the wall, he thrust more and more of himself down Starsky’s unresisting throat.

It could have lasted seconds or hours, Starsky didn’t know. He sucked and licked, the cock in his mouth expanding, growing longer and wider until he couldn’t contain it no matter how hard he tried. Forgetting his surroundings or if passersby could see them, Starsky hung on, completely absorbed in giving pleasure to his master. Hutch’s fingers dug into his neck and shoulders, but Starsky paid no attention to his own needs, just pumped that throbbing length, intent on swallowing every drop of the fluid that threatened to drown him. He choked, close to blacking out, but stubbornly refused to let go of his life preserver.

“Starsk!” Hutch said, cupping his chin. “Starsky!” The wilting penis slipped free of Starsky’s mouth, and Hutch stared down at him with the strangest look on his face. “Hey, what’s going on?”

“I don’t know anymore.” Like a switch being turned on, sensation slammed back into Starsky and he had to close his eyes to keep from screaming. The pain from the piercing and brand were the worst. Hutch must have dug his fingernails into Starsky’s shoulders, because the tiny indentations burned like the welts from Neville’s whip.

“You’re drunk.” Hutch pulled him to his feet. Starsky’s knees buckled and he would have fallen, but Hutch kept him upright.

“Damn straight,” Starsky slurred. “I thought it would stop everything from hurting, but it only made things worse.”

“For a minute, I wondered if you’d taken Phenine.” Hutch tucked himself in, zipping his pants. “Can you walk?”

“‘Course.” In his condition, it was unimaginable, but he’d follow Hutch anywhere. He’d already followed him into hell.

“Car’s only down two blocks, remember?” Hutch pointed.

It seemed like years ago when they had parked there, kissing twice before getting out to attend the Abbey meeting.

“Hutch, have you ever seen Dunfey?” Starsky could hear himself talking, but he seemed completely unattached to his body. The collar was the only thing keeping his head connected to his neck.

“In person? Not close up.” Hutch looped an arm around Starsky’s waist, helping him off the curb to cross the street. “But remember that time we arrested Jerry Kuyt?”

“His…” Starsky’s head was buzzing and his tongue was covered with fur. “Lieu…Lieutenant, who’s just as kinky.”

“Right.” Hutch made a sound like a chuckle but Starsky ignored it, concentrating on walking without tripping over the sidewalk cracks. “Dunfey was in a car. I saw him drive away when we grabbed Kuyt.”

“But when you…” Starsky let the sentence dangle. What should he call what they’d done to him? Kidnapping? Enslaving? “Arranged to have me picked up, you didn’t go to him directly?”

“No. Everything was done on the phone, or with go-betweens. Just like tonight. He thought I was trying to entrap him.” Hutch fished the keys out of his pocket.

Starsky swayed, putting a hand on the metal hood of the car. After sitting in ninety-degree weather, it was hot enough to burn. Dropping his hand, he watched Hutch unlock the door. “Where do we go from here, Hutch?”

“Onward,” Hutch said, but he sounded strange. “Because we can’t go backward.”

***

“Out of bed, slave,” Hutch ordered.

“It’s not even morning!” Starsky groused, rolling over to avoid the sunlight spilling through the bedroom window. His head was splitting. He’d never been much of a wine drinker and if this was the result, he was never going to drink anything fermented from a grape ever again.

“It’s seven-thirty. I want a five-mile run before the sun gets too high.”

Starsky blearily opened an eye to stare at his partner. “Have you lost your mind? I’m sick as a dog here.”

“Whose fault is that?” Hutch jogged in place, his blue nylon running shorts riding up on his long, well defined thighs. “A good run will blow the cobwebs out of your brain and get your blood flowing.”

“My blood flows fine when I’m lying down.”

Hutch stopped moving. “Starsky, up now, or it’s an hour with the nipple clamps kneeling by the computer while I wait for the next message.”

Licking his dry lips, Starsky knew Hutch would do it, too. He’d turned into a weird combination of drill sergeant and slave master with just enough of the old Hutch to remind Starsky of the person he used to know. Now with a definite goal in mind, Hutch was going to be even more insufferable.

“I ran with you yesterday,” Starsky insisted, sitting all the way up.

That was not a good idea.

He scrambled off the bed, dashing to the bathroom to empty his stomach. When he straightened, feeling miserable enough to do what Hutch asked just to get him off his back, Starsky was surprised to have a glass of water and two small white pills thrust at him.

“They’re too small to be Phenine.” Starsky took the proffered aspirin, downing the glass quickly. He drank two more glassfuls and started to feel halfway normal.

“Feel better? A good run will sweat the rest of it out of you.” Hutch motioned for him to sit down on the edge of the mattress. He was holding a small leather circlet with more leather bands hanging off the back.

Starsky regarded it warily, spreading his legs for his master. “What’s that?”

“To prove you’re mine,” Hutch said huskily, running his hand just once down Starsky’s cock. For all his gruffness, Hutch looked very, very interested in the foreplay.

The single stroke woke Starsky up far better than the aspirin had. He swelled immediately and widened his thighs, his cock springing upward with surprising vigor. Hutch laughed and grabbed hold, strapping the leather around Starsky’s penis until it was striped with leather bands. The last one threaded through the heavy ring at the end and was buckled into place. No padlock.

“You don’t need all that to prove anything.” Starsky just managed to keep the need out of his voice. God, he wanted Hutch to slide his long forefinger over the crown one more time to relieve the ache. With the bands holding his erection in place, there was a thick throbbing in his groin that didn’t go away.

“Get used to it.” Hutch cupped his hand around Starsky’s jaw, the hold domineering, but with a wistful sweetness that turned Starsky’s heart over. “I need to know you’re near me.” Picking up some more items from the end of the bed, he clipped a leash onto Starsky’s collar. He then wound the long leather strap of the leash around Starsky’s waist like an obscene belt.

Starsky had a feeling this was going to becoming routine, despite his protests. At least Hutch allowed him a t-shirt and shorts to run in. Starsky knew there were slaves in California that never wore clothes unless the temperature dropped below sixty.

“I’d feel better sleeping for six more hours and having pancakes for breakfast this afternoon,” Starsky whined, pulling the clothes on.

“I think Huggy knows how to make pancakes.” Hutch held open the front door, waving his hand with the flourish of a circus ringmaster. “C’mon, get the lead out. I want to run behind you, watch your ass moving.”

Hutch took them on a circuit around the immense mall parking lot, which was full of early risers going about their everyday chores. There were several plots of vegetables and herb gardens in the meridian strips that had once decorated the lot. Starsky jogged past two women harvesting corn and tomatoes, and almost stopped to ask for some. He was hungry, and Hutch was making him run on an empty stomach.

He ran onward, eventually letting Hutch take the lead, and ignored his hunger pains.

Pancakes on the horizon didn’t make up for having to wear the damned leash. It shifted and pulled every time he took a step, constantly reminding him of his status. He kept flashing on one of the old movies he used to watch, when Gene Autry would twirl a lasso over his head and bring it down over some wild pony, dragging it bucking and screaming into captivity. Now, he was roped and branded, like a prized animal. The David Starsky who’d driven a car, owned a condo, and been able to walk freely was so far from what he was now that his past life could have been a dream. Starsky felt trapped in the middle of his past and future, teetering on the edge.

Pain gripped his side and he stopped, bending over to relieve the cramp, sides heaving. Sweat made his shirt stick to his body. It wasn’t even eight a.m. Who would choose to live in a place like this?

“Five minutes?” Hutch panted, doing a few jumping jacks to keep his heart racing.

“How about we just walk home?” Starsky rubbed his aching side, glancing down the long flat road. They’d come almost to the apex of the route that they’d taken the day before. All he could see was a broad expanse of dirt, cactus, and more cactus. Probably snakes, too. Cars drove past at regular intervals, but traffic was light here, making it a good track for running. “Or better yet, hitchhike?”

Hutch rolled his eyes good-naturedly; the run had put him in a better mood. As the stitch eased, Starsky was surprised to discover that he felt better, too. Good enough to notice the way Hutch’s shorts glistened, trails of sweat outlining the long curve of his cock in front.

“You are the laziest son-of-a…” Hutch laughed, trailing off when a black limo drove up, pulling alongside them. “Damn,” he said softly.

“What?” Starsky shaded his eyes, then suddenly he knew.

Hutch had said Dunfey was keeping tabs on them. The sleek black limousine was long enough to house a mini-bar and a hot tub behind the driver. With the sun riding low in the sky just above the car, the shadows reaching out across the tarmac were like an encroaching evil coming closer and closer to swallow them whole.

Starsky had to resist the urge to back away from the menace. But he knew that wouldn’t work, so he held still, turning into a block of ice shaped like David Starsky. He went cold inside, so cold the sweat dripping down his back was like icicles, despite the relentless sun. Didn’t that damned star know it wasn’t supposed to be this hot so early?

“It’s all been dress rehearsal until now,” Hutch said, taking a deep breath. “Curtain’s going up.”

The driver’s side door opened and a chauffeur emerged. The man was obviously a slave. The collar around his neck was attached to a leash that locked him to the dashboard of the car. He had enough length to open the backseat door on the same side, but couldn’t have gone around the car to the right side.

Starsky dropped his gaze to the pale gray cement under his feet. Was that man ever allowed away from the car? Did he live there, chained to a huge piece of metal? It twisted his guts until he wanted to kill everyone involved.

A second man got out of the car, dismissed the chauffeur back to his seat, and walked around to face Starsky and Hutch. His black suit and thick oily hair said gangster as if he’d been cast by Hollywood. The suit was all wrong for the Arizona heat, and he perspired freely.

Starsky could smell him, his rank odor overpowering his last scent of Hutch. He didn’t dare look at his master. He’d never be able to look away. Pulling on his slave role like a disguise, he lowered his eyes, repressing every instinct to ram this criminal into the side of the car and slap handcuffs on him. Too bad he wasn’t carrying any — he wasn’t even wearing any.

“So the mighty detectives fall,” Jerry Kuyt said. Wanted on a slew of charges so long his police file was six inches thick, Kuyt was an equal opportunity sadist. Rape, torture, murder — it was all fun and games to him.

Starsky could hear the leer in his voice. He remembered trying to get a frightened girl to ID Kuyt in a line up once, but she’d shied away, shaking her head and mumbling that she didn’t remember the man who’d beaten and raped her. Her eyes had betrayed her when she’d stared through the window at Kuyt.

“Not a fall,” Hutch said with an ironic lilt in his voice. “Just a shift into a different phase of life. Accepting the inevitable, you might say.”

Kuyt stood still. From his view of the man’s scuffed shoes, Starsky’s couldn’t read his expression. He suspected it was slightly perplexed. Jerry wasn’t known for his intelligence, just his highly inventive methods of inflicting pain.

“You might say,” Kuyt finally parroted back as if repeating something witty. “Your slave ain’t much. He looked taller with a leather jacket and a gun.”

“Too bad the same can’t be said for you,” Hutch replied smoothly. “Dunfey inside? I’d invite him to run back to the mall with us, but it might put a strain on the old man’s heart.”

Glancing up cautiously, Starsky saw Hutch peer into the car windows, but the mirrored finish only reflected back his handsome looks.

“We were going to have pancakes,” Hutch said, “when we got back.”

Starsky watched from under lowered lashes, poised to run or follow Hutch’s lead.

Apparently unable to come up with a rejoinder for Hutch’s insult, Kuyt simply opened the door directly opposite them.

And there was Dunfey. He never moved from his throne in the dim interior of the limo, but Starsky saw enough to know he beckoned Hutch forward. “Hutchinson,” Dunfey said in a voice that rumbled like stones in an avalanche. “I wanted to get a chance to know you before the conference.”

“So you have your henchmen accost me on a public street?” Hutch tsk-tsked. “What do you want, Dunfey? I’ve got business in less than an hour.”

“You mentioned pancakes. I can offer you a delicious breakfast here in the car, and you won’t have to run for your meal,” Dunfey said. “If you’re interested, please join me.”

Hutch appeared to consider the idea, hands on his hips. “For one hour. The slave, too?”

“Of course. Slaves complement any meal. He has to remove his clothes. I don’t allow them to hide their assets from me.”

“You heard the man.” Hutch turned, blocking Dunfey’s view of Starsky, skimming the t-shirt off Starsky’s body in seconds. The shorts didn’t take much longer, but the press of Hutch’s hot hand against his icy flesh was the only thing Starsky could feel. Hutch stared into his eyes, communicating without saying a word. We’re in this together. He shook out the length of leash, uncoiling it from Starsky’s waist, and depriving him of his last vestiges of cover.

Strange how unprotected the body felt without clothing. Starsky was reluctant to slip off his sneakers and add them to the pile. Even the tiny shorts and thin tee had been some sort of armor between him and the world. Starsky shivered, humiliated, forced to tolerate Kuyt’s purulent growl of appreciation. He withstood it only because Hutch was standing beside him.

Hutch showed no fear. He was once again the lion who ruled all he surveyed. “Davey, in the car, presentation position.”

For a moment, Starsky wasn’t sure he could move. His left foot simply refused to take that first step forward, but then his knees were sinking into the lush carpeting of the limo as if he’d levitated between the hot road and the coolness of the car. He was weirdly glad that Neville and Hutch had insisted on drumming the hated slave poses into his tired body. He moved without thought, arranging himself flawlessly into perfect slave posture with thighs spread so that the brand showed plainly, hands resting gracefully on his thighs, chest thrust out, but eyes cast downward. Staring down at a pair of expensive men’s shoes, he realized that he was directly across from Dunfey.

“I had to wonder why a man would pay me so much money to have his partner turned,” Dunfey said shrewdly. His Italian leather shoe rubbed against Starsky’s left thigh in a distinctly unpleasant way. “He does make a fine looking slave, but you could have bought a stable full for the price you paid for one untrained man.”

Starsky stilled his urge to pull away from the repulsive caress, desperately trying to keep his sanity so he could provide help if he had the chance. He tried to tune out the blunt leather insinuating its way to his pierced cock, glad that Hutch had buckled him into the black harness.

“The question is, what’s in it for you besides the use of your partner’s body?” Dunfey continued.

“You helped me accomplish something I’d wanted to do for a long time,” Hutch said, settling into the roomy interior next to Dunfey. He appeared to ignore the mobster’s advances. “And now, I think there are countless ways you and I could work together. I have information and influence; you have contacts and established ties with the underworld.”

The toe of Dunfey’s shoe was far too close to Starsky’s raw brand. Starsky flinched in pain, and looked straight up into a pair of narrow eyes. Their color in the murky light was indiscernible, but there was no humanity there, only cruelty. And an odd familiarity that rattled Starsky to his core.

“Move your foot away from my slave.” Hutch didn’t raise his voice or move a muscle, but the deadly force was there. This was the lion, and a lion doesn’t allow anyone to muscle in on his kill, not even a potential associate. “What’s in it for me? You won’t get an answer by damaging my property.” Hutch gave the slightest tug on Starsky’s leash.

Starsky dropped his eyes out of respect for his master, not the pig Dunfey. His brand ached like an exposed nerve, the thud of his heartbeat doubled in his groin. Dunfey pulled his foot back incrementally. There wasn’t much floor space to move between the bar and the seats, but Starsky managed to shuffle closer to Hutch’s leg. That also allowed him to observe more with his peripheral vision. How many times had Hutch drilled into him the need for accurate peripheral observations?

“So the slave’s that good, is he, Hutchinson?” Dunfey took a sip from his glass of juice.

“My partner’s body was always of great use to me — in or out of the squad car.” Hutch tapped Starsky’s shoulder, ostensively to correct his posture, but the touch helped. Starsky gritted his teeth, calming. “He just can’t say no any longer.”

“A prize like that should be shared.” Dunfey sounded intrigued. He picked up a plate of fruit at his elbow and pinched a grape off the stem.

“I only share if there’s incentive. And this slave has — let’s call it sentimental value — not to mention monetary, so I never let him out of my sight.” He ran a gentle hand down the back of Starsky’s hair to his neck, and kept his fingers curved around the collar while he spoke. “Now, if someone gave me incentive I might consider allowing him to be used — ”

“And abused,” Dunfey joked.

“Used without any damage whatsoever,” Hutch corrected in a voice that was pure ice. “That might be arranged. I bought him for my pleasure, for my use. I only share — occasionally — with those I actually call friends.”

“I have no problem watching a fine display between master and slave,” Dunfey said smoothly. “Grapes or kiwi, Hutchinson? There’s pastries in the bread basket.”

Kuyt had lowered himself onto the fold down seat and was pouring coffee from a carafe as the car started up again. The carpeted undercarriage of the car vibrated against Starsky’s naked buttocks like an expensive sex toy, grating on his nerves. He was so tense that no amount of Phenine would have aroused him.

Hutch accepted the coffee and fruit, declining a croissant. Starsky felt queasy, but from hunger, car sickness, or the remnants of his hangover, he wasn’t sure.

“As alluring as your slave might be, I’m not sure what incentive I could provide. I suspect you want to horn in on my territory.” Dunfey plucked grapes off the stem and popped them into his mouth. “I know all about you, Hutchinson — your addiction to drugs, the little problem with IA because of the ex-wife and her klepto tendencies, all the barely legal-aged boys who looked like your partner…”

“Common knowledge,” Hutch retorted, but Starsky could hear how much it was costing him.

Some of it was well known, especially about Vanessa, but how had Dunfey found out about the heroin? Had Jeannie talked? After she’d promised to run to a state that didn’t have legalized slavery? Starsky had never trusted her.

“I’m very interested in establishing a base of operations here in Phoenix, maybe branching out into Vegas,” Hutch said. “BC is your focus — you only keep a vacation house here. I don’t intend to tread on your toes, but I think we can benefit each other financially. I’ve got the start up money, I just need…” Hutch paused, drawing in his prey. “Your expertise. Your experience with slaves and contraband.”

“You said you had information.” Dunfey was hooked, his greediness overcoming good sense. He tapped his foot absently.

Starsky concentrated on their voices. There was something eerily familiar about Dunfey. He’d only gotten a glimpse of the man before dropping into slave mode, but Dunfey scared him down deep.

Why did Dunfey make him feel trapped as if he were an insignificant bug about to be obliterated?

“When we have a better rapport,” Hutch said. “It’ll be more effective if I present my offer at the meeting.” Sipping coffee, Hutch deliberately blocked Dunfey’s access to Starsky by stretching out his long legs. “Fine brew.”

“My sources bring it up from Columbia with the cocaine.” Dunfey said. “I have to admit I can see the advantages of having an ex-cop in our group, but some of my associates are skeptical of your motives.”

“Police work wasn’t challenging anymore,” Hutch said simply and popped a grape into Starsky’s mouth. “I found my tastes were running to more…” he fed Starsky another grape, “exotic fare.”

Starsky wanted the whole bunch and a croissant, but he chewed what was in his mouth, grateful to have something to eat.

“Couldn’t maintain my lifestyle on a cop’s salary.” Hutch gave a rueful laugh, showing no evidence of the detective Starsky had worked with. “Even with half the liquor store owners on our beat paying protection.”

“Always heard you two didn’t take bribes,” Kuyt said.

“Starsky didn’t take bribes,” Hutch corrected him. “I took whatever wasn’t nailed down. Including my partner when he’d outlived his usefulness. His lofty moralistic attitude was getting in the way.” Hutch placed a grape between his lips, leaning forward to transfer it to Starsky’s mouth. “Davey is a natural. I should have collared him years ago.”

Starsky felt the slave name like a knife. He wanted the husky whisper of Starsk, with the soft S’s and crisp K at the end, not the cutting D and V of his childhood nickname. Without turning his head, he moved his eyes left, just far enough to see Hutch.

Would he be able to go through with the council meeting? Hearing Hutch talk about him like that, enduring abuse because he wore a ring though his penis…

“I never trusted cops.” Kuyt sneered. “Least that one’s got a collar and leash.”

“He’s not a cop any longer, and neither is Hutchinson.” Dunfey chuckled. “Even the CEC wouldn’t trust him after his latest escapade. They do have some standards, and having your partner kidnapped for slavery, and then slitting your superior’s throat before skipping town doesn’t qualify.”

Slitting your superior’s throat? Starsky didn’t make a sound, intent on hearing the rest. What hadn’t Hutch told him? Was it even true, or was Dunfey baiting Hutch? What superior? He eased air out of his lungs, struggling to maintain a blank expression. He visualized the names on the offices in Metro, but got confused between the old inhabitants and the new. Simonetti had been promoted to head hunter for the CEC, his bully-boy tactics just what they liked.

Then there was Roschenzky…

Oh, fuck, Hutch. What did you do?

“The man knew too much,” Hutch said blandly. “It was a mercy killing.” Starsky could hear hidden anguish in his voice. It must have been self-defense; there was no other reason Hutch would resort to murder.

No wonder Hutch had said he was on the run, a wanted man, when he arrived at Luna. But why? Why do it when he was already leaving town? Had Roschenzky been the one who knew all the secrets? Maybe he’d figured out too much about Hutch’s visits to the slave houses, seen Hutch with Ariadne or Manetti instead of some naked slave boy with dark curls and a pierced cock. Forced to kneel, staring at the floor, Starsky’s mind ran in circles.

“Was James Gunther a mercy killing?” Dunfey raised his coffee cup in a salute.

“That was revenge, pure and simple,” Hutch said in a hard voice, cutting off any more discussion about his infamous assassination of the mobster who had ordered Starsky’s shooting. “And you profited from that on all fronts. You took over Gunther’s entire operation. Seems like you owe me a debt of gratitude.”

“I don’t have outstanding debts,” Dunfey answered coldly. “We’ll give you a seat on the council. Don’t push your luck so early in the game.”

“I’m a good poker player.” Hutch finished his cup and flicked a look at his wrist as if surprised not to see a watch there. “Oh, yes, I forgot. Your goons stole my watch and leather jacket when they grabbed Davey. I want them back.”

“Not a problem,” Dunfey assured him. “Jerry will talk to Gomez and Mertz when we return home.”

Gravel Voice and Calloused Hands, Starsky realized. The names of his kidnappers. They were first on his list to be collared and pierced.

“Y’know, I kinda liked it better when we knew who was the good guys and who was the bad guys.” Kuyt started to pick a grape from the cluster, but Dunfey smacked his hand. Kuyt stuck his finger into his mouth, talking around it. “Easier to figure out who was on your side.”

“There are more sides these days than in my high school geometry text,” Dunfey said with sardonic wit. He stuck out a hand, shaking Hutch’s grandly. “A pleasure to meet you, Hutchinson. I’m looking forward to working with you in the days to come. Welcome aboard.”

“I’ll see you at the meeting on Friday,” Hutch agreed. “You won’t regret this, Dunfey.”

***

The car left them outside the mall in view of the women tending their plots. They stared, the friendly smiles they’d given Starsky two hours earlier now expressions of disgust. They turned away, hoeing the dirt with quick, nervous movements.

“You got my clothes?” Starsky snarled. When Hutch held them out, he jerked the t-shirt on and pulled the shorts over his ass. Without stopping to untie the laces, he jammed his feet into the sneakers. “I want food, and lots of it.”

Hutch didn’t say a word, simply held up his hands in surrender.

“What?” Starsky snapped, jerking the leash off his collar and throwing it at his partner. No, his master.

“It went well.”

“For you, I’m nothing more than a lap dog!”

Hutch picked up the leash, coiling the length around one hand as if to give himself something to do. “I’m sorry about a lot of things, Starsk.”

“Yeah, well, so am I.” Starsky balled a fist, ready to fight, just to bleed off some of the anger he’d built up on the insufferable ride. “There is no way this is going to work, Hutch. You want to see me swallowing some bastard’s cum? You get off on that?”

“No.” Hutch hadn’t moved since he got out of the limo. “Never. Makes me sick inside.”

“You sure don’t act like it.” Starsky smacked Hutch hard on his chest. “So it’s okay for you to hurt me, but not them, huh? Pretty fine line, Hutch.”

“Pain is never the object.” Hutch raised his hands hopelessly. “It’s a conduit, a catalyst to something much more powerful. It amplifies the sex.”

“Which is all you ever cared about in the first place, isn’t it? That’s what it comes down to, what Hutch wants.” Starsky couldn’t look at Hutch’s stony expression any longer and strode away, kicking at rocks and debris in the parking lot. He didn’t care that a gang of teen-aged boys wearing black and red shirts were watching him from the mall fire escape. “What about what Starsky wants?”

“Have I ever denied you love? I’ve had your back,” Hutch said despairingly. “You were — are my best friend, the only person in the whole world who ever meant anything to me. I had to keep you safe. Roschenzky was planning to have you taken out, or sell you directly to Dunfey.”

“So you took him out first,” Starsky said flatly. “Were you planning to tell me, Hutch?”

“When the time was right. When you were ready to hear it.”

“When was that going to be, huh?” Starsky swallowed the bitter gall in his throat. He’d known Hutch was capable of killing a man, and considering what Roschenzky was planning, this hardly counted as murder in cold blood. But he’d expected more from Hutch. “That’s why you couldn’t go back to Bay City.” Again, he remembered Hutch confronting Neville, looking like a stranger with dark hair and eyes as turbulent as a winter sea.

“Yeah.” Hutch’s knuckles blanched white from clenching the leash.

Starsky considered prying his hand loose, but didn’t. Couldn’t. They had too much to work out first.

“If Roschenzky was already dead,” the words ripped out of Starsky, making his throat raw, “why did you make me a slave?”

“It was too late by then. They’d already grabbed you.” Hutch shook his head, the mistakes so blatantly obvious now. “I should have known Roschenzky and Dunfey were tight. I was so worried about you, about what Roschenzky might do to you, I didn’t pay enough attention. He called when I was at your house, getting your things. Huggy had already gone to get your car. You were — ”

“In the truck with a fucking bag on my head.”

“I met Roschenzky alone in the police garage. I opened the trunk and showed him the money.” Hutch gave a weird bark of a laugh. “He was too greedy. He shoved a gun in my ribs and disarmed me, laughing at how he’d won everything — you, the money, and how he was going to get rid of me. But he’d only taken my gun. When he turned to grab the cash, I slit his throat. He was still alive when I drove away.”

“Why didn’t you tell me?” Starsky’s voice sounded too small, too naïve.

“Because…I didn’t want you to see me as a murderer,” Hutch said.

The words shredded Starsky. This was ripping them both apart just when they need to have a united front against Dunfey. “We’ve both killed. It doesn’t change the fact that you used his…threat to have me enslaved. For your own reasons, Hutch!” Starsky hitched a breath.

Hutch moved to stand at the door of the mall. His face was so unreadable he could have been a stranger. The same stranger who’d arranged to have Starsky kidnapped and pierced, and then showed up wearing a brown wig and hungry eyes. It was then Starsky knew how scared Hutch was. It lit the anger inside him.

“Are you coming upstairs with me?” Hutch said softly, and this time it was only Hutch behind his eyes. Hutch scared out of his mind, afraid that he was losing his lover and best friend.

Starsky was spoiling for a fight; there was no other way to put it. He wanted to hurt, crush, beat someone else the way he had been. Hutch wasn’t the right opponent, but he was the only one Starsky had.

“Starsky?” There was a hint of pleading and regret. Hutch could read his moods so easily. Surely, he recognized Starsky’s fury.

Just a few days ago, Starsky had been ready to follow Hutch anywhere. But that path only led farther down the road of pain and humiliation. He decided it was time for Hutch to follow him.

Starsky shot past him through the door and set off down the wide people-filled corridor of the mall, feeling Hutch shadowing him without ever looking behind to be sure. He took the unmoving escalator risers two at a time to the second level, his sneaker-clad feet coming down loudly on the metal steps. The sound of Hutch’s footfalls were like an echo to each of his own.

At the door to their apartment, he stopped, feeling the pull of the ring on his penis, the burn where hot metal had seared his flesh, and the hand-shaped bruises on his upper arms where Hutch had held him the night before, when they’d made rough love over and over. “You’re a bastard, you know that?”

“Always have been, Starsk.”

Oh, God, the way he said that. It broke through Starsky’s defenses like an ax splitting a tree. Starsky swung, hard and fast, with a roundhouse punch that had felled many a punk, and clocked Hutch in the face. Hutch went down with such an expression of surprise that it enraged Starsky even more. Hutch should have known this was coming.

Starsky grabbed his partner while Hutch struggled to get off the floor, shoving him against the door of their apartment. In the tiny portion of his brain trying desperately to stay rational, he knew they should get out of the public hallway, but testosterone was taking over, turning him into something primitive. He crashed a knee into Hutch’s abdomen and pummeled him in the ribs with unrestrained fury.

Until then, Hutch had not resisted. Hunched in half to protect his belly, he shoved back, tackling Starsky and pulling him to the dirty floor of the hallway. They rolled, punching and kicking, grappling for the upper hand.

Starsky bit down, teeth sinking into Hutchinson flesh in a wholly satisfying way. His arousal exploded, his cock suddenly far too big for the leather bindings. His heart stuttered against his heaving ribs, then accelerated, if that was possible after the intensity of the battle, catching him unawares. He had blood in his mouth, some from his own split lip, some from Hutch. He spat it sideways.

Lunging, Hutch bucked and flipped Starsky over, straddling his body.

“Hutch,” Starsky panted.

“Stop it!” Hutch yelled savagely.

Arching up, Starsky practically climbed up Hutch’s body, pulling his legs out from under him. Then Starsky kissed him, all teeth and stabbing tongue. Hutch bit down hard enough to send skyrockets off behind Starsky’s eyelids, and took possession of the kiss, refusing to relinquish control.

“Inside,” Starsky managed, breathless. “Inside.” Hutch nodded, the motion vibrating through the base of Starsky’s skull, transmitting subtle messages of nonverbal communication through his entire being.

“K-key’s in my jacket.” Hutch pushed a hand between their bodies, fingers scrabbling into his pocket.

“Get it, now!” Starsky dry humped Hutch’s hip aggressively. This was his party.

Hutch dragged them both to their feet, shakily inserting the key in the lock. When the door opened, they tumbled inward, barely able to get their clothes off quickly enough. Starsky’s tiny shorts came off with a single jerk, his penis fully erect in its leather cage, the ring on the end like a bull’s-eye. He shoved at Hutch, pushing his resisting body against the wall, but this time, Hutch strong-armed him back.

“Slow down!” Hutch ordered, but he was obviously as turned on as Starsky, his cheeks flushed, chest heaving. He felt hot to the touch, almost feverish, as if lust had brought him to a boil.

Starsky couldn’t take his eyes off the bloody mark he’s made high up on Hutch’s smooth torso, just above his nipple. If he sank his teeth there again, would it scar? Leave a permanent impression of his teeth on his partner? His master?

“Me inside you — now,” Starsky said gutturally, pushing down on Hutch’s shoulders as Hutch had so often done to him.

It didn’t work. Hutch glared at him and hooked a foot around Starsky’s ankle, one of those wrestling moves he’d learned in college designed to bring down an opponent. Starsky attempted to counterbalance, but only succeeded in smacking his head against the wall hard enough to stun. He lay on the floor between Hutch’s legs with an eyeful of enraged penis.

“You don’t get to change the rules!” Hutch shouted at him, his finger not as much of a threat as the stiff cock jutting into his face.

Blinking the world back into focus, Starsky lurched to his feet, adrenaline giving him clarity. “Why not? You sure as hell did. You stole my goddamned life right out from under me, you shit. Barged in and changed everything, so don’t go all holy and self-righteous. Suck my cock, or I — ”

Hutch’s big hand clamped down around Starsky’s erection and balls, twisting, the leather bands constricting like tourniquets. Starsky forced himself not to react, but it felt like his genitals were being fed through a wringer. It also sent his arousal skyrocketing. He could have climaxed right then, but held himself back, hands flat on the wall behind him, staring into those glacier blue eyes. Neville’s cowboy was back, all savage beauty with his blond hair and ferocious strength.

“You’ll what?” Hutch asked with deadly calm. “Leave me? You did once. You died, and you came back, Starsk. You always come back. Just like I always come back to you.” The pressure of his fist let up fractionally, and Starsky had time to take a breath before Hutch reached between his legs and thrust his finger up with violent force.

Starsky snarled with rage and blocked the finger fuck by clenching his butt cheeks. He tried to wrench free, but couldn’t get leverage with his cock imprisoned in that big hot hand.

“Wasn’t me who changed the rules,” Hutch pulled his finger from between Starsky’s thighs and tapped it against Starsky’s mouth. Defiant, Starsky didn’t open up. “You kept me on a leash for years, Davey. You said no to me over and over, and I obeyed. Now, it’s your turn. I saved you from them so I could have you for myself.”

“And now you’re handin’ me over like a Christmas present.”

That seemed to take the fight right out of Hutch.

“It’s not what I want either…” Hutch loosened his grip and unbuckled the cock harness with a narrow-eyed glare. Releasing Starsky, Hutch stalked away. When he was at the window, far enough away that Starsky couldn’t quite hear him, he mumbled something as he stared out at the parking lot that served as their view. He suddenly looked alone and vulnerable, silhouetted against the stark blue sky. The sight drained the rampant sex right out of Starsky, leaving him dizzy and empty. He had to protect his partner; it was elemental to his life’s code. Had to keep Hutch safe because he didn’t have anyone else. And the truth was…he didn’t want anyone else.

“What did you say?” Starsky asked irritably. “And get away from the window. Don’t know who could be watching.”

Hutch looked up as if surprised by Starsky’s concern, but he took two steps forward before sitting wearily on a bar stool. “This whole thing scares me.”

“You have no right to be scared.” Starsky shoved it back in his face. “No right to any of this, but we gotta deal with what we got. You took control from the start, Hutch, so keep it, dammit! Keep that sharp edge that turned the Brit into a fawning whore, and use it to take away Dunfey’s power and strangle the CEC. Otherwise we got nothing.”

His body vibrated like a car engine pushed to the maximum, about to blow a gasket. He was too fucking tired to submit anymore. The council meeting was looming like a storm cloud on their horizon, and they had to walk straight into the maelstrom that could get them both killed or worse. Starsky didn’t care about living if he had to be a slave. He would die to let Hutch live, though. In spite of everything, he realized he still loved his partner.

“I’m doing this for you,” Starsky said tiredly, “nobody else.”

“I don’t…” Hutch paused as if reluctant to admit what he was about to say.

“Say it!”

“I don’t deserve what you give me.”

“Yeah, you don’t.” There was the strangest pricking behind his eyes, but Starsky ignored it, rubbing the back of his head where he’d hit the wall. “Now get on your hands and knees or I walk away. Last chance.”

Hutch stood, one hand braced against the bar between the living room and kitchen, as immobile as granite. Starsky gave him four beats — that was it, no reprieves. If Hutch didn’t submit, he was out. This would never work. He was too tired and too demoralized with all the slave shit. He loved Hutch so much, but right then he despised him.

“Down, asshole.” Starsky surged forward, shoving his partner, toppling Hutch from his stance. “You like the ring in my dick so much, take it!”

Hutch twisted away, body hard and slick with sweat. His height gave him a slight advantage, but Starsky had a savage need for retaliation. He straddled Hutch, wrapping his strong thighs around Hutch’s hips and trying to thrust while holding on at the same time.

Hutch slammed one shoulder against the wall to unseat his rider and strode into the bedroom, one long finger held up, a stop sign Starsky barely acknowledged. “Starsk!”

That came through loud and clear. Starsky halted in his tracks, panting, breath searing his lungs.

“You didn’t give me enough time.”

“How much is enough?” Starsky shot back, needing to attack, to brutalize. He’d dropped back in evolution, back to Neanderthal man.

“I gave you years,” Hutch said.

“So time’s up, golden boy.”

“I’ll do it,” Hutch said simply.

For a moment, Starsky paused, stunned.

“We need lube,” Hutch said. “Can’t do it dry.” Hutch waved a hand at his carryall as if it was the most natural thing in the world.

But Starsky could see Hutch’s fear now even more than when he’d confessed in front of the window. He could feel it, smell it in the air. Maybe he had regressed to a more primitive state. Starsky could almost taste Hutch’s nervousness, and wanted to feel that quiver of fear when he forced his ringed cock into Hutch’s tight hole.

“You know what to do, then do it,” Starsky commanded, unsteady and harsh.

Hutch fumbled with his bag, uncoordinated from their battle, and retrieved the lube. He slicked Starsky carefully with the gel, never once looking up at his partner. One long glorious slide from those slippery fingers and Starsky would have promised him anything, but he had to keep his agenda straight. This wasn’t for the sheer satisfaction of getting laid; this was more, much more. It was payback.

He expected to feel triumphant when Hutch knelt on the edge of the mattress with his head bowed, but he didn’t. There was a curious sense of relief that he wasn’t in this alone, that Hutch was still his partner. Partners shouldn’t fuck each other over, but they did. So what was this? Retribution, or something less tangible? Something he’d wanted, even needed for years. Acknowledgement of his desires. Reciprocity, perhaps.

Equality.

Bracketing Hutch’s pale hips with his hands, Starsky knelt behind him, his cock as hard as a tree trunk. “You ever — ?”

“No,” Hutch said, words practically strangled. He braced himself on stiffened arms, as if offering himself as a sacrifice.

Good.

Starsky didn’t relish hurting Hutch, but at the same time, Hutch had to understand. To really comprehend what he had done in the name of lust — even using the excuse that it would save Starsky’s life.

Positioning himself over the target, Starsky closed his eyes. The ring made everything different. What if it didn’t fit into Hutch? He’d never done this before. Yet, the memory of Hutch taking him — easing in with a sweet stretching and then that shock of pain that receded surprisingly quickly — spurred him on.

He thrust, just hard enough to breach Hutch’s defenses. The ring seemed impossibly wide, and Starsky could feel fine tremors running down Hutch’s body. He clutched at Hutch’s strong back, holding on, not thinking about what he was doing, just doing it. The ring finally popped through, sliding the rest of his cock in almost too fast. Starsky gasped, stunned at the incredible tightness squeezing him.

Hutch cried out, panting. The scent of masculine sweat and sex perfumed the room.

“Oh, damn…” Starsky could barely think past the muscles that held him in a vice. He wanted to move, to thrust deeply into that fantastic space, but Hutch was clenched down too tightly, his body rigid from the invasion.

“Hutch.” Starsky breathed out slowly, shifting his pelvis upwards for better depth. “Relax, baby, relax. Take it deep!” He kissed Hutch’s smooth skin just above the curve of his buttocks, feeling Hutch breathe in and out, in and out, gradually loosening his constricted muscles. “Hutch?” Starsky repeated. Hutch was usually far more vocal, far more animated when having sex.

“I never knew it felt like this,” Hutch ground out.

Starsky had nothing to compare it to, either. The ring had flipped back onto his crown when he’d entered, and now it pressed into his own flesh. The feeling was peculiar, unique. It didn’t hurt, except when Hutch’s inner walls spasmed; then there were moments of almost-pain and nearly too much sensation. Hutch’s body heat conducted through the ring burned the tip of Starsky’s hyper-sensitive cock like a match, but the rest of it was so phenomenally intense, it was mind-altering. Whatever reasons Starsky had had when he’d first gone after his partner had melted away with the extraordinary reality of penetrating Hutch. Sex with a woman had never been like this — so tight, so…different in ways his sex-numbed brain couldn’t begin to describe.

Hutch cried out again, but whether it was from pain or pleasure was difficult to tell. He rocked back, driving Starsky more deeply inside him. They found a rhythm, their cries mingling in concert. Starsky imagined the whole mall had to know what they were doing.

Starsky clutched Hutch’s smooth back, fingering each vertebrae as if reading words of love written in Braille. He wanted to follow his cock deep inside Hutch, just crawl right into Hutch’s skin and be. They were no longer master and slave, just partners. Lovers. Maybe for the first time. It was sublime — but far too fleeting. Starsky almost mourned his mounting climax because he wanted to remain in that suspended state of oneness with Hutch forever. He held his breath as he came, his entire being vibrating in concert with Hutch’s orgasm.

They toppled over together onto the mattress, still connected like links on a chain. Before he fell asleep, Starsky realized he would always be connected to Hutch. Forged steel…an unbreakable bond…like the ring that pierced him.

***

He woke when he tried to turn over, only to find himself trapped. The crown of his cock, with the ring, was still inside Hutch, and a gentle tug didn’t release it.

“Ow, don’t!” Hutch protested irritably, reaching back to prevent Starsky from moving. “It’s caught!”

“I know.” Starsky clenched his teeth, damning everyone involved with the fucking slave system. “Whadda we do about it? Hurts like hell.”

“You’re telling me.” Hutch’s voice was muffled by the mattress, but he scooted carefully onto his bent knees, Starsky coming along because he had to. “Lube, idiot.”

“Oh, yeah.” Starsky cast about on the bed with his left hand, locating the flattened tube. With a few applications of the stuff and some delicate maneuvers, Starsky finally slipped free. Hutch’s anus was reddened and swollen, but there didn’t seem to be any injury.

“Starsky, you shouldn’t have…” Hutch said, touching the ring.

“Well, you should have thought of that a long time ago, buddy!” Starsky jerked away from his partner’s hand. His crown was still far more sensitive than it had ever been before his enslavement, and whenever he was erect, the swollen flesh compressed the ring, causing weird sensations that both enhanced sex and distracted him. He was no longer erect, but he still ached.

“I don’t mean the sex,” Hutch snapped, the brittle, holier-than-thou attitude that flared when he felt stressed was back in full force. “I mean you could get infected. It wasn’t exactly in a nice clean place.”

Starsky digested that.

Hutch got up, grimacing slightly when he stood, and walked stiffly into the bathroom.

Sitting on the edge of the mattress, Starsky didn’t know how he was feeling right now. Had this changed anything? He still had a damned ring proclaiming him a slave. Hutch still owned his chit. They still had less than — what? He looked over at the calendar advertising “Best Bar in Town, Raoul’s Pits” — two days before the council meeting. Where he might be part of the entertainment. A chained slave available for a price. A high price, at least…

What about him and Hutch? Where were they? Was it possible to sort out the tangled mess of their friendship? He needed a partner, not a master. He wanted a sex partner, and maybe — it was possible under the right circumstances — which these were not — that he wanted a sexual master. Some of the time.

Now he’d fucked Hutch for the first time. It helped balance the scales, but had it changed their relationship one iota? Would Hutch look at him the same way?

What way did Hutch look at him? As a friend, lover, and partner? Or simply as a chained slave?

“Come here,” Hutch said from the door of the bathroom. There was a rumbling gruffness about him that made Starsky think of Dobey. It wasn’t until he came close to Hutch that he knew why. Hutch was trying to disguise his discomfort and worry for Starsky under a layer of grouchiness.

Hutch took a washrag and knelt, tenderly washing him clean. He worked silently, soaping and rinsing the pierce hole and the end of Starsky’s cock several times over.

“Thank you,” Starsky said. Apology and forgiveness in the form of a bath.

“I’d take this out, if I could,” Hutch said, and kissed the ring, his thumb glancing over the brand on Starsky’s thigh. But he didn’t say it never should have been put there in the first place.

“No.” Starsky pulled Hutch up. The bite mark on Hutch’s chest was an angry red. Starsky kissed the brand he had made, and fitted his teeth into the indentations, biting down.

Arching his neck, Hutch cried out, despair and desire so intermingled they were one and the same.

Starsky rejoiced at the sound. “I need it,” he said, referring to the ring. “While I’m undercover.”

“I’ve got your back, partner,” Hutch said softly. Blue eyes flicked over him, skimming his body, and came to rest on his face. “Dunfey’ll think I beat you.”

“Look in the mirror, blondie. I got in some pretty good jabs of my own.” Starsky stretched and rotated his neck, cracking the ligaments, the leather collar tight against his throat.

Hutch glanced in the bathroom mirror and touched a shiner on his right cheekbone where Starsky’s fist had connected. Starsky could feel the corresponding bruise on his own knuckles. “Yours will be a lot more visible, Godiva,” Hutch said dryly. “And you’re going to need antibiotics. The piercing could get infected.”

“Now you tell me,” Starsky threw over his shoulder, standing over the toilet to take a leak.

He could see the results of their fight in the mirror: a tender purplish mark along the curve of his jaw, and a goose egg on his forehead where he’d hit the wall. “Where are you going to find any? Doctors don’t treat slaves.”

“That was in Nevada, Phoenix should be better.” Hutch came up behind him. “Besides, Ariadne gave me a name.”

They were so dissimilar, even to the way their hair grew. Starsky’s chest hair grew in dark swirls, almost hiding his nipples. Hutch’s fair, almost hairless chest looked like milk where he wasn’t lightly tanned. Light and Dark. Opposites. Once equal partners, now master and slave.

The kiss Hutch bestowed on the back of Starsky’s neck, as if blessing the collar, was too intimate for Starsky. Their closeness was suddenly cloying and oppressive, reinforcing his slavery far more than the collar did. “Give me some space; I want to take a shower.”

“Sure.” Hutch’s blue eyes were hooded, his expression bleak. “I’ll call and see if I can find a pharmacy, get something to protect you…from whatever I could have given you.”

Standing under the sputtering showerhead, water stinging all the sore places on his body, Starsky pondered Hutch’s odd wording.

“…Whatever I could have given you.”

Hutch’s protection left a lot to be desired. Was slavery better than death? A bullet in the back of the head, just about where Hutch had kissed him? Starsky touched his neck, feeling water tightening the leather collar. The little S charm bumped against his collarbone, and Starsky stilled the motion with one finger, tracing the letter. What did the letter stand for? Starsky or slave?

Could he get past this? This violation? He’d trusted Hutch with his life and where had that gotten him? Enslaved but alive.

Still able to fight. He’d proved that well enough. If he and Hutch had anything left from the shambles of what they had been, then he had to prove that being a slave was not all that was left of David Starsky. A slave might be naked, but he was by no means powerless.

Hutch held Starsky’s very life in his hands. If Starsky was ever going to forgive his friend, and trust his master the way he had once trusted his partner, then he had to believe that deep down, Hutch would protect him.

The only way that could happen was if Starsky protected Hutch. They had to move past what had been done and step into a different life, one filled with uncertainties and pain, but with the hope of a resolution. If they succeeded in their part of the Abbey League’s plan, there would be a whole new California, a whole new life, and possibly the future abolition of slavery.

He had no illusions. He was not the lynchpin of the plan. Bay City could become a democracy once more without Starsky’s contribution, but by supporting Hutch and playing his part in the strategy, he increased the possibility of a positive outcome.

Drying off, Starsky examined himself. The brand was raw and peeling, too tender to tolerate much touching. He smeared cooling ointment over the wound. His cock was sore on the end, but mostly from use and not because of the piercing, which was healing well.

“You okay?” Hutch asked tonelessly, leaning against the door of the bathroom. He had gotten dressed in a green t-shirt and khaki slacks.

“I’ll live.” Starsky pulled on his Army insignia jeans, pretending that didn’t hurt, and looked around for a shirt. He had so few clothes to call his own anymore, and nothing was clean.

“There’s a blue one in the box over there.” Hutch pointed. “You used to wear it…”

The soft cotton flannel was as familiar as pulling out a faded photograph from years earlier. A happier time when politics hadn’t mired them in a quicksand of half-truths and betrayals. “Hutch…” Starsky began, working the buttons into the holes.

“Huggy’s making you some breakfast. He also called the doctor Ariadne told me about. A freelance doctor who…will check you out.” Hutch walked to the bathroom and closed the door, locking himself in. Self exile.

Starsky stared at the drab white door for a long time, thinking. There was so much to say, so much to get through, he couldn’t even figure out where to begin. The remnants of his hangover didn’t help. He was light-headed, dizzy, and drained from an overload of emotional extremes. It was almost eleven a.m., and he still hadn’t eaten anything other than a handful of grapes while on his knees in Dunfey’s car.

Huggy showed up while Hutch was still showering and he did have pancakes on a plate.

Starsky stood by the breakfast bar, staring at the plate in resignation. He forced himself to eat them since Huggy had gone to so much trouble, but skipped the fake maple syrup. He munched on a slice of bacon while listening for the end of Hutch’s shower.

“I never knew there could be earthquakes inside an apartment,” Huggy said, surveying the wreckage left over from their brawl. Clothes were scattered across the floor, the leash was hanging off the bar, and the leather cock harness lay in the middle of the room. “You redecorating or going for the night-after-a-kegger-frat-boy look?”

“Need to do some laundry,” Starsky said instead of explaining. “Don’t know where the Laundromat is.”

“Mrs. Jefferson and her ladies will do it. In the fountain downstairs.” Huggy nudged Starsky’s arm when he pushed the plate away with food still on it. “You better finish that, or you’re gonna be skinnier than me.”

“Hug,” Starsky said, and heard the bathroom door open.

Hutch emerged, once again dressed in the green shirt and slacks. With his wet hair plastered to his head, he seemed about twelve-years-old.

Starsky spread butter on another pancake, concentrating on covering the entire surface to avoid looking at Hutch. The first bite was way too buttery and he had to wipe some off to take a second bite.

“You look like something the cat dragged in outta the rain,” Huggy said to Hutch. “You want a couple of the Bear’s fa-mous griddle cakes?”

“Coffee would be great,” Hutch muttered, sitting gingerly on the floor about as far from Starsky as possible without leaving the living room.

Huggy poured coffee from a carafe into three cups and passed one over to him.

Starsky flicked a look at his partner’s bare feet, toes curled into the carpet, and wanted to do something to comfort him. Did Hutch’s ass feel like it had been reamed out with a wine bottle opener? Did he feel weird new sensations every time he moved or clenched his butt? Exactly what Starsky had been feeling since Fortun first shoved a rubber butt plug inside him.

Clearing his throat, Starsky directed his conversation at Huggy, even though he knew Hutch could hear him. “Huggy, you ever get a good look at Jack Dunfey?”

“He doesn’t associate with the common bartender.” Huggy splayed his long fingers across his chest, covering the green, black, and yellow stripes of his shirt. “Any parlays between me and him go through his man Jerry.”

“Kuyt.” Starsky nodded. The pancakes had filled him up faster than he expected. He put the plate down.

“But rumor has it that Captain America over there could pass for his son.” Huggy raised a critical eyebrow, assessing Hutch’s hair, which was drying in cowlicks worthy of Dennis the Menace. “In another life maybe.”

His breath stuck in his throat, Starsky had to struggle to inhale. Dunfey looked like Hutch?

Couldn’t be.

Couldn’t be the same man, but the voice was so familiar. Too familiar.

“He did look like he could be in my father’s family, now that you mention it,” Hutch said. He bunched his toes in the carpet, then crossed one leg over the other. “You going to eat that other piece of bacon, Starsk?”

Strange how six letters of his name could be pronounced so differently depending on mood and tone. That was an olive branch and a mea culpa all mixed up in one sentence.

“Go ahead, finish off the pancakes, too.” Starsky handed the plate across the space dividing them. His fingers brushed Hutch’s outstretched hand.

“Too much butter for me,” Hutch said, his eyes soft again. He ate the bacon in two bites, washing it down with coffee. “Thanks for the meal, Hug. Did you get a line on the things I asked for?”

“Well, now that you two white boys shook hands and made up, my job is done.” Huggy grinned, flipping a silk bomber pilot scarf around his neck like the hero in a WWI movie and sauntering to the door. “Never let it be said that the Bear doesn’t come through. A Dr. Darkfeather will grace you with her presence in the next hour while I go hunt up some of the more unusual items on Hutch’s grocery list.” He paused, licking a finger as if testing the air. “Yep, the hurricane’s died down in here — won’t have to give out storm warnings to the rest of the floor. Hutch, Manetti sent word that he’ll be ’round later to talk.”

“Yeah, thanks, Huggy.” Hutch got up, padding barefoot across the room to boot up the computer. As usual, the thing groaned and hummed like an old man complaining of arthritis.

“Don’t those electronic messages usually come about two-thirty or so?” Starsky asked.

“Just…” Hutch shrugged, propping one knee against the wall. There still was no chair for the computer table. “Just checking.”

The air was heavy in the apartment. Starsky couldn’t remember a time when things were this awkward between them. They’d always been able to talk about anything. Even if they’d been together all day long in the Torino following up leads or trailing suspects, there was still something to talk about later over pizza and beer. Maybe that was the problem; pancakes and coffee weren’t their usual fare.

“You think there are any good burrito joints in this town?” Starsky began piling the dirty clothes in one corner, tidying up the place.

“Starsky, Arizona shares a border with Mexico; I should think so.” Hutch was still bent over the computer, but Starsky could hear an exasperated smile in his voice.

“Near here? ‘Cause I haven’t had any green chili burritos with extra cheese and salsa since we went to Juanita’s last — ” It had barely been three weeks ago when he’d parked the car under the overhang of Juanita’s whitewashed stucco restaurant and had Mexican beer with Hutch while waiting for orders from Roschenzky at headquarters. Three weeks earlier, he’d been free. Two weeks ago, he’d lain in Hutch’s brass bed with nothing on and sucked his partner dry before curling against his long body all Sunday afternoon, content enough except for the nagging feeling that Hutch’s attention wasn’t entirely on what they were doing.

Two days after that, he’d been thrown into a horse trailer.

“Uh…” Starsky cleared his throat. “Last month. When we went to Juanita’s.”

“Will you take a rain check?” Hutch turned his head and everything fell into place. Whatever had shifted off kilter was back in alignment. “I have Abbey League duties this afternoon, and later we’ll need more…practice.”

“Why?” Starsky blurted, smacking the counter. “Because you like having me butt up?”

Hutch slammed his hand down hard enough to make the computer wobble on the unstable desk. “Because I want to believe that something good will come out of all this crap and you and I can — ” He slugged the wall, bracing his arm against the window frame to hold himself up. “That maybe someday I won’t be your master…”

“Just my lover?” Starsky said harshly. “Or are you gonna get so used to the power that you — ”

“Starsky,” Hutch snapped, then stopped abruptly, as they both suddenly became aware of someone knocking on the door. They’d been loud enough to be heard in the hallway. He looked at Starsky, pain evident in his pale eyes and shrugged.

“I’ll answer the door,” Starsky said. He touched his shirt and blue jeans to assure himself that he was sufficiently covered to greet an unknown guest and swung the door open.

A woman with hair the true blue black of a Native American waited, her face impassive. She’d obviously heard them, but wasn’t about to express an opinion.

“Doctor…” Starsky couldn’t remember her name.

“Darkfeather,” she supplied, stepping inside. She had a round, nut-brown face, unlined but ageless and could have been anywhere from twenty-five to forty-five years old. Her hair hung in a braid down her back, as thick as a small child’s arm and perfectly straight, reaching to the tops of her thighs. “I’m supposed to examine David Starsky?”

“That’s him,” Hutch said quietly, moving away from the computer. “I’ve got a meeting. I’ll be back later.” He left without a backward glance.

The doctor raised one smoothly arched eyebrow in what Starsky had always thought of as a ‘Spock expression’ and set the bag she carried on the bar. “Huggy Bear says you need antibiotics.”

“Hutch thinks so,” Starsky agreed, feeling the loss of Hutch as if someone had ripped duct tape off his skin. Was he going to have to drop his pants for this woman? Reveal his secret again? Couldn’t there be one moment of the day when his piercing wasn’t on public display?

“I take it you’re an escaped slave?” She paid little attention to him, pulling a stethoscope and other medical supplies out of the bag, including a sheathed needle attached to a syringe. The needle was long; he grimaced.

“What, it’s written on my forehead?” He didn’t want this attention. It would have felt more normal to accompany Hutch to meet Manetti, the way they would have before, detective partners who rarely separated.

“No.” She hooked the stethoscope into her ears.

He was fascinated to notice that she had many tiny gold hoops in her ears, starting at the lobe curving up to the arch. Even the fleshy protrusion in the middle was pierced, totaling seven rings in each ear. He thought he’d seen everything pierced, but that was a first.

“I’m not the first doctor a rich white man calls for medical attention,” Darkfeather said. “Most of my patients are slaves.”

“Hutch is…” Starsky unbuttoned his shirt to give her access to his chest. “My master.” It hurt to say the words aloud. He thought he’d accepted his position but it kept slapping him in the face. Would it ever get easier?

“Oh.” Those black eyebrows rose again, but she bent to listen to his heart and lungs, concentrating for a moment. “He cares for you deeply, then.”

Starsky wanted to believe that, but it was hard to acknowledge. “What makes you say that?”

“New Mex-Arizona laws may give lip service to prohibiting the sale and possession of slaves.” Darkfeather looped the stethoscope around her neck and carefully felt the lymph nodes in Starsky’s jaw. Lightly skimming the edge of the leather collar around his neck, her fingers poked gently behind his ears. “But it’s a lie. And most who arrive here with their contraband human cargo came from citystates that have passed laws against medical care for slaves. So few even consider the health of a single slave; there’s always another naked body when the last one keels over.” She pressed both thumbs between his eyes. “Does that hurt?”

“No.”

“Nothing is swollen, you don’t have a temperature — at least not that I can determine without using a thermometer — and your lungs are clear.” She crossed her arms, giving him a “tell-me-the-truth” look. “Why does this Master Hutch, who left so quickly he didn’t even give me any instructions, think you need antibiotics?”

“I — uh — was pierced recently.”

“Oh, a penile piercing.” She gestured with one blunt-fingered hand at his zipper, allowing him to expose himself. He almost thanked her for that small courtesy. Anyone else would have just yanked down a slave’s pants, reprimanding him for being dressed in a free citizen’s presence. “Frequently done in unsanitary conditions by barbaric men.”

“You don’t exactly hide your feelings, do you?” Starsky grinned at her, and was surprised to see a crack in her impassive expression. Those jet black eyes twinkled for a moment, and her mouth twitched as if repressing a smile. He felt more at ease and lowered his pants, not quite able to stop a hiss of pain when the fabric scraped over his sensitive cock.

“What would be the point in hiding them?” She squatted to examine him thoroughly. “Slavery is a deplorable situation perpetrated by weak men who only think with their gonads.” Her hand was cool and professional, rolling his scrotum between her fingers before probing the ring at the end of his cock.

Starsky clenched his fists, fighting the urge to pull away and protect what he had so recently abused. Hutch had been right. He’d put the healing wound into a cesspool of bacteria and the chance of getting infected was high. He’d never had so many people touch his genitals in such a short time. It hammered home how little he possessed any longer. No part of his body was his own; slaves had no right to resist.

Slaves had no right to force themselves on their masters, but I did.

So what did that make him? What had it proved?

Pain flared from his penis to his breastbone when Darkfeather moved the ring back and forth and then pushed the skin away from the healing opening to peer at his piss hole. Starsky panted, the wound too sensitive to be ignored.

“Well, you’re bruised and slightly swollen at the tip, but I don’t see any signs of obvious infection.” Darkfeather straightened, taking a small wrapped square and ripping it open to wipe her hands. She used another to cleanse his cock, which stung just enough to make his eyes water. “Whoever pierced you did a good job. Didn’t damage the urethra so you won’t dribble all the time.”

“That can happen?” Starsky leaned against the bar, shaky after her inspection. He didn’t want to think about it.

“You’re lucky.” She selected a small vial filled with white powder from her bag, holding it loosely in her hand. “Many slaves are treated so poorly when they’re first taken that they don’t survive the training, much less a master who doesn’t give a shit for their upkeep.”

“Hutch isn’t like that,” Starsky said more sharply than he’d intended. She wasn’t talking about anyone in particular and didn’t know his partner from Adam. The need to defend Hutch was deeply ingrained.

“Apparently not, since he’s asking for prophylactic drugs.”

Starsky had an instant knee-jerk reaction, his whole body remembering the Phenine even though he’d never seen it injected in those first terrifying days when he’d been constantly blindfolded and restrained.

“So again I ask, why does he think you need antibiotics?” Darkfeather picked up a second vial labeled water and a syringe. “‘Cause I get these things off the black market, which makes them expensive. Most owners rarely give them to a slave unless there is a very good reason.”

“Is that Phenine?”

“Phenine is a painkiller and a poor one at that,” she answered with mild annoyance. “This is Ampicillin.”

“Hutch thinks I could be infected — ” Starsky touched the base of his penis, which he had buried deep in Hutch’s ass. “Because we had sex this morning.”

“And you were on top?” Darkfeather specified, her implacable calm back in place.

Starsky nodded stiffly. “Can I zip up my jeans now?”

“Not until I give you the injection.” She added some water into a vial of white powder and shook the contents until it had dissolved. Inserting the long needle with expertise, Darkfeather drew off a small amount and flicked bubbles out of the syringe. “Are you allergic to Penicillin?”

“No.” He let out the breath he hadn’t consciously been holding.

“Then bend over; this goes in the tush.” That rare smile resurfaced briefly, softening the sharp lines of her high cheek-boned face. She aimed the needle when he presented his left hip and pushed the plunger home.

Starsky nearly bit his tongue when the needle pierced deeply; the drug burned as it entered the thick muscle of his buttocks.

“Sorry about the horse needle.” Darkfeather taped a Band-Aid over the tiny mark. “I get those off the black market, too. Regular ones are only available to those doctors who abide by the law.”

She’s almost as restrained as I am.

“I’ve had worse,” Starsky rubbed his hip. “What do I owe you?”

“Don’t worry about that; Huggy paid me already.” She packed her bag again, practical and efficient. “Can I make a personal comment?”

“You’ve held my nuts in your hand; can’t get more personal than that.” He fastened his jeans, shifting minutely to alleviate the chaffing over his groin.

“You don’t seem like a slave.” Darkfeather looked him straight in the eye with no interest in sex or in lording her free status over him. “Even brand new ones are more cowed than you — more ashamed.”

“It ain’t what I thought it would be,” Starsky said obliquely, not explaining what he meant. “But it’s what I should have expected, given the circumstances.”

Darkfeather took out a small sheet of paper and Starsky expected her to write out a prescription to be filled at some corner drugstore. But then again, there were no pharmacies that would cater to slaves. Instead, she counted out three white tablets into a fold of the paper and twisted it around the pills. “This is all I can give you — slightly different antibiotic, but effective. Take them every twelve hours, starting in the morning.”

She had gone above and beyond what he’d anticipated. He’d expected to be treated like a slave, like he had in Luna. It was a galling realization that hurt more than the injection.

“I have a name…” She glanced down at his groin and then back to his face, frowning. “A woman who discovered how to remove the new rings with a laser that doesn’t damage the surrounding tissue.”

His heart thundering in his ears, Starsky almost grabbed her hand. There was a way out!

“It’s successful?” he asked as casually as he could.

“She’s one of the few who’ve managed, from what I’ve heard.” Darkfeather nodded, her many gold earrings jingling softly against each other. “Phoebe.”

“Phoebe,” he repeated. “Last name? Where does she live?”

“That I don’t know. In some circles, it’s dangerous enough just knowing that much.” Darkfeather opened the door, her long braid sweeping the backs of her jeans as she walked.

Starsky almost demanded that she give him everything she knew, but maybe that’s all there was.

A name.

Hope.

“Give me a call if you feel feverish or your penis becomes hot and swollen.” She touched the front of his pants. “Don’t put that where it shouldn’t go, David Starsky.”

He felt like he’d been kicked in the gut.

Spock’s brow made a repeat performance. “You’re rebellious. You’re the first man I’ve met who may actually survive slavery without self-destructing.”

Starsky didn’t know what to say. “Hutch wouldn’t let me,” he said finally. “Self-destruct.”

“You wouldn’t let yourself.” Darkfeather regarded him again, as if analyzing not only his outward appearance but his character as well. She seemed satisfied. “I don’t know your Hutch, but from what I saw, he seemed like the one who’s embarrassed. Listen to yourself first, Hutch second.”

She left, pulling the door shut behind her.

“That’s not how it works,” Starsky murmured, and knelt on the floor, lowering his head to the carpet, too tired to stand up.

“Your Hutch,” she’d said.

“My Hutch,” Starsky whispered. He’d taken Hutch like some john off the street interested in rough, brutal sex. And it had felt good, satisfying. So what did that make him? What had it proved? That he was a rebellious slave, or Hutch was a weak master?

Or that they were two sides of the moon, the dark side and the light side, each vying for a chance to show their faces, but equally culpable in all things. Equals. Partners.

Not master and slave.

He could live with that.

***

Hutch returned several hours later with, of all things, burritos, and an enigmatic expression that clearly said don’t ask questions.

“Shredded beef and beans,” Hutch identified the food, handing over the bag.

Starsky could have figured that out simply from the smell. Heavenly. Like home.

“Any beer?” He wanted to go home, back to Bay City, back to the life he’d taken for granted even after corruption ate the foundation of goodness and truth. If he sucked enough cocks, let the bastards ream him from the inside out, could he go back and find a place? A place where Hutch was by his side and they were comfortable and whole? Where there was a chance for freedom with slavery banished like a bad dream?

“Nope.” Hutch sat heavily on a barstool. “I told you we needed more practice.”

“And I told you I didn’t want any more!” Starsky retorted.

“Eat,” Hutch ordered.

Starsky had the petulant urge not to, just because Hutch was being so high-handed. But the aroma was more than he could resist, and he settled on the floor to sample the first tortilla wrapped around a spicy mixture of beans and meat. The chilies didn’t clear out his sinuses the way Juanita’s used to, but they were sharp enough to burn the roof of his mouth. Beer would have gone down perfectly, but all he found when he prowled in the kitchen was water.

“How was the doctor?” Hutch asked, taking a tentative bite of his own burrito.

“A good woman,” Starsky said shortly after downing a glass of water. “She gave me a shot in the rear. There ain’t no place on my body that hasn’t been poked, smacked, or bruised.”

“At least you won’t get infected.”

“No, hell, that would ruin everything if I couldn’t get Dunfey and his committee off, huh?” Starsky pressed his tongue against the roof of his mouth, the burn from the chilies familiar and painful at the same time.

Hutch looked at him, eyes so bleak and devoid of life that Starsky wanted to take back what he had just said, to reassure his lover that everything would be all right. Except he didn’t believe that it would.

Starsky decided to change the topic. “So what’d you do with all your free time?”

“We had to work out strategies, prepare for anything that could go wrong,” Hutch explained. “You’ve been undercover before. You know how those planning sessions can go.”

“Manetti couldn’t say his piece in front of a slave, huh?”

“Shut up!”

Taking in a deep breath, Starsky nodded, very aware he’d been baiting Hutch.

“Starsk,” Hutch sighed, his stress pushing through the consonants and vowels. “It’s not to keep you out of the loop, it’s to protect the entire League. The fewer people who know the whole operation, the better. To prevent another massacre like in Oregon.”

“Did you get everything worked out?” he asked, choosing his words more carefully.

“I hope so, for your sake,” Hutch whispered, pale. He picked at the tortilla wrapper, ripping off pieces and leaving them on the bar.

“For all our sakes.” Starsky glanced at his wrist, naked without his watch and for once uncuffed. Strange that Hutch had kept the collar on him all day, but never placed those tight bands of leather around his wrists and ankles. “How much time do we have?”

“Two days. Dunfey’s sending a car for us at nine a.m. Friday morning.” Hutch looked across the bar at Starsky, his whole demeanor changing as if he’d come to a decision. “You’re mine, Starsk. You remember that? No matter what happens, no matter what anyone does, I will not abandon you.”

Starsky was caught in the pull of his lover’s eyes, sucked in, enveloped. He was owned, adored, and desired, subjugated against his will, and yet promised a freedom most slaves weren’t allowed. It was confusing as hell and exactly right. “I came back to you once, Hutch. I’d come back ten thousand times if I had to.”

Hutch put out his hand palm up and Starsky took the offering, holding on tightly. They were all they had. If he didn’t trust Hutch, he had nothing left.

***

“What it is, gentlemen?” Huggy greeted them the following morning, loaded down with an assortment of sacks and boxes.

Coming out of the bedroom, Starsky was glad he’d gotten dressed before Huggy’s arrival. He and Hutch had spent the evening with more slave practice, with Hutch drilling into him the importance of maintaining strict positioning and stiff control no matter what was happening around him or to him. Exhausted, Starsky had fallen asleep naked, every muscle aching and his hands still clipped together behind him. He’d woken in the morning to find Hutch removing the bands on his arms and legs, kissing the red marks left behind. It almost made up for sleeping restrained. Starsky wouldn’t have minded letting the wonderful treatment continue, but Huggy had banged on their door a half hour ago to tell them he’d be bringing breakfast.

“I see there’s been some improvement in the housekeeping since I was here last.” Huggy set a bag of bagels on the bar, producing cream cheese and fruit to accompany them.

“Starsky cleaned up yesterday.” Hutch favored his back as he got up from the floor where he’d been responding to some computer correspondence. The messages had been sent from another Abbeyite, Michael Warren, the VP/CEO under Cosgrove, who was one of Ariadne’s secret associates. “Did you find everything?”

“You will be amazed at the…shall we say, sexual accoutrement,” Huggy gave the word a fanciful French pronunciation, “that I have procured for you, oh Master Hutch.”

“Hey.” Starsky put up his fists in a mock challenge, comfortable enough with his two friends to make light of his status. “He’s my master, bud.”

“Then Ah shoulda said massah,” Huggy drawled in a thick Southern accent. “Here’s your morning repast, Starsk.” He tossed something over and Starsky caught it in mid air. He smiled appreciatively. Poppy seed, with the right texture for a New York bagel.

“Bring that over here.” Hutch held out his hand, waiting until Starsky broke the bagel in half to share. Hutch winked, took one bite and gave the rest back. “I prefer sesame seeds,” he said with a haughty lift of one eyebrow.

Starsky laughed, tossing the morsel at him.

Huggy lugged over a large duffle bag, dumping it at Hutch’s feet before getting a bagel for himself.

Feeling a little unnerved because he suspected that whatever Huggy brought was for him, Starsky watched intently as Hutch unzipped the bag. Inside was a knot of leather straps and other oddities.

It wasn’t until Hutch arranged the straps on the floor that Starsky realized what they were. He had an immediate visceral response at the sight of a full body harness bristling with metal rings that could be used to restrain him in any number of ways. Icy sweat broke out down his spine. It reminded him too much of the rack and the bindings Neville and Fortun had used, too much like the nightmares he still had of those first nights confined to the welcoming frame, unable to move a muscle.

No, God, no.

Silence roared in his ears, blotting out the conversation Hutch and Huggy were having about the bondage wear’s attributes. Starsky set his jaw.

Hutch vowed never to abandon me.

“Starsk?”

That broke through his fear. Starsky stared at his master, forcing himself to breathe slowly and relax.

“This is for you — to keep you safe,” Hutch said firmly. “Take off your clothes.”

He didn’t expect to hear that command with Huggy still in the room. While Huggy had seen his piercing peeking through the holey jeans, he hadn’t witnessed Starsky’s full submission. Having to humiliate himself in front of his oldest friend, the man who had supported him when no one else would, violated him on a whole different level.

Starsky wanted to refuse, cutting his eyes over to Huggy, but Hutch’s voice was like steel wrapping around his body, stilling his tongue.

“Do as I say, Davey. This is slave practice, and what I say goes, or I will punish you just as I did back at Luna.” Hutch stood. He was wearing the high-heeled cowboy boots and Starsky had never put on shoes after his morning shower. With the extra two inches from the boots, Hutch towered over him, giving off a hard, dominating aura that would have brought any drug dealing punk on the streets to their knees.

“Listen, I’m not really into — ” Huggy started.

“Stay.” Hutch raised one long finger, his blue eyes blazing. Huggy didn’t move, but the muscles in his jaw twitched angrily. “Starsky is my slave. If he can’t do this in front of a friend, he’ll never be able to in front of Dunfey’s whole frigging council.”

Remembering Kuyt’s raw, purulent lust, Starsky took a ragged breath. Hutch was right. It shouldn’t matter who saw him nude, or saw him kneel and accept whatever his master dished out. Except that it did. Was it so strange to want to preserve some tiny vestige of his old self? He dropped his gaze to the floor and knelt, a flush of embarrassment heating his face. His fingers trembled so much he could barely manage the buttons on his shirt.

Once the shirt was off, Hutch pulled Starsky’s arms up, snapping new leather bands around his back that felt remarkably like his old familiar gun holster. The tightness across his shoulders was almost soothing, a reminder of his life as a detective, and he relaxed slightly as Hutch continued to buckle and fasten the many straps over Starsky’s upper body.

“Stand up; take off your jeans,” Hutch whispered, his voice now a seductive coaxing, full of promised sex.

So much for so little.

What you do to me, Hutch.

Starsky obeyed because he couldn’t possibly do anything else. His body was no longer his own. He belonged to his master. He forgot everything else but the feeling of Hutch’s hands on him, Hutch’s breath puffing against his skin, Hutch’s eyes boring into him, looking past the humiliation and debasement and filling him with something powerful, a sense that he could play a vital part in bringing Dunfey down, maybe even the whole system. Starsky didn’t make a sound, as if Hutch had already gagged him, and Hutch never spoke, but the communication was there, down deep, part of their very make-up. They didn’t have to say the words; he heard them loud and clear.

Leather crisscrossed his chest, stretching from one shoulder down to his groin, around one muscled thigh, and then up to the other shoulder and back down again to the other leg. The bands were heavier and thicker across his hipbones, almost rigid. Hutch snapped two small padlocks onto the buckles snug up against the flat of Starsky’s inner thighs. He attached a narrower, more flexible Y-shaped strap to the hard leather bracketing Starsky’s buttocks, centering his anus in the opening of the Y and pulling the lower section around, tight on the perineum and up to the genitals where it snapped into place on a slim leather cock ring. A series of smaller bands girded his cock at regular intervals all the way from the crown to the tip. Lastly, Hutch locked a broad piece of leather to the back of Starsky’s collar and brought it down to the heavy bands above his ass. Starsky was completely wrapped in restricting belts of shiny black leather.

Hutch looked him up and down with a remote expression. Starsky could see himself reflected in his master’s eyes. Even tiny, his naked flesh glowed pale in contrast to the straps.

“Where’d you leave the wrist bands?” Hutch’s voice was a raw scrape like sandpaper on Starsky’s psyche.

He was flayed open and vulnerable to whatever his master requested. Still barely able to speak, Starsky pointed to the bedroom, very aware of Huggy’s scrutiny of the leather harness.

“I just gave Marv the dimensions Hutch wrote out — didn’t have a clue how it’d look.”

“It’s tight.” Starsky found his voice when Hutch left the room, irritated by Huggy’s interest. The bands were taut and yet flexible. He bent forward, feeling the pull of the wide band attached to his collar. With his hands braced on his knees, he almost strangled and had to straighten to breathe. The harness would hamper some movement, but he could still fight to save their lives, and get Hutch to safety.

“He did a remarkable job.” Hutch returned with the four cuffs for Starsky’s ankles and wrists and buckled them on without fanfare. “This establishes without a doubt that Starsky is my property.” He hooked the round silver chit denoting his ownership onto a ‘D’ ring centered between Starsky’s nipples where the straps crossed. “There’s a reason that the leather is so thick here.” His fingers skated along the slick surface of the yoke girding Starsky’s pelvis, delving into a tiny opening that was impossible to see without knowing where it would be, hidden in the intricate stitching. “You have the knife, Huggy?”

“Knife?” Starsky repeated, suddenly understanding. The harness wasn’t just set dressing; it was a holster.

“Wicked little thing.” Huggy grinned fiendishly, displaying the five-inch blade over the back of his wrist like a sommelier offering the finest of wines. “Made specifically for gutting a certain pig.” The pommel on the knife was blunt, not even half the length of the blade, designed to disappear into the pattern of the harness and lie hidden under the edge of a buckle. There was an ornate H worked into the leather grip, just another reminder of who owned the slave wearing the handmade harness.

“Or a turkey,” Starsky muttered, both fascinated and fearful when Hutch slotted the sharp blade into the sheath. He didn’t like having a knife so close to his jewels, but it was comforting to know he had something to defend himself with. The handle might be too short to grasp tightly, but the knife was a cunning piece of craftsmanship. “Dunfey’s the main target,” he said.

“The only target,” Hutch answered grimly, straightening with one hand on his back. “You won’t get a second chance. Just having that weapon on you is punishable by death, but I couldn’t let you go in there…”

“I know.” Starsky curled his fingers under the edge of the flat hilt, drawing out the sinister little blade. It was tricky to hold because there was no real grip to close his hand over, but it was still a weapon, and a very sharp one.

“There’s another for the back,” Huggy said, giving Hutch the second knife. “For whichever way your hands are — ” He stopped, looking askance, as if realizing how dangerous the situation was, and pursed his lips. “Starsk, you never been one to step down from a fight, but you do what you gotta do and keep a low profile, you dig?”

“You don’t like my profile?” Starsky joked, turning to display his nose and chin to hide the lump in his throat. Damn, if his own friends were this worried, should he be terrified? He had been, but now, with every step of preparation, his brain seemed to be disconnecting from his physical being, taking the old Starsky some place deep in his soul where there was a semblance of safety. He felt like he was floating, anchored only by the leather bisecting his body, numb to what might happen. This was scarier than the idea of Dunfey raping him. What if he got lost in his head? The cops in Bay City often referred to submissive slaves who followed their masters anywhere as ‘slave drunk,’ no longer a functioning person, but simply a used husk. This would not — could not — happen to him.

“Like your profile just fine,” Huggy was saying when Starsky forced himself to focus on the conversation. “Your person-ality could use some work though, bro.”

“Least I dress well,” Starsky retorted with as much normalcy as he could muster.

“Hey.” Hutch’s hand was hot against Starsky’s suddenly chilly flesh. “I designed the couture; you’re just the coat hanger.”

Huggy guffawed without smiling. “I got my eyes on the streets, and Dunfey in my sights. Keep me in the loop.”

“Always,” Starsky promised, pretending that Hutch’s hand wasn’t the only thing keeping him upright.

Waving his long fingers gracefully, Huggy swung the door shut behind him. Starsky had an overwhelming jolt of panic. So much for being slave drunk and lost in his head. He inhaled heavily, the press of the bands constricting his breath so that he was acutely aware of them.

“Makes it too real, huh?” Hutch pressed his fingers hard into Starsky’s buttocks, slotting the second knife into the back sheath. His fingers pinched, sending a spiky little pain up Starsky’s spine.

“Hutch.” Starsky turned too quickly, Hutch’s fingernails raked his skin when he moved, but he didn’t care. Only that Hutch’s hands were touching him, igniting him, banishing the frightening nothingness of slave drunk. “Hutch, give me something right now to hang onto.”

“Oh, yeah.” Hutch encircled him with strong arms, tighter than the leather bands, supporting and capturing him. He kissed him purely, not with the demanding, claiming kiss of a master, but the kiss of a lover, one Starsky had missed in the last year. With their bodies pressed together, skin to skin, Hutch still managed to slide one hand between them to unzip his slacks.

Starsky could feel the scratch of Hutch’s fingers against his belly and then the heat of Hutch’s cock jutting insistently between his thighs, cajoling his own dick to come out and play. His erection bounced against a velvety hardness, a vibrant, pulsing pleasure that was suddenly very enticing. He had to move, to rub against the wonderful length of Hutch, every inch of his skin quivering with need. Hutch caught his breath, gasping and moaning, winding his fingers around the straps binding Starsky’s chest, hanging on. His lips caught Starsky’s again, their breath buffeting, puffing, and hitching as arousal mounted.

Starsky hooked an ankle around Hutch’s leg, the rough fabric of his slacks an irritant on his skin, but it was minor compared to the absolute bliss when Hutch’s thickness stroked against his. The sense of pain and immense pressure built slowly but undeniably until Starsky couldn’t ignore the bands confining his cock. He’d explode if his erection got any bigger, and the more he focused on the ache, the worse it got.

“Hutch, take it off!” he hissed, hands so tangled in his lover’s long hair that he wasn’t sure how to unclench his fists to separate them. “On my…!”

Hutch came, hips humping aggressively against Starsky’s inflamed cock. Starsky tried to pull away, his gonads too sensitive for the slightest pressure, but Hutch was lost in the haze of orgasm. He yelled, gripping the body harness with both hands, splattering Starsky with his seed.

Starsky was close to the edge in spite of the fierce pain that made his cock feel like a finger caught in a closed door, but he couldn’t jump off into oblivion. “Hutch…”

They clung to each other, barely standing, breathing raggedly, covered in sweat and cum. Starsky longed to sink to the floor, but he was afraid to move with his imprisoned cock throbbing in time to his racing heart.

“Champion,” Hutch whispered, keeping one hand clamped around the strap snug against Starsky’s spine. “You’re a champion.” He dug into his pocket to find a key and awkwardly fit it into the lock that hung down under Starsky’s trapped balls.

Like a detonated bomb, Starsky climaxed violently the moment his cock was freed, falling against Hutch with a force that sent them both to the floor. They lay sprawled together, Starsky pillowed on Hutch’s chest and content to be there. He didn’t even protest the way Hutch caressed his cock, milking the last of his semen from its pierced end. It hurt and didn’t, all at the same time; Starsky wanted to say stop but couldn’t — not to his master, and not to Hutch.

“How long until?” Starsky asked, closing his eyes, only allowing himself to feel the pain/pleasure of Hutch’s hands on him. His cock was flaccid now, but still sore.

“One day — exactly,” Hutch said into his ear. “We should clean up; make sure everything is in place before we go under.”

“Take this damned thing off,” Starsky demanded, suddenly restless and peevish. He couldn’t get a handle on his emotions. He wanted back that weightless, cherished sensation of Hutch’s hands on him, owning him, but right now he felt scoured and raw.

“No.”

“Huh?” Starsky came to his feet, rage giving him strength he didn’t feel. “I feel like race horse all decked out for the final lap. Use the key and get me outta this contraption.”

“This is part of your skin now. If I took it off, you might not let me put it back on.” Hutch pulled himself up, weariness evident in his long lean body. He stripped off his stained, sweaty slacks and unbuttoned his shirt, using the edges to fan his chest. “Starsky, believe me, this is all the protection I can give you if we’re separated.”

“Then don’t ever leave me.”

“If I promised you that, you’d hate me if it happened.” Hutch turned, severing contact.

“If I didn’t already hate you for all this.” The rage had left as quickly as it came, leaving a gaping emptiness that only Hutch fit into. Starsky looked down at the ring piercing his crown. It almost looked like it belonged there. Would he forget what his cock had looked like before? “How could I hate you at all?”

“Because I hate myself.” Hutch gazed over his shoulder, finally allowing Starsky into his depths.

There was such sharp-edged self-loathing there Starsky almost recoiled. Instead, he stood his ground, not yet ready to let Hutch off the hook. “Then you’re a stupid-assed prick,” Starsky said steadily, seeing the effect of his words reignite something in Hutch’s soul. A flame of anger directed outward instead of inward.

“But if you want one more screw to grind into your guts, how about this one? I think…I’m pretty sure Dunfey is the son of a bitch who…raped…” Even now he could barely say the word. The whole incident held such power over him. He’d seen the blond stranger’s face leering over him in his dreams for so long that the reality of Dunfey was too terrifying to contemplate. He wanted to destroy this man. “If I’m right, Dunfey used some big fucking dildo and ripped me open when I was fifteen-years-old.”

“Starsky!” Hutch inhaled sharply. “How do you — ?”

“In the car yesterday, I thought there was something familiar about his voice.” Starsky leaned against the wall, suddenly spent. He slid down until he was resting on his heels, elbows braced on his knees. “I only got a quick glance at this face, and it was so long ago…but I keep hearing his voice in my head. I didn’t want it to be him, y’know? Didn’t want this thing to come all the way around and bite me in the butt. Even though I couldn’t look him square in the face, I’m as sure as I can be that it’s him.” In this position, the thick back strap pulled his collar downward almost choking him, but Starsky was too tired to stand up again.

“After the car ride…I dreamed of that night, and that voice…It’s Dunfey’s voice…” He focused on his hands instead of Hutch’s stark white face. His hands were shaking, the leather cuffs knocking against his wrist bones with every tremble. “He’s the one. I don’t even care what your motives were when you started this shit. I don’t care about the politics or Ariadne’s ambitions. This is mine now. You gave me the way to get back at Dunfey.”

“Tell me what you want from me?”

“You started this, damn you. You have to finish it — with me. You hear that? With me.”

Dunfey’s limo swung alongside the mall at nine a.m. Ariadne was in the back seat where Dunfey had been, Manetti jack-knifed almost in half on the fold-down seat. Starsky was relieved to see neither Kuyt, nor any of Dunfey’s other goons, accompanied them. Starsky dutifully loaded Hutch’s luggage in the spacious trunk, alongside Ariadne’s and Manetti’s. The driver operated the trunk’s hydraulic system from his seat, since his leash didn’t reach that far. When Starsky closed the lid, he heard the hydraulic locks snap into place.

“Good morning, gentlemen,” Ariadne greeted them as she opened the door the driver couldn’t reach. She moved over, making room for Hutch.

Starsky knew his place was on the carpeted floor, exactly where he’d been the other day. The reminder of his status rankled, but this was just the beginning. After all Hutch’s drilling, and their discussions of what might happen at Dunfey’s, he was prepared. The carpet on the floor of the limo tickled his naked butt as he settled into position.

“Good morning, Ariadne, Manetti,” Hutch said, settled into the lush seat. He nodded toward the front of the limo, silently reminding them that the driver belonged to Dunfey. It was his way of warning them to watch what they said. “You’re even more beautiful this morning, Ariadne. You remember my slave, Davey?”

The last time Ariadne and Manetti had seen Starsky, he’d been dressed in regular clothes. Starsky caught the momentary surprise in both of their eyes at the full view of his elaborate slave harness and cock cage. Ariadne masked her emotions quickly, but Manetti seemed to have a harder time suppressing his reaction. He finally turned away to look out the window.

“Certain men were meant to wear nothing but leather,” Ariadne commented when Starsky sank into presentation. She’d said it clearly enough for the driver to hear. Of course, she worked for Cosgrove, so she was used to being undercover. This was a new ball game for Manetti.

“It’s — ” Starsky began but Hutch shut him up by poking a silver toe tip against his brand. Hissing from the contact, Starsky clamped down on his retort. He was annoyed at himself for breaking his role so quickly. He took a deep breath and dropped more fully into his personae. They couldn’t afford any slip-ups like that at Dunfey’s.

Starsky glanced up through his eyelashes and saw her sympathetic expression. He clenched his fists on his thighs, acting the perfect slave, and mentally prepared himself. Manetti was watching Starsky worriedly; he nodded without speaking.

Last night, right before bed, Hutch had logged onto a computer message board for fans of Ariadne’s books to get the latest coded messages before they went undercover. Starsky had read over his shoulder. The news was positive, although some of Dunfey’s people were in evidence in the CEC main headquarters, Peter Whitelaw was back in Southern California, preparing for the assault. Manetti’s insurgents were ready and waiting in the hills above Bay City. When they planned to storm the main headquarters of the CEC was uncertain, but the Abbey League was counting on a number of the CEC’s top brass being at the council meeting. That would allow them to overwhelm the less organized second-string leadership before they could be stopped.

Starsky shifted. The leather straps were tight, reminding him of Hutch’s hands buckling and locking every restraint. No matter who touched him during the meeting, Hutch had done it first and better.

He cast his mind back to the night before…

***

They’d lain together in the quiet apartment after Starsky’s confession and explosive orgasm, curled against each other.

“It’ll be a long time before we can be alone like this again.” Hutch kissed Starsky from breastbone to knees, as if bestowing a blessing on every inch of him. He skipped over the snug leather straps, concentrating on the patches of exposed skin. Once he had kissed his way down, Hutch started up again, adding tiny nips with his teeth and the occasional lap of his tongue.

“Feels terrific.” Starsky shivered, reveling in Hutch’s exquisite worship of his body. Wrapping both arms around Hutch, Starsky fit his lips over his partner’s, kissing him tenderly. No matter what else happened, he wouldn’t forget that he loved Hutch.

“I know you don’t get the allure, the…” Hutch scooted back an inch so they could look into each other’s eyes, “the draw all of this had on me…”

Starsky didn’t reply, watching the way Hutch’s mouth moved as he tried to find the right words. He could lie there watching Hutch’s eyes shift colors with his moods. Right now, they were a gray-blue, the unspoken fears for the future deepening his usual sky blue irises.

“I’ve never been sure why I like the darker, kinkier play, but it satisfies something deep inside me,” Hutch said softly, toying with a stray curl at Starsky’s temple. “But nothing was right without you. You were always the person who fit me, who grounded me, who…made me who I am.” He ran his finger down Starsky’s cheekbone. “Who I want to be.”

Starsky only had to turn slightly to press a kiss against the inside of Hutch’s wrist. “You changed me, right from the get-go. Not into someone different, not better, not worse — ” He shrugged, afraid that after today, nothing would ever be the same again. “I wanted to be with you. Your partner — forever.”

“I love you, Starsk — “

***

Starsky was drawn back to the present when the car went around a curve, throwing him out of perfect presentation position. He shifted on his knees, and Hutch sent him a private smile that summed up the words they’d said to each other just over twelve hours ago.

“I love you,” Starsky mouthed silently.

“Do either of you know how long this conference is expected to last,” Hutch said, clearly trying to make safe small talk as they rode. It would appear odd if no one said anything all the way to Dunfey’s.

“I’ve been told the meeting could last anywhere from two to three days, depend on how much business is transacted,” Ariadne said quietly. “At least, according to Harriet.”

“Harriet…?” Hutch looked at her quizzically.

“Harriet Roget. I hesitate to call her a friend, but I’ve known her for years — and she’s attended these meetings before.”

“Oh, yeah. She owns Luna.” Hutch touched his sapphire blue tie as if he wanted to pull it off and run his fingers over his chest. Starsky knew that gesture. Whenever Hutch was tense, he unconsciously touched himself.

“I saw her there,” Starsky said quietly. From where he was perched on the floor, it would be hard for the driver to determine who was actually speaking. The car ride might be the last time he could easily share knowledge with the others without risking punishment. Once at Dunfey’s, he would no longer be able to act as part of this group, but be simply a slave. “There was man with her, too.”

“Probably Anton, her slave.” Ariadne said as she put a hand on Manetti’s thigh.

His large hand covered hers, giving it a gentle squeeze, their contrast in size and color dramatic. Starsky remembered Manetti was pretending to be her “fiancé” for the meeting.

“She’s had him for years. He’d been her assistant — before she had him trained. He accompanies her everywhere as a good slave should.” She patted Manetti’s knee before straightening her skirt. “Just one of the many interesting people — ” she emphasized ‘interesting’ with sarcasm only the group could hear, “we shall soon meet.”

The car slowed as it entered Dunfey’s compound, though, sitting with his back to the driver, Starsky couldn’t see much. He took a deep breath, fighting the adrenaline surge flooding him as they neared their destination. He jerked in surprise when Hutch put a hand on his shoulder.

“Hey, it’s just me,” Hutch murmured, his worry plain to see.

Starsky looked straight into his partner’s eyes and let himself fall into their depths. A sense of peace settled over him. He could read exhaustion and worry in every line of Hutch’s face, but there was tranquility, too. Things were settled between them; they had renewed their partnership. He accepted what Hutch had done, understanding Hutch’s flawed motivation. If Hutch’s self-hate had lifted, it was because Starsky had come to terms with his actions. Now, they were working together undercover, this time to gain Starsky’s emancipation and help change society. This meeting was their best chance to change the course of their future.

“You ready for this?” Hutch leaned over and pretended to adjust one of the harness straps.

Ariadne and Manetti were watching their interaction. While the question had been for Starsky’s ears, Hutch might as well have been asking all of them. The other two nodded; they were all in this together

“On with the show,” Starsky murmured to the group as the car stopped.

***

Starsky wasn’t sure what he’d expected to see at the crime lord’s lair, but a one-story Mexican-style villa with a red-tiled roof wasn’t it. Two wings stretched out across the desert landscape. Beyond the furthermost walls stood an electrified fence and acres of cactus and scrub. No easy escape routes.

How many people were here to align with Dunfey’s organization and corrupt the government into something worse than it already was in the hands of the CEC? If they succeeded, what would happen to all of them?

He only had a glimpse of the house before Hutch gave a gentle tug on his leash, pulling him inside the door. Good thing, too, because his bare feet hurt from the hot flagstones leading from the driveway to the house. Manetti had already helped Ariadne out of the car before Hutch exited. As the slave, Starsky had to trail behind.

A broad-shouldered slave with the features of a Native American opened the front door. His black eyes showed no interest in the guests he admitted.

Jerry Kuyt stood just inside the foyer, checking off names on a clipboard. He greeted Ariadne and Manetti with smarmy charm. “The boss’ll be so happy you were able to attend, Miss Underhill.”

Starsky kept his head down, but imagined Ariadne giving the obsequious toad a withering glare.

“Mr. Manetti! Pride of the Bay City Buccaneers. It’s a thrill to meet you.” Kuyt pumped Manetti’s hand, getting a bland murmur of thanks. As if finally getting the message that neither were interested in him, Kuyt cleared his throat. “Mr. Dunfey’s greeting the council members in the walled courtyard with a brunch. Your luggage will be taken to your rooms; your room keys are in small envelopes with your name at your designated table.”

“Thank you, we can find our way,” Ariadne said coolly, hooking her arm through Manetti’s.

“Hutchinson, former pride of the BCPD, and his little copslave.” Kuyt chuckled, sneering, as he checked his list. His attitude, in stark contrast to the respect he had shown Ariadne and Manetti, was blatantly contemptuous.

Like a snake going for the kill, Hutch had the smaller man up against the wall instantly, one hand tight around his throat. “You’ll treat me with respect, ass-wipe, or I’ll do to you what I did to my partner. Except, I wouldn’t keep you. I’d sell you to the highest bidder and watch while they ripped open your virgin ass for sport.”

His face a bizarre shade of reddish-purple, Kuyt tried to sputter a reply.

“Sorry, couldn’t hear you.” Hutch opened his hand, letting Kuyt collapse. The Native American door slave turned his back as if he hadn’t seen anything. Leveling a stiff forefinger at Kuyt, Hutch dared him to try retaliating.

“You’re ex-pected, Mr. Hutchinson,” Jerry gasped, rubbing his throat. He stood shakily, regaining his composure with the clipboard clutched to his chest. “The…the slave’s gotta obey all house rules. Any infractions are — ”

“I’ll give you infractions,” Starsky said in a voice pitched so low he wasn’t sure Kuyt heard.

” — Punishable by Mr. Dunfey himself,” Kuyt finished and deliberately moved so that Starsky had to sidestep to avoid coming into contact with him. He couldn’t slide past fast enough.

The smile on Jerry’s ugly face was too pleased, too oily. He reached down and pushed his fingers around the edge of the broad straps angled over Starsky’s pelvis. Exactly where the front blade was hidden. Kuyt rubbed, chuckling lewdly when Starsky’s cock bounced once. The cock ring kept him semi-hard, annoying enough, but at a moment like this, completely humiliating.

“Lookee there, copslave.” Kuyt chortled. “Meat’s all ready for the spit.”

“Kuyt,” Hutch said in the deceptively soft voice he used when really angry, “get your hands off him. You touch a hair on his head again — ever — and I’ll personally put a bullet through that empty space where your brain should be.”

Starsky let out the breath he didn’t realize he was holding when Kuyt jerked his fingers free. Still, Kuyt managed to brush Starsky’s abdomen in a way Hutch couldn’t see.

“Ken, are you coming?” Ariadne called sweetly, allowing them both to move away from the entrance.

“Just wait, copslave,” Kuyt whispered.

The next room was busy with people meeting and greeting over the clatter of plates. The sounds of laughter, light-hearted chatter, and the chime of champagne flutes clinking faded. Starsky was only aware of the warmth of Hutch’s hand on the curve of his skull above his collar, and the cold place Jerry’s hand had left.

“Starsk,” Hutch breathed in his ear, exactly what he needed to hear.

He was scared to face so many people for the first time as a slave. Would people he’d known as a detective in Bay City see him bound with leather, his pierced cock on display? Would criminals he’d arrested, or mobsters he’d once taunted, now be his superiors?

There were at least twenty people at the brunch, but the elegant room was spacious. Being able to hide behind Hutch gave him a chance to observe surreptitiously. Men and women filled their plates with scrambled eggs, sausage, hash browns, corn bread, sweet rolls, and assorted fruit. Most of the guests were finding places to sit at tables arranged in a semicircle around a stunning turquoise blue swimming pool where three slaves in mermaid costumes posed. Other slaves circulated with champagne, orange juice, and coffee, their eyes cast downward. If a guest wanted to make use of them, all he or she had to do was push the slave over a convenient chair and do whatever they pleased. It was allowed, if not expected, by their host.

Jack Dunfey himself moved through the crowd like a potentate. He was there, after all, to negotiate for more power through a political coup.

Starsky scowled. He and Hutch had scarfed down toast quickly before leaving the mall, but the smell of the rich food was making him hungry. He suspected that slaves wouldn’t be eating from the same dishes their masters did. Those guests who’d brought their own slaves were settling small bowls on the floor by the side of their chairs. That was where slaves ate.

“Refill your champagne, master?” a quiet voice offered. The female slave held out a sweating bottle wrapped in linen, then blushed when she realized that Hutch had no glass. “I’m so sorry, master. I’m — ”

“Don’t worry,” Hutch assured her. “My slave can get me a glass. But I really want my…Davey to have something to eat first.”

“You can, of course, feed him from your plate if you choose,” she answered, obviously reciting a memorized response. “Slaves will be allowed to eat a meal of whatever is left over once all guests have arrived and taken their fill.”

“And when will that be?”

“I b-believe there are three limousines left to arrive, sir.”

“Do you know the names of the latecomers?” Hutch asked with a touch of impatience. “I thought this was going to be a well-run affair.”

“No, sir.” The girl blushed scarlet, cowering as if she wanted to melt into the floor.

“Hey,” Starsky said softly, touching her bare arm. “Show me where the glasses are. He doesn’t like champagne anyway.” He glanced at Hutch who gave a small nod. He needed to learn the floor plan of the house and find out how many slaves, servants, and, most importantly, guards were here.

“Ol’ Jack usually has some expensive whiskey tucked away,” Hutch said loudly. “None of this bubbly wine at this time in the morning.”

“Come this way,” the slave whispered, inclining her head. She was much less frightened of Starsky than his master.

Starsky judged her to be barely over what used to be legal age. Her pierced nipples were tight pink buds on small rounded mounds. Next to her, Starsky felt old.

“How long’ve you been with Mr. Dunfey?” he asked when they’d passed through a small hallway into a bustling kitchen where slaves and dressed cooks were busily preparing food.

“Two years,” she said, glancing at an older man with salt and pepper hair and a bushy mustache, dressed in a chef’s white uniform. He was stirring a large pot.

The aroma in the kitchen made Starsky’s belly growl. “Two years?” Starsky realized belatedly that he’d spoken too loudly.

The chef glowered at him, pointing at the girl. “Glory, unless you want another day in the punishment room, you’d better get to work and stop talking so much.”

“She was helpin’ me find some whiskey for my master,” Starsky covered smoothly.

“Shot glasses are there. You have to go to the bar for the whiskey.” He went back to his soup, stirring too fast. Hot soup splashed on his hand and he hissed. “She knows better than that.”

“Didn’t mean to get you in trouble, Glory.” Starsky took a shot glass and helped her replace her nearly empty champagne bottle with prefilled flutes on a tray.

“He’s my father.” She shrugged miserably. “I mess up all the time.”

“That’s your father?” Starsky asked, looking back at the burly chef. She must take after her mother’s side of the family. “Is he a slave, too?”

Glory shrugged and shook her head. “It’s complicated, but he can’t leave. He had a good job working at a restaurant, but Mr. Dunfey lured him away for more money. When we arrived in Bay City, he pierced my nipples, and my mother’s, enslaving us. He told my father he could buy us back when he’d earned enough money.”

“Which never happened?” Starsky picked up the tray for her, leading the way back into the main room.

“No, and now my little sister’s — ” Her eyes filled briefly with tears, but she blinked them back, stiffening her spine. “Thank you, I have to work.” She took the tray back from him, balancing it carefully. “If he sees us talking, we get in trouble. The bar is over there — beyond the pool.”

“I’m St — Davey,” Starsky introduced himself. “Thank you.”

Glory ducked her head, her long brown braid swishing the curve of her waist as she circulated among the crowd. Starsky hadn’t made it to the bar before he saw Glory grabbed by an acne-scarred man in a black pin-striped suit and pushed against a chair for a rough groping. He was so focused on her that he didn’t see where he was going, but the sixth sense that always alerted him to Hutch’s presence kicked in abruptly.

“Where have you been?” Hutch’s voice demanded, his hand on Starsky’s arm a tight, almost desperate hold.

“I got the glass you wanted, master.” Starsky held it out like an offering, his heart speeding up at the sight of Hutch leaning against the bar, drinking from a highball glass.

“If you’d have just gone to the bar in the first place, I wouldn’t have had to wait.” Hutch shook him, pushing him to his knees.

Starsky hit the flag-stoned floor with a wince.

Hutch fisted a handful of his hair, preventing him from getting up. “I’ve already had a shot of the good stuff.”

“Hutchinson, you’ve outdone yourself.” Jack Dunfey was the congenial host, full of good cheer. “He’s even prettier wrapped in leather than he was soaked in sweat. Slaves like him look best chained to a wall, mouth ready.”

“He’s got a good mouth as long as he doesn’t speak,” Hutch said, tracing a finger around Starsky’s, then pushing it between his lips.

Starsky used his tongue as if Hutch’s finger was his cock, but closed his eyes. He couldn’t afford to see if Hutch reacted.

“Is that an offer?” Dunfey asked coyly. “I wouldn’t mind trying him out.”

Starsky froze, Hutch’s finger pressing into the roof of his mouth.

Hutch, no.

I can’t.

Without looking into his lover’s eyes, Starsky knew this was a pivotal moment. They’d discussed it endlessly. Hutch had to prove he’d truly gone over to the other side. And Starsky couldn’t refuse, or risk public punishment.

“What’s in it for me?” Hutch removed his finger, wiping it against Starsky’s hair.

“That depends.” Dunfey shrugged, obviously enjoying the byplay.

People standing around them caught the exchange and watched. Starsky saw Ariadne step in front of Manetti as if to say something to Hutch when Dunfey continued.

“You know, Hutchinson, originally, Roschenzky was supposed to deliver Davey to me.” He tapped Hutch on the chest. “You put the screws to that. A man after my own heart.”

“I only did what had to be done to eliminate a problem,” Hutch said, but Starsky could hear the strain in his voice. He wasn’t pleased to be discussing this so soon.

“Killed his own boss!” Dunfey announced to the crowd, spreading his arms in a what-do-you-think-of-that gesture. “Slit the guy’s throat, and left him to bleed to death.”

There was a buzz of comments and some applause. Starsky couldn’t look up to see Hutch’s reaction, but he could see Ariadne. She sat heavily into a chair, and reached for her drink. She gulped it down, obviously stunned. Manetti leaned over her, speaking rapidly.

“Dunfey…” Hutch growled.

“Killing Roschenzky makes me wonder,” Dunfey chuckled, addressing Hutch but working the crowd as well, “if you can be trusted? How can I know that you wouldn’t stab me in the back just as easily?”

“You want me to prove my loyalty, Dunfey?” Hutch took a step back, his voice as hard as steel. “Right now, I have no loyalty to you. We’d have to work together to develop that.” He glanced at the people listening attentively. “You’ve got a gorgeous home, dozens of slaves catering to your every wish, and toadies like Kuyt to order around.”

Starsky, in presentation position, stayed alert to the crowd’s reactions. He couldn’t scan their faces, but memorized shoes and the faces of slaves closest to him.

Peripherally, he saw Hutch tug at the cuffs of his suit. “I not interested in being on your payroll as some two-bit player. I didn’t take out the road blocks to suit your needs.” Hutch bit off the last words.

“As I told you the other day,” Dunfey said, “I had you checked out.”

“I wouldn’t have expected anything less of a potential business partner.” Hutch sank his fingers into Starsky’s hair, holding tight. “I intend to move up in the world, carve out a niche with my name on it — Davey was my partner, and now he’s my slave. For my own amusement.” Pulling back, Hutch tipped Starsky’s head upwards.

Starsky swallowed, his Adam’s apple jammed against the collar, trying to remain passive. But Hutch’s fingers digging into his head hurt enough to make his eyes water.

Dunfey’s lascivious smile was nasty. “You and I have similar tastes — particularly since I bid for him — ”

“And lost,” Hutch said without gloating. Loosening his hold, Hutch rubbed circles against Starsky’s scalp, massaging away the pain. Starsky didn’t lower his head, relishing the chance to watch the two men without censure.

“To the victor go the spoils,” Dunfey said, conceding gracefully. “Would you be willing to negotiate for the slave’s favors?”

Starsky swallowed. This was it.

Hutch didn’t answer at first. He picked up his glass from the bar and sipped.

Starsky tried to relax. Hutch was in his element — this was where they wanted Dunfey, interested and willing to barter. Cash was not the currency here; influence, control, and authority were.

“You want to use Davey?” Hutch asked. “What have you got to offer to make it worth my while?”

Dunfey motioned to the bartender who poured both of them another round from a bottle of Glenfiddich. Holding his glass aloft, he said. “Hutchinson, we are more alike than I’d realized. We have the same taste in slaves, and the same drives. I know what all men want: power. I can offer that.”

Hutch accepted the toast, clinking his glass with Dunfey’s. “Then we have something to negotiate.”

Starsky shivered. He didn’t want to watch this, but Hutch was still holding his head, absently stroking him.

“Regarding the use of my slave, I have strict limits,” Hutch warned Dunfey. He seemed to be notifying the crowd as well. “No private parties. I have to be present when anyone uses my slave. He was damned expensive. I have to protect my property against damage.”

“Another similarity between us. You like to watch. Just the kind of man I need on my team!” Dunfey’s laugh was deep, a rumbling sound.

Starsky’s skin crawled. This close to the man, Starsky could smell the permeating odor of Glenfiddich, bringing back memories of that hotel room with the white brocade spread.

Please, God, no. Hutch, find a way out —

“What team position would that be?” Hutch countered. “You already have Kuyt to lead around by the nose.”

Kuyt must have just entered from the foyer, because Starsky heard him protest. “Hey! I ain’t no — ”

“Jerry,” Dunfey said quietly, stilling him.

Starsky could see Kuyt’s legs as he turned and marched off.

“Touché, Hutchinson. I certainly don’t need another Kuyt.”

“I need a guy to fetch my coffee,” a man at the bar joked. “What’d you pay him?” Several others laughed.

“More than he is worth,” Dunfey said dismissively. He looked down at Starsky’s upturned face, as if just noticing him. “Any slave of mine would receive ten lashes for such impertinence.”

Flushing angrily, Starsky lowered his chin, watching the proceedings through his lashes.

“But he’s not your slave, Dunfey,” Hutch said imperiously. “He’s mine. And I like seeing his eyes.”

“You’re ambitious, Hutchinson,” Dunfey said, savoring his drink. Glory came through with a tray of shrimp and he plucked two off, the fingers of his other hand lingering against her pierced breasts. Glory moaned, but didn’t refuse his caress. “Impressive in a man who once toed the line as a cop,” Dunfey continued, giving Glory a smack on the left breast to move her along. He glanced at Hutch. “You were always the more — shall we say — corruptible of the pair of you. Another admirable quality.”

“A left handed compliment if I ever heard one,” Hutch said. “Davey’s the left-handed one. If you’ve got a serious offer — lay it out.”

Dunfey narrowed his eyes, chewing the shrimp. “How about Vice President of Operations in California?”

“My mother was the politician,” Hutch said. “I’m not interested in glad-handing assholes at cocktail parties and sitting through boring meetings.”

“Like you’re doing here?” Dunfey leaned back against the bar, pleased with himself.

“Jack.” Ariadne suddenly insinuated herself between the two of them. She patted Dunfey’s arm. “I’d think a former police officer would be well suited for something more…forceful?”

“I see where you’re going with that, Ari.” Dunfey kissed her hand gallantly. “Since Roschenzky’s no longer available and Simonetti’s about to lose his job, the position of Chief of the Special Police is open.”

“That’s more like it,” Hutch said, shaking Dunfey’s hand. “It’s a deal.”

Starsky let out a pent-up breath. They’d gone over the first hurdle.

“The way you handled collaring your partner proved to me you were a man I wanted on my side,” Dunfey said.

Several people called out well-wishes and slapped Hutch on the back before drifting away.

“Congratulations, Hutchinson.” Ariadne stood close enough that Starsky couldn’t see her face anymore. “You’re moving up in the world.”

“About time,” Hutch agreed.

“And your slave’s pretty mouth is just what I want to seal the transaction,” Dunfey said confidently.

Starsky didn’t dare move, though it took every bit of control not to bolt from the room. Find a way out, Hutch. Don’t make me —

“Well, I said you’d have to make it worth my while… and you did, so…Davey,” Hutch said, without a hint of sympathy in his voice, “service Mr. Dunfey.”

In front of this room full of people. He was undercover, he reminded himself. This was his job. Starsky had to play his part or put them both in danger. And Hutch would have to watch. Hutch had promised not to abandon him…

“Yes, master.” Starsky stared at his own pierced cock. “Whatever you wish.” What he wished was to draw the dagger and shove it in Dunfey’s belly. Instead, he flexed his hands over his thighs, showing perfect presentation.

“Good boy, Davey,” Hutch murmured, stepping sideways, but still cupping the back of Starsky’s head.

Hang on to me, Hutch. Don’t abandon me now —

“Unzip me, boy,” Dunfey commanded, his body filling Starsky’s field of vision.

Starsky didn’t have to be told to do it with his teeth. Hutch had drilled that into him. Gripping his hands together to prevent himself from using them, Starsky rose up on his knees, concentrating only on the immediate task. Hutch’s fingers on the back on his head kept him in place and supported him. The sounds in the room faded to indistinct noise, but Starsky was aware he was the floor show.

He drew inward, seeing himself as a boy. A fifteen-year-old with messy curls and a concave belly. A boy who’d gone up to an expensive hotel room with a blond man because he’d been promised food and big money in exchange for sex. Instead, he was raped. He pushed the images away, focusing on the feel of Hutch’s hand.

He had no problem pulling the zipper down with his teeth, and got slapped with Dunfey’s penis before he opened his mouth wide enough to take it in. The smell nauseated him: whiskey, cigarettes, and something spicy but foul. The same smell, the same taste —

Tricks he’d learned as a teenager came back to him: caress the head using lips and tongue, but not a hint of teeth, before going down farther on the shaft, sucking, licking…

This was how he’d begun long ago, with a man’s cock in his mouth. Ruthlessly locking away the old memories, Starsky went quiet inside. He was undercover; this was not forever. This was not all that he was, a mouth to be used by other men. Hutch was not Dunfey.

Dunfey’s penis lengthened, engulfing his mouth. Starsky performed, the trained slave on display, hearing murmurs of approval from the audience. He brought his enemy to completion quickly, swallowing Dunfey’s semen as it flooded his throat. He was too professional to choke; closing his eyes, he disengaged his gag reflex to take it all in.

Memory overlapped the present again, and he imagined his own boyhood eyes boring into his adult ones, dismayed at what he’d done. Starsky reached out to his younger self, embracing the humiliation, the hurt, and his own rejection of his past. This was who he had been. He’d climbed out of the gutter before and emerged — he would do it again. Turning his face into Hutch’s big hand, he refocused. He was a cop turned slave — or was he a slave who was playing at being a cop?

He was jerked out of his reverie by the audience praising his performance with wolf-calls and clapping. Humiliated, Starsky felt a hot flush across his cheeks.

“Good boy, Davey,” Hutch said, stroking him. But Starsky felt his hand tremble. For once, he was grateful he couldn’t look into Hutch’s eyes.

“Beautiful job!” Dunfey praised, ruffling Starsky’s hair like a well-trained dog. “You’re right, Hutchinson, he was born to be on his knees.” He zipped himself up, obviously thrilled at the public display. “I’m looking forward to his next performance.”

Starsky shuddered at Dunfey’s remark, and felt Hutch tighten his grip on his hair. Don’t let it happen, Hutch. Not with him again —

“He was a cop in BC,” Starsky heard a gruff voice say. “Busted me once. I like him better this way.”

Abruptly, Starsky felt the rim of a glass against his bottom lip and Hutch whispered, “Drink this. Get rid of the taste.”

Obediently, he swallowed without thinking, Cold, and syrupy sweet Coke, then the bite of Glenfiddich for a chaser. Hutch must’ve dumped the rest of his own drink in the Coke when Dunfey wasn’t watching. The Coke obliterated Dunfey’s bitter flavor, and the small amount of scotch warmed his belly. It helped. He looked up at Hutch, meeting his eyes for a second. Hutch looked haunted. But they were working together.

The show over, most of the people drifted away, back to plates of food and friendly chatter.

Hutch gave Starsky’s leash a quick tug as he walked to a table with Dunfey. Starsky rose stiffly and followed, watching Hutch’s boots tread across the tiled floor..

“Nothing better to get me up in the morning than an unwilling slave’s mouth,” Dunfey said, commandeering a chair, and waving Hutch to another at the same table.

Starsky knelt gracefully at Hutch’s side. His eyes were about level with the table top: Dunfey had steered them to their designated table. Hutch’s name was on an envelope beside the plate. Envelopes for Ariadne and Manetti were propped against the glasses on the other place settings.

“Glory, tell your father Hutchinson needs some breakfast. And none of those congealed eggs that have been sitting out all morning.” Dunfey slapped Hutch on the back, the generous, benevolent host. “What’ll you have? Omelet with mushrooms?”

“Eggs Benedict,” Hutch ordered, which surprised Starsky. Hutch didn’t like Hollandaise sauce.

“Glory, you heard the master. Run back there and bring some out,” Dunfey ordered. “And bring some for the slave. That pretty mouth deserves a reward.”

That surprised Starsky even more.

The girl trotted off, her braid swinging.

“When do we discuss specifics?” Hutch asked.

“I like a man with goals.” Dunfey checked his watch. “I have to do some of that glad-handing you dislike this morning. We’ll be convening my cabinet next week in Bay City. I’ll expect you then.” Dunfey shook Hutch’s hand and left, moving through his constituents.

Trying to keep his brain in the here and now, Starsky licked his lips, wanting the flavors of scotch and Coke, not the lingering taste of his enemy.

“Starsk?” A whisper, meant solely for him.

He looked into Hutch’s concerned eyes, the music of his nickname as clear as a bell. Hutch frowned, his hand curved protectively around Starsky’s neck, fingers lingering on the collar before caressing his shoulders.

“It worked. You’re in,” Starsky said, swallowing his bitterness.

“Eat what Dunfey gave you,” Hutch said. He thrust a plate of eggs Benedict into his hands. “Eat.”

Starsky looked at the food, unsure. Seeing his hesitation, Hutch scooped up some eggs and leveled the forkful into Starsky’s mouth. They were still being watched, so Starsky didn’t dare refuse his master. Once he swallowed the hollandaise and poached egg, he felt better. Hutch held out another forkful with a troubled frown.

Starsky took the fork from him and finished the meal. Dunfey had given him the same thing he’d served Hutch, not just leftovers — a significant reward. With something in his belly, he rediscovered his hunger and wanted more, but there was nothing left.

Dunfey was standing at the front of the room at a more elaborately decorated table, raising a whiskey tumbler with a satisfied look on his face. “Welcome friends, business acquaintances, and future colleagues. We have come together to restructure our future. You’ll find a prospectus of what we hope to achieve in the envelope with your room keys, sitting by your plates.”

Applause and cutlery tapping crystal sounded like malevolent thunder.

Hutch dumped some ham and the rest of his eggs, with all of the Hollandaise sauce, into Starsky’s bowl. That’s why you ordered eggs Benedict? He tackled Hutch’s portion. He had a feeling he was going to need it.

Acting as though he wasn’t paying attention to his slave, Hutch clapped along with the rest. Those nearest Hutch’s table congratulated him, seeming eager to meet Dunfey’s newest associate. Hutch stood when the rest of the crowd gave Dunfey a standing ovation, blending in like the undercover pro he had been in Bay City.

Chewing on the ham, Starsky surreptitiously looked around, watching the other crouching slaves through a sea of legs. There were five tables situated in a semi circle, all facing the main table where Dunfey sat. There were three to four guests at each table. He saw Ariadne and Manetti stop at the table on his right, talking to people she obviously knew. From the CEC, he guessed. About half the guests attending had brought a slave. That made eighteen or so guests, and approximately ten slaves. There was also Dunfey, Kuyt, and a man Starsky recognized as a former mob enforcer named Frankie Patello. How many people were at the compound?

He knew some of the men nearby; he and Hutch had arrested quite a few over the years. What if they didn’t take Hutch’s conversion at face value? Had his convincing performance with Dunfey, and Hutch’s elevation to Dunfey’s circle, settled that?

Starsky glanced around as the crowd sat down. Besides the visible muscle around Dunfey — Patello and another thick-necked Neanderthal — Starsky had seen armed guards around the hacienda providing another layer of protection, or imprisonment, depending on your viewpoint. How many slaves served Dunfey? How many of those slaves — both Dunfey’s and the guests’ — would fight for their freedom or would they protect their masters?

“With your help, we can turn California and New Mex-Arizona into a power great enough to take over the whole country,” Dunfey continued. “We can select a CEO who will support our constituency, allowing us to continue the commerce that keeps our economy alive. With that kind of support, we can expand trade even further, and re-unite the former states. We can make this country strong again, the way it was meant to be! With total control!”

The crowd cheered, electrified by Dunfey’s vision. Starsky shivered, remembering other leaders with similar plans to control the population. Dunfey would turn the United States into a Nazi-Soviet-style government.

“My people are passing packets out with a schedule for the next two days detailing the reorganization necessary to bring the western territories under one umbrella government,” Dunfey explained, sounding more like a CEO than the gangster he was. “We need a leader who understands the population.” Dunfey paused, hands outstretched as if blessing his audience. “And by the end of this council, I know we’ll all agree on how to bring this country out of chaos and into a new reign.”

The applause was thunderous. Starsky knelt on the unyielding stone floor, suddenly afraid for his and Hutch’s safety. Right now, getting his old life back, with Hutch as a cop, seemed as impossible as flying to the moon.

“Gillespie,” Dunfey called on one of the men to his left as the council meeting began. “What’s the current status of your operations?”

“We’re in the red, and profit margins are slippin’,” Leo Gillespie, a heavy set man with acne scars, began.

The same guy who’d abused Glory not half an hour ago. He was out of San Diego, if Starsky remembered his mob genealogy correctly. Younger brother of a Don killed by Dunfey a few years back. Specialized in moving large quantities of pure grade heroin. Clearly expanding his trade.

“Since we got the border guards in our pocket, we haven’t had any problems bringing stuff up from Mex’co.” Gillespie burped, apparently he’d taken a little too much of the early morning bubbly.

After a long detailed description of the current avenues for increasing drug smuggling to other states and countries, and strategies used to evade border patrols, Hutch glanced at Starsky, raising his eyebrows. What they could do with this information as cops! Names of important dealers, cartels who specialized in running the drugs in foreign markets and domestically, made the whole thing sound like simple import and export. With the CEC outlawing the importing of most liquor and tobacco from other states, there were many more ways to make a crooked buck these days.

In a lull between speakers, Ariadne and Manetti changed tables, joining Hutch and Starsky to pick up their room keys.

“We need to be vigilant,” Manetti said softly, pulling out a chair for Ariadne. “Most of the CEC bigwigs Ariadne’s introduced me to are eager for Dunfey to replace Cosgrove as quickly as possible.”

“And you look…” Ariadne sat down, her eyes sympathetic, “very uncomfortable, dear David. Stand up and shake the tingles out of your feet.” She offered him a hand.

“Thanks.” Starsky grimaced, curling his toes under to get the circulation going.

“I’ve counted four guards here in the main room,” Hutch said softly, his eyes roving to check for anyone listening.

Luckily, a pair of male slaves wearing nothing but smiles had slipped into the pool and were swimming languidly back and forth to the amusement of the attendees.

“We need an accurate count of how many people are here.” Starsky started a mental tally.

“Not to mention the layout of the grounds,” Hutch finished, placing his hand against Starsky’s back. “Unfortunately, the three of us,” he indicated himself, Ariadne, and Manetti, “are trapped here listening to this…drivel. If we leave during the presentation, it would be suspicious.” He and Starsky exchanged a look.

“There’s a guy in the kitchen, the cook,” Starsky said. Glory had just emerged from the kitchen carrying cups of coffee on a tray. “Her dad. Didn’t get his name yet, but Dunfey pierced her mother and sister.”

“As a way of keeping him in line?” Hutch followed her progress around the room. “How many are here just for the meeting?”

“I can help with that,” Ariadne said. “There are eighteen registered.” She pursed her lips, inclining her head at a woman who had just entered from the hallway.

Starsky was stunned to see the new arrival, but managed to keep the surprise off his face. Harriet Roget, from Luna. Sweat broke out under his leather harness. He hated having such a visceral reaction to her.

Roget greeted several friends, but didn’t stop until she’d reached the main table and whispered in Dunfey’s ear. He chatted briefly with her before calling up the next speaker.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked. “Who is that?”

“Harriet Roget,” Ariadne replied before he could. “A bitch of the first order. Still, we maintain civil relations, as well brought up ladies should,” she said with a liberal helping of sarcasm.

“Couldn’t have said it better myself.” Starsky bowed to Hutch as if he’d just received an assignment. “Since you three are stuck here, I’m gonna circulate, on the pretense that I need to go.”

“That’s always your pretense,” Hutch said out of the corner of his mouth. “Be careful.”

“I’m always careful,” Starsky shot back, walking past their table to the back wall. From there, he could easily take in the entire room. None of the council members paid him the slightest attention. He was just a slave on some errand for his master. Besides the visible guards Hutch had mentioned, Starsky could see at least two patrolling outside the house through a large plate glass window on the far side of the indoor pool. A dark haired man carrying an automatic weapon on his shoulder walked past another man and paused, making a circular motion.

Six guards, at least. No doubt there were more.

Shifting his shoulders under the heavy leather banding his shoulders, Starsky took a moment to assess the other slaves. He found he wasn’t the only slave sporting elaborate decorations — there was a giant, ebony-skinned man with so many piercings through his flesh, he appeared to be wearing chain mail. Most of the slaves had eyes devoid of hope, but the black man had a presence that came through his outward submissiveness. He glanced up, catching Starsky’s eye briefly before staring straight ahead.

“What are you doing here?” a rough voice asked. It was a guard on the door to the main part of the house.

Starsky froze and ducked his head. “I need to…” he said so softly that the guard had move closer to hear. Which also brought his holstered Beretta into reach. It would have taken two seconds to slide that gun out and train it on the guard’s belly. Starsky stored that bit of information away. The guards were careless because they didn’t expect a slave to fight back. “Go to the…” Starsky added, shifting from foot to foot, hoping he didn’t have to drag this conversation out too long.

“About to wet yourself?” The guard laughed crudely. “Slaves use the shithouse in the rear, behind the kitchen. You better have your master’s permission.”

“Yes, sir.” Starsky hurried down the hallway in the right direction. He found the bathroom and relieved himself quickly, so that he’d have more time to look around.

Starsky stuck his head into a different entrance to the kitchen than the one he’d used before. The space was massive, with the gleaming stainless steel surfaces of a professional kitchen. Five people worked under Glory’s father’s supervision. Unlike the slaves in the meeting room, all the cooks were dressed in white uniforms.

Starsky walked purposefully away from the kitchen. Just before a set of double doors that must lead to the rear of the compound, the hallway forked into two long corridors. Deciding on the left passageway, Starsky slowed, keeping his eyes cast downward, passing a few other slaves doing menial work. He counted four more household staff. That made at least twelve — and who knows how many more that were simply used for amusement? How did Dunfey keep that many people in line?

As he passed a long row of windows facing the back of the house that showed a large yard planted with native flora, he realized the climate and isolation helped. Unless an escaping slave stole a pair of shoes, walking across the desert was dangerous. Starsky knew there was an electrified fence, because he had heard the whine of the gate opening when the limo drove through, but he couldn’t see it from the window.

Fixing a map of the house in his brain, he glanced at each door as he went by. Most were locked, although he did see one of the housekeepers use a key to open what appeared to be an office.

Hearing voices, Starsky pushed against two nearby doors and found one unlocked. He slipped inside the empty office just as a man walked by. Holding the door open barely enough to see, Starsky recognized Russian-born mobster Mikhail Lvoff, who was well-known in Southern California. He had been sitting at a table two over from Hutch. Trailing him was the muscle-bound slave with all the piercings.

Lvoff knocked on a door directly across from Starsky. He and his slave were admitted at the same time that a housekeeping slave arrived with a garbage can on a cart to empty the office’s trash. Because the slave propped that door wide open with her cart, Starsky could see that Lvoff had entered a room filled with an impressive array of state-of-the-art communications equipment. He could even make out a bank of video screens showing locations inside and outside the house. Two screens had views of large beds. Was Dunfey keeping tabs on certain council members without their knowledge? The men watching the monitors were in business attire, and were clearly familiar with the equipment.

The housekeeping slave nodded to something one of the men at a monitor station said and backed out, shutting the door and trundling her cart down the hall. Easing his door shut, Starsky counted to five hundred. When he let himself out, there was no one in the hall. He walked sedately down the corridor and passed a guard just beyond the kitchen. None of the guards seemed to take much interest in a lone slave running errands for his master.

Gillespie was just finishing up his talk when Starsky padded quietly over to Hutch and knelt at his side. Hutch nodded slightly, obviously glad to see him. He slid his hand down Starsky’s neck, caressing the collar in what was becoming a comforting habit — for both of them. When Hutch glanced at him, Starsky winked, satisfied with his walkabout. Hutch gave him a small smile.

Glory and a pretty girl wearing nothing but slave piercings brought carafes of water for each table.

“Even with the A/C on, it’s damned hot in here,” Manetti said irritably. “Anyone else want water?”

“Yes, please,” Ariadne said, pushing over her glass. “Gillespie acts foolish on occasion, but he has a lot more business acumen than I’d ever give him credit for.”

“You run with some interesting people, Ariadne.” Hutch leaned back, surveying the room with a cop’s eye.

“I’d really like to call my publisher.” She gave a sly smile over the edge of her glass. “But there are no phones. There must be a communications room somewhere. I’ll have to ask Dunfey if I can make a call.”

“Good God!” Manetti blurted, knocking his water glass over. “I can’t believe he got turned!”

“Be careful!” Ariadne mopped at the spill with her linen napkin, but not before Gary’s silver and lavender tie was soaked. She looked at the man he was staring at. “That tall black slave?”

“He’s a football player, isn’t he?” Hutch asked, frowning, as if he trying to remember the name.

Starsky glanced around Hutch. Lvoff had returned to his table, and was talking quietly with another man Starsky didn’t know. Probably one of the CEC execs. The big slave knelt impassively beside Lvoff.

“That slave is Douglass Watson.” Manetti wiped furtively at his tie, never taking his eyes off the man. “Played for the Seattle Sharks a couple years back. I heard he had some problems with gambling debts but… I’m just…stunned to see him here…like that.” He turned to Ariadne with a naked expression of shock and confusion mixed with something else Starsky couldn’t recognize.

Ariadne shook her head, and started to unknot his tie. “You can’t wear this now. Hutch, you don’t mind if I send Davey on an errand, do you?”

“Go right ahead,” Hutch said graciously.

“Davey, go to our room to get Manetti his red silk tie.” She held out the dripping tie between two fingers. “And while you’re at it, be a dear and find out where the ladies’ room is? And make sure it’s clean. If there’s even one of those large desert insects…those giant scorpions…” She shuddered dramatically, handing him the key to room nine. “His suitcase is brown. The tie should be in there, unless Dunfey’s slaves have already unpacked it. In that case, you’ll just have to poke around.”

Starsky almost laughed, knowing what she meant. He bowed his head to her. “Master?” he asked Hutch with the proper amount of deference.

Hutch ran his hand over Starsky’s hair and, when Starsky stood to leave, smacked him lightly on the rear. “Don’t do anything I wouldn’t do.”

“No specifics?” Starsky said out of the corner of his mouth, wrapping the soggy silk tie around his hand.

Starsky started down the broad corridor to the bedroom wing. Now that he knew there were cameras monitoring activity in the house, he kept an eye out for them. He’d seen two in the main meeting room and one in the front lobby. There was a camera in the intersection of the hallways, but once he got to the corridor leading to the bedrooms, he didn’t see any.

Room number nine was spacious and elegant, decorated in a Southwestern theme. After depositing the wet tie in the bathroom and finding no cameras anywhere, Starsky knelt by the side of the enormous bed. He ran one hand along the edge of the wooden frame, feeling for listening bugs. He didn’t find any, but did discover several thick metal rings for securing a slave. Standing up on the coverlet patterned with American Indian designs, he investigated the beam that ran around all four posts of the bed. A trapeze bar hidden in the canopy frame had an attached chain that could secure a slave in any number of uncomfortable sexual positions. He shuddered, but was confident that the room wasn’t bugged for sound or video.

Other than the paraphernalia to secure slaves, the room looked like any other luxury hotel room. Two suitcases sat side-by-side on luggage stands. Starsky opened the brown bag and found the red tie, flipping it over his arm like a waiter. He didn’t want to risk being disciplined for disrespecting a master’s property. But did Manetti still qualify as a master? After what Ariadne had said about her sexual preferences, Starsky wondered how it would affect her relationship with Manetti. Of course, they could choose to practice that in private, while displaying a traditional relationship in public. If he’d taken Hutch’s desires seriously while they were still in Bay City, would they have been able to negotiate a similar relationship? It was too late to worry about that now. They had to play the hand they held.

Coming out of Ariadne’s room, Starsky ducked his head, seeing a guard patrolling the long passageway.

“Boy!” The guard suddenly blocked his way.

Starsky froze, automatically assuming submission position, hands tucked behind his back and his eyes downcast. The red silk tie tickled the back of his left thigh.

“What are you doing in the masters’ sleeping quarters without a pass?” the guard demanded.

“Mistress Ariadne asked me to bring Man — ” Starsky stammered, remembering to use honorifics. “Master Manetti’s tie. His other one got wet.”

“You don’t have authorization to be here,” the guard said gruffly, walking around him. He took the red tie off Starsky’s wrist, examining it closely. “Who’s your master?”

Starsky looked up to see the name “Walters” on the man’s uniform. He was guard number twelve in Starsky’s mental count. “Master Hutchinson,” he answered, flicking his eyes down to the man’s utility belt. He carried a small hand gun, a walkie-talkie, and a pair of handcuffs, like any city cop.

“I’ve got my eye on you, boy,” Walters warned. “This is your first offense. Step out of line again, and you’ll find out what the whip feels like on your bare ass.” He deliberately dropped Manetti’s tie on the ground.

Starsky clamped his mouth shut. Squatting, he picked up the tie, aware of Walters’ scrutiny.

“Scurry on back to Hutchinson, copslave,” Walters said, proving he knew exactly who Starsky was.

Starsky reentered the meeting room to see Dunfey shake the latest speaker’s hand. When the speaker left the podium, Dunfey smiled at the group. “There’s one custom from old Mexico that I’ve always embraced, and that’s the siesta. Let’s take time to relax and get to know each other better before we meet again.”

“Starsk?” Hutch acknowledged his partner’s return. “Be glad you missed Marco’s sleep inducing babble.” Despite his light-hearted words, Starsky knew Hutch had been worried about him. “You were gone quite a while.”

“Help yourselves to the free drinks from the bar,” Dunfey said. “My lovely Glory is bringing out special drinks for the slaves, so no need to feed and water them right now. Isn’t she a gorgeous handful of tit?”

There was more laughter as Glory circulated the room handing out cups of a pink frothy juice to each slave. She was blushing, but kept her gaze down, apparently used to having to negotiate while half a dozen men and women fondled her and tugged on her pierced nipples.

“Had a little encounter with a guard,” Starsky said quietly under the chatter of the council members.

Hutch gazed at him, asking silent questions that Starsky couldn’t answer right then. Except for one.

“Nothing happened.” He handed Manetti the strip of red silk without ever taking his eyes off Hutch. He wanted to be alone with Hutch as much as Hutch did — not just to talk strategy.

“Anything we should know about?” Ariadne asked quietly. Manetti pretended to focus on donning his tie, but he was clearly listening for Starsky’s report.

Starsky shook his head, kneeling beside his master. “Didn’t see a single beetle or scorpion.”

“I know you’re all anxious to stretch, rest…or do whatever strikes your fancy,” Dunfey said from the podium with a laugh. “When we reconvene at two p.m., be prepared to discuss the CEC candidates you think would be best to replace the current governing slate.”

“That’s your cue, master.” Starsky couldn’t quite keep the edge out of his voice. The idea of Hutch entrenched that deeply into Dunfey’s operation wasn’t one he wanted to contemplate.

Hutch smiled tightly, locking eyes with Starsky, and Starsky could read his partner’s thoughts as if they were his own. If the coup failed, his position in Dunfey’s organization was their only other option. “I’m completely confident Jack wants me on his team,” Hutch said clearly so that nearby attendees could hear him.

“I’ve been waiting for you to step up to this kind of position.” Ariadne clinked her water glass with his. “A much more suitable place for a man with your ambitions than street cop, Ken. I can’t think of a better person to replace that brown-noser Simonetti.” Ariadne turned to Manetti. “Sweetheart, I’ve got to speak to Harriet or she’ll think I’m avoiding her.”

“Which you are,” Manetti replied toothily.

“Appearances.” She adjusted the collar of her blouse. “She has Dunfey’s ear…” She hurried away, greeting several council members on her way across the room.

“And his bed,” Manetti added, tying his new tie in a Windsor knot.

Starsky settled back on his heels while Frankie Patello unzipped his pants and pulled Glory’s mouth down on his cock. He looked away from the debasing spectacle to other slaves who were sipping their beverages. None of them were toppling over from poison, so why did he have a really bad feeling about drinking the stuff? Would he be punished if he refused to drink it?

The majority of the council members had gone to the bar for drinks. This left Starsky, Hutch, and Manetti alone, except for Glory still servicing Patello a few feet away.

“I wasn’t sure what to expect here,” Manetti said. “But — contradictory ideologies aside — Dunfey has clearly thought this overthrow out. However the reform comes about, change is inevitable.”

“The CEC already changed just about everything,” Starsky put in. “See how well that went?”

“Which is exactly why I think that we need to fight, and soon.” Manetti clenched his fists. “All this sitting around talking leaves me restless.”

Hutch shrugged, depression coloring his words. “How do we win against totalitarianism if we can’t make things any better than a vicious criminal?”

“Don’t let him hear you, for one thing,” Ariadne said sharply, coming up behind them.

“Perhaps this would be a good time for some…recreation, darling?” Manetti said, his tone light. His eyes were tracking Dunfey.

Starsky watched Glory stagger away from Patello when he finally released her, before picking up her tray. Patello had the look of a lion after mating, well satisfied and sure of his place. Starsky wanted to smash his face in.

Manetti kissed Ariadne’s hand. She smiled and whispered something to Hutch, who shook his head.

Starsky took the drink Glory handed him. “Thank you, schweetheart.” She looked like she needed someone to offer her a scrap of kindness. He put the drink down without tasting it.

“You haven’t been a slave long,” she murmured, her lips puffy from the encounter with Patello.

“How can you tell?” Starsky felt a twinge of concern, and realized he’d have to work harder on his demeanor.

“You’re…bold.” She ducked her head, moving on to the last two slaves, a pair of identical twins who were linked together with a long gold chain locked around each one’s waist.

Ariadne and Manetti left their table; Ari greeted a CEC cabinet member as she did. Leading the man toward the pool, she introduced her fiancé, Manetti, as they strolled.

“Times change, don’t they?” Patello said directly to Hutch, giving Starsky a dismissive glance. “Once the two of us were on different sides, but here you are, acting like you bought up the sleazy side of town.”

“Nice to see you, too, Patello.” Hutch inclined his head at the thick-bodied man. “Break any knees lately?”

“You’re funny.” Patello smiled, slapping Hutch on the back as he sat at their table. “Ain’t done none of that since I took down the Jersey Kid in the ring.”

“I saw that fight — bet on the Jersey Kid,” Hutch said mildly.

Starsky in proper posture on his knees, stayed alert.

“Aw, you lost, huh? See, you never bet against the knee-breaker. I’m on Dunfey’s team now. He’s gonna control Bay City, and pretty soon, take over the whole country.”

“The smart money’s riding on him,” Hutch said. If Starsky hadn’t known better, he would have totally believed his partner’s cold, sinister attitude. Hutch’s new persona, a man who would enslave his own partner and then horn in on the most powerful criminal in Bay City, was a brutal, calculating risk-taker without scruples. “I plan to prove that having a former cop by his side will be a real advantage to him.”

“What are you into? You came off like the incorruptible duo back in the day.” Patello glanced over at Starsky, this time openly staring. “You coulda made a fortune auctioning him off by the hour to guys he used to arrest.”

“I already have a fortune. I have no need to sell my partner.” Hutch raised an eyebrow as he made a show of scrutinizing Starsky’s position. “He’s all mine, every single solid inch.” Hutch pushed one boot between his thighs, forcing him to widen his legs. “Make yourself look pretty, Davey.”

The leather banding his cock kept him firm; as Hutch’s boot touched the brand, his cock jumped in reaction, emphasizing his length. There was a time when Starsky would have reveled in his glory, but this was not one of them. The leather protected him and put him on display at the same time. Starsky wished he could be anywhere else when Patello inspected his dick at close range. At least he didn’t touch him; Hutch made it plain he wouldn’t tolerate it.

“I’ve seen better.” The criminal adjusted his own recently serviced equipment with a smirk.

“I want to expand in the slave market,” Hutch continued. “Bought one of the houses down on Lincoln. With Dunfey’s blessing, I might buy up the entire street, so we’d have a monopoly. And with slaves, you’ve got to have drugs — ”

“To keep ’em easy.” Patello nodded as if they’d become the best of friends. “You got a line on Super Hero? That shit is selling like hotcakes on the street. Fastest high in town.”

“I have my sources, but always glad to learn new names,” Hutch said with confidence.

“D’you know Gillespie?” Patello beckoned over the first speaker Dunfey had introduced. He glad-handed the newcomer, introducing him to Hutch. Patello explained Hutch’s interest in the drug business.

“Let’s talk over drinks tonight,” Gillespie said. “I got a sweet one for the next hour, and don’t want to miss a minute of it.”

Patello snickered. “One of Dunfey’s babies?”

“Just picked.” Gillespie winked, rocking his pelvis forward. “Only driven once, by Jack himself.”

“Quite an honor,” Hutch said. Starsky was the only one who noticed the angry set of his jaw and the undercurrent of anger in his voice. To anyone else, Hutch looked disinterested. “How young is she?”

“If they’re over sixteen, I don’t touch ’em,” Gillespie boasted. “In the Blue room, if you’re into watching.”

“Not today,” Hutch answered politely.

Starsky struggled to slow his heart rate. Under sixteen? Had to be Glory’s younger sister. Starsky feared that the longer they stayed here, the more he and Hutch would be scarred by the pervasive evil. He wanted to run, push, shove, do anything to bleed off the anger in his belly. He sat in perfect posture because he was undercover.

“Something smells good,” Hutch said, standing up. Slaves were wheeling in a fresh urn of aromatic coffee and trays of delicate pastries near the swimming pool. Many of the guests collected cups in anticipation.

The mermaid slaves had disappeared sometime during the morning meeting, and now two men with fish tails lounged on the edge of the pool, their arms tied tightly behind them and their cocks featured prominently above the edge of the form-fitting fish scales.

“You want some coffee, Frankie?” Hutch asked, staring at the naked mermen with a thoughtful expression.

“I’ve got to talk to somebody — see you at the afternoon session.” Patello smacked Hutch on the back again, and sauntered off with a confident air.

“Hutch,” Starsky murmured as he stood once they were alone. They needed to get back to their room to exchange information.

“You look even better off the frame than on.” A melodic voice crawled up Starsky’s spine, followed by the delicate run of fingers along his back.

Harriet Roget. He shuddered, but didn’t pull away from the unwanted caress. He had no right to refuse her touch. Starsky saw Hutch turn when he did, both acknowledging the woman at the same time.

Hutch gripped Starsky’s arm. “Presentation, Davey. Show the woman what you’ve got.”

“Oh, no — I want to see him standing.” She slipped her fingers under the strap that crossed between his groin and scrotum, preventing Starsky from kneeling, and tugged. “This leather harness is highly provocative.”

Starsky stiffened, breathing carefully as her hand slid down to trace the contours of his thigh. She curved her palm around his sac. The feeling of being trapped, bound to the frame, was overwhelming; the memory of Harriet using him as if he were an inanimate object was all too fresh. He ducked his head; looking her in the eye could bring automatic punishment.

Harriet laughed when Starsky couldn’t control the tightening of his balls from her touch. “You respond perfectly.”

He pressed back against Hutch’s body, almost forcing himself against his master’s hipbone. Better to say nothing than speak and risk public discipline.

“He’s got a phenomenal mouth,” Dunfey said as he approached. Moving closer, he cupped Starsky’s chin and squeezed just enough to force his jaw open. “Worth every penny you paid, Hutchinson.”

Starsky couldn’t move, sandwiched between the two men. He was so close to Hutch they were practically conjoined and Dunfey had moved in until they were groin to groin, his tongue darting out to capture Starsky’s. The moist sliminess of Dunfey’s tongue against Starsky’s soft palate and the whiff of whiskey on his breath was enough to make Starsky gag. He only kept his stomach in line by closing off his throat. That made it impossible to breathe.

“This would be so much better in the Gold room…” Harriet began.

Hutch suddenly inserted an arm between Starsky and Dunfey, stepping back so swiftly that Starsky’s feet left the ground. He hadn’t realized Hutch could lift him.

“If you want favors from the slave,” Hutch pushed Starsky to his knees, stepping around so that he had one booted foot between Starsky’s thighs, “it will cost you.” His voice was flat and hard, the long column of his pants leg all that Starsky could see without looking up.

“Spoken like a true business man.” Dunfey chuckled, but there was menace in his tone. “I agree with Harriet, the Gold room would suit him to a T. You’ll like the ambiance, Hutchinson, but we’ll have to negotiate terms later. Play time will have to wait, my dear.”

“Truly a pity,” Harriet drawled, her smoky eyes raping Starsky. “Mr. Hutchinson, is it?”

Hutch nodded, the heel of his boot pressing against Starsky’s brand. It hurt, sending a sharp pain zinging up his thigh, adding to the aches from the cock cage, the leather straps stretched tightly across his groin, and the pull of the big strap on his collar. Starsky welcomed those reminders that he still had all of his senses and most of his brain cells. Remembering to feel and react would save him, keep Hutch safe, and get them both out of here.

“Harriet Roget, Ken Hutchinson,” Ariadne said suddenly, moving deliberately between them and slipping an arm through Harriet’s. Manetti was close by her side.

“Miss Roget.” The ice in Hutch’s voice thawed slightly. “I’ve heard a lot about you.” He took a step to the side, which allowed Starsky to see those around him better.

“As I have about you.” Harriet nodded elegantly, appraising his worth. She turned to her old friend. “Ari.” The two women blew air kisses at each other, smiling as benignly as a pair of sharks circling the same prey. “I wondered where you’d wandered off to earlier.”

“You seemed preoccupied with being…” Ariadne cocked her head. “What exactly is your title? First lady? Or have you already grabbed a VP appointment?”

“That’s in the works,” Dunfey confirmed.

“Well, then congratulations are in order!” Ariadne clapped her hands together, her bangles clinking softly.

“A business women with your expertise will be a boon to the new regime,” Manetti said politely.

No longer the center of attention, Starsky sucked in a breath, alert to the slightest nuances from Hutch or Ariadne. He could not afford to lose it so easily with Dunfey again. The man had way too much power over him.

“Sounds like we could be working closely together,” Hutch said to Harriet.

“Now that I know your name, I realize I am in the presence of a changed man.” Harriet turned all her attention to Hutch. Starsky raised his head just enough to see her smile wickedly. “I’ve known many former officers of the law who have turned their backs on what they used to uphold, but never have I met one who enslaved his own partner. That takes balls of steel.”

“Nothing stands in my way for long,” Hutch said flatly, stepping over Starsky’s bent legs to sit in his chair.

“You’ve raised my interest level,” Harriet said. “Join me for dinner this evening.”

“Harriet.” Ariadne waggled her finger. “You have Jack. My fiancé and I have already asked Ken to dinner.”

Manetti opened his mouth, but closed it just as abruptly.

“Should I get out my dance card?” Hutch teased lightly, smiling at Manetti. “I haven’t had two women fighting over me since high school.” He closed one hand around Starsky’s neck, rubbing circles with his thumb behind his ear like an owner calming his pet.

“Very well, Ari. Perhaps tomorrow.” Harriet shrugged. “I heard Jack offered you the position of Chief of the Special Police, Ken.”

“I reward those who’ll work to support me,” Jack said as if he had already taken command of Bay City.

“The whole force needs an overhaul,” Hutch explained, the picture of an ambitious man. “We need to be sure anyone with the Special Police understands who’ll they’ll be working for when Mr. Dunfey is in charge.”

“Well said,” Harriet agreed. “Anton!” she called to a smoothly muscled, dark-haired man who had hovered nearby during the conversation. Anton knelt beside her, turning his face to her leg, his stolid expression giving nothing away. “You see, Ari? He responds instantly. As we discussed before, you must only buy your slaves from Luna. My training center is the finest in the country. Ken’s Davey is another example; you saw how perfectly he responded to my touch. It’s all in the training.”

“I wasn’t aware that there was a Michelin guide for that.” Hutch waved over one of the slaves with a tray full of canapés. “Something for the ladies?” He offered Harriet first.

She selected a small slice of cucumber with soft cheese. Ariadne took a piece of shrimp and fed it to Manetti, whispering in his ear. Dunfey motioned for the slave to stay put while he tried several items on the tray.

“Oh, but there is.” The tone of Harriet’s voice was almost hypnotic. Starsky found himself listening to her even when he didn’t want to. “You wouldn’t believe their stringent criteria.”

“The right sized whips, the perfect temperature to heat the branding iron…” Hutch said, sounding bored. “Yet, I found fault with Davey’s training. They didn’t follow my orders, and damaged my slave.”

Her friendliness disappeared instantly. “I personally saw to every aspect of your slave’s first days,” Harriet said coldly. “He was not damaged at Luna; he arrived that way. Since you are so critical of our methods, I insist that you allow me to put him through his paces to ascertain that his training was up to our standards.”

“That sounds fair, Hutchinson,” Dunfey added, selecting a slice of toast with caviar from the slave’s tray.

Stalling, Hutch took the same canapé and bit down on it. Starsky gasped when Hutch thrust his thumb, coated with caviar, into Starsky’s mouth. The salty, almost bitter flavor worked well to counteract the lingering taste of Dunfey’s tongue.

“Will you include a customer satisfaction form for me?” Hutch asked with dark sarcasm.

“I’ll be the impartial judge,” Dunfey said. “This should be an interesting evening.”

Looking up quickly, Starsky saw Ariadne glance at Manetti. Both of them struggled to compose their expressions, but he could tell they were alarmed.

“Only if the price is right,” Hutch said, his fingers pressing into the slope of Starsky’s neck.

Starsky didn’t move. This was the only means Hutch had of communicating his concern. They needed to get Dunfey alone, but, Starsky thought, if Harriet came along for the ride, so much the better. He had two daggers…

“I’m sure Harriet can make it worth your while, Hutchinson. She’s well connected in Bay City and all through the West. Patello mentioned you want to expand in the slave trade. She’s the conduit to do that. We’ll use the Gold Room, as Harriet suggested.” Dunfey took another canapé from the waiting slave and sent her off. “It’s my private playroom. Only the finest toys. We can come to an agreement on the trade for services before we start.”

“Tonight at nine,” Harriet added. She glanced at a diamond-encrusted watch on her slim wrist. “Unfortunately, I have to take a business call. Jack, I’ll need access to the communications room.” She nodded at Hutch. “I look forward to the inspection.” She bent, grasping Starsky’s chin with fingernails as sharp as talons. “I think Davey here will remember that I’m very thorough.”

“I’d like that siesta now, Jack,” Hutch said, his fist wrapping around the thick strap running the length of Starsky’s spine. He was starting to hate that strap. “And Ariadne, Manetti, and I have an appointment for playtime with the slave.”

“Just ask any slave in housekeeping if you have any special needs in your room, Hutchinson,” Dunfey said, but his attention was already elsewhere. He walked off to a speak with Patello and two other goons. A slave wearing shackles that prevented her from straightening her legs enough to stand crouched on her knees beside them, long fair hair covering her face.

The four of them left the meeting room together, with Starsky trailing dutifully behind. A few people lingered in the intersection between the meeting room and bedroom wing, but the corridor was mostly deserted. Long woven carpets with Navaho designs covered red tiled floors and aboriginal art decorated the walls.

“Ken, we’ll meet you shortly,” Ariadne said as they walked down the passageway. “I want to wash some of the desert sand off my face.”

“Stars — I mean…Davey, did the rooms have computers?” Manetti asked, glancing at the hallway camera. “I’d hate to bother Dunfey for permission to access his communications, but I haven’t seen a single phone.”

“Computers, yes,” Starsky said, glad to be walking. “Phones, no.”

There were a dozen doors in north wing of the hacienda, which was nearly deserted. Most of the guests had already retired to their rooms, either to escape the heat of midday or enjoy a romp with a slave. Starsky could hear raucous sexual activity behind room five. Hutch’s jaw tightened under his façade.

“You’re across the hall from us,” Hutch noticed, sketching a wave when Manetti unlocked their door.

Hutch slid the key into their lock, glancing around carefully when he opened the door.

“Don’t leave the key over the lintel,” Starsky murmured softly, stopping just inside the room.

“It’s been a while since I did that,” Hutch answered just as quietly. They had the same Southwestern décor that Ariadne had, with the same huge, rough-hewn furniture. He stuck the key in his pocket, eyeing the ceiling.

“Unless Dunfey — uh — decorates each room differently, we won’t need to clean up anything,” Starsky answered Hutch’s unasked question.

Nevertheless, Hutch paced the room, stopping to feel around all electrical outlets, lamps, strip molding, and the computer monitor and tower sitting on a side desk.

Turning to the bed, Starsky stopped short, his heart speeding up. “Hutch.”

A large white box sat in the middle of the comforter, the kind department stores once used to deliver elegant clothing. It could be an innocuous gift, but at the same time, he was loathe to open it.

Hutch walked around to the far side of the bed, and picked up the small envelope taped to the box. He showed it to Starsky. “Kenneth Hutchinson” was spelled out in calligraphy.

“You want to open it?” Hutch asked.

“It’s addressed to you, dummy,” Starsky said. “From Der Fuehrer, Dunfey, unless I miss my guess.”

Hutch exhaled noisily, perching on the edge of the bed to slide the note out of the envelope. He showed Starsky that “Jack Dunfey” was embossed in gold leaf on the back flap. Hutch scanned the note quickly. “It may be addressed to me, but the box is for you,” he said, something brittle and indefinable in his voice.

“What?” Starsky lifted the lid. Nestled inside was his leather jacket and watch, both exactly as they had been before they’d been stolen. His breath catching in his throat, Starsky touched the smooth leather, inhaling its familiar scent. Something essential slotted back into place inside him, like a puzzle piece that completed a picture. But at what cost? “Dunfey’s the last person to give anyone back something from a slave’s old life,” Starsky said reluctantly, without taking the coat out. “What’s he want?”

“Me.” One side of Hutch’s mouth quirked up. “It’s almost a mash note. He can’t wait for us to work together, etcetera.”

“Terrific.” Starsky sucked in his bottom lip. “He’s already got access to me later tonight, huh?”

“Starsk…” Hutch paled, crumpling the note in his fist. He sat down beside Starsky on the bed. “This is — ”

“Hard. Yeah. I know.” Starsky couldn’t keep out the sarcasm. “You told me. It was all impulse. You weren’t thinking on all cylinders.” His pierced cock bobbed with his anger. This is what you did to me. But that argument would accomplish nothing. They didn’t have time for it now. “We gotta deal with the situation we’re in,” he said finally, searching for words that wouldn’t wound. “We need a strategy, or we’re up shit creek without a paddle.”

“Succinctly put.” Hutch pulled the leather jacket out of the box, spreading it across Starsky’s knees and covering his leather-bound genitals. Picking up the watch, he checked the time, and held it out, flat on his palm like an offering. “I wish you could wear these now,” Hutch said softly. “It would seem more — ”

“Like old times?” Starsky finished. He didn’t know how to feel any more. Angry at what Hutch had done? Angry at the bastards who had grabbed him and stuffed him in a truck, stealing his belongings — all on Hutch’s say so. And Dunfey’s. “Nothing’s ever going to be the same, pal. Not ever.”

“How are you holding up?” Hutch didn’t touch him, not even with his thigh though they were sitting so close.

“I — uh — think my libido is in the toilet. How about you?” Starsky lay back with the jacket warm on his bare knees. He wanted nothing better than to hide here for the next two hours, away from pinching fingers, explicit comments, and the sight of blank-eyed slaves being raped.

“I — ” Hutch started and then stopped. “I’m sorry, Starsk. So sorry. I h-hated seeing you go down on Dunfey.”

Starsky held still, just listening, Hutch’s words sinking into his soul.

“I knew it might come to that. We talked about it. And I thought I could handle it. I thought…” Hutch shook his head, hitting his fist against his chest. “But now, it’s indelibly inked on my brain, you…with him. And I hate that I…”

Starsky wasn’t going to finish this sentence. Hutch had to shoulder the blame. He wished he could hate Hutch as much as he hated Dunfey, but ultimately, in spite of everything Hutch had done to him was one truth: he couldn’t leave this man. He loved Hutch too much. Right now, that hurt with an ache that lingered.

“I hate that I made you do that. Especially knowing what Dunfey’s done to you. It nearly destroyed me. Starsky, I love you so much.”

The open declaration took Starsky by surprise. Almost as much as when Hutch leaned over, brushing Starsky’s lips with his own. Starsky hadn’t expected to want his kiss, but the moment he felt Hutch’s mouth cover his, he surged forward. Gripping Hutch’s shoulders, he deepened their kiss, healing some of the wounds that going down on Dunfey had ripped open. Hutch accepted his responsibility, understood what he’d done, and still wanted him, despite how Dunfey had used him. Hutch’s kiss, more than scotch and Coke, more than caviar, erased all traces of Dunfey. Starsky felt cleansed.

Hutch brushed his palm over Starsky’s belly, and gently pulled away. “Want to tell me what you learned when you went strolling? Were you able to get any numbers on Dunfey’s manpower?”

“There’s at least twelve guards and maybe eighteen household staff.” Wanting to regain what Hutch had hinted at earlier — old times, he donned the leather jacket, oddly soothed by the silky lining against his bare arms.

“That means there could be twice that many guards out on the grounds,” Hutch surmised. “This place looked immense when we drove in. Ariadne may be able to find out more specifics as to the size and breadth of it.” He got up slowly, like a man older than his years. “How do the guards treat you when you’re not with a master?” He said the word matter-of-factly, but Starsky could hear tension in his voice.

“It’s tricky,” Starsky said. “Half of ’em couldn’t give a rat’s ass what a slave is doing wandering around. One stood so close to me that I could have just taken his pistol out of the holster and shot him.” He zipped up the jacket, shrugging his shoulders to adjust the set of the leather harness underneath. It didn’t take much to pretend that the straps binding him were part of his old holster. The gift of the jacket was such a cunningly complicated gesture, designed to deceive. Dunfey had dangled memories of their old life as a lure — entangling Starsky and Hutch in his trap. “That guard acted like he didn’t think a slave — someone who once was a regular member of society, for God’s sake — would even think of fighting back.”

“Very few slaves have your bravery.” Hutch’s voice was pitched low. This could have been any of their undercover debriefings, as they caught up on events that forced them to work apart.

Starsky had to clear his throat to continue. He could feel Hutch watching him closely, the old comfort of their partnership as palpable as the jacket around his shoulders. “And other guards harass slaves just for the fun of it. I bet that if I’d been a girl, I wouldn’a been able to get past this — ”

“Who?” Hutch asked sharply, frowning.

“Whippo named Walters.” Starsky assessed his reflection in the mirror. Even with the jacket on, he still looked like a completely different person than the cop from Bay City.

“Starsk,” Hutch said. The unstated concern, the I-know-you-and-I’m-worried-about-you was there, wrapping around his heart.

Starsky looked at Hutch’s reflection in the mirror, his anger at his situation flaring suddenly. He whirled around, jabbing a finger at his partner. “You wanted a slave; now you’ve got one, Hutch! I actually get hotat the idea of kneeling for you — but I’m still a cop.”

“I know.” Hutch’s voice was barely audible. He lowered his eyes.

“You drilled me hard in all those fucking slave poses, so I know how to act, and I can use that to my advantage.”

“But the last thing I want is for some dumb-ass guard to have any excuse to use you as a punching bag.”

It was so damned hard to maintain an even keel. Starsky pulled the cuffs of the jacket down far enough to hide the leather banding his wrists. “This is gonna be like storming the beach at D-day,” he said roughly, using banter to hide his concerns.

“Is this another story about one of your uncles?” Hutch asked fondly.

“Hey!” Starsky straddled a chair next to the desk, resting his arms on the back of the chair. He always thought best in this position. “The Allied forces planned that attack for months! We’re behind the eight ball here.”

“We know that Manetti’s advanced guard is poised for the takeover.” Hutch got up, talking as he paced. “That computer message that came in last night reported that Dunfey is moving people into position to take over the CEO’s office. That’s why Ariadne needs to make that phone call. She needs to let Whitelaw know that Dunfey’s moving forward with his power play. If we can be one step ahead, just one, the Abbey League will get there first, and can take out the CEC and Dunfey’s group all at once. If you and I can take out Dunfey…”

But if they couldn’t kill Dunfey in the Gold Room, then Starsky would be the evening’s entertainment. And if they discovered their plans or aborted their attempted assignation, so would Hutch.

“Yeah, but two of the most important people who need to be in Bay City when that happens are here!” Starsky drummed his fingers on the chair. “You really think Ariadne has what it takes? She’s ambitious, but…”

Hutch leaned his forehead on the heavy bedpost, despair wrapped around him like a shroud. “In spite of your concerns about Ariadne, she has the intelligence and connections to make radical changes in the government the country needs, and that’s all I care about right now. Change.” He lifted his head, the blue of his eyes grayed out to mere shadows. “Not the only thing, no.”

In spite of his mixed emotions, Starsky realized he suddenly needed Hutch badly. He wanted to hold him, to make fierce love with him, but he needed to keep focused.

“If Dunfey turns on me,” Hutch said somberly, “you turn on him. That’s why you have the weapons.” Hutch closed his eyes, as if shoring something up inside.

“Hutch.” Starsky realized that at this moment, he was Hutch’s equal partner. This was the two of them — everything thing else was secondary to getting the two of them out safely. “If we kill Dunfey…there are way more of them than there are of us.”

Hutch ran a hand through his hair. “We will succeed, Starsky. We have to. We have no alternative.”

Starsky looked around their room, suddenly focusing on the blank monitor. “Is there any way to use that computer to get information without Dunfey knowing?”

“I doubt it.” Hutch crossed the room, switching it on. “It’s fairly easy to hack into other people’s systems.”

“Even with that complicated code you were working with?” Starsky couldn’t help wanting to be near Hutch — whether for simple physical proximity or just because they worked better when hip to hip, he wasn’t sure. He joined Hutch at the computer, watching him log onto the global connection.

It took several minutes to boot the machine up, then several more to log into several different bulletin boards until Hutch found a relevant message.

“Here’s something…Looks like there are problems in Bay City.” Hutch hit a button to pause the screen. He ran his finger along a string of numbers and letters, an obvious code. Moving his lips silently, Hutch tapped the screen every third letter. “This says that there’ve been riots around the CEC’s headquarters.” Scrolling down, he translated slowly. “This is updated daily. Even if we can’t get information out, we’re not totally cut off.”

“Did it say anything about Whitelaw’s guerrilla band?” Starsky asked.

“Doesn’t name names,” Hutch said distractedly. He hit a few more keys, staring at the screen.

There was a quiet knock at the door. Hutch instantly broke the connection and blanked the screen. Starsky automatically went for the gun that should have been holstered under his right arm and closed his hand on empty air. Instead, he eased the door open, the proper slave.

“Davey!” Ariadne said, her voice carrying. “We’re here for the playtime your master promised.”

“Tell him yourself.” Starsky let Ariadne and Manetti inside. Although he still had concerns about Ariadne Underhill’s leadership ability, he could not deny that she was working as hard as they were to bring down Dunfey.

“Unusual outerwear for the desert.” Ariadne flicked her eyes down his body.

Starsky hadn’t thought about it when he zipped the jacket up, but covering his chest just emphasized his exposed bottom. He had to fight the urge to cover himself completely.

“I just got the latest off the Abbey message boards.” Hutch stood, rubbing his back. “The militia have surrounded the downtown area, just waiting for the right moment to attack.”

“That was my take on it, too,” Manetti said. “Ariadne and I need to get out of this meeting soon. I’ve got to get back to Bay City, to confer with Whitelaw, and get in position.”

“Unfortunately, we can’t push Jack Dunfey,” Ariadne warned, sitting on the edge of the bed. She swung her feet up, crossing them at the ankles and arranged her long skirt over her knees. “Even a hint that we’re at cross-purposes with him, and we’d be lucky to escape alive.”

“Starsky’s managed to scope out the area this morning.” Hutch leaned against the computer table, rubbing under the edge of his shirt collar.

Unconsciously comforting himself, Starsky thought. The stress was getting to them all.

“Report, soldier.” Manetti waved a hand at Starsky.

Giving a quick account of what he’d seen and the layout of the house, Starsky finished with, “You were in a better position to see the compound when we drove up. There has to be more than two guards in the yard.”

“Two more on the main gate,” Hutch said, frowning. “And I think I saw a guard tower on the west side when we came down the drive.”

“Yeah, I saw that, too,” Manetti agreed.

“This place is locked up better than Fort Knox used to be,” Starsky said grimly, leaning on the computer desk next to Hutch.

“Even Fort Knox was broken into — more than once.” Ariadne tapped a manicured finger against her top lip. “We have to assume that most, if not all the council participants would be hostile to us. However, the slaves and servants are a different matter.”

“Most of them will have little love for ol’ Jack.” Hutch moved his thigh enough that he and Starsky were touching shoulder to shoulder and hip to hip — the way they often stood in Dobey’s office, working out a strategy.

“If we’re supposed to while away the afternoon in amorous play,” Ariadne beckoned Manetti, patting the side of the mattress, “we’ll need some refreshments — which could give our Davey here a chance to poke around more, maybe talk to some of the slaves.”

“I can always go for food,” Starsky agreed.

“We definitely need to know who would back us, if push comes to shove,” Hutch said pessimistically.

“Things could go bad fast if we’re not prepared.” Manetti unknotted his tie and unbuttoned the top few buttons of his crisp white shirt. “But there’s a problem. Dunfey told us if we needed anything in our room to ask one of his slaves to provide it. Why would we send the slave we’re supposed to be having playtime with? It’s suspicious.”

“No, it isn’t,” Ariadne insisted. “You’re just not used to having slaves. A great deal of it is mind games.” She left the bed and went to the desk, pulling open its small drawer. Taking out a stationary pad and pen, she scribbled something, and handed that to Starsky.

He looked at the list. “What’s this for? Oysters?” Starsky grimaced at the thought of anyone eating the slimy things.

“And a rare Bordeaux wine from 1950,” she explained. “If anyone questions your errand, you can show them this list and tell them your master ordered you to get these items for our session.”

“Oysters are supposed to be an aphrodisiac,” Hutch said thoughtfully.

“Oysters are not in season,” Ariadne said with a sly smile. “And that wine is terrible; Dunfey prides himself on the quality of his cellar. He won’t have it. You’ll be forced to return to us without it — ”

“You have quite a knack for this sort of thing,” Manetti put in.

Ariadne winked at him.

“Starsky comes back empty handed and the guards will assume we’ll have to punish him,” Hutch concluded.

“It gives us a reason to not send one of the household slaves, one that Dunfey would understand.” Ariadne sat down in the bed, leaning against a decorative pillow. “Sending a slave on an impossible errand is a common game that the upper levels of the CEC like to play.”

“Cruel,” Starsky muttered, thinking of all the slaves he used to see when he’d have to go in and out of the CEC headquarters.

“It’s impossible to plot everything out in advance.” Hutch nodded. “But if Starsky can make any connections among Dunfey’s slaves, it might give us an escape route, allies…”

“I may know just the person to talk to.” Starsky laid a finger on the side of his nose in the classic ‘got a secret’ move. “And I can bring back some food, in the bargain — in addition to oysters they won’t have.”

“Starsk.” Hutch looked at him, catching him in the laser beam of those blue eyes. “I want you…” He left it hanging, but Starsky knew exactly what he was going to say.

I want you with me, always.

Be careful.

“Bring me a roast beef sandwich,” Hutch said instead, with a lame attempt at an encouraging smile.

“Roast beef sounds good, I’ll have one, too.” Starsky pretended to check off an order form and added the sandwich to the Ariadne’s page. “Mistress Ariadne, your pleasure?”

“Well, when you put it that way,” she joked in a Mae West accent, patting her hair and fluttering her eyes. “Red blooded meat always does it for me.”

“Just get enough for four,” Manetti added, sitting on the bed beside her. The big man rubbed her ankle absently. “But don’t forget the oysters!”

“Coming right up,” Starsky said with more bravado than he felt. Reluctantly, he shed the jacket, hanging it carefully in the old fashioned Southwestern wardrobe. Because of the air conditioning, he immediately felt chilled.

“I’m becoming more concerned that we’re here when things are escalating in Bay City,” Ariadne started to say as Starsky slipped out the door.

The hallway was deserted. Even the few stragglers he’d seen earlier when he and Hutch went to their room were gone. Everyone was taking the mid-day siesta. When Starsky reached the main junction of the corridors, he paused. Not even a guard around. He headed for the kitchen. If there was anyone who had his fingers on the pulse of the household, it would be the head chef.

The kitchen activity was slower than earlier in the day, although there were several young female sous-chefs chopping fruit and rolling out pie dough. Glory’s father was seated at a metal table on the far side of the room, near a giant walk-in refrigerator. He was talking softly to an older woman with the pierced nipples of a slave.

Glory’s mother?

She looked up nervously when Starsky approached, but the chef clasped her hand, saying something soothing in Spanish. She tried to smile, but it never reached her eyes.

“May I speak to you, sir?” Starsky asked.

“I am not your master,” the chef said, motioning Starsky to a chair. “Do you need something? Food or drink?”

“Yes, but…first, I wanted to ask you some questions,” Starsky said carefully. “My master, Kenneth Hutchinson, will be working with yours — ”

“Jack Dunfey is my employer, not my master,” the old man said abruptly.

“Giuseppe…” the woman whispered, her face pinched and tight. She glanced nervously at Starsky. “Don’t speak like that!”

Giuseppe glanced around the room but the other chefs were out of earshot. “Go find our youngest, Rosa. Take care of her once…they’re done with her.”

Starsky remembered Gillespie boasting about taking a sixteen-year-old.

Giuseppe swallowed hard, but regained his composure and kissed Rosa’s cheek with poignant gravity. “Once it is over, she’ll need her mamma. And stay away from that pendejo cabron.”

Rosa bit her bottom lip, tears in her eyes, but she did leave.

Starsky still had to tread cautiously. Just because Giuseppe felt like this didn’t mean all the servants and slaves were in accord. He remembered the devoted Anton. “How long have you worked for Mr. Dunfey?”

“I’ve been with him for two years.” He lifted his chin. “In that time, he took everything from me, including my name. I was once Giuseppe Flores, but now I’m nothing until I can buy — ” he bit down on the word savagely, ” — back my wife, Rosa, and our daughters, Gloria and Serafina.”

“Have you been able to save enough?” Starsky kept his eyes on the entrances, alert for any guards.

“Not yet. There’s always some extra cost, something broken or wasted that’s deducted from my wages,” Giuseppe answered. “Or an extra fine because Glory disobeyed him. It’s never enough.” He shook his head, a man caught in a trap he couldn’t escape.

“Two years. I can’t believe you’ve lasted this long.” He hooked a thumb under the thick bands of leather criss-crossing his body. “I was grabbed barely a month ago in Bay City.”

“Yes, I’ve heard. You were once a cop.” Giuseppe dropped his eyes,. “The police have so much power. If they can enslave a policeman, what hope is there for any of us?”

“Not they,” Starsky said. “Jack Dunfey.”

“Glory told me…” Giuseppe regarded him shrewdly, as if judging his worth as well, “that he said your partner ringed you.”

The chef wasn’t stupid. Starsky chose his words carefully. “That’s true.” He swallowed, threading on unsteady ground. “My partner did that to save me from Dunfey. And Master Hutchinson is not Jack Dunfey. My situation is not at all like yours.”

Giuseppe looked at Starsky shrewdly, mulling something over. “Glory said you were different from the other slaves. That you were…bold. She said you were kind to her, and that your master was kinder to you than he had to be. We don’t see that kind of…caring here.”

Starsky smiled grimly. “My master was my partner before. That part of what we were is still there, although a little changed around.”

Giuseppe’s eyes flicked across to the two women who were sliding the pies into the oven.

Starsky followed his gaze. “If someone were to tell you that…something might happen…that could change your situation for the better…would you trust them?”

“I shouldn’t, but if someone told me that, it would be the first bit of hope that I’ve had in a long, long time.” Giuseppe ran a thumb over his thick gray mustache.

“My master has wondered…how many men and women work here?”

“Six in the kitchen including myself. I insisted on workers who knew what they were doing. Only two of my staff are ringed.” He gestured toward the sous-chefs.

Another man, obviously a slave wearing a few straps of strategically placed leather, walked in and waited about ten feet away from where Giuseppe and Starsky talked.

“Get what you need out of the fridge, Carlos,” Giuseppe said kindly.

Carlos nodded mutely, his eyes dull. Starsky suspected that he’d been a slave a long time. Carolos got a bottle of white wine out of the refrigerator and two glasses from a nearby shelf.

“He’s one of the oldest slaves here,” Giuseppe said sadly. “He and his twin brother used to be Mr. Dunfey’s favorites, but the twin died. They once dreamed of being actors.”

“Damn,” Starsky said softly.

“Carlos can barely function now; his light has died.” Giuseppe gripped the edge of the table, but never raised his voice. “This is why — ”

“You continue to work and save,” Starsky finished for him. “How many others are like him?”

“There are twelve household slaves, three more in the garage,” Giuseppe said, barely above a whisper. “Beware of Lady Harriet’s Anton. He’s totally indoctrinated and relishes his position.”

“Guards?” Starsky mouthed, as quietly as the chef.

“Fifteen, ten in and around the house, five more in the grounds. They rotate every four hours,” Giuseppe answered. “This does not count Patello and Kuyt, who are directly under Mr. Dunfey. What are you planning to do?”

“What would you like to do?” Starsky countered.

“Take back what is ours,” Giuseppe said simply, the muscles in his cheeks gripping hard.

“That’s what we intend to do.” Starsky clasped the chef’s hand tightly. “Your staff looks up to you. Stay alert I’ll — ”

Anton, Harriet Roget’s slave, came in from the hallway carrying a champagne bucket. He glanced around with a supercilious expression and saw one of the sous-chefs washing dishes. “You. Get champagne and brie for Lady Harriet.”

Starsky was surprised that Anton had the effrontery not only to treat another slave like that, but also to refer to his mistress by her first name. There definitely was a pecking order, even among slaves.

The smaller woman ducked her head and dried her hands quickly, about to do what he asked.

“Sabine.” Giuseppe stood, showing that he was the superior in the kitchen. “Please get Davey what he needs for his master. I will deal with Anton.”

“Thank you, sir,” Sabine murmured. She didn’t even look at Starsky, just stood waiting like a robot who had to be programmed.

“Slut,” Anton said distinctly, dropping the champagne bucket on the counter. It hit with a clang that sent a shudder through Sabine.

“Anton?” Giuseppe said frostily. “What does your mistress require?”

“She and Master Dunfey,” he said, as if announcing the names of the king and queen, “Are together, and would like champagne and a brie at room temperature.”

Starsky took one last look at the chef. He hoped he’d found an ally. If this man was on their side, and if he was strong enough to lead his crew, if Hutch and he could bring about a radical change in power, they would need Giuseppe.

Starsky slipped an arm around Sabine’s shoulders, giving her a gentle hug. He could feel her nervousness, uncertain of what she was about to be asked to do. How long had she been ringed? “You’re safe,” he whispered. “How about you tell me where the roast beef is, and I can make some sandwiches.”

“Oh.” Sabine let out a long sigh, her tense muscles relaxing slightly. “That’s easy enough. I’ll get it for you.” She finally looked up at him, her almond shaped eyes bright with fear, although she tried smiling. It came out like a grimace, her lips stretched too wide and too forced. She got out meat, cheese, bread and mustard, and they assembled four sandwiches quickly. Since Ariadne’s list was just a subterfuge, he didn’t even ask about the oysters and wine.

Carrying the bag of food, Starsky crossed the main lobby to go back to his room, but curiosity got the best of him and he peeked down the other corridor. Long windows let in shafts of hot afternoon sun. In the distance, he could see a tall, metal fence with barbed wire along the top. A dark figure trudged in front of the fence, patrolling.

Hearing footsteps and voices from inside one of the rooms opposite the windows, Starsky ducked his head, and began to walk back the way he’d come. A door opened and shut behind him.

“Well, who do we have here?” Jerry Kuyt’s voice grated on Starsky’s ears. “It’s the copslave.”

Frankie Patello’s laughter boomed overhead as a pair of Nikes came into Starsky’s view, far too close to Starsky’s right side.

There was no way he could walk faster to get away, or pretend he hadn’t heard them. Free citizens, no matter how abhorrent, had all the rights and Starsky had none. Strong fingers closed around his bicep, propelling him into the wall between two banks of windows. Starsky jerked to the left, but a heavy hand in the small of his back stopped him by gripping the leather girdle.

Dropping into the same mindset he did when dealing with any criminal, Starsky grit his teeth, resisting. “If you want to arrange a session with me,” he said, “you must contact my master — ”

“Hutchinson’s toy,” Kuyt said into Starsky’s ear, shoving him to the tiled floor.

Putting out his left arm to break his fall, Starsky still hit with a thud that knocked the breath out of him, jarring his arm from elbow to shoulder. The sack full of sandwiches bounced out of his hands, spilling bread and roast beef across the tiles.

“Been waiting for recreation time,” Kuyt said. “Let’s have fun.” Kuyt’s laughter had an edge of mania.

“What do you have in mind?” Patello did not sound so sure about Kuyt’s idea.

“Dose him up, see what a little vitamin P does to his kind.” Kuyt snickered. “Got some of Dunfey’s stash with me, in case of emergencies.”

“Well, what are you waiting for?” Patello groused, glancing around nervously. “Give him some. Just don’t let Dunfey find out.”

Starsky’s heart ratcheted up so quickly he couldn’t catch his breath, the pounding of his pulse filling his chest with a panicky ache. This wasn’t how it was supposed to happen! He was supposed to find some useful information, not end up a rag doll for Kuyt and Patello’s games. He squirmed, kicking out one leg, but Kuyt simply stepped down on his foot, using his standing weight to subdue him.

“I’m running low on my private stash. Dunfey’s got more in the Gold Room, but it’s only for his slaves.” Kuyt straddled Starsky’s body, sitting on his butt, grinding Starsky into the floor. Now he truly couldn’t breathe. “You’re gonna have some fun today, butthole.”

“Help me hold him still so I can stick him!” Kuyt told Patello, giggling insanely.

“Give me a minute, Jer!” Patello whined. “What if one of the guards — ?”

“We’ll tell ’em to get their own slave,” Kuyt said as if explaining to a child.

Starsky felt constricting weight rise up off him briefly, and gathered his energy into his limbs, tucking his feet under him. Just as he shifted forward to use the wall as leverage, Kuyt gave a roundhouse kick to Starsky’s midsection. Stars burst behind his retinas, agony ripping through his belly. While Starsky lay curled in a fetal position on the cold tile floor, Kuyt stuck a syringe in his buttocks.

The drug burned, immediately trampling coherent thought, filling Starsky up with an intense craving.

Phenine.

Not again.

“Never fails,” Kuyt said, sounding like he was a long way off.

It took Starsky a moment to realize he was no longer restrained, but sprawled between the two men. His body tingled as if millions of ants walked under his skin. The sense memory of hands caressing him, holding him, squeezing his cock, made him squirm.

“He’s immediately horny,” Kuyt said. “Only a true slave reacts like that.” His fingers walked up Starsky’s flat abdomen to one nipple and twisted it cruelly.

Starsky cried out, arching into the pain, trying to increase the stimuli, hating himself the entire time.

Goddamn fucking Phenine.

“Pick him up,” Kuyt ordered. “Need to get him out of the hall before anyone sees him. Dunfey’s taking one of his siestas. He’ll be incommunicado for a while, so we’ll have plenty of time to play.”

Patello and Kuyt used the straps that crisscrossed Starsky’s torso to yank him to his feet.

“It’s not him you need t’worry about,” Starsky said, his words slurring. He tried to get away but their grip on his sensitive parts prevented movement. “My master will grind your nuts into paste…”

“Shut up!” Kuyt ordered, digging his thumbs under the leather straps that bracketed Starsky’s genitals.

That hurt a lot, but Starsky had to bite down on his tongue not to moan in appreciation.

“Hutchinson’s nothing.” Kuyt gazed down at Starsky’s body with an open-mouthed lust. “Said he’d put a bullet in my head for touching his property,” he recalled, laughing as though he’d gotten one over on Hutch.

Starsky reared up, ramming one knee into Patello’s groin and twisting fast, feeling the dragging weight of Kuyt’s grasp on his harness before momentum pulled him forward. Patello shouted and went down on all fours, gasping in pain. Kuyt’s sharp fingernails gouged into Starsky’s thigh for a moment, and then he was free, running. Starsky shot down the hall, the stinging wound from the shot singing with poisonous pleasure through his blood.

God, this is sick.

“Get him!” Patello howled, one hand cupping his privates.

Kuyt wasn’t big, but he was quick. He tackled Starsky, slamming him down on the tile floor. Starsky lay stunned, forcing air past his cramped lungs. His body aching, panic swamped the rampant desire of the Phenine. He was about to be raped by a couple of shits.

Hutch.

Hutch was going to kill Kuyt for this. Starsky gulped air, feeling Kuyt clamp down on his ankles to spread his legs apart. He really needed one of those last minute cavalry saves right now. Hutch running down the hall, the blond avenger with his Colt in that big, long fingered hand. Hutch always rescued him, right?

“What the hell is going on here?” demanded a voice of authority.

Somewhere off to one side, Patello squeaked in surprise.

Befogged, Starsky felt such a wash of hope that he didn’t even notice when Kuyt let go.

Hutch!

Except it wasn’t. He would have felt Hutch’s presence from across a room. Starsky twisted around to see Manetti standing like a statue over them, seething with rage.

“Disciplining a slave, Mr. Manetti,” Kuyt answered, getting to his feet. His demeanor rapidly changed to the obsequious toady he’d been that morning greeting guests. “Dunfey has authority over all the property — ”

“Master Hutchinson made it plain that nobody, not even Dunfey, has authority over his slave,” Manetti cut in sharply. “I distinctly recall Hutchinson saying he’d collar you and sell you to the highest bidder who wanted a virgin ass if you touched his slave again.”

Kuyt paled at the threat but held his ground.

“Davey? Are you all right?” Manetti bent down, putting out a hand.

Brushing away the assistance, Starsky got to his knees. Defying all slave regulations, he glared up at Kuyt, grinning with revenge. “Looks like he’s gonna sing soprano from now on,” Starsky said as Patello leaned against the wall, hunched over to protect his aching genitals.

“Davey, you’d do well to keep your mouth shut,” Manetti snapped, his heavily muscled arms crossed over a wide expanse of chest. The ex-Buccaneer dwarfed Dunfey’s two henchmen.

Stung, but unrepentant, Starsky ducked his aching head, listening to the siren song of the Phenine in his veins. Damned stuff. He wanted to get his rocks off — immediately. Even high on the drug, he could resist the asshole Kuyt, but Starsky needed relief bad. He needed Hutch.

“Kuyt, you’re an idiot to have touched this slave. Hutchinson is gonna come gunning for you.” Manetti shook his head.

Sounding desperate to defend his actions, Kuyt protested, “He kneed Patello in the balls.”

“From what I’ve seen, he probably had it coming.” Manetti put a hand on Starsky’s forehead. “Davey looks sick. He’s sweating. Hutchinson sent him to get us some food — which I see he did, food you caused him to lose — and he was in perfect condition when he left.”

“Doesn’t matter. He struck a free man.” Kuyt puffed up his chest, awkwardly patting Patello on the arm. “Dunfey will punish him for it. Those are the rules.”

“They dosed me,” Starsky said between grunting inhalations.

“With what?” Manetti asked, his eyes grave with concern.

Starsky managed to stand with his help. “Phenine.” He tried to get his breathing under control. “Just give me a minute, and I’ll be fine.”

“We’ll still report him,” Kuyt sneered.

“I can’t stop you from acting like a puerile sycophant without a brain cell in your head,” Manetti said, showing off the law degree vocabulary. “But this man needs medical help. Where’s the nearest doctor?”

Kuyt gaped stupidly before regaining some composure. “For a slave?” He chuckled. “That stuff is made for slaves.”

Patello nodded nervously.

Kuyt couldn’t stop talking. “They feel no pain, only — ”

“I suggest you give yourself a nice big dose, then,” Manetti interrupted again. “Because you’re gonna have a heap of pain soon enough. Come on, Davey.”

Starsky shuddered, arousal crawling up his spine from just the brush of Manetti’s hand on his back. The Phenine messed with his mind. He wanted to scrub his whole brain with soap. He needed Hutch.

Manetti wrapped one of those huge hands around Starsky’s arm, leading him back toward Hutch’s room. “You’re with me.” The fact that Manetti stood so close, and was taller and larger than any one of them was a nice safeguard against further attacks from Dunfey’s goons.

“Don’t have to tell me twice,” Starsky muttered, not so sure he could walk a straight line. But he’d kept his wits and his feet under him in worse situations. The memory of Hutch pulling him close the day he’d been poisoned and given only twenty-four hours to live was as vivid as if it just happened. He could feel Hutch hugging him, Hutch’s long fingers around his head, caressing him. He wanted Hutch’s hands on his chest, his legs, and wrapped around his cock. Sweat rolled down his spine, adding to the irritating arousal.

Manetti grasped the knob to room ten just as Hutch yanked the door open.

“What happened?” Hutch’s voice cut off anything Manetti might have said. “Starsk?”

“I’m all right,” Starsky mumbled. Just the proximity of Hutch’s body was enough for a moment.

Hutch smelled like raw sex. He could have tracked Hutch down by scent alone. Hutch grabbed his arm to haul him inside the room, and Starsky nearly went into orbit from the stimulation.

“Kuyt and that douche bag, Patello, dosed him with Phenine,” Manetti said succinctly, locking the door to ensure their privacy. “They were about to get down and dirty…”

Hutch went white with rage. “I’m gonna pull out Kuyt’s balls by hand and slice them — ”

“Hutch!” Starsky panted, his fingers itching to pull down Hutch’s fly.

“Did he…?” Hutch cupped Starsky’s face, examining him frantically.

He must feel me trembling, Starsky thought, distracted by how blue his partner’s eyes were. He shook his head, both in answer to Hutch’s question and to get rid of his disturbing urges. He itched to get at Hutch’s zipper.

“Start from the beginning,” Ariadne said forcefully.

Distracted from his lust, Starsky realized that was the power that might someday lead a nation.

“And will the two of you let Starsky sit down; he looks terrible,” she chided.

“You’re hot enough to have a fever,” Hutch said, brushing his fingers across Starsky’s forehead.

“Phenine,” Starsky snarled when Hutch and Manetti helped him settle on the bed. “I gotta do something, Hutch. Now, or I can’t think straight.”

“Slow down.” Hutch ran his palms over Starsky’s torso, as if looking for injuries.

“I can’t!” Starsky said, scrabbling his fingers on Hutch’s fly. “Don’t you understand?” He stared down at that big shaft bulging through Hutch’s slacks. But at the last moment before all rational thought fled, he drew back, using anger to dull the need. “Do you see what this stuff does?” he raged at everyone in the room. “This damned slave drug?”

“Tell me from the beginning,” Ariadne said, sitting down on the edge of the bed. There was no erotic titillation in her interest, only sympathy and concern. “I want to hear, Starsky. What did they do?”

Digging both thumbs into his temples to dial down his headache, Starsky was still very aware of his partner’s support behind him. Standing at the edge of the bed, Hutch was keeping a barely-there hand on his back. He had seen Starsky under the effects of Phenine before and knew how much effort it took just to be able to speak, let alone think.

“I d-did talk to Giuseppe, Glory’s father, in the kitchen.” Starsky took the glass of water Manetti handed him, and drained it. “I think he’ll work with us. He’ll be a lot of help — ” The crawly feeling of Kuyt pulling apart his ankles, exposing him, kept breaking up his linear thought. “I was coming back here with the sandwiches when Kuyt and Patello grabbed me. They — ” He’d heard something pertinent, something Kuyt said, but for the life of him, he couldn’t remember what. ” — Grabbed me and shoved a needle in my ass. I kneed Patello in the family jewels.”

“Good!” Hutch interjected. “Dammit, Kuyt knows that Starsky is my property. He was going after him — ”

“Because I used t’be a cop,” Starsky finished. “Payback for everything we ever did to him.”

“I’m appalled.” Ariadne put one hand to her mouth, gazing up at Manetti as if seeing someone new. “It’s repugnant. I’ve had to deal with CEC executives who used slaves indiscriminately. I’ve always despised them for it. But I never — ”

“Did you know about Phenine?” Hutch yelled at her. He looked at Starsky and visibly calmed.

“I’ve only seen it used once.” Ariadne bit down on her bottom lip. “Harriet likes what it does, loosening the inhibitions, with a small dose…”

“You don’t know the half of it. I’ve had Phenine a couple of times.” Starsky rubbed his arms. He was sure there were bugs were crawling under his skin. “And I don’t think Kuyt was careful about how much he gave me. This feels bad. Worse than I’ve had before.”

“An overdose? They could have killed you — ” Hutch said, stricken. “I’m going to Dunfey. I’m pulling out. I can’t stay here after those fucks almost — ”

“What the hell did you expect?” Starsky lashed out, surprised at his own vehemence. “D’you even notice how they treat all the slaves? It doesn’t work both ways, Hutch.” He panted, wanting Hutch’s cock in his mouth and wanting to be far away from all of them at the same time. “Once a person’s got a ring hanging off them, the rest of the fucking world stops seeing them as human.”

“I see you — ” Hutch swung around, going very still.

Starsky should have been more circumspect with their friends in the room, instead he had a reckless need to chatter. “You see me. And for whatever reason, I’d go on my knees for you in a heartbeat, you big shit. It ain’t the same.”

“Kuyt likes to hurt,” Manetti put in.

“There is a world of difference between willing submission and forced slavery,” Ariadne said, sounding very tired. She glanced over at Manetti again, her eyes veiled.

“Dunfey’s gonna hear what I have to say about Kuyt and Patello,” Hutch said with renewed anger, even as he caught Starsky’s eyes with something like pleading. “Let’s see what he says when I tell him I’m done with him and his whole revolution. I’ll — ”

“Kenneth, you can’t.” Ariadne stepped in front of him, baring his way. “We’re in too deep for you to jeopardize the operation now.”

“The operation?” Hutch retorted in disbelief, his eyes blazing. “Right now, I don’t give a damn about the Abbey League. This was a declaration of war. Kuyt and Patello were going to rape him.”

“Which is exactly why you need to stay here.” Ariadne jabbed a finger at the carpet. “We need cool heads to remain on course. We are not the only ones in danger here. Many factions are coming together and lives are at stake.”

“There’s respect involved,” Hutch snapped. “If I step down from this, Dunfey will never take me seriously again. I have to fight back to regain face. His people stole my property — I’ve got to tell him I will pull out of the deal unless there are reprisals.”

Manetti held up his hands like a referee in a fight, the lawyer coming out. “I can talk to Dunfey, man to man,” he said. “Act as a witness to Starsky’s assault and complain about Kuyt’s brutality and the dosing. I don’t know about Arizona specifically, but in Southern California, it’s illegal to use Phenine on a slave without the owner’s permission.”

“So I just let this slide?” Hutch growled. He thumped himself on his chest. “Bow down like a — ”

“Slave?” Starsky couldn’t bank the need spiraling through him much longer. He wanted Manetti and Ariadne gone, now.

Hutch stared at him, guilt and aggression warring on his face.

“That’s good,” Ariadne agreed with Manetti as if Hutch hadn’t said anything. “Perhaps Hutch can get compensation for the assault.”

“I want Kuyt punished,” Hutch said more quietly, common sense overcoming his banked fury. “I’ll bring charges against him and Patello. Even in a non-slave city state, robbery is against the damned law.”

“Which Dunfey will fully understand.” Ariadne took Manetti’s arm. “Starsky — ”

He was surprised to read a humble apology in her eyes, even though she never said anything aloud.

“We’ll be in touch,” Ariadne said, her long skirt swirling out the door, almost wrapping around Manetti’s legs.

“Damn, Hutch.” Starsky hunched his shoulders, the tremors back. If he didn’t get something soon, he was going to explode. “This is the worst yet.”

“He overdosed you,” Hutch said softly, hovering without touching. He knew not to get too close when Starsky was high on Phenine. “You could have died.”

“But I didn’t.” Starsky latched onto Hutch, fumbling for his groin. “But I will if — ”

“I know,” Hutch soothed, tangling his fingers in Starsky’s hair. “I know what you need, babe. Take it all.”

His breath jamming in his throat, Starsky palmed Hutch’s fly, barely coherent enough to pull down the zipper. It was easy enough to locate Hutch’s prominent organ, which was fully erect thanks to the friction from Starsky’s hand. He wasn’t at the right angle, sitting on the bed. Without thinking about the implication, he sank to his knees.

Starsky engulfed Hutch’s turgid flesh as if he were starving and Hutch gasped, panting. He buried his nose in Hutch’s wiry blond pubic curls, inhaling his musk, all leather and arousal-warmed sweat. His belly churned at the scent. He huffed through his mouth, then pulled off Hutch’s cock to nip his taut balls.

“You are the bravest man I know,” Hutch said tenderly. “But you shouldn’t — ”

Starsky came off just long enough to snarl, “Shut up. Just shut up!” Everything was all wound together into a complex knot that was impossible to untie. The Phenine compelled him in ways he couldn’t fight, anymore than he could fight his attraction to Hutch. He’d been forced into slavery and now assaulted. He was taking back what was his. His self-worth.

Butting his head into Hutch’s thighs to force them farther apart, Starsky tongued his scrotum before giving Hutch’s penis his full attention.

Hutch latched onto the back of Starsky’s head, keeping him on his knees with his mouth claiming Hutch’s heated cock. “You’re high,” Hutch whispered, as if he was about to say more but there was an edge to his voice that proved his arousal was peaking. “We should sto…” His fingers bit painfully into Starsky’s scalp, sharp spikes of pleasure/pain blossoming under Starsky’s breastbone and down his groin.

So good.

Hutch had always been easy to bring off. He got hard if Starsky looked at him right. And Starsky had always known just how to look at Hutch.

The Phenine gave him a sudden insight. Hutch’s cock was his. He realized it always had been since that first week in the police academy. He owned Hutch as surely as Hutch owned him. He could lead his master around by the balls even without a ring.

Starsky butted Hutch again, pushing him back against the bed until Hutch sat down. The movement jostling him, Starsky came perilously close to biting into Hutch’s cock. His jaws ached with the effort to keep them from snapping shut on his lover’s swollen flesh.

“Starsky!” Hutch howled. “Don’t…” He bucked harshly, almost unseating his slave, but Starsky stayed attached, limpet-like, sucking all the juice from his master when Hutch climaxed with a roar.

Not even close to satiated, his blood roaring in his ears, and cum dripping from his mouth, Starsky chanted, “Fuck, fuck, fuckfuck.” He clawed at the straps and locks wrapping his cock, palming the patches of purplish erect flesh that showed between the bands, panting with the effort. The Phenine negated the pain from the beating; he didn’t even notice the bruises Kuyt had given him.

“Slow down!” Hutch grabbed his arms, tearing Starsky’s hands off his own bound penis before he managed to rip the ring right out of the end.

“You know how this stuff makes me feel,” Starsky growled, needing relief. “You got to…do…something, Hutch, and I’d better not have to explain what!” There couldn’t be enough sensation to satisfy him. The small still-rational place in his brain understood this was the biggest dose he’d ever had.

Hutch panted from the brief battle. He ran his hands down Starsky’s chest rhythmically, stroking and soothing the bruises starting to purple along his ribs. “Try to calm down; then I’ll unleash that monster.” He urged Starsky onto the bed, with his back against the tumble of pillows.

Starsky groaned; he’d brought Hutch off too soon. He could have had that huge, beautiful cock rammed up his ass where it belonged.

“We go slow, easy — like working an investigation,” Hutch said. He stopped before he palmed Starsky’s cock, waiting for a response from Starsky.

The straps strangled him, digging deeply into his swollen organ. It should have been agonizingly painful; instead, it aroused him even more. “Get it off!” Starsky struggled against Hutch, yelling obscenities when Hutch grabbed his wrists, holding on until Starsky stilled. “Hur09;uutch!”

“Slow and steady, Starsk,” Hutch reminded, releasing his wrists. “Can you get some control?”

Heaving a breath, Starsky grit his teeth. God, he wanted control but that seemed completely unobtainable. Hutch was watching him warily and Starsky hated that, too. He didn’t want Hutch cautious around him, or careful. He wanted fast, hard and angry…but apparently wasn’t going to get that.

His hands trembling visibly, Starsky clenched his fists, forcing down the rampant Phenine-fueled fire. Hutch waited for him, his hair tousled from the struggle. After a long moment, Starsky reached up and finger-combed Hutch’s fine blond locks.

“I’m better,” he admitted. “But — ”

Hutch leaned down and kissed the end of Starsky’s bound cock.

Arousal, pure and vivid, shot through Starsky. It wasn’t forceful or nasty, and he wanted more. “Yeah.”

“Nice, huh?” Hutch smiled beatifically. He took a key out of his pocket and unlocked the tiny padlock tucked into Starsky’s groin. Running his tongue down the length of Starsky’s shaft, he kissed and licked, covering the leather straps and the exposed flesh.

Starsky could have come from the contact alone but he held on, waiting for his reward. Alternating lapping and unbuckling, Hutch removed the leather cage with loving sweetness.

Freed from confinement, Starsky’s cock swelled even larger, the throbbing pulse drumming a solo through his entire body to the core. So amazingly good. This was how it should be. Hutch caught the tip, sucking like a vacuum while he ran his fingers lightly over the sensitized strip of muscle on the underside. Starsky nearly levitated off the bed, his climax both horrible and magnificent, too long in coming and too powerful to be forgotten.

He panted, drenched in sweat, feeling Hutch pull him into an embrace.

“Did the trick, huh?” Hutch asked, with a hint of amusement.

The nauseating effects of the Phenine caught up with him abruptly. Starsky gulped spasmodically to quell the rising sickness in the back of his throat.

Hutch saw his discomfort and waited, one hand resting on Starsky’s convulsing abdomen as if to keep his belly where it should be. “You gonna heave?”

When Starsky couldn’t answer, Hutch hauled him to his feet and helped him into the bathroom. Starsky barely made it to the black marble sink before vomiting in gut-wrenching heaves that narrowed his vision to a section of the sink and mirror above. Gasping, Starsky raised his head to peer at his reflection. He looked awful — skin bleached almost to chalk, highlighting the old the rainbow of bruises circling his right eye.

“How’re you doing?” Hutch asked gently. He turned on the faucet to wash down the sink, then filled a cup of water and held it up for Starsky to drink.

“Terrific.” Starsky rinsed out his mouth with the water and spit it out. He was so shaky that he had to lean against the basin to stand. “This ain’t gonna work, Hutch. I can’t think. I can’t concentrate… How the hell can I be of any use when I’m either sick or have something shoved in my mouth?”

“Where were you, and what did you see?” Hutch enunciated with razor sharp clarity. “You’re surviving the hardest undercover either of us has ever had to face.”

I hate him.

He had to be strong, fight this or he was nothing.

I love him, he realized with dismay.

“Fight this, Starsk,” Hutch said. “You’re stronger than you know, and Phenine is just a bunch of chemicals messing with your brain.”

“Just like the heroin messed with yours.” Starsky licked his lips. God, he was weary. Couldn’t Hutch see that he was exhausted? “I’m still horny.”

“That’s not you talking, it’s the Phenine,” Hutch said. He tossed the washrag he held into the sink and retreated to the door.

“Yeah, Phenine makes me do things I don’t want to do, but then, it ain’t the only one,” Starsky lashed out, seeing his barbs hit home when Hutch flinched. Somehow that helped and hurt at the same time. “I still want you to get me off, after I came less than five minutes ago. Ain’t that a kick in the head?”

He shuffled out of the bathroom. After a few seconds, Hutch slung an arm around his waist to give him support.

“First things first,” Starsky said carefully, letting go of his partner when they reached the bed. The thick mattress looked incredibly enticing, but he tore the lust-filled images of him and Hutch coupling out of his brain. In spite of his attire, his position in this society, his debasement at the hands of Dunfey and Kuyt, he was still a competent undercover cop.

“There are twenty-one people — free men and slaves combined — on Dunfey’s staff for cooking, house and grounds maintenance, car repair, stuff like that.” Starsky focused on getting the words out the way he had when he was a rookie and not used to giving reports yet. Hutch didn’t make a sound, staying far enough away to avoid tempting him. “That’s not counting his lackeys or the fifteen guards — ten in and around the house and five more outside. A lot of manpower, Hutch.”

“But you said this Giuseppe might help us?”

Starsky nodded, still not looking at Hutch. “He’s angry as hell. And the other slaves look up to him, I saw that. He’s kind to them.” He swallowed, the pounding throb in his genitals overwhelming. His belly spasmed again, which only added to the fuel. What hell had spawned this vile stuff that kept him continuously turned him on? “God, Hutch…please…”

Starsky hooked an ankle around Hutch’s leg and toppled him onto the bed. Hutch grunted when he hit the mattress, but his eyes were trusting. Hutch didn’t fight back, but he didn’t give in, either. He rolled quickly onto one side, taking Starsky with him.

Starsky stared back at his partner, half ashamed, completely aroused. It didn’t matter if his extreme yearning for contact was brought on by the Phenine. It made him feel vulnerable and weak, which he hated. With his forehead pressed against Hutch’s cheek, Starsky took a shuddering breath, sorting out his riotous thoughts. His cock still demanded immediate attention and his whole skin seemed to hum with a low voltage current that was so utterly painful and yet delicious that he sank his teeth into Hutch’s neck to see if the feeling could be transferred.

“Shit!” Hutch roared, rearing back. “Starsky, that’ll leave a mark!” He rubbed the side of his neck, keeping his distance again.

“Like I give a damn about that.” Starsky shook his head, feeling like a prize fighter who’d gone five rounds in the ring. Everything ached, his cock most of all.

“You should. Can’t have one of them out there thinking I allow that kind of thing. Tell me what else you learned.”

Starsky gasped when Hutch’s hand brushed his balls, feeling the last vestiges of sense leave him in a heated rush. He orgasmed for the second time, shaking all over. He’d never come twice in such a short time. Like being hit by a truck and amazingly fantastic at the same time. He could barely think, he was so tired.

“Hey, hey…” Hutch murmured, kissing him gently on the forehead. “Did that help?”

“Finally drained away the worst of the drug.” Starsky heaved a shuddery breath, melting into Hutch’s arms. “An’ not much else to report…”

“You did good, Starsk.” Hutch kissed the new bruise, and helped Starsky into the center of the bed.

Starsky closed his eyes, exhausted, and let himself be tucked in without protest.

***

He woke when the phone rang, listening as Hutch talked angrily into the receiver.

“Kuyt injected him with Phenine,” Hutch said tightly. The edge in his voice could have sliced through steel. “He’s my property, which your men damaged. They could have killed him! There are legal precedents here, in California and — ” He stopped, obviously seething before bursting out with, “If Kuyt spent the rest of his miserable life in your employ, he could never repay my investment in this slave.”

There was another significant pause, then Hutch growled, “He belongs to me, and I reserve the right to deal with him as I see fit… Are you willing to risk the future of our business partnership over the actions of a flunky?”

Starsky rolled onto his side to watch his partner struggle to control his temper. It was imperative that Hutch maintain a good relationship with their host and abide by his rules if they had any hope of completing their task.

“I understand,” Hutch said through clenched teeth. “Then forget about the appointment in the Gold Room. Between what your goons did, the Phenine, and now a mandatory punishment, Starsky will be useless for extracurricular activities for the next week.”

Mandatory punishment? Starsky sat up abruptly, his heart pounding.

“We are not finished discussing this,” Hutch said remotely, his lips pinched down to a sour line. He hung up the phone with such carefully controlled movements he could have been a robot.

Starsky swung his legs over the bed, noting that his cock hung limply between his thighs for the first time in what seemed like days. Reddish marks circled the length where the straps had been. His whole body ached. The Phenine still sang in his veins, but weaker now that he’d slept. He felt like his skin had been sanded off, leaving only raw nerve endings. Even the expensive cotton sheets irritated him.

“What’s going on?” he managed to grunt.

“Dunfey demands a public punishment.” Hutch barely moved, but fury crackled off him like summer lightning.

Starsky flinched, easily imagining the whip tearing into his back. Would the thickness of the leather harness be any sort of protection? Or was Dunfey so good he could curl the tail around the straps girding Starsky’s body?

Closing his eyes, he remembered Hutch punishing him with the strap at Luna. “Can’t you do it?”

Hutch stared at him, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “You want me to do it?” He thrust his hands into his pockets. The sound of keys jangled, his fist delineated sharply through the thin fabric of his pants as he toyed with the key ring. “No. I can’t. I’ve hurt you enough — ”

“You have to!” He couldn’t endure a beating from Dunfey’s hand. Not Dunfey. Starsky was quaking inside, but didn’t let it show. “You already said it, I’m your property. Yours to discipline. You threatened Kuyt — ”

“And only let Dunfey have you after I got something in the bargain,” Hutch finished, regaining his composure. He turned anguished eyes on Starsky, but there was a flicker of something else there. “We need to turn this around, use it to our advantage.”

“How?” Starsky hadn’t intended to sound so needy.

“Give me a minute to think this through.” Hutch blew out a breath between his teeth, perching on the edge of the computer table. “I was angry enough to say no to the Gold Room — which means, we’ve lost the chance to get Dunfey alone for an attack.”

Starsky was having trouble thinking past the public discipline. He knew exactly what Hutch might have to do — might have to make him do, but he didn’t want to have to say it out loud. If was far too hard, for both of them.

Hutch turned his head, looking steadily at Starsky without speaking. Starsky could see the fierce slave master, the intense cop, and Hutch’s gentle soul all combined into his enigmatic partner.

“We don’t have any choices left, do we? We’ve got to get him alone. The Gold Room is our only chance.”

The Phenine in Starsky wanted to lash out and yell, but that wouldn’t help. They had to deal with what they were facing. “Looks that way. If we want to get out of here alive — and that’s looking slim right now.”

“You’re such a ray of sunshine, Starsky.” It was the only way Hutch could respond with a hint of banter.

Starsky closed his eyes, taking a moment to summon up the courage to say what he had to. “You gotta find a reason to tell Dunfey that the session in Gold Room is on.” The very idea terrified him.

Hutch nodded, tugging at his unknotted tie. “He’s going to have to pay for it, though, somehow. If I just give it to him, after refusing with logical reasons, it’ll seem suspicious. This afternoon’s session is for ‘networking’ — connecting with the other criminals and corrupt CEC officials Dunfey considers allies. Maybe we can use that to find out information critical to the Abbey League offensive. Some of the CEC execs that are cozy with Ariadne will swing whatever way the wind blows.”

“Back at the apartment, you said something about me…” Starsky felt the tightness of the leather harness girding him, surrounding him. Hutch’s attempt to keep him safe. “Kneeling during board meetings…listening. If you need what I can…offer.” It was harder to say than he expected. That troubled fifteen-year-old who once gave blow jobs for drug money kept screaming in protest. “I can deal with it. Bringing Dunfey down is paramount.”

“No!” Hutch said vehemently, startling him so much he moved back on the bed. “You had the shit kicked out of you this afternoon, and were nearly overdosed on that damned drug. If I can’t find some way to minimize this public punishment — what kind of shape are you going to be in after that? And I’m supposed to offer you up for a session in the Gold Room? If we can find a way back in there, you’ve got to be in good enough physical condition to be able to be able to handle whatever happens, which at some point, we hope, might include killing Dunfey and possibly some of his guards.”

Starsky said nothing, just let Hutch rant.

“Starsk…” he stroked his upper lip as though he could feel his mustache there, “I let the King of All Scum use you. I can’t watch that again. Especially not with the ugly low-lifes that are working with him. And logically, I gave you to Dunfey. None of them are anywhere close to being that important. It…would diminishes your value, and the gift to Dunfey…if I’d give you to just anyone.”

I love you, too, Starsky thought, hearing all the things Hutch wasn’t saying.

“Hutch,” Starsky said quietly. It was weird with all the Phenine running through his veins that he might have to be the sensible one right now. “You might have to — ”

“We’ve had to do a lot of terrible things when we worked undercover,” Hutch agreed. “But we also avoided a lot worse things by using our heads. This is no different than working the streets of Bay City. We’ve just got to be smarter than them.”

We, Starsky heard.

“While you were gone on your errand to the kitchen,” Hutch told him, “Manetti and I logged on again, going through Ariadne’s private encrypted email — Abbey members in Bay City are ready to launch the siege at CEC corporate headquarters. But — there was no email from Whitelaw.”

Starsky sat wearily on the bed, feeling his stomach grumble. He wished he hadn’t dropped the roast beef sandwiches. “Wouldn’t he be in the hills with the militia on standby?”

“Manetti said Peter’s checked in with him or Ariadne every day until yesterday.”

“Maybe he’s out of range?”

“Manetti’s worried.” Hutch sighed with a shake of his head. “What if something major’s gone wrong?”

Starsky wet his mouth. “That ain’t good. We have to consider the possibility that he’s been captured.”

“Yeah.” Hutch nodded soberly. “Which makes it imperative that we find some way to get Manetti and Ariadne back to BC. It’s part of our duty to protect them.”

Starsky nodded. “You mean, besides assassinating Dunfey? Because if that doesn’t happen — ”

“Ariadne and Manetti won’t have a prayer.” Hutch caught Starsky’s chin between his thumb and forefinger, forcing eye contact. “Whatever happens tonight, know that I have always loved you more than anything. You were right — I lost my focus, torn between wanting you and the whole militant rhetoric until I wasn’t paying attention to anything but my own selfish needs. Now we’re smack in the middle of hell, and it could all explode.”

“Hutch.”

“The Abbeyite militia hopes to take down the CEC. If it happens, it could cause a news blackout. Or it could be broadcast. If Dunfey hears about it, he might think the collapse of the CEC will work to his advantage. There’s no way to know how things will work out.”

“Then we wing it, just like we always do undercover.” Starsky grinned; the Phenine increased his tendency to be reckless and wild. He didn’t have to have his jacket on to feel like old times. He and Hutch were working together.

“You scare me when you’re fearless and impulsive.” Hutch kissed him hard on the lips, opening his mouth and letting their kiss grow into something more.

“Calling the kettle black…” Starsky said, kissing him back just as hard. It felt right to have Hutch completely back by his side. The two of them had always been stronger than either of them were separately. When the kiss ended, he straightened his shoulders, feeling the thick leather back strap pull on his collar. He swallowed, the impression Hutch’s fingers left on his jawbone throbbed slightly, but to his Phenine-addled senses that felt good.

Hutch ran his hands delicately down Starsky’s torso as he’d done earlier, his touch light as a feather. He gently tugged on each locked strap, checking the bindings. Starsky wanted to pull away, but every time Hutch’s fingers ghosted across his exposed skin, he couldn’t breathe, waiting for the next sensual touch..

“We gotta go,” he reminded Hutch.

“Let me finish,” Hutch snapped, the fine strands on his head brushing Starsky’s abdomen when he leaned forward to gird Starsky’s cock in its leather cage. Hutch took his time, buckling each band into place with careful precision.

Starsky hissed, his sensitive genitals sore. Once again, he was barred from the freedom of touching his own body.

“Can you still pull the knife out?”

Starsky demonstrated, pulling on the hilt just enough to show the blade, but not completely unsheathing the small weapon. Hutch snicked the lock closed on the cock ring and his knuckles pressed into Starsky’s thigh just to the side of the brand. His hair again tickling Starsky’s skin, he reached around the back to slide the rear blade in and out. Starsky could feel the odd sensation through the thick leather that sat tight against his tailbone.

Hutch finished his inspection, and leaned back on his heels.

Starsky was sure he could feel the earth rotate, taking them one step farther into the unknown. He was the slave; he should be kneeling instead of his master. But he liked having Hutch at his feet. He understood now why Hutch wanted him that way, and felt a perverse pleasure in it. No wonder Hutch was so mercurial.

“Do you still hate yourself?” Starsky asked bluntly. “For doing this to me?”

“No.” Hutch got up, dusted off his slacks and straightened his shirt, tying his silk tie. He hid every emotion he’d just displayed, the anger at Dunfey’s plans, concern over the possible coup, and lust for his slave, behind those calculating blue eyes and imperious profile. This was the undercover Hutch, focused and strong, intent on his prey. He was dazzling. “Because I love who and what you are too much.”

***

The afternoon was stifling, the temperature well over eighty even with air conditioners going full blast. Too many people, too much body heat. The odor of perfume and the musk of sex was overpowering.

After the fight and having little food, with the Phenine coursing through his veins, turning every casual glance into an erotic come on, Starsky felt hyper and over sensitized. But he didn’t let it show, walking one pace behind Hutch like a good, collared slave. He longed for the security of his leather jacket and Yamamoto three thousand watch instead of the confining leather harness with the bands constricting his penis.

“This could get ugly fast,” Manetti murmured to Hutch as they entered the main meeting room. “My lady has done all she can, and I discussed the legal ramifications very sternly with Dunfey, but one step over the line in any direction, and we’re all toast.”

“Acknowledged,” Hutch said sourly. “But we don’t have to make it easy for him.”

Starsky looked at the back of his partner’s blond head and felt a certain perverse pride in ownership. Hutch looked regal and proud. Starsky would have followed him anywhere.

Ariadne breezed up, inclining her head at the front of the room where Harriet Roget leaned on Dunfey’s arm. “Ken, you’re wanted by his Majesty.” She gave a little sniff at the word. “He wants to announce his newest acquisition — or should I say, associate, a certain ex-Bay City cop.”

“And you don’t mean me.” Starsky wiped sweat from under the leather strap down his chest.

“No, I do not.” She laid a gentle hand on Hutch’s cheek. “Do us proud. This could help shore up our position.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, conveying his reluctance to be apart. “Duty first; isn’t that the old saying?”

The noise level in the room intensified as Hutch walked between the tables to the front. In spite of their argument over the phone, Dunfey greeted him warmly, slapping him on the shoulder and introducing him to a large man near the dais. Starsky remembered him sitting with Ariadne at the table with the other CEC executives. Harriet Roget stood on Dunfey’s right side with a calculating look that reminded Starsky of a cat who not only had all the cream, but all the mice, as well. Starsky could hear some members wondering aloud why Hutch, of all people, was getting such preferential treatment.

Starsky also noticed Kuyt lurking in the far left of the room, a long way from Dunfey’s side, with a foul expression. He was obviously in the dog house. Patello was nowhere to be seen.

Still icing down his balls, I hope.

“If I can have quiet in the room!” Dunfey called, his voice barely above a normal conversational tone, but almost instantly, the crowd settled. “I know you’re all excited to dive into the minutiae of facilitating drug distribution into under-utilized areas and broadening our scope of effectiveness…”

The attendees laughed on cue, as they were expected to, and Dunfey grinned, secure in his power.

Starsky settled at Ariadne’s feet, resenting Manetti’s right to sit where he wanted. For all Starsky knew, he was Ariadne’s slave in private, but without a ring through his flesh. In this world, those distinctions were significant.

Dunfey folded his hands and waited for silence. “Some of you have heard about an altercation between one of my men and a slave. This incident concerns me greatly. This slave’s owner had already warned my employee against using his slave without permission.” He glanced at Hutch, subtly letting the crowd know which master was involved.

Starsky steeled himself, willing a calm, cool exterior. His belly had gone cold again, which was fine, because he preferred that to sweating under leather.

“But this gives me a chance to caution all of my guests — we have a stable of available slaves, both males and females, ready and waiting for any of you to use. We recognize that any owner has the legal right to keep his slave to himself.” Quiet murmurs rippled among the crowd. “There will be repercussions for the employee involved, of course. However, during the altercation, the slave viciously injured a free citizen, so there will be repercussions for him as well. Simple fairness all around!” The murmurs grew louder, and Starsky saw a few slaves look around nervously.

Anton, Harriet’s slave, turned his head just enough to stare directly at Starsky. Raising his chin, Starsky accepted that challenge, and stared back.

Then Starsky noticed Douglass Watson, Lvoff’s big pierced slave, watching him. What the hell did he want?

Whatever Hutch was thinking was hidden behind a tough, impenetrable mask.

“On to the good news.” Dunfey clapped Hutch on the back hard enough to make him take a step forward. “When I set up my government at headquarters,” Dunfey continued, “I’ll appoint Ken Hutchinson as my Chief of Special Police in Bay City. He’ll be my right arm, reporting to me directly.”

Hutch smiled faintly, as if accepting an honored position.

The crowd’s comments grew louder, even belligerent. Starsky heard grumblings about, “You can’t trust a cop!” and “He busted me, and I’m supposed to work through him?” Ariadne and Manetti looked worried.

Dunfey raised his hands, taking control of the room again. “Those of you who want special latitude in the city for setting up drug operations, prostitutes, slave houses, gambling — you’ll negotiate terms with Hutchinson.”

“Thank you, Ja — ” Hutch started to say.

“I’m supposed to trust a cop with my business?” Leo Gillespie stood up.

“Yeah!” another voice yelled. “He busted me. I just got out, and now I gotta do business with him?”

Starsky couldn’t help himself and started to crouch, ready to come to his partner’s defense.

Ariadne pushed him down until his butt hit his heels. “Simmer down,” she said, barely above a whisper. “Let Hutch handle it.”

The light touch of her feminine hand on his bare back was a shock and set bolts of arousal through him. Starsky clamped his jaw shut, fighting the overwhelming urge to respond to her. He struggled to get his libido under control.

“As a former cop,” Dunfey said, “Hutchinson already knows the ins and outs of just about every one of your business enterprises. He knows where the secrets — and the bodies — are buried in the old BCPD.” He looked over at the table with the CEC executives. “And he knows who among the brass has the kind of vices that can be used against them. More importantly, he’s got the backbone to turn the Special Police into our own private militia.”

The murmur among the crowd grew louder, but Starsky couldn’t gauge the thoughts of the attendees without seeing some of their faces.

“Thanks for the vote of confidence, Jack,” Hutch said tightly. “You’re right, I do know a great deal about most of the men in this room. When I was working for the BCPD, I used that information against you. But now I work for Jack Dunfey. That means I’ll use your inside information to facilitate your business. I’ll make the Special Police work for you. What are your needs, and how can they help Dunfey run the new government? You let me know, and I’ll ensure the Special Police make your life easier.”

That brought more chatter from the attendees, but Starsky still couldn’t determine if it was favorable or not.

“I’ll let Hutchinson mingle and get to know the rest of you,” Dunfey said expansively, “while I attend to some private business.” He stepped back from the podium, whispered something to Harriet, and gave a curt nod to Kuyt.

Kuyt slunk after his boss like a whipped dog.

Starsky wondered if Kuyt would be subjected to the same punishment he was. He hoped so.

“I think that went as well as could be expected,” Ariadne said, running her hand down Manetti’s sleeve. She seemed nervous and concerned.

“If this is what it means to have friends in high places…” Manetti replied dismally.

Starsky fidgeted on his knees, reluctant to get sucked into their concern on top of his own. Hutch was in a dangerous, potentially deadly spot. Starsky didn’t feel like either he or his partner were safe until Hutch walked back across the room and stood next to him. Ariadne and Manetti made eye contact with Hutch, then drifted away to “chat up” Ariadne’s group of executives.

“Shall we meet and greet?” Hutch hooked a finger under Starsky’s leather collar and hauled him up, surprisingly roughly, kissing him when Starsky was standing erect.

“Nice, but what was that for?” Starsky asked, panting into his partner’s open mouth. He was also aware they were the center of attention. He didn’t care in the slightest; he ground his groin into Hutch’s with drug-spiked need.

“A little demonstration of dominance,” Hutch whispered back, pushing him back until they were no longer touching. “Because I wanted to. Needed to.”

That, Starsky believed most of all.

An elegantly dressed man wearing an expensive lightweight suit with a gold pin securing his tie walked over. He stuck out a hand, shaking Hutch’s. “I remember you,” he said. “Although, you may not know me. Harry ‘the Horse’ Dolesky. I used to run a gambling establishment in San Francisco, but I was in and out of So. Cal all the time.”

“You must have known the Professor and Myron Kaplan,” Hutch said, still holding onto Starsky.

“I did, indeed. Sorry to learn that the Professor passed last year, but we all gotta go sometime, right? I still keep in contact with Kaplan, even though he’s gone to the Eastern seaboard for, shall we say, his health?” Dolesky eyed Starsky up and down. “Nice piece of meat. I wouldn’t mind getting a ride on a stallion like that. Especially after the way he took care of Dunfey this morning.”

Starsky forced down his reaction and kept his eyes lowered, watching Dolesky’s suede shoes.

“Then you saw what Dunfey offered me for the privilege,” Hutch said dispassionately. “I might consider granting favors — but it would have to be for something of commiserate value. In particular, it would have to be something of specific value to Dunfey.”

“Of course; excellent management strategy,” Dolesky said. “Perhaps we can talk further in your office in Bay City. I think I can give you what you need.”

Starsky glanced around as Dolesky and Hutch said a few final words. Hutch was definitely popular. A cluster of men were gathering near, jockeying for a chance to talk to him. When Hutch noted the group, he glanced at Starsky with a raised eyebrow, then pulled over a comfortable chair. Starsky dreaded the hours he might spend on his knees as Hutch conducted Dunfey’s “business.”

Before sitting down, Hutch waved over one of Dunfey’s serving slaves. Starsky recognized Carlos, now wearing chaps with nothing under them, his ringed cock fully exposed. “I’m going to be doing business here for a while,” Hutch told Carlos. “Davey’s had a difficult afternoon. I want him to be rest. Please bring a floor cushion for him, and, we’d both like a roast beef sandwich and a cold soda.”

The slave bowed nervously. “Of course, Master Hutchinson. Right away!”

Starsky blinked, wondering what the effect would be of Hutch treating him to such luxury. “Hutch?” he murmured, low enough that only his master could hear. “Is that a good idea?”

Hutch leaned down, stroking Starsky’s hair. “You’re still high on Phenine. You’ve got to reserve energy for whatever is facing us tonight. I’ve just shown everyone how valuable you are to me. The more valuable you are, the higher the price for your services. It’ll give me more leverage to argue against Dunfey’s punishment.”

Yet make me more desirable for the Gold Room, Starsky realized. Hutch was getting too good at this.

An angular man with a wicked scar across the bridge of his nose was next. Starsky knew the unforgettable face without the scar; he’d arrested the man’s older brother Harlan. He filed away the name, Horace Marlow, listening to the conversation, as he settled himself comfortably on the large, plush cushion Carlos brought him.

As Hutch unwrapped his thick sandwich, Carlos leaned down to hand Starsky his, and whispered, “Giuseppe made this with his own hands. The best bread. The best meat. He says for your strength.”

Starsky polished off the sandwich with all speed, fearful that someone would find an excuse to take it from him. The food and drink did give him energy, and seemed to ramp up the lingering Phenine even more. The persistent hum of desire was starting to manifest as physical pain in his groin — every part of him, to be truthful. But even so, Starsky dreaded being the pay-off for Hutch’s negotiations. He remembered Hutch’s fierce declaration in the hotel room, and hoped he could live up to it.

“I’ve been bringing in a hundred tons of cigarettes every month from the south to Bay City,” Marlow said between puffs on a foul-smelling example of his product. “I pay Dunfey ten percent off the top. But I need you to guarantee me safe passage.”

Finishing the last of his meal, Hutch nodded as if unconvinced, one hand poised against his cheek.

“Listen, I know you’re a hard dealer,” Marlow said quickly, waving his cigarette around until Starsky was sure everyone in the vicinity was going to expire from smoke inhalation. “You want the straight dope. I got something for you.” He lowered his voice. “My brother Harlan lives in BC, runs one of them slave houses on Lincoln.”

“Thought your name sounded familiar,” Hutch said blandly. “I know the place; specializes in underage boys.”

“Exactly!” Marlow tapped Hutch on the chest with the same hand holding the cigarette. Hutch wrinkled his nose and backed up. “We could make a deal? A little info, a little give and take?”

Starsky couldn’t stifle a cough any longer. He was surprised when pleasure/pain blossomed in his chest, whetting all his repressed arousal for just a moment. Somehow, the need seemed worse than before.

“Dunfey uses my brother’s place, exclusively,” Marlow said sotto-voce. “And Harlan keeps one special slave for his use only. Curly-haired boy, a lot like your slave, so Dunfey can do as he pleases with him.”

Hutch raised his eyebrows.

“Thing is — there’s no love lost between me and my brother, if you catch my drift.” Marlow dropped the lit butt to the floor, almost on Starsky’s floor cushion, and ground it out. “I heard you’re looking to expand, buy another slave house. If you eliminated Harlan, you could take over and have Dunfey’s special playpen under your thumb.”

“You have an appallingly devious mind, Marlow,” Hutch said.

Starsky could hear the anger Hutch was hiding. What a low life — selling out his own brother so he could sell illegal cigarettes, and using abused, underaged slaves to profit from it.

“That’s the kind of currency I’m looking for,” Hutch said. “When I get to Bay City, I’m sure it won’t be hard to shut down that house on any number of code violations. New ones, if necessary. Get in touch with me next month. It shouldn’t take long to work out the details.”

Marlow glanced down at Starsky, and leaned forward to say quietly to Hutch, “What’s the chance of getting a little bonus from your boy there?”

Even though he’d been expecting this, Starsky had to swallow hard to quell his instant nausea, the roast beef suddenly roiling in his gut. At the same time, his cock swelled against the cage at the very thought of having sex, any kind of sex. How the hell could he be both repulsed and turned on by the idea at the same time? Fucking Phenine! He glanced up at Hutch, wanting nothing more than to curl against his master’s leg. As if Hutch was a lodestone, and he a magnet, he found himself doing just that, leaning slowly until he was pressed against Hutch’s leg. The physical contact was like an jolt of electricity. Hutch put his hand against the back of Starsky’s head, fingers digging into his scalp. Starsky couldn’t help moaning low in his throat, the pressure on his skull exactly what he wanted. That little frisson of pleasure gave him a moment to collect himself, so he could pay better attention.

Hutch’s eyes went cold as he stared at Marlow. “Your safe passage through Bay City is your bonus. Don’t push your luck.” His voice was low, deadly, but only Marlow and Starsky heard him.

“Right,” said Marlow, drawing back as if he’d been slapped. He looked at Hutch with new respect. “Good doing business with you, Hutchinson!” Marlow shoved another cigarette in his mouth so he could pump Hutch’s hand.

Starsky closed his eyes, trembling. He couldn’t look at Hutch. The afternoon wasn’t over.

He squared his shoulders, feeling the tight pull of the leather harness. Looking up through his eyelashes, Starsky was startled to realize Hutch was talking with Gavin Haley, a silver-haired CEC executive who’d helped Cosgrove take power. He’d been one of Roschenzky’s higher-up pals. That he was here, working with Dunfey, just showed what a crooked bastard he was. Ariadne had warned Hutch to never turn his back on this guy, that he was angry about Roschenzky’s death. She was also certain that he’d attained his position with Cosgrove through fraud and blackmail. She’d referred to him as “The scum of the earth in a tailored suit.”

“Hutchinson, you know what kind of influence I have,” Haley said arrogantly, without introduction.

“Had,” Hutch said tightly. “How much influence you’ll have in the future will be up to Dunfey. And me. You don’t have Roschenzky to cover your ass anymore.”

Haley nodded, tightly. “You made sure of that, didn’t you?”

Hutch let a slight smile play around his mouth. “He dealt the hand. I just played it out.”

“You underestimate how far-reaching my influence is,” Haley growled. “When Dunfey takes over the presidency, I’ll still be in the office next door. That’s why I’m here. That’s why the rest of the CEC board is here. To make sure negotiations for the transfer of government power go smoothly. You don’t want to rock that boat.”

Hutch snorted in contempt. “You’re worried about me rocking it, when you and the rest of the CEC flunkies are here to sink it. What a joke. Where are you going with all this?” Hutch asked, still fingering Starsky’s head. He traced the curve of the ear and pinched Starsky’s lobe between two fingers.

It felt fantastic and dialed down the Phenine to almost half. But it made it harder for Starsky to follow the conversation.

“Very simple.” Haley chuckled. He looked a man who usually got exactly what he wanted. “I want to fuck the cop whose enslavement was the real motivation for you killing Roschenzky. Call it a revenge fuck. Roschenzky would like that. Y’see, since you were just a street dick before, you had no idea how much Roschenzky did for the CEC. He was indispensable to us, and how he’s gone. So, you’re gonna have to fill those shoes — if you want to survive in your new job, Hutchinson. In fact, every man at that table — ” he indicated the CEC brass watching from the prime location they’d occupied throughout the meetings, “figures they deserve a piece of your little toy’s ass. Because, just like Cosgrove before him, after a month, Dunfey will move onto other things and be just a figure head. We’ll will be doing the real work of running the country, just like we do now. And if you think you can manage your little corner of heaven without our cooperation, think again. Dunfey didn’t tell you there was a tariff to get into your office. So, I’m telling you now. We’ll all take a turn with him. I get to go first. We’ll be happy to let you watch.”

Starsky held perfectly still. Most of this was news to him and Hutch. He shuddered, wondering how deep they were going to have to go if they lived long enough to return to Bay City.

“That will never happen,” Hutch said flatly. “My slave is worth more than your whole sorry bunch put together. And here’s a news flash. I’m not here to make your life — or the life of your fat cat friends — any easier. Roschenzky’s not here to hold your dicks for you? How sad. Do your own jobs for a change. And if you don’t, well…I’ll be doing mine. We’re bound to run into each other. Now, get lost before I lose my patience.” Hutch turned away to finish the last of his soft drink, completely dismissing the corporate executive.

Starsky saw Haley’s look of intense anger before Hutch did and almost spoke out of turn, nudging Hutch’s calf with one elbow.

“Haley?” Hutch turned, his quiet authority equaling his opponent. “We can make this as difficult as you want.” He removed his hand from Starsky’s ear, leveling his finger at the other man. “The matter is closed.”

“I’ll speak with Dunfey himself about this,” Haley said angrily.

“Go ahead,” Hutch replied with a cold austerity. “You’ll still have to deal with me in Bay City. You won’t get very far if the head of the Special Police doesn’t cooperate with you.” He stared at Haley a moment longer until the man finally turned and left.

“Having fun yet, Ken?” Ariadne asked, as she and Manetti returned in time for Dunfey’s meeting to resume.

“Is that what you call it?” he asked quietly enough so only they could hear.

She and Manetti sat at the table. Manetti picked up a freshly filled glass of water with ice and downed it, obviously thirsty.

Hutch glanced around and leaned close to Ari as if flirting. “Any word from outside?”

She shook her head subtly, then laughed as though he’d said something outrageous. “Can’t seem to get to Dunfey long enough to get permission to make a call out.” While smiling, her voice was soft enough to be private. “I no longer think that’s a coincidence.”

“No good news over email,” Manetti said with the glass still against his lip. “In fact, no news at all.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, frowning worriedly.

“It was lovely having the pleasure of Davey’s sweet mouth earlier,” Ariadne said loud enough to be heard by those nearby. “Worth the price, that’s for sure.” She bent down, tilting Starsky’s chin up so he could look at her.

The Phenine was waning, but he still had to force down a jolt of rampant desire.

“How are you, David?” she asked quietly.

Surprised by her genuine sympathy, he hitched a shrug. “Waiting for my master’s orders, mistress.”

“You’re the hottest thing in this room, David. You put all the other slaves to shame.” She kissed him tenderly on the cheek, close to the bruising around his eye. Every hair on his body stood up in response. Ariadne smiled. “Harriet’s right about you. Lucky Hutch.”

“Sweet talker,” he said so only she could hear. “No wonder all the boys are so crazy about you!”

Manetti muttered something to Ariadne and they stepped away from the table to talk to nearby attendees.

The crackling tension around Hutch after the meeting with Haley had discouraged the rest of the hangers on, and they had all drifted away. For once, he and Starsky were relatively alone. Was it possible they might get through this afternoon without Starsky having to service one of these bastards? He refused to think past the next few hours as Dunfey’s voice droned on in the distance.

“As soon as he takes a break, I’m going to ask Dunfey his plans for that shit, Kuyt,” Hutch said softly. “But rest while you can. Considering what Dunfey said about using other masters’ slaves earlier, I think you’ll be safe for a few minutes. Okay?”

Just the thought of being separated from Hutch even for a moment caused a jolt of Phenine-spiked adrenaline to shoot through Starsky. He closed his eyes. He was a cop. This was his job. It didn’t matter if he was drugged out of his gourd. “Yeah, okay. Hurry back.”

“Your wish is my command,” Hutch teased, but he was surveying the room the entire time.

Starsky did the same, although his vision was limited to what he could see. Mostly table legs and shoes, and other slaves crouched beside their masters, no doubt envying him the luxury of his cushion.

Starsky kept his eyes and ears open as Hutch left, listening in on whatever private conversations he could. The common attitude that slaves were just mindless toys worked to his advantage. No one considered he might actually do something with the information he overhead.

Russian mobster Mikhail Lvoff and Harry “the Horse” Dolesky sat at the table next to Hutch’s. Neither of them apparently had any confidence in Dunfey’s goals, bolstering Starsky’s faith that the Abbey League could undermine Dunfey and the CEC. The criminals’ lack of trust in their self-appointed leader was exactly the lever the Abbey League needed. That just proved they weren’t as closely aligned as they’d feared. Starsky wondered how many of Dunfey’s brotherhood truly trusted him.

“Dunfey wants to run these criminal enterprises like a business, but he’s in over his head,” Dolesky said.

“He’s a leetle frog trying to take over the big pond,” Lvoff said, nodding. “He’s a great friend if he likes you, and a bastard if you are on his bad side. Luckily, we’ve been on good terms, but…”

His slave, Douglass Watson, knelt on the other side of Lvoff’s chair, as still as a statue. Unlike some of the other slaves in the room, Starsky got the impression Watson was listening, too, and biding his time.

“Gonna have to grow eyes in the back of his head,” Dolesky observed, “once he’s crowned himself king. Of course…” He grinned fiendishly. “He has Hutchinson to be those eyes…”

The Russian suddenly reached over and grabbed Starsky by the hair, hauling him off his cushion and pulling him closer to the two seated men. “You belong to that blond one, da?”

The difference between Hutch’s gentle hair tugs and Lvoff’s brutal yank was light years apart. Phenine surged up to maximum, the pain so extreme that even the Phenine couldn’t dampen its affect. Tears sprang into Starsky’s eyes, but he knew his place all too well. A slave didn’t look up into the face of a master, didn’t speak unless directly told to, and didn’t move when a man had him by the hairs. Hutch was yards away talking to Dunfey, his mouth in a firm line. He looked pissed and too preoccupied to notice what was happening to Starsky.

Starsky inclined his head just enough to answer Lvoff in the affirmative without causing his hair to be pulled out by the roots. The pain was sharp, but kept him focused. He kept hoping Hutch would turn, see the Russian mauling him, and interfere.

When the Russian tugged even harder, Starsky actually considered crying out.

“He obviously beats you,” Lvoff said, the oily lust in his voice as menacing as a knife laid against Starsky’s throat. He traced one blunt forefinger around the bruises coloring Starsky’s eye, smiling. “So much prettier when it is random, abstract art on living canvas. Tell your master that Lvoff will speak with him.”

“Hutchinson,” Dolesky put in, “used to be a cop.”

“I am even more intrigued. So what made him change sides?” They talked over Starsky’s head, totally ignoring him although Lvoff tugged and pulled at his hair once in a while, apparently enjoying the play of soft curls coiled around his hands. He let go finally, and the abrupt release nearly made Starsky fall into Dolesky’s lap.

“Get outta here,” Dolesky said roughly, nearly knocking him to the floor in his haste to push Starsky away.

Dolesky’s command was his escape, and he took advantage of it since Hutch was still preoccupied. Landing on all fours, he used the opportunity to scuttle back to his cushion. Before Starsky could move clear of their table he felt the rasp of something slide against his rib cage, just under the straps that banded his chest.

Dolesky slid something in there! he thought. A small piece of paper? He couldn’t bring any attention to the hidden slip, not in the middle of a room full of enemies. The stinging in his scalp was hard to ignore, but as it subsided, he realized something else. Dolesky shoved him away as if having a naked man near his groin repelled him. Which is an interesting response from a man who’d been bartering to “ride” this stallion earlier.

Starsky watched with relief when Hutch nodded and shook hands with Dunfey. He wore a troubled expression.

Starsky caught his master’s eye when Hutch sat down again, and knew Hutch understood they needed some privacy to talk.

“If we could get back to order?” Dunfey called out, waiting until the room quieted. “Volume, sales, and distribution are the key to profits in the drug business,” Dunfey said. “Take the phenomenal rise in Phenine… It was only created a short time ago, but use has sky-rocketed because the product fit a niche in the market.”

Starsky couldn’t stop thinking about Dolesky, and the secret under his harness. Who exactly was Dolesky? Starsky itched to pull out the little paper.

Dunfey rapped a knuckle sharply on the podium and four slaves trotted in, their bodies held stiffly upright but eyes cast down in submission. “These were citizens, earning a wage. Now they’re slaves.” He chuckled. “My slaves.”

Two naked men, Glory, and an almost identical younger girl, knelt directly in front of Dunfey. Starsky could see Glory’s eyes, her shame radiating in the flush of her cheeks. Her sister wore heavy chains looped around her body, weighing her down until she almost sagged, but she kept her back stiff. A punishment? He shuddered.

“Anyone with enough money can own a slave. It’s impossible to keep up with demand.” Dunfey’s voice boomed out. “Slavery is big business with one of the largest profit margins. Just a minimal outlay to enslave the individual, and a small investment in training. Turn around is swift, and the revenue is in the tens of thousands.”

The raucous clapping and comments buzzed in Starsky’s ears.

Slavery is big business.

Without warning, big hands slipped under his armpits, lifting him to his feet. “Let’s blow this pop stand,” Hutch whispered, leading him out of the room as Dunfey restored order.

“For the next hour we’ll hear reports from my main suppliers of different products — human and pharmaceutical — on how best to keep profits up…”

Starsky stumbled on the uneven floor, playing up his own weakness, happy for any excuse to escape their host’s presence. When he caught sight of Hutch’s stricken face, he realized Hutch needed the diversion just as much.

The restroom adjacent to the meeting hall was too public to speak freely, even though there wasn’t anyone else in the place. Starsky turned on the taps full-force and shoved his head under the flow, gasping at the cold water splashing over his face. Leaving the water on so the noise could be a sound barrier against any eavesdroppers, he looked over at Hutch leaning against the door, watching him.

The guilt in Hutch’s eyes was palpable. He lifted his chin, anger and repentance a volatile combination that could go off at any moment.

Starsky felt like they were back at Luna when he’d demanded to know how much Hutch had paid for him. He shook his head, the water droplets from his hair spraying across the tile. After drying his hands on the plush linen hand towels neatly folded in a basket, he plucked the small folded paper out from under the straps crossed over his sternum. Dropping it into Hutch’s cupped hand, he said, “Dolesky shoved this in my harness. He’s up to something.”

Hutch pried open the tiny square as Starsky tried to read the cramped writing beside him.

“‘Fundamental Business; Important we meet.'” Hutch read, clearly confused.

“Fundamental bus…?” Starsky said, impatiently. “He’s darkened the first letters of Fundamental, Business, and Important.”

“FBI?” Hutch frowned, pocketing the note. “Southern California branch? New Mexico’s? Arizona’s?”

The situation with the FBI was mysterious to outsiders. Even though the United States no longer existed, the FBI’s bureaucracy was so strong, it reorganized into branches in separate state units, while keeping a governing body of its own that oversaw the investigation of organized crimes that crossed state and citystate borders. These days, the FBI acted more like Interpol within what had once been the U.S. By maintaining their own rules and regulations, and strong-arming weak governments into financially supporting them, they were still a powerful law enforcement agency. Many regular cops had heard rumors that part of the Fort Knox bullion that had disappeared when the states dissolved resided in the basement of the main FBI headquarters back East and helped fund their work.

“In the past,” Hutch continued, looking over the note, “we’ve never played well with them, but that was before everything fell apart. If Dolesky is an agent, he might be on our side.”

“What if it’s a ruse?” Starsky couldn’t help the disconcerting feeling of being watched all the time. “What if somebody’s on to us, trying to draw us out? What if he thinks we’re genuinely bad guys?”

“You think somebody’s blown our cover?”

“I don’t know!” Starsky smacked the wall. It didn’t make him feel any better, but it bled off some of his anger and frustration. “This whadda you call it — aura of paranoia is rubbing off on me.”

“You’re not the only one. Maybe Ariadne knows Dolesky.” Hutch absently pushed a finger under his blue silk tie, tapping on his chest. “But this comes out of left field. I can’t possibly trust him.”

Starsky bent down to drink from the roaring tap, washing out his mouth with fresh water. “There’s only two people we can ever trust….” He stood up and they locked eyes. “Hey. What did Dunfey have to say about Kuyt?”

Hutch looked at the floor, frowning. “We’re still discussing it.”

“And…the other thing — ” He didn’t want to name the public punishment and the Gold Room out loud.

“We’re discussing that, too. I’ve made it clear if he insists on one, the other’s off the table.”

Neither of them said anything for a few minutes, as if they both had to gird their strength to return.

Finally, Hutch broke the impasse. “We’d better get back inside.”

“How much longer?” Starsky asked. He was tired and revved up at the same time, thanks to the Phenine. If he could just get about six hundred hours of sleep. That and a burrito. Yeah, and freedom.

“Another hour?” Hutch guessed, pressing the flat of his hand to the bare space on Starsky’s back just above the thick leather band that girded his pelvis.

Starsky leaned into the support long enough to imprint the feeling of Hutch’s palm. As he did, Hutch grabbed his back strap and pulled him against his chest. They kissed for long minutes, almost desperately, as though they might never get another chance.

Finally, reluctantly, they broke apart and walked out of the bathroom together. At the entrance to the conference room, Starsky lowered his head as Hutch preceded him. How much longer could he do this?

Hutch flashed him a look that said be careful when he sat at their table. Starsky knelt beside his feet, more grateful than ever for the comfort of the cushion on his knees.

After the last droning report, Dunfey signaled to the four slaves still kneeling in front of him, and ordered them to hand out drinks and hors d’oeuvres. “Bonnell makes an excellent point,” Dunfey said, coming back into the discussion. “We need to establish ground rules so that we’re all working with a common understanding of the scope of slave trading. This will be the focus of tomorrow’s meetings, but for now, it’s time for a break. I have some surprises in store.” He inclined his head at the slaves circulating with trays. “Again, the strawberry drink was made especially for your slaves. For the rest of us, only the best, Krug Clos de Mesnil, a champagne which recently sold at a wine auction for nine hundred dollars a bottle.”

The audience applauded as slaves delivered champagne to their tables. The golden bubbly looked like any other champagne Starsky had ever seen. What he received was a paper cup full of a syrupy sweet party drink. He looked up at Hutch, while the other kneeling slaves, thirsty from the heat, sipped their treat eagerly. Got to be laced with Phenine, Starsky thought, worriedly.

“Everyone have a drink?” Dunfey called out, holding his cut crystal flute. “Then a toast to our future success.”

Hutch raised his glass high, clinking it with those on both sides of him, then turned his hand as if to bring the delicate glass to his lips. His wrist twitched and his fingers slipped, dumping nearly all the contents onto the linen table cloth. “Damn!” Hutch swore, bending over. He mopped at the spreading stain with his napkin, using the ruckus to pass Starsky a miniature gin bottle.

For a moment, Starsky was clueless until Hutch looked pointedly at the Phenine-laced refreshment and back at the opaque gin bottle. Then he remembered the tiny bottles of liquor lined up near the ice bucket in their room. Neither of them would drink while in such a dangerous undercover, so Starsky hadn’t paid much attention to the bar. Hutch must’ve emptied one while Starsky slept off the effects of Kuyt’s attack, and stashed the bottles in his pocket just in case. What did he plan to use the Phenine punch for?

Huddling low over his cup, with his back to the room, Starsky tipped the contents into the bottle, but the neck was so narrow most of it spilled over his hands and onto the floor. Even so, he filled the bottle to the top. It was little enough, maybe only an ounce or two. Was it worth anything?

Hutch dropped his wet napkin over the pink mess, glancing down to see if Starsky was done.

Starsky gave the bottle a quick wipe with the napkin and passed it back to his partner. His fingers suddenly tingled, a surprising warmth creeping up his arms. He was right, the drinks were laced with Phenine. Surreptitiously, Starsky cleaned his hands on the tablecloth. The last thing he needed was more Phenine in his system.

“Good enough,” Hutch murmured, brushing the back of his hand down Starsky’s chest as if establishing his dominance. Starsky didn’t care what it looked like to others; it felt amazing. Just the small amount he’d absorbed through his skin bolstered what was still in his bloodstream. He got hard from Hutch’s fingers trailing across his bare belly, and ached in frustration when Hutch sat up to focus on their host and stopped touching him.

Then he noticed the twin blond slaves joined at the waist with a gold chain had started kissing each other, breathing rapidly. A female council member watched with bored interest; leaning over, she whispered in Lvoff’s ear. Starsky struggled to clear his mind, wondering why they’d given the slaves Phenine now during the meeting. There was a reason for everything Dunfey did.

“As those of you who have shared my hospitality before are aware,” Dunfey said smugly, sipping from his champagne flute, “I find finishing off a work day with entertainment is the best way to relax. And combining entertainment with a certain type of physical exercise is one of life’s special thrills.”

Coarse, ribald laughter rippled through the crowd. Starsky noticed other slaves reacting to the drug in their system. Several were rubbing against their owners’ legs, while others simply rocked quietly in place.

Two brawny slaves came through the front doors, wheeling in a large wooden X secured to a solid platform. They set it up next to the main table. Chains hung from various places along the wood, clanking ominously as the slaves moved it into place and locked the wheels.

Starsky felt a tremor course through his body that weighed down his legs and curled his toes.

With everything else that had gone on that afternoon, he had almost forgotten about his public punishment. Hutch said they were still discussing it —

Hutch hitched a breath and reached down to curve his fingers around Starsky’s neck, but his expression was suddenly remote and hard. Starsky didn’t have to guess why he’d pulled on the mask once again.

“I haven’t played a game of tennis since we moved to this over-heated citystate, but I can’t let my swinging arm get weak. So, I’ve had to depend on the whip to stay in shape.” Dunfey smiled, his smooth blondness a perfect cover for the calculated pleasure shining out of his blue eyes.

There was a roar of excitement from the crowd and applause. The man knew what his audience liked.

Suddenly, all the Phenine-drugged slaves cowered in terror, not knowing which of them would be sacrificed. That’s why he distributed the drug, Starsky thought. So all the slaves would be ramped up to the max, since Phenine enhanced their senses. Their sex drive would be overwhelmed by their fear. They wouldn’t forget this lesson soon.

Just as affected as they were, Starsky checked the exits frantically, but they were all guarded. His need to run was so strong, he would have chanced the risky move if Hutch hadn’t already anchored him. Hutch’s fingers on his neck brought the Phenine to a boil again. He’d had so much of the drug that part of him ached for the sting of the lash, for the sublime orgasm it would bring. But the sane part of him recoiled in dread, the fear overwhelming. He wasn’t a cop undercover anymore. He was suddenly only a slave, terrified and helpless before his master’s wishes.

He stared at his partner, knowing Hutch would read his feelings. Hutch, you can stop this…can’t you?

“We have a special miscreant today.” Dunfey waved a hand effusively at the whipping frame. “Isn’t that a great word? Harriet gave it to me. Says one of her trainers loves it. Miscreant. So much better than convicts, or inmates, or prisoners — all those words the legal establishment used to throw at those of us unlucky enough to spend time in their slave system, the one they call prison.” Resentment sharpened his words, giving them a razor’s edge that gave power to every criminal in the place. “Well, no more. From tonight on — we take control!”

The audience bounded to their feet, cheering him.

Still planning to make a break for it, Starsky watched as Hutch sat brooding, his demeanor fierce. He couldn’t imagine what Hutch was thinking, planning, and he needed to know. It was the worst time for them not to be able to communicate. He sat back on his heels, gathering his body, preparing to flee.

“Our special miscreant needs no introduction if you’ve spent any time in Bay City in the last few years,” Dunfey said once the noise level died down. He clapped his hands together expectantly.

Kuyt walked forward carrying a long black leather case, Patello stiffly keeping pace beside him. They stopped beside the wooden X, waiting for their leader to acknowledge their presence.

Starsky couldn’t help noticing that they were suddenly acting even more like servants, almost like slaves, than they had a few hours before.

Dunfey drew out an elegant flogger with a long tail of knotted leather strands, contemplating the implement for a moment. “You may think that I look forward to punishing this disobedient slave because I enjoy the spectacle of watching a bound body writhe in pain.” He smiled when his audience laughed. “And you would be right. But this discipline has more purpose. It’s a lesson to all slaves, especially my own. To maintain control, it is important that all my slaves know who they are dealing with. I want them frightened.”

And they were. Every slave in the place was wrapped in fear heightened by the Phenine in their blood. After this was over, Starsky could only imagine how willing they would be to satisfy any of their masters’ needs. Dunfey’s own slaves seemed almost in a paralyzed state of shock.

Looking away from them before their terror infected him even more, Starsky realized Hutch was looking down at him with an unreadable composure.

“I will not abide a slave who lifts a hand against a free man,” Dunfey growled, all lightheartedness gone. “And this slave did considerably more than that. He may have permanently injured one of my men. This is a severe crime. If he was my property, I would have put him to death, but unfortunately, I don’t own this piece of shit. However, since this is my home, I can still punish him as he deserves.” He slapped the flogger as hard as he could against the wooden cross.

Starsky jumped at the sound, then rose onto his toes in a sprinter’s crouch, ready to run rather than submit.

Hutch grasped the thick leather strap spanning Starsky’s collar to his pelvis and hauled him upright. “I’ve got you,” Hutch said against his skull.

Starsky jerked in shock. He was so focused on running that Hutch holding him forcibly in place felt like being hit with a jolt of electricity.

“If this has to happen, Starsk, it’ll happen our way.”

Starsk.

God, how he wished Hutch hadn’t used that nickname. He could fight almost anything else, but the way Hutch said Starsk made him weak in the knees. His cock, already hard from fear, tried to double in size, straining against the leather straps corseting his length. He snarled, trying to coax his arousal into anger to subdue his terror.

“Former Bay City detective, Davey Starsky!” Jack Dunfey announced, with a piranha’s smile.

Every head in the room turned toward them.

“That’s my slave you’re summoning!” Hutch shouted. “Something only I have the right to do.”

The room suddenly stilled, as everyone’s focus shifted.

Hutch hadn’t moved from their table, one hand holding Starsky’s leather strap to keep him close. He had Dunfey’s attention now. “You told me this subject was still open to discussion!”

As much as he wanted to watch the interplay between his partner and Dunfey, Starsky knew his part. He lowered his eyes, playing the submissive. He found himself staring into Douglass Watson’s eyes. Far from being drunk with Phenine-induced arousal, the big slave seemed more sharply alert than he’d been the rest of the day. Starsky felt like the man was trying to communicate with him, maybe even offer support.

“Are you challenging me, Hutchinson? After I’ve given you the ripest of plum assignments?” Dunfey flicked the flogger lightly in the air, the thick knots snicking against each other, then cracked it sharply against the frame. “This is my house. You can’t possibly think I’d let this opportunity slip by. Flogging a cop? It’s the wet dream of every man in this room.”

“He’s not a cop anymore; you said so yourself.” Hutch pressed his knee into the back of Starsky’s leg, urging him forward. “This is my slave, my property, and by law, I can refuse any man the use of my property.”

He and Starsky marched in lockstep to the main table, stopping twenty feet away from the St. Andrew’s cross. Starsky found himself unable to take his eyes off the massive frame.

“You’d quote the law to me?” Dunfey raised a blond eyebrow. “Apparently you can’t shake off that cop mentality as easily as you thought.”

“This is a damned poor excuse for a discipline session, Dunfey.” Hutch was clearly working the crowd, using the power of his authority, his tough persona very much in place. Every eye in the place was on the two powerful men going head to head. “You didn’t mention to your followers that Davey was under my orders to go for food before some friends and I were due to start a session with him.” He stroked his thumb under the edge of the leather strap as if asking for forgiveness Starsky was unable to give. “Davey knew his place and what was expected of him. When he didn’t return, I grew concerned, and sent one of those friends, Gary Manetti, to find him.” Hutch pointed out Manetti where he sat next to Ariadne.

Peering out from under his lashes, Starsky caught Manetti’s heavy scowl. Ariadne, beside him, looked close to tears. They done everything they could to stop the punishment, but it was in Dunfey’s hands now. And Hutch’s. With every second, Starsky’s fear grew. He’d come to terms with being naked in a room full of fully clothed people. But having to be restrained, beaten, and humiliated in front of men he’d busted was worse than going down on Dunfey.

“Hutchinson…” Dunfey said in a warning tone.

Hutch ignored him, anger crackling from his entire being. “Mr. Dunfey’s flunkies, Kuyt and Patello, came across Davey while he was doing what I ordered. They accosted him, despite the fact that I had specifically told Kuyt not to touch Davey under any circumstances. They overwhelmed my slave, knocked him down, kicked him into submission, and shot him up with an overdose of Phenine.”

This struck a chord with the audience. A number of men started muttering together, and a few shook their heads, glancing at Dunfey. Making use of a slave who had been offered freely by a host was one thing, but deliberately abusing a privately owned slave without permission was considered an attack on personal property, no different than breaking into a private home, or stealing a valuable car.

“I never ki — ” Kuyt started but a growl from Dunfey shut him up completely. Kuyt glowered, glancing at Patello who refused to make eye contact.

“Kuyt violated and damaged my property.” Hutch outlined Starsky’s ribs with his hands. “See the bruising there? Boot prints.” The muttering grew louder. A slave with bruised ribs would have a hard time servicing his master, never mind a party. Hutch tucked a finger under Starsky’s jaw, raising his chin.

Starsky swallowed forcefully and struggled to contain his emotions as Hutch talked about him as though he were a costly object, not his lover…not his partner.

“It’s no secret that I’ve hit him a few times,” Hutch now had the members completely with him. They chuckled appreciatively. “But new bright marks around his eye are a gift from Kuyt and Patello. They injected him with so much Phenine, he could’ve died. He threw up convulsively, and had to sleep it off for hours. Needless to say, we had no session, and I had to spend the time nursing him back to some semblance of usefulness. He’s still affected by the Phenine — drugs Kuyt stole from you, Dunfey! I guess that’s okay with you?”

Hutch caught Starsky’s eye for a moment of silent communication, all they could afford in front of the group. Starsky felt his partner’s power buoying him up; Hutch’s caress along his cheek sky-rocketed his arousal.

“This is not a case of Dunfey’s house, Dunfey’s rules,” Hutch said angrily in the voice that had once convinced a jury to convict a drug dealer even though the prosecutor’s case was completely circumstantial. “Dunfey’s rules were broken by his own men; he was robbed of valuable drugs by his own men; and I am forced to defend the ownership of my — ” he emphasized the word with a jab of his forefinger, ” — property, and my right to prevent its abuse from anyone other than myself!” Hutch pushed against Starsky’s spine, signaling him to sink to his knees. He dropped instantly, without thinking. “When Kuyt and Patello attacked him, Davey defended himself, kneeing one of his attackers — and for that, Dunfey insists he be punished. For self defense. For following my orders. For defending my property. While Kuyt and Patello stand there, free men, unbowed. Justify that, Dunfey.”

Everyone had plenty to say now, all of the attendees arguing together, agreeing, disagreeing, each of them realizing where their own property could have been involved.

Dunfey didn’t speak, clearly seeing the mood of his audience changing, obviously trying to figure some angle he could work. Starsky nursed a morsel of hope. Hutch had been masterful; he had completely swayed the crowd. They might get out of this.

“Kuyt!” Hutch roared.

Starsky saw a couple of slaves jump at the sound of his voice, and even their masters shifted nervously. Good. Hutch was an incredible sight, bright as a flaming comet.

Kuyt looked like he wanted to disappear into the floor, but he faced Hutch with a veneer of self-importance that Starsky was surprised to see.

“I told you that if you disrespected me again, I’d do to you what I did to Davey,” Hutch sneered at the toady.

Kuyt opened his mouth, sucking in air, and pointed to Patello. “It was all his fault!”

“Hold your tongue!” Dunfey said curtly, barely raising his voice. “Don’t compound the situation.”

Starsky glanced at the audience. They were riveted, awaiting the outcome of the battle of the two titans in the room. Just about every one of them had a slave that cost money; they understood the problem.

Hutch stared Kuyt down with a superior, amused smile. “Dunfey, you told me Kuyt and Patello would be punished. When I asked you about it just now, you were still ‘thinking of an appropriate response.’ Let me suggest one. Mr. Dunfey, I want you to sell me that… piece of shit.” He pointed to Kuyt.

Starsky barely managed to keep his composure. He hadn’t anticipated that! Neither had anyone else in the room. There was some ribald laughter at Hutch’s use of Dunfey’s words, and then abruptly, Manetti jumped to his feet and applauded loudly, and within seconds, the entire room joined him. Apparently, everyone hated the toady, Kuyt.

Kuyt made an oddly inhuman noise and started to inch away, but Walters, the same guard Starsky had encountered earlier, blocked his way. “Wait! You can’t! Mr. Dunfey, no! I’m a free man!”

“So was Davey, before I collared him,” Hutch said ominously.

Dunfey raised his eyebrows, taking a step closer, looking speculative. “I hadn’t considered that solution…”

“How much do you want for him?” Hutch asked coldly, one hand inside his pants pocket as if he could pull out a wad of cash instantly. “Name any fair price. You know I’m good for it.”

“A very intriguing offer, Hutchinson.” Dunfey grinned, having regained some of the authority in the room.

Standing side by side, their uncanny similarities were evident. Two incredibly powerful, beautiful men who could easily have been father and son. Same sweep of fine, golden hair across the forehead, same pale, arctic eyes, but the resemblance ended there. Dunfey was a ruthless sociopath who used people without regard to their humanity. Intelligence and insanity, in nearly equal measure, burned like a fever in his eyes.

“I’ll calculate his worth to me and get back to you. But I do know you’re good for it. So, until then, feel free to use him as you would your own slave.”

“Mr. Dunfey!” Kuyt protested. “No! You can’t!” His voice ended on a squeak.

“Stealing from your employer is a crime, Kuyt,” Dunfey said coldly. “A crime punishable by enslavement.”

“Okay, Jerry-boy,” Hutch growled. “Strip. I don’t allow my slaves to hide their assets from me.”

“You heard the man,” Walters ordered, poking a gun in Kuyt’s ribs. “Take ’em off, now.”

The crowd applauded, then started hooting and cat calling as a shamefaced Kuyt started dropping his clothes.

Starsky almost laughed in triumph at the shock and absolute terror on Kuyt’s face as he reluctantly stripped off his pants until he stood completely nude before the jeering crowd. Having fun yet, Jerry?

Patello had slunk toward the door, but another guard stopped his retreat and was standing watch over him. The big man was sweating profusely.

Hutch removed his blue jacket with great ceremony and rolled up his sleeves. Tapping Starsky once on the head as if to say “stay,” he stalked over to the naked Kuyt, who was trembling all over, pitifully hiding his male organs with his hands. Hutch made a show of walking around the man in a circle, shaking his head as if assessing the worth of a broken down horse. Kuyt was shattered. He didn’t have the nerve to look Hutch in the eye.

When Hutch came around again to the front of the man, he called his name. When Kuyt looked up, Hutch raised his fist and punched him full in the face, just once. Kuyt dropped like a puppet, knocked out cold.

Starsky swallowed the cheer that rose up inside him like a helium balloon, the effort to stay on his knees all consuming. He wanted to jump up and down in celebration.

“That’s for Davey,” Hutch said with satisfaction. “Someone get a collar on this slave, and a good set of shackles. I’ll deal with him later.” He started walking back through the crowd to Starsky.

Nasty laughter erupted around the room.

“Impressive, Hutchinson.” Dunfey regarded his former henchmen with the air of a man putting out the garbage as Walters and another guard picked up the unconscious Kuyt and carried him out. He swung the flogger casually, the individual strands fanning out like streamers. “But you don’t need to audition for the job of Chief of Police, I already gave it to you. You certainly have the cojones for it.”

Hutch inclined his head.

“And you got your payback on Kuyt. An appropriate punishment.” Hutch hadn’t reached Starsky yet, so Dunfey walked slowly around his kneeling form, trailing the limp strands of the flogger softly over Starsky’s shoulders, and then pushing one shoe against Starsky’s left knee to widen his thighs.

Starsky kept his composure, staring at Dunfey’s elegant Italian shoes with loathing. Hutch, make this right!

“There are multiple factors going on here, as with any situation,” Dunfey said. “You’ve got a new slave, and Kuyt’s been justifiably punished. However, Kuyt dragged Patello into this against his will. Kuyt was Patello’s supervisor, and had the right to order him around. Davey, here, kneed Patello hard enough in the nuts that he may never have children…and he’ll be of limited use to me for a while. And Patello is a free man.”

A low ugly murmur started spreading across the room the minute Dunfey added the details about the nature of Patello’s injury.

“So, we’re back to where we started. No slave can strike a free man, even to defend himself. Right now, the issue still is about…punishing Davey here.” Dunfey looked Hutch in eye, throwing down the gauntlet.

Because he was at eye level with the crime lord’s knee, Starsky saw the small movement Dunfey made with the hand he held down at his side. Two guards stepped forward on his command.

“No one flogs my slave,” Hutch repeated in the voice that could make grown drug-dealers wet their pants. The guards hesitated. Hutch finished striding up to Starsky’s side. “If you want this to be a challenge, so be it.” The crowd grew still again with every member waiting for the duel.

Starsky watched Hutch through his lashes. His partner was no longer there, replaced by a blond predator chiseled from granite. He would not have recognized Hutch, except for careful way he stroked the curve of Starsky’s back, as if Hutch put all his love into the fingertips of his right hand.

“Jack, technically, he’s correct,” Dolesky said, standing up. “Whoever has the ownership chit has every right to restrict access to his slave, including the right to punish.”

“You take up jailhouse law while you were inside?” Dunfey snarled, tossing the flogger onto the table. Two expensive champagne flutes fell to the flagstones and shattered, but no one paid any attention. “Okay, Hutchinson, where’s your proof?”

Hutch stared at his rival, and Starsky realized command of the situation shifted. Even Dunfey was sweating, the back of his white silk shirt sticking to his skin in the overheated room. Hutch loosened his hold on Starsky’s arm, ostentatiously giving him the signal for obeisance.

Without thinking, Starsky dropped immediately into position, knees bent under his hips, chest to the floor, hands stretched out as far as they would go. He pillowed his cheek on Hutch’s cowboy boots with his arms extended to either side of Hutch’s heels.

“Davey?” Hutch ordered sharply, “who is your master?”

“You, sir,” Starsky answered loudly.

“Who do you answer to?” Hutch asked again.

“You, my master, and no one else.”

“Who did I tell you to go down on today?” Hutch continued as if this recitation were routine.

“Whoever would pay your price,” Starsky said. This brought a smattering of laughter from the crowd. But the only thing that mattered to Starsky right then was Hutch’s voice, keeping him steady, keeping Dunfey away.

“Specifically, who did I offer you to this morning?”

“Master Dunfey,” Starsky replied, his lips brushing against the tan leather of Hutch’s boots.

“He answers to me,” Hutch told the crowd. “I am a generous man, Dunfey, but there are some things on which I remain resolute. No one flogs my slave.”

“His training is impressive,” Dunfey allowed. “But you never produced an ownership chit.”

“Are you nearsighted?” Hutch asked dismissively. “Davey, deliverance position.”

As Starsky stood, he felt the small silver disc rap his chest between his nipples where it hung from the cross section of leather straps. He’d been wearing the ownership chit the entire time, and Dunfey hadn’t noticed. Placing his hands behind his head, his elbows out, Starsky presented himself for all to see.

Taking a step in, Hutch tapped the disc. “It’s right there, Dunfey. My chit. My slave.”

Dunfey’s jaw clenched. He was angry. “He damaged a free man. A man in my employ, in my house.” He slammed a fist down on a nearby table. “Hutchinson, when you’re maintaining a stable of slaves, you’ll understand how important this level of control is.” He turned to the audience again. “How many of you will sleep well tonight knowing that this slave got away with striking a free man? Any of you?”

Starsky remained in position, but he could feel a trickle of sweat running down his face. Most of these bastards slept with at least one slave, if not more. He could tell by the grumbling that they suddenly felt at risk.

“I hereby order the slave, Davey, to receive fifteen lashes for assaulting my man,” Dunfey announced.

The crowd roared its approval, their blood lust whetted. It’s what they had wanted from the beginning. They were pounding on the tables, shouting in excitement.

Starsky went from hot to freezing in seconds. He panted, forcing a calm he didn’t feel. He had to be strong here. Had to hold on. Fifteen lashes with Dunfey’s flogger…by Dunfey himself!

Hutch clutched the strap down Starsky’s back and looked him straight in the eye. He tapped his own belt with his other hand.

Starsky remembered Hutch at Luna, holding that belt wrapped around his fist and swinging it back to bring it down on Starsky’s bare skin. Five strikes had hurt badly. Fifteen would blister his skin, could break him.

He stared into Hutch’s eyes. No. He refused to show that kind of weakness or fear. He held his position firm.

Dunfey gestured imperiously to one of the guards. “Shackle Davey to the cross.”

Hutch blocked him, raising a single finger at the guard, freezing him in place. Hutch swung around to face the crowd again, his voice ringing out clearly over the excited roar of the blood-hungry council members. “TEN!”

The room suddenly stilled.

Hutch hadn’t moved from where they stood, one hand holding Starsky’s leather strap to keep him close. He had Dunfey’s attention now. “Ten lashes. And I mete them out.”

“I gave you Kuyt, and you’re still bargaining — ?” Dunfey said in dismay.

Harriet Roget suddenly rose from her chair only a few feet from the punishment cross. Staring at Hutch, she said, “Neville warned me about Hutchinson. He’s a hard man to negotiate with — just the kind of man you want running Bay City.” She turned to Dunfey and gave him a significant look. “Let him punish his own slave. You’ve always said you don’t get enough opportunity to watch.”

Dunfey must’ve had a high regard for Roget’s advice. Starsky realized with a shock that he might actually back down.

Roget turned the force of her personality on Hutch. “Perhaps, if you concede to Mr. Hutchinson’s request, Jack, he might reconsider his previous offer.”

Previous offer? Starsky thought, confused. Having to hold the position this long was making his arms ache.

Dunfey frowned at her, also not following. But apparently, Hutch understood the significance. Starsky could tell by the dark glower on his face.

“Before all this tedious conflict,” Harriet said coldly, “brought about by those two idiots of yours, Jack, we had an enjoyable evening in the Gold Room scheduled. Entertainment provided by Mr. Hutchinson. He’s right to refuse now, of course. Fifteen lashes delivered by Jack with his favorite flogger will render Davey useless for any recreation. But he’s quite a solid specimen. He could certainly handle ten by his own master, and still be ready for play with some rest and a little more Phenine. Here’s my offer, Mr. Hutchinson. If Jack concedes to your demand, and you, in turn, bring Davey to play in the Gold Room, I’ll throw in Kuyt’s piercing. I’ll show you how to do it yourself. You’re just the kind of man who’d enjoy that. And I’ll have Kuyt trained at Luna, no charge. He’ll be there by tomorrow. You’ll be able to sell him for quite a profit once he’s finished.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky, clearly feeling trapped. If he was the man he’d been insisting he was, this offer was too good to pass up. Starsky swallowed. We wanted to get Dunfey in the Gold Room. We gotta make it work, Hutch.

Hutch wet his mouth. “Sounds like an offer I can’t refuse.”

The Godfather quote broke the tension in the room, and the audience laughed.

“Never let it be said that I’m an inconsiderate host,” Dunfey said lightly, though he hid repressed rage poorly behind his reptilian eyes. “Harriet drives a hard bargain. I agree. The punishment is yours.” There was another round of hearty applause and cat calls. Everyone seemed to relax now that the conflict had been settled, and the show about to begin. “I can send a slave to your rooms if you need your whip,” Dunfey said graciously. He put his flogger away.

“I’ve always preferred my belt.” Stepping in front of Starsky, Hutch looked him in the eye. I love you, his gaze said. “Davey…you have to be punished. Position yourself on the St. Andrew’s cross.”

It was everything Starsky could do to get his limbs to move. Lowering his arms, he stepped onto the platform where the large cross loomed. Hutch, I don’t think I can go through with this —

As if Hutch heard his mental plea, he moved quickly to the cross where Starsky waited. Taking Starsky’s leather-bound wrist, he pulled it up, enclosing the unyielding metal shackle around Starsky’s cuff. Testing the tensile strength of the chain, Hutch leaned into Starsky, pressing him heavily against the wood.

“I would use my belt, because I don’t have anything else…” he whispered against Starsky’s temple, repeating the words he’s first used in the holding cell at Luna.

Starsky’s heart beat so fast, he thought it might leap out of his chest; he took the words as a balm when Hutch raised his second arm, and allowed himself to be shackled.

“I press my hand into your back and you stay, on my say so, because I am yours,” Hutch said in a voice meant for Starsky’s ears only, his long hair brushing Starsky’s shoulder in a feather-light imitation of the lash. “First five strokes, to remind you, not for punishment, just for us. Because I want to.” He snicked the locks closed. “And then five more to remind you that you are — ” Hutch forcibly twisted Starsky’s neck around and kissed him hard, using bruising force on his mouth, until their teeth hit together. “Mine.”

Staring straight into Hutch’s eyes, Starsky believed. Hutch had done what he’d have thought was impossible, made him ache for the punishment. Part of it was the Phenine, but most was simply the power of his master’s words.

Starsky groaned, barely able to take in an unhampered breath with his ribcage pressed against the cross. The spiky need of arousal further robbed him of breath — the dread of Dunfey whipping him transforming into a fear that Hutch wouldn’t. The thick band of the leather down his back would protect his skin to a certain extent, but the flat end of the belt would still sting where it hit bare flesh, especially across his nearly bare ass. Starsky struggled, arching back to gain some breathing room. Hutch shoved him forward, kicking his feet apart, forcing him to widen his stance. Gasping, he could feel Hutch’s erection through the cotton of his pants, pressing into his buttocks.

With his chin resting on the cross beams, Starsky was forced to stare at his audience. All eyes were on him, ready to be entertained. Hutch ran possessive hands down the curve of Starsky’s calves and secured his ankle cuffs to the cross. Somehow, even this heightened Starsky’s anticipation. Hutch knew exactly what this was doing to him. No freedom. No escape.

This was far too similar to when he was strapped to the frame at Luna, and despite his arousal, Starsky’s fear grew again. He tried to twist, to move in some way that proved he still had a modicum of freedom.

“Stay still!” Hutch ordered. “Prepare.”

The room was suddenly quiet, as if the audience was holding its collective breath along with Starsky. In the silence, Starsky heard the sinuous slide of leather being pulled free of belt loops, and knew without looking that Hutch had tucked the buckle into his palm and wrapped the thick band of leather around his fist to make a solid grip.

“This is not just because you broke an established law,” Hutch said, holding the heavy belt up to Starsky’s mouth for an obligatory kiss.

Starsky pursed his lips, touching them to the leather.

“But to prove, to all those watching — ” Hutch swung his arm, snapping the belt in the air with an audible crack that made every slave in the room cringe. “Who holds the power, and the consequences of trying to alter the status quo.”

He was putting on a show for Dunfey — warning him, even if the crime lord couldn’t interpret the coded message.

Dunfey sat directly in front of the whipping cross, right in Starsky’s view. Harriet sat beside him, her eyes bright with anticipation.

“That’s right, Davey,” Dunfey said, “eyes front. It’s incredibly arousing to witness a slave realizing he can never win, ever. When he understands that, for his master, pain is the ultimate aphrodisiac.” He poured a glass of champagne and held it up, motioning for the others to follow suit. “To the pursuit of happiness.”

Hutch’s belt hit fast, snapping with whip-like speed on the largest unprotected place on Starsky’s butt, leaving a burning welt. Starsky held in the cry that clogged his throat, clenching his teeth. The second and third strokes hit exactly in the same place, intensifying the pain.

Ten, Hutch had said ten.

Back at Luna, it had only been five. First five strokes, not for punishment, just for us. Because I want to.

Twice as many.

The belt was Hutch’s secret code, imprinting his love with every strike. Starsky struggled to remember that with each blow. But that didn’t make it hurt less.

“Put him in his place,” Dunfey demanded, watching with rapt attention. “Slaves must be reminded of who owns them.”

Fighting to maintain his self-control, Starsky stared at the salivating group, searching for some sign of compassion. All he saw was the thrall of violence akin to Romans cheering while their slaves were slaughtered. Some of the slaves, drugged on Phenine, were watching with both dread and longing, but several others had curled inward, their heads bowed, not in obedience, but fear. One pale face caught his eye. Glory crouched against the wall by the buffet table, tears running down her cheeks.

Starsky struggled to stay mute, gnawing on the inside of his cheek. When number five struck him with the force of a pile driver, he cried out, unable to withstand the shocking impact. Hutch was not holding back as he had at Luna; that had infused the beating with kinky love. This time, Hutch had to convince Dunfey that he was the master of his former partner.

Captivated by the display of raw violence, the audience cheered Starsky’s first show of weakness. Ariadne and Manetti stood against the wall, separated from the crowd both physically and emotionally, and Starsky could see Ariadne’s look of horror. She wouldn’t inflict this true punishment on any slave.

Behind him, Starsky could hear Hutch’s breathing as he swung the belt down hard for a sixth time, blazing a new trail across Starsky’s exposed thighs. Because his legs were spread apart, the tail of the belt licked the inside edges, striking the brand on the left. Starsky howled, trying vainly to dance away, but Hutch only went in harder, the seventh stroke raising another welt on his ass. The pain was phenomenal, arousal rekindling from some hidden place, not-pleasure but a strange satisfaction satiating his Phenine-laced need. It was too much, but not enough.

No more, Hutch. No more.

No more.

It was too hard to stay present. Too hard to hold onto Hutch’s words and his own self-respect without falling apart.

Hutch grunted as he swung, and number eight scorched the back of Starsky’s thighs. Starsky sagged, no longer able to stand, hanging from his wrists. With the shackles supporting his whole weight, it felt like every little bone connecting his arms to his hands was crumbling.

Yielding, Starsky closed in on himself, pulling his vulnerability deep inside. Hutch was only doing what he had to do to keep their cover. This wasn’t punishment for fighting off Kuyt and Patello; it was survival of the most basic kind. Except that it hurt all the more because Hutch wielded the belt. He’d thought that would help, but it didn’t. All those eyes watching him, getting off on one man beating another. Marlow and Halley who’d wanted a piece of him and didn’t get it. Lvoff, and Dolesky. But worst of all, that bastard, Dunfey, who was loving every minute of this.

Dully, Starsky watched Ariadne lean over to Manetti and speak into his ear. He nodded gravely and walked quietly out of the room as the rest of the council members focused on the spectacle up front.

Starsky heaved in a breath, his throat raw, and tried to regain his feet as he waited for the ninth blow.

“Exactly what this country needs,” Harriet said loudly. “A man who can inflict his will on the weak. Don’t you require him to count out the blows and then thank you for each one, Hutchinson?”

“I don’t need to hear him speak. I’d rather he save his breath — ” Hutch paused, panting from his exercise, ” — and his mouth for more…useful endeavors.”

Ribald laughter rippled through the group.

“The only reason for any of ’em to open their mouths!” yelled one of the men.

“Letting him wait for the last strikes of the belt prolongs the experience,” Dunfey said with an assured nod. “You hold the fate of his entire world in your hand. It’s heady power.” He laughed.

“Two more to go, Davey,” Hutch murmured, placing one large hand directly over a raw welt on Starsky’s butt. “You’re magnificent.”

It could have been the glowing brand pressed into his skin again. Starsky hollered, rising up on his toes, the fight or flight impulse all consuming. No more. I have to get away! He gouged his fingertips into the wood of the cross when stroke number nine landed heavily across his shoulders. The tenth and last one returned to his ass, slamming across the other welts with finality.

Deafening applause hammered against Starsky’s battered body, and he closed his eyes rather than look at the members’ raucous approval of his undeserved punishment.

“Starsk…” Hutch said into his ear. “God…” No one else could hear the remorse-filled murmur.

Starsky opened his eyes, breathing past the pain. Twisting his body to the left, which painfully torqued his wrists, Starsky craned his head to see his partner. “Hutch, you did what you had to…”

“Bullshit,” Hutch said, his expression furious. He disengaged the pins that held the shackles closed.

That had been the only thing holding Starsky up. He couldn’t fight the momentum when his arms dropped abruptly. Hutch caught him just as his knees buckled, and eased him to the ground.

“Shit!” Starsky cried when his abused rear touched his heels. His back and legs felt fried. He struggled to arrange himself in presentation, but it was impossible. He panted as his nerve endings screamed.

“I love you.” Hutch kissed him quickly just as Dunfey and Harriet came up to them.

“I have to admit, Hutchinson, I had a few moments of doubt that you’d come through,” Dunfey said expansively. “But you showed who has the balls — and knows how to use them! This is what I’ll be expecting when we take over the government in Bay City and rule that town the way it should be.”

“Do you have a doctor?” Hutch snapped, icicles hanging off every word.

“For him?” Harriet rested a cool finger against Starsky’s face to tip his chin up. He jerked away in disgust. Her long fingernail left a sharp line down his cheekbone that stung. Dunfey watched with fond indulgence.

“Still insolent!” Harriet raised her hand to smack Starsky.

“Lady!” Hutch closed his fingers around her wrist, a murderous gleam heating the ice in his voice. Harriet gasped in surprise at his reaction. “You lay one hand on him and I swear — ”

“Hutchinson,” Ariadne warned, suddenly appearing beside them. She raised her palm, the gesture of peace oddly out of place, but it cut through the tension.

Starsky bowed his head, grateful Hutch’s fury hadn’t irrevocably undone everything, and grit his teeth against the fire on his back. He found himself staring at Hutch’s belt lying at the base of the St. Andrew’s cross.

“My apology,” Harriet said softly. “He is your slave, of course.”

Hutch turned away from her, briefly touching Starsky’s hair.

The caress, as fleeting as it was, was more than Starsky expected while surrounded by the enemy. The energy from Hutch’s presence could keep him going indefinitely.

“It’s only sensible, after all,” Harriet said calmly, saving face, “that he’ll need attention and some rest. A good dose of Phenine will help ease some of his discomfort. We’ll want him fresh, of course, for our appointment in the Gold Room. You won’t disappoint us, will you, Ken?” It was a cold warning wrapped in polite language.

Starsky glanced at Hutch and saw him grinding his teeth. “Don’t worry,” he growled. “We’ll be there. He just needs some time to recover.”

“Harriet, there are more important matters to address,” Ariadne said sharply. “Jack, I came to tell you that Manetti has been monitoring the web news out of Bay City.”

“I have staff for that, my dear, in the communications room.” Jack waved her off. “We’ve got some time before the dinner is served and I have some tedious but necessary business to attend to.” He held up a bottle, waving it at a knot of slaves still cowering in terror by the pool. “Serve our guests more champagne so they can relax after witnessing that incredible spectacle! That’ll be something to write home about.” He chuckled.

Starsky itched to grab Hutch’s belt, bind Dunfey’s wrists, and jam his knife into the man’s gut.

“I think you’d better take this seriously,” Manetti said urgently, coming up behind Ariadne. “It’s on TV — ”

“Bay City is under attack!” Lvoff dashed up to the group, urgency on his face, but he kept his voice low so the rest of the room could not hear. “President Cosgrove has been assassinated! CEC headquarters has been overtaken by a radical liberation group…”

“What the hell?” Dunfey exploded. “That wasn’t — ” He stopped abruptly and rubbed his forehead. “Explain!”

Starsky lifted his head, the alarm damping down his pain. This was not how it was supposed to go. Peter Whitelaw was supposed to lead his guerilla fighters into an armed, but hopefully, bloodless takeover of CEC headquarters, take Cosgrove prisoner, and wrest power away from the Corporation.

“Ari?” Hutch’s mouth moved, but no sound came out.

She shook her head, her lips pursed tight. Starsky sensed she was trying to hold herself together.

Damn.

Hutch bent down to help Starsky stand. “We keep to the plan,” he said sotto voce.

Kill Dunfey.

Starsky nodded and surveyed the crowd — most of the council members were chatting happily and sipping champagne. A few were making use of the Phenine-dosed slaves in creative ways. Apparently no one outside the group around Dunfey was aware of the situation in BC.

Jack Dunfey straightened his tie, shouldering command, despite a look of concern. “Everyone remain here until I can talk to the technicians in the communications room.”

“Probably a little too late to keep this under wraps,” Manetti pointed out, looming over him.

Ariadne gave an impatient nod. “It can’t be true about Cosgrove. I’m his press secretary! I should be there, by his side. He’ll need me — ”

Hutch started to speak, but Dunfey cut him off.

“I’m not hiding a thing,” Dunfey said to Manetti, baring his teeth, going from civilized to feral in seconds. He raked them with a scathing glance, and took Harriet’s arm. “This is my party. I’ll deal with whatever occurred, and twist it to suit my own purposes.” He clamped a hand on Hutch’s shoulder, nearly causing Starsky to stumble. “Hutchinson, you’re promoted as of now.”

“Th-thank you.” Hutch straightened.

Starsky was still close enough to feel the shiver run up his partner’s spine at the responsibility.

“Ariadne,” Dunfey continued, “you’re right. If it’s true about Cosgrove, and even if it isn’t, you’re his press secretary. You should be in headquarters. We need your way with words. I don’t want anyone giving any speeches that you haven’t approved. I’ll need you to take control of the president’s office until I can get there. I have a helicopter that can take you to Bay City.”

“We won’t even need a pilot,” Manetti added. “I can fly just about any chopper made.”

“Excellent, Jack,” she said calmly, with no indication that he’d played into her plan. “Manetti will need to go with me, of course.”

Harriet curled her lips into what looked only vaguely like a smile, but insinuated so much about Ariadne and Manetti. “Of course, darling Ari. He’s obviously quite indispensable in any situation.”

Ariadne ignored her. “I need to pack. I’ll speak to you as soon as I get back to the city, Jack.”

“Harriet,” Dunfey said, “come with me to communications. We’ll have to figure out the best spin to put on whatever’s going on.”

Waiting until Jack and Harriet left, Ariadne grabbed Hutch’s arm. “Come on. We’ve got to talk while I pack.” She started towing him out of the meeting room, but he resisted.

“Starsky needs help,” he hissed at her, leaning down to get his partner to his feet.

“You two need to confer,” Manetti said. “And you can’t afford to look so indulgent, master. I can help him.”

Reluctantly, Hutch nodded, stroking Starsky once on an unmarked part of his shoulder.

Manetti leaned down, putting out a hand to Starsky. “Here, man, grab hold.”

Grateful, Starsky gripped Manetti’s arm and stood up. They trailed behind Hutch and Ariadne. It was hard to walk, but Manetti’s support made a big difference.

“Starsk?” Hutch said quietly when they’d gained the safety of the empty hallway. “Do you want to lie down?”

“That’d be peachy.” He looked up at Ariadne’s face, seeing her undisguised worry.

“We’ll use our room,” she said, unlocking the door. “I really do need to change out of these damned shoes. Heels are the curse of the working woman. Gary and I are ready to go, but we all need to talk.”

Starsky hated being dependent when the others had more important things to think about. He hurt but wasn’t about to take anymore Phenine, that was for sure.

“What the hell is going on?” Hutch asked once they were all inside the privacy of Ari’s room. He loosened his tie, absently rubbing his neck.

Starsky ached all over, but was afraid to stretch out on the inviting bed. If he did so, he feared he’d never get up. The Phenine had completely drained away. Without it keeping him aroused and anxious, he could barely put one foot in front of the other — and the welts from Hutch’s belt burned like the brand once had.

Kicking off her gold pumps and pushing up her sleeves, Ariadne immediately took control. “Gary, pull out those big towels from the bathroom and spread them on the bed, please. And get me a tall glass of water.”

Without hesitation, Manetti did as she requested. He carried a load of thick towels and a glass of water over to the nightstand. After handing Ariadne the water, he covered half the surface of the king-sized bed with the towels.

“David, drink this. It’s just plain water.” She pressed the glass into his hand.

Starsky hesitated, looking to Hutch for direction.

“Please trust me,” Ariadne said, impatiently. “We don’t have much time and there’s a lot to do.”

Hutch nodded.

Starsky drank the water in one gulp. He hadn’t realized how thirsty he was.

“It was hot as hell in that room,” Ariadne said to Hutch, scolding like an authoritative aunt. “When was the last time you hydrated him? He’s been sweating all afternoon. And he was overdosed on Phenine. It’s rough on the kidneys.”

Hutch seemed taken off guard. “Uh…well, I got him a sandwich and a soda around — ”

“He needs water regularly.” She turned back to Starsky. “I’ll want you to have another glass in half an hour. Your muscles need more liquid or you’ll start cramping. Now lie face down on the towels, please.”

“What are you going to do?” he asked.

“Sweetie, I told you I’ve been in the lifestyle a long time,” she said, brushing a lock of hair off her face and reclipping it with a wide barrette. “I’ve learned some ways to mitigate the pain and get a…” she pursed her lips, “slave back on his feet quickly. No Phenine, no tricks.”

Sounded promising. Starsky climbed stiffly onto the bed and sank into the soft towels with a groan.

“Gary,” Ariadne directed, “soak two more towels in cold water, and wring them out dry.”

As she went to her suitcase, Gary trotted back to the bathroom sink to douse the towels. Ariadne pulled out what looked like a standard makeup kit. Starsky glanced at Hutch, baffled. Hutch only shrugged. Starsky could easily interpret what he didn’t say: I’m glad you trust her.

Ariadne pulled out a medium-sized unmarked bottle of lotion. “You’ve got a lot to learn about being a master,” she said to Hutch in the same tone she might use on a particularly dull student. “Slaves have to be kept hydrated at all times if you expect them to perform. And welts have to be treated if you want the slave to be ready for play anytime soon. They hurt. They make the slave stiff and unresponsive. If David has to be ready for a session in the Gold Room, he’ll have to be in perfect shape to withstand what they’ll put him through.”

“I don’t intend to let them put him through anything!” Hutch said, keeping his voice low.

“You have no idea how things might go in there,” she snapped. “He has to be ready. And so do you.” She showed him the bottle. “This is a medical ointment used by masters to treat their slaves after rough play, especially after a whipping. It’ll treat the welts with an anti-inflammatory, some cortisone, and a topical anesthetic. The ointment and cold compresses will take the swelling down.”

Manetti showed up with the wrung-out towels. “I’ve got ’em, Ari.”

“Okay, give me a minute. Hold still, David, this will sting at first, but in a few minutes it’ll get better.”

He tensed before she could apply the lotion. He had to trust her methods if he wanted to stay in the fight. And he hurt enough to need relief. “As long as it keeps me on my feet. Thanks.”

“This stuff has been used in the bdsm scene for decades, when we were role playing. Voluntary submissive-dominant. Now, hold still.” She slathered the cooling gel over his shoulder, back, and butt welts efficiently, like a doctor.

Hutch looked abashed, and ran a hand over his hair. “I guess I do have a lot to learn. I’ve never heard of that.”

“It’s an underground product now, just like the voluntary bdsm scene has to be,” she said, finishing up. “Gary, the towels. You know what to do.”

I bet he does, Starsky gasped when the cold weight of the towels covered him from neck to knees. Within seconds, as Ari predicted, the fire from the welts subsided and grew numb. He sighed in relief.

“Just rest, David,” Ariadne said, getting up from the bed. Turning her attention to Hutch, she said, “If we all live through this, I’ll arrange for you to get some proper training before you do him damage you can’t repair.”

Hutch flinched visibly.

Little late for that, Ariadne, Starsky thought, thinking of his slave ring.

“It’s true about Cosgrove,” she told them, washing her hands. “He’s dead. And Bay City is in chaos.”

“Not having a line to our fighters is problematic, to say the least,” Manetti said, blowing out an explosive breath. “From what we gleaned earlier, it’s possible that the demonstrations and low level street clashes between protesters and cops evolved into all out war. So, Whitelaw may have felt the need to attack sooner than planned. It’s also possible that Cosgrove had more militia amassed — because of the civilian protests — than we knew about.”

“You were supposed to have decent intel!” Hutch snapped, crowding the other man.

“No intel is fool proof, Hutchinson,” Manetti shot back.

“Gentlemen!” Ariadne said sharply, waiting until they’d stepped away from each other. “Our chance for a bloodless coup is past. Cosgrove’s been murdered, we don’t know by whom, and most of our strategies are out the window.” Ariadne sat down in the desk chair and rubbed her feet. “We’ve got to think our way out of this.”

“Killing the president/CEO,” Starsky said, “will just incite more violence. But it plays right into Dunfey’s hands. Could he be responsible?”

Hutch frowned. “He seemed just as shocked as we did.”

Taking a deep slow breath as if bleeding out all his anger, Manetti knelt in front of Ariadne with his head bowed. He kissed her right foot and began to massage it. What Starsky found fascinating was that Manetti never lost the competent air of a lawyer or the aura of a powerful man, and he was still listening to what everyone was saying.

“This must have been what Dunfey was alluding to,” Hutch said grimly, meeting Starsky’s gaze, “when he acted shocked and said to Ari, ‘That wasn’t — ‘ He cut himself off before he said too much.” Hutch knuckled the back of his neck, concentrating. “Wasn’t what? Supposed to happen? Or supposed to happen now? We all knew he was planning to depose Cosgrove. He isn’t the kind of man interested in a bloodless coup.” A flash of guilt and self-recrimination crossed Hutch’s face, but it was gone in an instant. “He knew this was brewing. He had his own team in place.”

“Yes, but the timing took him by surprise.” Ariadne sighed when Manetti dug his fingers into her instep. “He wasn’t pleased, by any means. I suspect he thought there wouldn’t be any opposition so soon. He’d never expect the people to rise up. He thinks they’re sheep. This is our chance to hit back hard — there’s already chaos in the ranks here. Some of Dunfey’s confederates were only backing him to win. If he loses, we might bring down the entire CEC.”

“You think this could work to our advantage?” Hutch asked in surprise.

“While I’m worried that the situation has steamrolled right past us,” she wiggled her toes in Manetti’s hand, “I think we still have a chance of winning. Luckily, Jack took my suggestion at face value,” she gave a short, sarcastic chuckle, “and is providing the helicopter so we can fly back to BC immediately. It’s both ironic and exactly what we need.”

“He’s already designated himself dictator and king,” Hutch said. “I wouldn’t put it past him to fake surprise and take advantage of this ‘unexpected’ turn of events.”

“Which leads us back to square one,” Starsky said. “Take out Dunfey.”

“Unfortunately.” Ariadne pursed her lips and laid a hand on Manetti’s bowed head. “If we are to establish any kind of stability in the new government, the old regime has to be eliminated. He has to be dealt with.”

“With the two of us leaving, you and Starsky will be on your own.” Manetti sat back, extending his legs, no longer subservient. “Can you handle it?”

“Or die tryin’,” Starsky quipped.

Hutch shot him a tight, almost angry look with a hell of a lot of underlying emotion that Starsky could barely untangle. “I’ve already agreed to a session with Starsky into the Gold Room against my better judgment,” Hutch said. “He’s in no shape, and I’m not either. But by giving Dunfey a show, we can should be able to get him alone, and hopefully, separated from the others.”

Starsky grimaced, the idea beyond repugnant, but he knew what had to be done.

“Which could be to our advantage.” Ariadne got up and located a pair of low-heeled shoes from her wardrobe. “Keeping him distracted is the key — he’s smart, but he does have his weakness.”

“Don’t we all?” Manetti said to her. They exchanged a knowing look.

Starsky saw Manetti watching his mistress, and wondered if he looked half as needy when he gazed at Hutch. Probably better not to know.

“Because of the upheaval in Bay City, Manetti sent out a coded warning to the Phoenix police,” she added.

“I’m sure they know that Dunfey keeps slaves here, but I have a connection in the department, a man I worked with on a case awhile ago, Lieutenant Grimes. I sent him the names of six of the council members. Gillespie, Lvoff, Marlow, three others. I’ll bet at least four of them have active warrants.” He flashed Ariadne an unrepentant smile.

Hutch looked at Manetti with interest. “If Grimes is any kind of a cop, he’ll be able to read between the lines. Where there are six men with records like those, he’ll figure Dunfey’s hosting a criminal enclave. He’ll want to know why, and who else is here.”

“I also sent him the names of the CEC executives holding hands with King Dunfey,” Manetti said, smiling at Ariadne. “I left your name out. Of course, by now everyone knows what’s happening in Bay City. Grimes is sharp. I’m hoping he’ll investigate, maybe keep an eye on the perimeter.” He mimed using binoculars. “But he’s a good man. He can’t enter without probable cause.”

Starsky rested his head on his arms, feeling a great deal better. Ariadne’s treatments had helped take the fire out of his welts. They were sore, but not as tender.

“Ariadne.” Hutch clicked his fingers suddenly. “With all the news from Bay City, I forgot to ask. Do you know anything about Harry Dolesky?”

“I know him,” Manetti said. “He’s FBI.”

“He revealed himself to you?” Ariadne closed up her suitcase.

“Technically, he got in touch with me and I showed the note to Hutch,” Starsky said. “He must have known I was a cop — maybe not that Hutch and me are working together. Is he worth his salt?”

“You can trust him, although I don’t know his angle here,” Ariadne said pensively. “Especially with Dunfey giving Ken the keys to the kingdom.”

“I recognized him earlier,” Manetti said, “but presuming he’s here undercover, he’s not working under the auspices of the Abbey League. There are a lot of underworld figures here. He might be making connections for RICO investigations. It’s possible he decided to let you know about him because you’ve spent most of your time associating with us. He knows Ariadne and I are Abbey League.”

Starsky was surprised to hear the FBI was still doggedly prosecuting criminals under the Racketeer Influenced and Corrupt Organizations Act. Well, if that was the case, there were more than enough bad guys here to keep Dolesky busy for the next couple of years.

“Good to know we might have an ally once you two are gone.” Hutch gave Starsky a sideways glance.

“Keep your friends close but your enemies closer,” Ariadne said cryptically.

“Quoting The Godfather is apropos here,” Hutch said.

“I always find inspiration in the literary world.” Ariadne smiled. “Gary, we’re ready to go. I want to leave now to confront whatever is occurring in the city. Whitelaw might need us.”

“I’m ready when you, my lady.” He picked up both suitcases as if they weighed nothing.

Hutch moved over to the bed, gently touched Starsky as if afraid he would be rebuffed. “How’re you feeling? Thinking you can make it to our room? Maybe catch a quick nap?”

Starsky enjoyed the feel of the warmth of his palm, wanting so much more. Then his stomach growled.

Hutch gave a odd, twisted laugh, waggling his fingers against Starsky’s side before pulling his hand away. “Somebody needs some food.”

“Yeah, and not some damn scraps thrown to the slaves,” Starsky snapped, thinking about a handful of aspirin to go with his dinner.

“I’ll get you real meat, carnivore,” Hutch said. He peeled the damp towels off his partner, and gave him a hand up. “Good luck, Ariadne, Manetti. Be careful.”

“With luck, we will see you in a few days,” Manetti clasped Hutch’s arm briefly and waved goodbye to Starsky.

“Listen,” Ariadne said sternly, “you’re the ones who need to be careful. I mean it. I’m worried about you two.”

Starsky traded a look with Hutch, he was worried, too.

“We’ll keep in touch,” Hutch said quietly, still holding onto Starsky.

***

Two hours later, Starsky and Hutch entered the main meeting room where dinner was being served. Just as they drew near their table, Kuyt approached. His eye was swollen and bruised. He hadn’t been pierced, but otherwise looked like a common slave in a thick collar, with leather cuffs on his wrists and ankles. Starsky had expected a feeling of triumph at seeing his adversary brought so low, but instead he had a hollow, angry knot in his chest. Nobody deserved the degradation of slavery, not even a worm like Jerry Kuyt.

“M-master.” Kuyt gritted his teeth, his cheeks blazing with shame. “Mr. Dunfey invites you — ” he glared with undisguised hatred at Starsky, “and your slave to a private dinner in his suite.”

“Now?” Hutch closed his fingers around Starsky’s arm.

“I’m only relaying what he said,” Kuyt retorted.

His heart thumping from a sudden influx of adrenaline, Starsky glanced around the large open room to keep the anxiety off his face. Two mermaids were cavorting in the pool, swirling their long green and blue-scaled tails around one another in a sensuous ballet. Harry Dolesky was at a table nearest to the entryway. He raised his wine glass in a greeting to Hutch, inviting him over to the table. Starsky very much wanted to join him.

“Davey?” Hutch said severely, as if still angry at him after the discipline session. “Eyes down. We’ll be eating with Mr. Dunfey.” He pulled Starsky away from the tantalizing smells of roast beef and mashed potatoes, turning him into the curve of his arm.

Starsky ducked his head, practically getting a nose full of Hutch’s maroon tie. While Starsky was napping in their room, Hutch had showered and changed into a dark gray suit. In some other place, at some other time, Starsky would have very much liked to peel that suit carefully off, unwrapping his partner like a gift.

“Sorry,” Hutch whispered against his skull, brushing his hand across one of the welts. He moved his fingers lower, extending onto the leather girdle, tapping on the hilt of the hidden knife.

The sudden sharp pain helped center Starsky, reminding him of his place, and what they were there to do. Ariadne’s ointment had cooled the sting enough that he didn’t think about the welts every moment. He was a slave, an object for menial labor and sex. Dunfey rarely looked twice at slaves unless he wanted something, so he’d never expect someone so worthless to revolt. This was Starsky’s power.

Hutch left his hand on Starsky’s ass just a fraction longer than necessary as if shoring up strength inside.

“What exactly was your job with Dunfey, Kuyt?” Hutch said, already sounding like his master.

“I’m his — ” Kuyt froze, his reedy voice choked with anger. He poked under the collar with one finger. “I was his right-hand man! He was going to make me a VP/CEO. Now it’s all — ”

“Looks to me like nothing’s changed, except the wardrobe.” Hutch raised his eyebrow with that supercilious expression Starsky had always hated when it was directed at him. “You’re still doing his bidding.”

“There’s justice in this world!” Kuyt insisted. “I’ll regain my position — ”

“When hell freezes over,” Hutch said mildly. “Davey, heel. We’re going to dinner.”

Turning to leave the meeting hall, Starsky saw the big slave, Watson, look over at him. The ex-athlete radiated intensity even when crouched on the floor next to a bowl of mashed potatoes. Wishing he had time to speak to the man, Starsky lowered his eyes and followed Hutch down the hall.

They stopped beside of a heavily armed guard standing sentry in front of Dunfey’s suite. He gave Kuyt a curt nod and the three of them entered a small, brightly lit ante room.

Patello stood at attention just inside. He sent Starsky a dirty look.

Hutch grabbed Patello’s arm, nearly bending his wrist in half. “Don’t you even look at him, you understand me? I see you even glancing his way, and I’ll have your cock in a ring, too.”

“He’s been waiting for you, Hutchinson,” Patello said in a tight, breathy voice, but he didn’t acquiesce.

Hutch looked down his patrician nose at the scum and released him with a shake. Starsky was immensely satisfied to see that Patello held himself as if his gonads still ached. Kuyt didn’t say a word to back-up his co-worker.

They could all hear Dunfey in the next room swearing at someone unseen. “Tell me the moment that plane is ready to fly. And I need reports hourly, if not more often…” That was followed by the crash of a phone receiver hitting the cradle hard enough to crack plastic.

Patello cleared his throat loudly. “Boss?”

Dunfey turned to find that he had an audience, his irrational anger vanishing as if it had never been. In spite of his friendly veneer, a crackling tension filled the room, a dark malevolence that made the hairs on the back of Starsky’s neck rise under the edge of the leather collar.

“Come in!” Dunfey said expansively, waving them into his private apartment. “I thought we could discuss our future.” He pulled out a chair from a table set for three. Patello and Kuyt hung back, obviously not invited to share the meal. “And then we can enjoy a few hours of play afterward. We have complete privacy — the other slaves know not to disturb me when I’m in the Gold Room.” He raised a blond eyebrow, clearly king of all he surveyed. “The whole apartment is soundproofed.”

“A good touch with so many people in the house,” Hutch said politely.

Starsky wanted to run, now. Dunfey unnerved him in ways few criminals he’d dealt with had, and that included serial murderers.

“Can’t be too careful.” Dunfey nodded, looked Starsky up and down with undisguised interest. “I like to keep mementos of my…recreational pursuits. There are cameras in the playroom, for recording special events to watch later. I’m sure Harriet will insist on filming this session.”

“I’m impressed already,” Hutch said, though Starsky could hear an undertone of concern.

“We’ll be spending a great deal of time together, Hutchinson,” Dunfey said. “We should become better acquainted.”

“I like the sound of that.” Hutch shook Dunfey’s outstretched hand.

“You just missed Ariadne and Manetti. They left for the landing pad and are flying to BC to get a closer perspective of what’s going on at the CEC headquarters.”

“I helped her pack,” Hutch said, intimating that he knew all about her activities. He looked around the room, one hand just touching Starsky’s arm, keeping him close.

The style was a surprise after the Southwestern décor of the rest of the villa. The suite could have been lifted straight out of a seventeenth century French chateau; gold velvet and white marble were the main colors. Three elegant white chairs with padded seats embroidered in gold were set around a small table laden with appetizers. Gold curtains framed French doors that opened onto a patio with a small fountain illuminated by a floodlight. A male slave wearing a white leather mask, his body bound by a macramé web of silken cords, with his gonads tied into an abstract sculpture of bulbous shapes, stood on a pedestal beside the fountain.

Starsky grit his teeth, wondering who the unfortunate living statue was.

“This whole business in Bay City concerns me greatly,” Hutch continued. “Not the loss of Cosgrove, who was a puppet ruler if there ever was one. I’m concerned how we’ll gain power with the government in shambles?”

He tapped Starsky’s thigh near the brand, and Starsky sank to his knees, gingerly resting his abraded butt on his heels. The room had plush white carpeting, so that, at least, was a relief to his knees.

“I have some people keeping tabs on that,” Dunfey said dismissively. “They’ll let me know when there’s something to report.” He held up a bottle of scotch. “Can I interest you in a drink? I’ve got a full bar.”

“Jack,” Harriet called out, coming through a door on the left side of the room. The door had been partially concealed by a large folding screen painted with shepherdesses and their flock. “Oh! I didn’t realize you weren’t alone,” she said coolly, eyeing Hutch and Starsky at the table. “You didn’t start without me, did you?”

Starsky had never heard a question framed in such a way that it was clearly meant to be an order.

“Wouldn’t dream of it, Harriet,” he assured her. Standing, he pulled out the remaining chair. “We were just getting ready to order drinks.”

As she sat down between Hutch and Dunfey, Starsky caught a glimpse of the room beyond the screen. Seeing the Gold Room nearly drained his confidence. A large welcoming frame squatted ominously on the incongruous white plush carpet. It looked exactly like the frame at Luna, only painted gold. White leather straps dangling from the beams seemed to be beckoning him.

Damn.

He licked his suddenly dry lips, dredging up every ounce of training he’d ever had as an undercover detective. He would not end up strapped to that fucking frame again. Not today, not ever. The confidence and inner resolve of Detective Starsky warred uneasily with the whipped persona of the subdued Davey, but he couldn’t afford to let either one take over. This was the performance of his life.

Anton appeared suddenly from the Gold Room, his eyes cast demurely downward. He stood stolidly in front of the folding screen.

“Harriet, it’s good to see you,” Hutch lied. “Jack’s right. We were discussing drinks just as you walked in.” He turned to Dunfey with one of his warmest smiles. “This may be an odd request, but I’d like a strawberry daiquiri.”

Starsky almost lost his composure. Hutch hated syrupy sweet drinks.

“That is an odd request from a man of your… stature,” Harriet said, looking him over.

“Have you ever had one?” Hutch asked her.

“Can’t say as I have. I like my liquor the way I like my men — hard, yet smooth.” She gave Hutch a tight smile, but it never reached her eyes.

“Well, I reached this stature,” Hutch said, “by mixing up health drinks. Especially for breakfast. Which led to a fondness for fruit drinks like strawberry daiquiris — a health drink with a kick. Have one. Try something new.”

The look she gave Hutch reminded Starsky of the cold unblinking stare of an alligator. “If you insist.”

Dunfey laughed, clearly amused at the thought of Harriet having such a girly party drink. “Kuyt, mix up a batch for them. I’ll stick to the scotch.”

“The strawberries at breakfast this morning gave me the idea,” Hutch said, moving away from the table and walking to the bar. “I haven’t had any in years. They’re hard to get on an average cop’s salary. Jack, where do you get fresh ones around here?”

“The perks of power, Hutchinson.” Jack laughed, taking the tumbler Kuyt handed him. “Got a source in the central valley, right on the border between Southern and Northern California.”

“Which is where you also have a major marijuana crop.” Hutch leaned against the bar. Less than a foot away, Kuyt was taking the hulls off the strawberries to pop them into a blender.

“You did keep tabs on me.” Dunfey winked, obviously delighted with his associate. “And don’t sell yourself short, Hutchinson — an average cop? You did plenty of favors for that asshole, Roschenzky. You must have squirreled away thousands under the table in bribes. That’s a man who thinks on his feet, in my book.”

“Well.” Hutch shrugged modestly. “Money management was never a problem, but I couldn’t flaunt it in front of my fellow officers, so I had to stay within certain means.”

Starsky hated listening to this perversion of Hutch’s career.

“Not to mention having the balls to enslave this prime specimen.” Harriet stood and circled Starsky slowly without touching him.

He held himself in rigid presentation. He wouldn’t give her an excuse to lay hands on him.

“He’s going to look amazing on your frame, Jack, with his dark hair and that magnificent harness. You really know how to dress a slave, Hutchinson.” She beckoned Anton over, pointing to a place on the carpet near Starsky. He knelt passively, but Starsky felt a malicious vibe coming off him.

He wouldn’t let himself think about the mental picture she projected. He would not be strapped to that frame tonight. Never again.

“Hey, Jerry, not like that.” Hutch walked around the marble bar, grabbing the toady’s arm before he could dump rum into the blender. “Stand aside and let an expert take over.”

With Harriet in front of him, Starsky couldn’t see his partner. And Hutch was no bartender. Starsky was the one with mixology experience, and he’d taught Hutch to make one fancy drink — a banana daiquiri.

“Kuyt,” Dunfey snapped, “let Hutchinson mix his own drink. Tell the chef to serve our meal.”

Harriet took her chair, letting Starsky see what was happening at the bar with his peripheral vision. Kuyt glared at Hutch and slunk out of the room. That left Patello lurking in the ante room, and the guard in the hallway.

“I think you’ll really enjoy this, Harriet,” Hutch said, mixing and pouring. “Lots of Vitamins A and C. Gives you stamina.” He handed her a short tumbler filled with a slushy pink mix; a strawberry perched on the rim of the glass. He brought over the exact same thing for himself.

Harriet tasted her daiquiri hesitantly. Then she sipped it again. “This is actually quite refreshing. Especially after the heat today.” She drank some more. “It’s good. I never would have tried it on my own. Seems so frivolous.”

“I can understand why you’d want to drink something more in keeping with the business men around you,” Hutch said, touching his glass to hers. “A woman in your position, as the owner of Luna, has to maintain a certain…decorum. Men in power often try to reduce women in the workplace; you have to be harder just to keep their respect. It’s unfair, but it’s the world we live in.” He drank some of his own drink.

“That’s very astute, Mr. Hutchinson,” she said. “Not many men can see things from my perspective.”

Was Hutch actually softening this barracuda up? Starsky couldn’t imagine how it would help, but he trusted Hutch’s judgment. Quickly glancing at the table, he saw Harriet almost smiling at Hutch as she sipped at the drink.

“Sit down, Hutchinson.” Dunfey pulled out one of the gilt chairs. “What ideas do you have to straighten out Bay City? I’m eager to dive into some new projects once we get the government back in order.”

“First off, I’d say you ought to clean house and get rid of those executives you invited here. Haley told me they think you can’t run a government without them.” Hutch said this off-handedly as he put appetizers on his plate.

“He said that?” Dunfey sounded dismayed.

Starsky had to stifle the urge to smile.

“Among other things,” Hutch continued blandly. “As far as new projects, I think we should reexamine the slave system.” Hutch put his glass down. “It’s large, unwieldy, and poorly regulated. Too many slaves are permanently damaged when they’re first taken, or die from infection after being pierced in filthy conditions. That’s expensive and wasteful. What we need is a clear set of regulations on the acquisition, training, and maintenance of slaves.”

Starsky breathed in slowly. Hutch was only saying what he had to. On his knees, he crept closer to his master. Anton was breathing serenely only a foot away at his mistress’ shoes.

“Interesting.” Dunfey sat across from Hutch. “I have to admit, I like the status quo. But you make a good point about the waste. That’s money down the drain.”

“Exactly. You heard Harriet earlier. I blamed Luna for the damage to my slave, when it occurred during his…acquisition. There has to be a better way. And we should address other practical and ethical issues.” He casually touched the crown of Starsky’s head.

“Really, Mr. Hutchinson,” Harriet said languidly. She had drunk down nearly all of her daiquiri. “Jack has no ethics; surely you must know that.”

“Morals, principles.” Jack laughed at the notion. “I don’t need them because I have drive and determination to get ahead, damn the consequences.”

“Which will get you far,” Hutch agreed, cool and detached. His jaw clenched, the bunched muscles his only sign of emotion. “The BC criminal element may well be your personal serfs, but the politicos, movers, and shakers used to dealing with a higher class of humanity, like Haley, will rise up against you unless you handle them right.”

“I thought that’s what I had you for.” Dunfey narrowed his eyes.

Harriet started to frown, and suddenly inhaled deeply. She seemed distracted.

“Where’s Giuseppe?” Dunfey frowned. “That steak should be here by now. Kuyt!” he yelled loudly.

“Jack.” Harriet was scratching absently at her arms. “I think something’s infested this room.”

Dunfey looked at her as though she had lost her mind. “What are you talking about? This room is pristine. Are you all right?”

She was clawing at her arms. “I feel like…”

Suddenly, Hutch’s strawberry daiquiri made sense. Starsky remembered the bottle he’d filled full of a pink syrupy Phenine-laced drink. The bottle didn’t hold much, but the dose had been designed for slaves used to it. No doubt she’d never had any. Hutch must’ve dumped the whole thing in her glass.

And now a million ants are crawling under your skin, Starsky thought.

“Harriet,” Hutch said sympathetically, “can I help you? You don’t look well.” He ran his hand up and down her arm as if to comfort.

Or tease, Starsky thought.

She jerked away from him, shuddering all over.

Starsky couldn’t help remembering his first dose, the terrible feeling of nerve endings rippling, craving sensation and hating it at the same time.

“Boss?” Patello called out from the foyer. “The chef is here.”

“Finally!” Dunfey said, going out to the ante room to meet the dinner cart.

Anton raised his head, watching his mistress with concern.

He knows what Phenine feels like, I’ll bet, Starsky thought. If he figures it out and tells Dunfey, the jig is up.

“You’re pale, Harriet,” Hutch said, still in that same caring tone, still rubbing her arms, her back, deliberately stimulating her so the small dose of Phenine would have a stronger effect. “Some red meat will make you feel better.”

Harriet reared back to stare at him. Anton rose up on his knees in alarm, his pierced cock swinging like a pendulum.

Starsky risked a look at Harriet, inwardly cheering her Phenine-laced stupor.

Dunfey pushed the dinner cart over to the dining table himself, a proud host showing off his largess. Giuseppe trailed behind him, his face a stone mask.

“Jack,” Harriet whined. “I don’t feel…I’m not sure I can…”

“Harriet.” Dunfey stared at her, taking the lid off a silver serving dish to reveal succulent steaks. Giuseppe stood far back as if he didn’t really want to be in the room, but knew he’d be expected to serve. “I’ve never seen you like this. You’re as pale as milk.” Dunfey took a stalk of asparagus and ate it with his fingers.

“I feel…desperate.” She rubbed her arms, almost ripping at her silky sleeves. She stared at the steaks, glistening wetly in their own red juice. She moaned. “God, I’m suddenly nauseous…”

Starsky knew that crawly, irritating sensation all too well. He resisted the urge to scratch his own arms. There was a residual of Phenine in his blood, enough to provide a low hum of arousal, when he’d thought he was over it.

“I…Jack, I have to leave. I apologize, but…it must be some kind of flu. Anton!”

“Mistress?” Anton responded instantly, clearly alarmed at her condition. “Should Mr. Dunfey call a doctor?”

“No!” she snapped. “That won’t be necessary. I just need to get to my room. Anton, help me! Quickly.”

Anton looked completely perplexed. Afraid to touch her, yet afraid not to, he finally carefully gripped her elbows and began leading her out of the room.

Dunfey stopped their progress for a moment. “I’ve never seen you forego a play session, Harriet. You must really be sick. Lie down for a while. We can wait. If you feel better later, send word with a slave and we’ll meet then.”

She acted as if she could barely stand still long enough to hear what he had to say. Shuddering and twitching, she let her slave lead her out of Dunfey’s apartment.

I have a feeling Anton’s going to be in for some surprises when they finally get to her room, Starsky thought.

“Not what I expected from her,” Dunfey said with dismay. “That woman is tougher than any man I’ve ever met. I’ve never seen her show a moment of weakness.” He sighed. “Giuseppe, serve up the steaks! Hutchinson, eat!” He gestured at Hutch’s plate.

As the chef served steaks and asparagus to the two men, Starsky found Giuseppe watching him. His eyes were troubled. No doubt, he knew exactly what had happened to Starsky on the St. Andrew’s cross. Perhaps he’d even witnessed it. Or maybe Glory just described it to him. He had told Giuseppe Hutch wasn’t like Dunfey, but Hutch had whipped him in public. Starsky wondered if Giuseppe had lost what little faith he might have had in Starsky. But he couldn’t ask.

Giuseppe placed a wide bowl in front of Starsky. Surprised by the kindness, Starsky examined his meal. A pile of mashed potatoes. Looking closer, he noticed a few bits of steak hidden under the potatoes, disguised so Dunfey couldn’t see. Wordlessly, Giuseppe handed Starsky a spoon. Afraid that the food would be taken away, Starsky dug in immediately.

He barely got a mouthful when Kuyt ran full tilt into the room. “Boss! Dunfey — ” Kuyt skidded to a halt, Patello right behind him, peering over his shoulder with fear in his eyes. “I mean…M-master — ”

“Kuyt, why are you bursting in here, interrupting our meal?” Dunfey demanded, biting down on a large piece of rare beef. “The trainers at Luna will grind some discipline into you.”

Panting, Kuyt snapped to attention in front of Dunfey and Hutchinson. “Al in the communications room said you really need to turn on the TV. All hell is breaking loose in Bay City.”

“Is this different than what we heard earlier?” Hutch asked, concerned.

Starsky shoveled in another mouthful of meat and potatoes and chewed rapidly before he lost the opportunity.

“They think some radical group trying to overthrow the CEC killed Cosgrove,” Kuyt said, tugging at his collar. “Al said you’d want to know.”

Not a flicker of emotion crossed Dunfey’s face. If he knew what was going on in Bay City, he was keeping it to himself. “Pour the wine, Giuseppe. The Pinot noir.”

“Sir,” Giuseppe murmured, uncorking a bottle. He flicked a quick look over at Starsky, an expression of regret and empathy in his dark eyes.

“Did Al say anything else?” Dunfey asked without looking at Kuyt. “I’ve been waiting for a phone call.”

“Is it important?” Hutch asked.

“It’s about my plane. A refueling issue. I want to be ready to fly out at a moment’s notice,” Dunfey explained with a too-casual shrug. “Eat — you’ll need your strength for the night ahead of us.” Dunfey tossed back his wine. He attacked his meal, tearing into the meat. Waving a hand, he ordered, “Turn on the TV, Kuyt.”

“Davey,” Hutch said softly, hooking his fingers around Starsky’s bowed head to urge him closer. Sawing off a hunk of steak, he cut it into pieces. Eating one first himself, Hutch tucked the second one between Starsky’s lips.

He almost forgot to chew after Kuyt opened a cabinet over the bar and switched on the television. Patello had given up all pretense of guarding the inner door and leaned against the doorframe to watch.

“The CEC suspects that this unidentified man assassinated President Cosgrove with a high-powered weapon at three p.m. this afternoon,” the announcer’s voice intoned. Grainy images from security cameras showed a figure in black skulking down a hallway until out of camera range. The CEC logo was emblazoned on the wall.

“That’s the main offices of the President/CEO,” Hutch said in a hushed voice, his eyes glued to the screen.

“Obviously,” Dunfey said, smiling wickedly. “You were very astute to describe Cosgrove as a puppet — many, many people pulled his strings. And now I’ve severed them. A clean, sharp slice to eliminate the deadwood.”

Starsky grimaced. He didn’t even try to keep his eyes down and doubted that either Dunfey or Hutch noticed.

“You hired that man to assassinate Cosgrove?” Hutch asked. Starsky could tell he was just as rattled.

“No, he didn’t work for me. And he didn’t kill Cosgrove. Have you ever heard of a group called the Abbey League?” Dunfey said coldly. “Righteous bastards who would destroy all that I want to achieve.”

“I’ve heard rumors…” Hutch answered.

Starsky was very aware of Hutch’s slow, overly measured breathing. He was forcing calm on himself.

Footage of police swarming around a body revealed a corpse covered in blood with Cosgrove’s distinctive silver hair. The reporter claimed someone or some group had cut off the power to the security cameras in Cosgrove’s office, making identification of the murderer difficult.

A film montage catalogued Archibald Cosgrove’s rise to power in the CEC. The film focused on his ruthless and cruel way with subordinates, and his disregard for the needs of the people he governed.

A rattled-looking anchorman appeared on the screen. “Authorities believe Cosgrove’s assassination is the work of terrorists, and are locking down Bay City and instituting martial law. The BC Special Police are investigating.”

Starsky watched along with everyone else. The anchorman was talking about his old unit. Who was in charge? Roschenzky was dead and Dobey had been forced out after refusing to work for that corrupt government.

“Hutchinson?” Dunfey swung around to peer at him. “Do you know anything about the Abbey League?”

Hutch took a slow, measured drink from his wine glass, revealing nothing. “Just what you said. A — ” He stopped when an old campaign photograph of Peter Whitelaw appeared on the screen.

“We have reports that this man,” the anchorman continued to report, “former Senator Peter Whitelaw, may have some involvement in the assassination.”

“Asshole!” Dunfey said, clutching his napkin in a fist. “He’s not the one — ”

Starsky held his breath so long his chest ached. He finally gasped for air. They thought Whitelaw killed Cosgrove? Something was very wrong. That wasn’t at all in the Abbey League plan. Was that why they hadn’t heard from him? He was afraid to meet Hutch’s eyes.

Dunfey frowned, standing as if too impatient to sit any longer as they watched the television. The phone rang suddenly, and Dunfey grabbed it impatiently. “Yes? Yes, of course, Al. Send it to the Gold Room.”

The television suddenly went black, the newsroom and anchorman disappearing. The screen immediately switched to a dark scene, possibly a basement. The lighting was poor, the camera work unprofessional, and the sound hollow with a faint echo. A man slumped in a chair was surrounded by several masked figures in black.

“Gentlemen,” Dunfey said quietly, “welcome to Station J.A.C.K., coming to you live from a direct feed in Bay City.”

Starsky and Hutch glanced at each other quickly. What the hell is this?

“I hope you can see this, Mr. Dunfey,” a man in a black leather mask said to the camera. He paused for a moment, listening to a voice murmur off screen. Then he nodded at the camera again. “Al says you should have a good picture. Take a look.” He pointed a gun at the man in the chair. As the camera moved in, it became obvious this was Whitelaw, beaten so badly he was almost unrecognizable. “This is what’s gonna happen to anyone who gets in your way, Mr. Dunfey.”

“My hand reaches all the way to the top,” Dunfey said. “I brought Cosgrove down. And I will rise like this aptly named city. A phoenix out of the ashes of battle.”

“You killed him?” Hutch had gone pale. “Using mercenary terrorists?”

“That’s right. I’m calling them A New Day. They’ve got a list of people to go after now that they’ve taken care of Cosgrove, including the top level leaders of that damned Abbey League. They’ve got trained fighters trying to take over the city. That’s not going to happen. When I rescue the city from the fighting and take Cosgrove’s place, I’ll be everyone’s hero!” He smiled shrewdly.

Hutch stood, moving away from the table, pulling Starsky up with him.

Unsure of what Hutch was planning, Starsky followed his lead.

“Surprised, Hutchinson?” Dunfey chuckled. His usually smooth blond hair had slipped over his forehead and his eyes blazed. “I thought you’d enjoy that — isn’t it the sort of thing you’d do? Though, I suppose you would’ve slit Cosgrove’s throat yourself. I had to be a little more distant from the action. The results are what matters.”

On the television, the masked man prodded Whitelaw with his gun. It was obvious Whitelaw had been brutally tortured. His head lolled and his eyes were closed. “Confess! Who do you work with? Your organization. Your leaders.”

Starsky’s heart slammed hard against his rib cage. “Hutch — ” he whispered.

Hutch silenced him with a glance. It wasn’t the right time. Not yet.

Whitelaw’s eyes opened wide when the barrel of the gun dug into his temple. “I was…”

“Say it! Who are they?” the spokesman shouted.

“Abbey League,” Whitelaw said in a dead voice, staring straight at the camera. His lurid bruises gave color to his otherwise pale face. “Under the leadership of — ”

Hutch clamped his fingers around Starsky’s wrist, pressing the leather cuff into his skin.

” — Ariadne Underhill,” Whitelaw continued tonelessly.

It was as if all the sound had been sucked out of the room..

“Traitor!” Dunfey exploded with rage. He tossed a chair at the bar, startling them all. “And I helped her get away! Patello! Tell the guards on the gate to go after that damned helicopter and shoot it down! Now!”

Patello grabbed the telephone, relaying the message so fast he tripped over his words.

“Jack, wait.” Hutch swung around, one hand out in supplication. “This man’s been tortured. He’ll say whatever they want — ”

“Who else is in your organization?” the hooded terrorist shouted at Whitelaw, prodding him viciously.

Whitelaw, nearly unconscious, roused and spoke again though swollen lips. “…Gary Manetti…Victor Sinclair…Ken Hutchinson…” That effort took the last of strength and he sagged, unconscious.

Dunfey, Kuyt, and Patello turned to stare at Starsky and Hutch. Starsky was so hyper-sensitized, he could feel the loathing in Kuyt’s eyes cutting into his skin.

“Here’s the way we deal with your enemies, Mr. Dunfey,” the hooded spokesman on the TV intoned and pulled the trigger. Half of Whitelaw’s head exploded and the screen went black.

Hutch recoiled, jerking Starsky with him. Stunned, Starsky pulled away, moving into a defensive crouch.

“I should have known you were too fucking good to be true, Hutchinson.” Dunfey took a menacing step forward, baring his teeth. He darted behind the bar and snatched up a gun.

Kuyt scuttled back, watching his boss like a mouse waiting for a snake to strike — some other prey. Behind him, the transmission from Dunfey’s terrorists cut out, and the anchorman came back on screen, now discussing the separate factions fighting for control of Bay City.

“Turn it off!” Dunfey snarled.

Kuyt jogged over, switching the TV off with a violent twist.

“You’re taking his word?” Hutch stalled for time. “You just told me the Abbey League were righteous do-gooders. Is that who you think I am? After collaring my partner and killing Roschenzky?”

Starsky stood shoulder to shoulder with his partner, keeping an eye on Kuyt and Patello. Giuseppe looked like he wanted to escape, and started slowly backing towards the ante room door.

“You put yourself right where I could see you.” A rapid series of emotions flickered across Dunfey’s face from betrayal to righteous anger. “Made yourself attractive to me in every way possible, including dangling this pretty piece of shit like bait on a hook.” He shoved the gun into Hutch’s chest. “Did you really think you could manipulate me? Annihilate me?”

“Jack, you’ve got it all wrong.” Hutch didn’t spare a glance for the gun digging into his shirt hard enough to rip the fabric. He stayed strong, as if carved from stone. “Whitelaw was throwing out names so they’d stop brutalizing him. Now they’ve killed him — he’ll be a martyr to their cause.”

“And he just happened to throw out your name?” Dunfey laughed. “Don’t think you’re so special, Hutchinson. You’re under my heel now.” He moved the gun barrel up higher to Hutch’s carotid. The tip of the gun seemed to bounce with his pulse. “On your knees, Hutchinson…like the rest of my slaves.” He forced Hutch to the carpet.

Hutch yielded, never breaking eye contact with Dunfey, staring him down. Starsky went down on his knees with his partner.

Dunfey chortled. “I’ll have the time of my life piercing you, Hutchinson. Harriet will be happy to help.”

Hutch maintained the exterior of a man who couldn’t be controlled, even on his knees. Kuyt and Patello chuckled nastily in the background.

“Kuyt, looks like you won’t be going to Luna after all,” Dunfey announced without ceremony. “Giuseppe, Patello, arm yourselves from the cache at the bar. We have traitors in our midst.”

“Thank you, boss!” Kuyt bowed repeatedly, nearly prostrating himself in his adoration. Kuyt grabbed a pair of waiter’s pants from behind the bar and yanked them on.

Patello grabbed a couple guns, handing them to Kuyt and Giuseppe.

“Tell Franko out in the hall to get down to that airport,” Dunfey roared. “I want my plane ready now! And find out if they shot down that helicopter!”

“Yes, sir!” Kuyt ran out the door and returned just as quickly after giving the message.

Hutch caught Starsky’s eye, his gaze intense. Starsky had only a second to silently convey his love before Dunfey reached over and hauled him to his feet one-handed.

“Davey, come here,” Dunfey said sharply. “You’ll be traveling with me as soon as the damned plane is ready.”

Starsky regarded him warily, his heart pounding, but ready to sacrifice himself to give Hutch a chance.

“Did you know that I once deflowered this little chicken’s asshole?” Dunfey said conversationally, addressing Hutch as if he had all the time in the world.

Starsky looked down at Hutch, just to bolster his nerves.

Hutch knelt with his back straight, arms at his sides. Giuseppe stood uneasy a few feet away, his face like a storm cloud, but he made no move. Even though he held a gun, he hunched his shoulders with defeat, apparently sure that he would be punished along with the prisoners.

Starsky felt switched on, his senses hyper-alert, a combination of adrenaline, Phenine, and the same instincts that had kept him and his partner alive on the streets. He found himself focusing on the smallest details — the glistening red of the rare steak on Hutch’s plate, the shine of the lamplight off the gold leaf on the end table, and the red burn on the hand Giuseppe used to hold his pistol, where the soup had spilled that morning. Hutch looked incredibly beautiful and fierce, his blond hair shining, his blue eyes like crystals — Hutch was so bright Starsky couldn’t take his eyes off him.

He jerked when Dunfey loomed in front of him, blocking his view of his partner.

“Davey.” Dunfey trailed a seductive finger down Starsky’s cheek, his tongue flicking out to lick his own lower lip as if anticipating how his newest slave would taste.

Starsky leaned away as much as he could but Dunfey kept moving him back. Suddenly, a low table hit hard against the back of his abused thighs. He had to stand steady or sit down.

“I used to watch him on the streets,” Dunfey said. “Such a feisty, tough nut to crack. But I did it. Yet, you bounced back, a survivor, just like me.”

“I’m nuthin’ like you,” Starsky said in a determined voice.

“We’re more alike than you know, copslave. It’s fascinating that you hooked up with Hutchinson — a man who could be my doppelganger.” He was arrogant, confident in his ability to conquer. “Trading one beautiful master for his double. I look forward to stripping your Ice Prince and keeping him in my stable. You think he’ll be as hard to break as you were?”

Starsky bit his tongue to keep from speaking, well aware that Dunfey was goading him to step out of line. Any excuse to punish. He was absurdly grateful that Hutch had insisted on the training that helped him keep his silence.

Dunfey’s attention wavered momentarily, impatience and rage rippling under his surface veneer of calm. “Where is that fucking plane? I can’t be late for my own coronation.”

Only Kuyt gave an abrupt, fake laugh.

Hutch regarded him stonily from the floor, and Giuseppe gazed steadily at the white carpet, his fingers clenched tightly around a weapon Starsky wondered if he even knew how to use. Patello stood back from the group, his weapon resting casually on one arm, his finger poised on the trigger.

Dunfey ran a hand down his shirt, obviously aroused. He moistened his lips, then leaned in to lick Starsky’s.

Starsky turned his head, ending up with Dunfey’s tongue in his ear. It was like having a slimy eel slithering around his skull. He wanted to gag, and had to pant to keep control.

“We’ll be leaving for Bay City,” Dunfey said, standing up straighter, “but with the fucking plane fucking up my schedule, looks like I’ve got time on my hands…” Curling his fingers under the leather straps that crossed Starsky’s chest, Dunfey towed him over to a cabinet hidden behind the ornamental screen. “Enough time for fucking.”

Starsky broke out in a sweat when Dunfey unlocked the cabinet with an old-fashioned key and pushed back two wide panels. Inside was a cornucopia of sexual devices, each displayed museum-style with inset lighting and glass mounts. One shiny object with a blunt narrow head and bulbous body gleamed like the finest silver. Seeing it had the power to break Starsky, bringing on flashbacks of horrendous pain and terror.

Oh, God.

“Remember your old friend, Davey?” Dunfey held up the enormous dildo, smiling savagely. He placed it reverently on a side table. “There’s no reason why I can’t start celebrating now. We can have a preview of coming attractions. I’d love to put on the frame, but that would take the effort of every man in the room, giving Hutchinson a chance to escape.” He grabbed hold of Starsky’s bound cock, compressing the leather bands deeply into his flesh. “Besides, if we had to go into the next room, then Hutchinson wouldn’t get a chance to watch. And we know he loves to watch you taking it from your superiors.” Dunfey forced Starsky against the back of the gold satin couch, bending him almost backwards over the top.

The remnants of Phenine and the adrenaline in his blood helped fuel Starsky’s strength. He welcomed the rush and let it feed his anger.

“Bastard,” Starsky whispered, wishing he could see Hutch. Wishing he could say goodbye.

“Romance so early in the courtship?” Dunfey dug his nails into Starsky’s sensitive cock, smiling. “You weren’t there the first time I took this pretty copslave, Hutchinson….”

“Don’t you dare,” Hutch yelled.

Dunfey turned at the distraction, allowing Starsky to twist and see Hutch around Dunfey’s bulk. Hutch started to rise, but Patello hit him with the butt of his pistol, sending him to the floor.

“Payback,” Kuyt whispered, elbowing Patello gleefully.

Giuseppe let out a wordless grunt of fear.

Starsky despaired of ever leaving Arizona alive. But he caught a glimpse of defiance in Hutch’s eyes. He was still conscious, if dazed. Hutch lowered his head. A trickle of blood ran from his temple down his neck.

“Give it to him, boss.” Kuyt giggled, bloodlust in his eyes. “Fuck him good.”

“The reunion between Davey and his true master will be later tonight in Bay City, with champagne and the welcoming frame, with Harriet by my side.” Dunfey crushed Starsky’s balls in a tight grip, making him howl in agony. “But there’s time for a test drive. Kuyt.” He glanced away from his prey. “Show Davey the big gun behind the bar.”

Rewarded for his devotion, Kuyt grabbed the weapon from a drawer beside a small fridge. Starsky focused on keeping his wits intact when Dunfey released his balls. Gasping for air, he forced himself to think past the pain in his groin. He couldn’t resist when Dunfey used the harness to pull him upright. Turning him, Dunfey reeled him into a tight embrace with Starsky’s back against his chest. Once again, Dunfey squeezed his balls with one hand, while the other gripped Starsky’s jaw. Dunfey marched them over in lockstep closer to Hutch, Kuyt, and Patello.

“Take a good look, copslave. This is the latest Russian semi-automatic with a tru-grip and rapid reload,” Kuyt recited with smarmy pride as he displayed the weapon. Moving closer, he shoved the bitter, oily metal barrel between Starsky’s parted lips. Kuyt’s excitement tented the front of his pants.

Dunfey clamped Starsky’s jaw between his forefinger and thumb, digging in with his nails.

His fear mounting, Starsky was unable to twist his head away, and his teeth banged against the hard metal surface. Please, no, not like this. Terrified that Kuyt was going to blow his brains out, Starsky resisted his desperate need to struggle. He couldn’t risk jostling the man’s trigger finger. Was the safety even on? He couldn’t let Hutch see him die like that. Starsky would rather be plundered by the damned dildo. Which was exactly the reaction Dunfey knew he would have.

The thick weight of the gun pressing down painfully on his tongue caused him to gag. He jerked, pushing back against Dunfey, gripping Dunfey’s arms with both hands, only to be reeled in by Dunfey’s hold on his sac.

“Starsky,” Hutch whispered, rising shakily on all fours. He was close enough to touch Starsky’s leg, but he didn’t, watching the drama warily while Patello held a pistol to his temple.

“This has to be short and sweet, Davey, with a happy ending for me.” Dunfey murmured in Starsky’s ear, releasing his hold on Starsky’s abused genitals.

Damn! Starsky gagged on the pistol barrel, the agony in his groin more than distracting. But the last of the Phenine helped lace the pain with arousal, which boosted his adrenaline.

“Ain’t this fun, Davey?” Kuyt taunted, pushing the weapon in and out of Starsky’s mouth like a cock, his weasel face a fright mask of vicious glee. “You think you had it good before?”

Starsky caught Hutch’s eyes, feeling their connection to his soul. Hutch gave a minute nod.

With one arm wrapped around Starsky to anchor his jaw, Dunfey slid his hand down between their bodies and began to unbuckle the leather strap covering Starsky’s ass. “Pay attention, Hutchinson. This will be a reenactment of our first lover’s meeting, when your boy here was nothing but a snot-nosed kid hooked on uppers and downers.” Apparently finding it difficult to work the buckle one-handed, Dunfey let go of Starsky’s jaw. “Steady him, Kuyt.”

Bucking backwards and ramming his shoulders against Dunfey’s chest, Starsky almost bowled Dunfey over in a struggle to escape. The gun barrel raked across his bottom lip as it slipped out of his mouth.

“Let him go!” Hutch yelled.

“Shut up, Hutchinson!” Dunfey warned. He fisted Starsky’s hair, pulling out a few strands when he forced Starsky’s head back at neck-wrenching angle.

Pinned by Dunfey and Kuyt, Starsky was unable to fight back and the oily taste of the pistol roiled his belly when Kuyt thrust it more firmly between his lips. Starsky concentrated on breathing around the gun shoved to the back of his throat, trying to ignore Dunfey’s fingers as they poked and yanked on the leather belt covering his butt crack.

“Shit!” Dunfey punched Starsky in the kidneys, knocking him sideways. The gun slipped free of his mouth again as Starsky fell. “It’s locked onto his body!”

“Patello should search Hutchinson for the key,” Kuyt said, fumbling with the wet pistol.

Frantically pulling oxygen into his aching lungs, Starsky twisted away from his attackers. He ducked down, trying to get to Hutch, Kuyt’s swinging gun glancing off his cheekbone. The blow dazed him, but Starsky had only one goal — reconnect with his partner.

“You’re slippery as an eel!” Dunfey clamped his fingers around the strap running down Starsky’s spine and held on.

Hutch launched himself at Dunfey and Starsky, taking Patello by surprise. Grabbing the thick band girding Starsky’s pelvis, Hutch attempted to pull him away. With brute strength, Dunfey and Hutch hauled Starsky between them, but Dunfey had a firmer grip on the harness. Patello shouted angrily, diving into the melee. Hutch tried elbowing him, but missed. Starsky swung wildly, but didn’t connect.

Dunfey reeled Starsky in, yanking him away from Hutch, and slamming him over the back of the couch in an attempt to rip the back strap from the body harness. Even with Dunfey on his back crushing his body, Starsky looked frantically for his partner. What happened to Hutch? Did Patello get him? No one had fired a weapon; the danger of hitting Dunfey in the melee was too great. Trying to brace himself, Starsky latched onto the top edge of the couch.

“One bullet through the back of your skull, Davey, like that traitor, Whitelaw.” Kuyt barked a spine-chilling cackle of unadulterated evil as Starsky used the leverage of the couch to kick back, his foot catching Kuyt in the nuts.

“Fucking shit!” Kuyt hollered, doubling over and dropping the gun.

Patello spun away from Hutch at Kuyt’s shout, leveling his gun on his boss and Starsky, his stance wavering, hesitating to pull the trigger while Starsky and Dunfey struggled so close together.

“Shoot him!” Kuyt gasped, scrambling to regain the gun despite his injury.

“I’ve got to hand it to you, Hutchinson; this harness is remarkable piece of workmanship.” Dunfey bit each word off savagely. He tugged one last time on the unyielding padlock snugged against Starsky’s body, snorting like an angry bull.

“Get your damned hands off him.” Hutch’s voice was almost unrecognizable.

“Patello, get the key!” Dunfey yelled, grasping the back of Starsky’s harness with both hands.

The room was rank with the acrid smell of sweat and testosterone-fueled aggression. Still locked in Dunfey’s manic embrace, Starsky struggled to twist away, caught between Dunfey’s bulk and the side of the satin couch. Fingers scrabbling desperately against his pelvic guard, Starsky got a slippery purchase on the small hilt of the knife. Before he could draw the blade, Dunfey, still fighting the harness, turned Starsky completely around, so they were facing each other, and managed to pin both of Starsky’s arms. His grip on the back of the harness gave him the strength to hold Starsky in place. Needing to know where his partner was, Starsky looked over Dunfey’s shoulder in time to see Hutch rise up behind Patello. Intent on the wrestling match between Dunfey and Starsky, the flunky wasn’t watching his rear. Something shiny glinted in Hutch’s hand.

Starsky sagged suddenly, pulling Dunfey’s weight down with him to the floor, his knees buckling. “Go to hell!”

Unbalanced, Dunfey toppled over onto Starsky, releasing his grip on the harness as he automatically put out both hands to stop his fall.

With an inarticulate roar of rage, Hutch swung wide, viciously slicing the short blade he’d pulled out of Starsky’s pelvic girdle across the back of Patello’s leg, severing his Achilles tendon.

Patello’s scream was inhuman, blood spurting from the wound in a wide arc. His gun went bouncing across the carpeted floor.

“What the hell did you do?” Dunfey yelled at Hutch as Patello collapsed, shrieking.

Starsky was pinned under Dunfey’s weight but he managed to get his arms free. Sucking in a desperate lungful of air, he yanked the knife out of its sheath and plunged it deep into Dunfey’s belly. As a spray of Dunfey’s blood gushed out, warm and wet against Starsky’s bare skin, he heaved the knife upward, slicing through skin and organs, reaching for the monster’s heart.

“WHAT DID YOU DO?” Dunfey screamed, gasping like a fish on a hook. He pitched sideways, hitting the couch, slipping in his own blood when he tried to right himself. “My God, he stabbed me!”

Kuyt, confused and horrified by the sudden, inexplicable carnage, pulled the trigger and bullets slammed into the floor inches from Starsky’s temple.

Still clutching the bloody knife, Starsky shouted, “Hutch!” He heard the sound of the bullets’ impact behind him. Scrambling over the couch to get out of the line of fire, he didn’t have time to see who had been hit. Kuyt still had the damned Russian gun.

Starsky slid his knife back in the sheath, panting, gauging what to do next. Dunfey was writhing on the floor  — he wasn’t much of a threat anymore.

Coming around the couch, Starsky lunged at Kuyt before he could fire again. Starsky’s world narrowed to a single focus: kill the bastard!

Starsky grappled Kuyt around the knees, toppling him like a tree, and briefly saw Hutch standing over the helpless Patello, reaching for his gun. Freed from worry about his partner, Starsky wrenched Kuyt’s wrist backwards. Clamping down on the nerve controlling the thumb, Starsky forced Kuyt to drop the automatic pistol. It landed on the carpet — too close to Dunfey’s outstretched hand.

“Giuseppe!” Dunfey gasped, reaching futilely for the gun, “Call the guards; kill that sack of — ”

“Shut up,” Giuseppe said quietly, looming over Dunfey. He pointed his gun at his former employer with a desperate hope in his eyes, but didn’t seem able to pull the trigger.

Then Kuyt cried out, slamming his elbow up under Starsky’s jaw, drawing him back to the problem at hand. Starsky tasted blood and rolled away, intent on getting the Russian pistol. It was just beyond his reach, beneath the table. Kuyt bellowed, slugging Starsky in the side of the head, just as frantic. Starsky retaliated with a left hook that sent Kuyt sprawling.

Suddenly Hutch hauled Kuyt bodily out of the fray just as Starsky latched onto the weapon.

“Mine!” Dunfey coughed. He pawed at the gun with hands slick with blood, turning it, struggling to slide his finger in the trigger guard. “You won’t get out of here alive.”

Starsky grabbed Dunfey’s wrist to angle the gun away, but his hand kept slipping in Dunfey’s blood. Dunfey desperately tried to squeeze the trigger. “Hutch!”

From the sounds of struggle to the right, Starsky knew he was on his own. Hutch was grappling with Kuyt, and Kuyt was fighting for his life, to wrest Patello’s gun out of Hutch’s hands.

“Patello! Get to the phone!” Kuyt screamed.

Patello started crawling across the carpet, going for the phone at the bar. Starsky felt torn in half — getting the pistol from Dunfey was imperative, but if Patello called in the guards, they’d be a bunch of dead heroes.

A shot rang out. Starsky jerked, staring at Dunfey in shock — no, he hadn’t managed to pull the trigger, he didn’t have quite the right angle yet. Who? He heard glass shatter and a thud, but Starsky couldn’t spare a moment, scrambling over the gory carpet to knock at Dunfey’s hand. Adrenaline roaring through his veins, he wrapped his fingers around the grip, clutching tightly.

“Starsky!” Hutch yelled suddenly, then grunted.

Thank God, Hutch was still alive.

Dunfey inhaled, his breath rattling in his chest. Holding onto the weapon with the strength that only comes from dying, he pulled himself forward to get a better grip. Now each man had two hands on the gun in a battle for dominance.

There was another gunshot and Hutch cried out. The sound ripped through Starsky, shredding his composure, Dunfey raised his arms, pointing the barrel of the gun straight at Starsky. His fingers cramping in a frantic need to hold on, Starsky froze.

No! No more! Not again. You don’t win this time. Throwing all his remaining strength into his arms, he torqued his wrists severely, sliding the gun’s barrel to the side. Dunfey was too weak to counter the move.

Nightmarish flashbacks of a brutal night on a white brocade bedspread dissolved as Starsky took control and forced Dunfey’s weakened hands off the gun. Jamming his finger against the trigger, he squeezed. The blast caught Dunfey full in the face.

He’d proved Dunfey wrong twice now. He had reinvented himself again.

Disentangling himself from Dunfey’s dead body, he rolled to his knees, gun pointing outward. Expecting Kuyt or Patello armed and ready to shoot him, Starsky scanned the room fearfully. Hutch and Giuseppe were both armed, standing over Kuyt’s body.

“What…what happened?” he asked Hutch, gasping. “I heard a shot. You yelled. I thought you’d been hit.”

“I was struggling with Kuyt for the gun,” Hutch said, his voice shaky. “The little bastard was fighting like a mad man. Patello went for the phone. All of a sudden, Giuseppe fired, killing Patello.”

“But…you yelled!” Starsky stared at Hutch, searching for wounds. He was disheveled and streaked with blood, but had no gaping bullet holes.

Giuseppe, looking shell shocked, said, “I killed Patello. He was always using my Glory, hurting her, making her cry, shaming her. After Dunfey, he was the first to take her. He would do it in the kitchen right in front of me and her mother.” He blinked rapidly, but didn’t give in to his emotion. Grimly, he continued, “I realized when he was going for the phone, I could end him. So I did. I killed him. Then your master was fighting with that bastard, Kuyt — ”

“We were grappling for the gun, standing so close,” Hutch explained, as if he realized Giuseppe was taking the long way around this story. “When he shot Kuyt in the head, it surprised me.” He held up his hands, stained with a starburst of red and black. “I’ve got powder burns, and it happened so fast…I wasn’t entirely sure he hadn’t shot me.”

Giuseppe gasped, a smile of pure satisfaction transforming his face. He stood taller, his chest out, a man once more. “Thank you.”

“Glad you decided to be on our side.” Hutch said. He turned to his partner, touching his shoulder. “Are you okay? You’re covered in blood!”

Starsky nodded, fighting the trembles that started in his belly and moved out to his limbs. He grit his teeth, willing away the reaction as adrenaline drained away. He was absurdly grateful the room was soundproofed. The gunshots hadn’t brought other guards down on them.

“What do we do now?” Giuseppe asked gazing at the corpses littering the elegant room. The white carpet was soaked with blood. Shattered glass glittered on nearly every surface.

Hutch took a step forward and bent to pick something up. He straightened, showing the small item to Starsky.

His second knife.

Putting one arm around Starsky, Hutch slipped the blade into its hidden slot, patting the weapon in gratitude. Starsky sagged against him for a moment, and they stood there together, taking strength from each other. It was over.

A knock on the door galvanized them all. Giuseppe jumped back against the wall, his face pale.

No, not over yet —

“Calm down,” Hutch said to the chef. “It’s probably Franko. He went down to check on the plane.” Hutch waved a hand at the ante room. “We’ve got to answer that door.”

Starsky nodded. They were both armed with Dunfey’s weapons. They moved silently to the door, standing on opposite sides. Starsky caught Hutch’s eye and nodded. Hutch stood high while Starsky crouched low, both holding their pistols at the ready.

“Mr. Dunfey’s in the Gold Room having a session with a slave,” Hutch called out authoritatively. “He doesn’t want to be disturbed.”

The blood on his hands made it difficult for Starsky to keep his pistol steady. He didn’t have time to think about it whose blood it was.

Dunfey was dead. The odor of his blood blanketed the room. Dunfey was dead. And Patello. And Kuyt.

Starsky blinked and shook it off. He was a cop. He could handle it.

“Hutchinson, that you?” a muffled voice answered. “It’s me, Dolesky. I gotta talk to Dunfey. It’s important.”

Starsky and Hutch looked at each other. Hutch couldn’t very well ask Dolesky if he was alone. He could have half the council members with him or six guards. The two men shrugged at each other.

Hutch took hold of the doorknob and with one quick lunge, swung open the door to the hall, shoving his pistol into Harry Dolesky’s face.

Dolesky raised his eyebrows but didn’t move, his mouth a grim line. “Dunfey here? I need a word.”

Hutch didn’t lower his weapon, and held his ground. “I told you. He’s busy.”

Dolesky tried to peer past them, but Starsky stepped into his line of sight. “What the hell have you been doing?” Dolesky asked softly, glancing at Starsky’s blood-soaked body.

“Blood play,” Starsky said, raising his pistol from behind his back. He couldn’t exactly pretend that both he and Hutch weren’t drenched in the stuff. “It gets messy.”

Holding up both hands, Dolesky pointed down the hall toward the meeting room. “Look, I know it’s getting late, but some of the members are wondering what Dunfey knows about the situation in Bay City. People want to leave, get back to their businesses. They’re getting a little panicky.”

Hutch poked his head out the door. “Any guards in sight?”

Starsky waited in the ante room.

“Not yet.” Dolesky said cryptically.

Hutch made a decision, and towed Dolesky into the ante room, knowing he couldn’t see much from where they were standing. “What’s your real motive for coming here?” Hutch asked again, his gun unwavering.

“Where’s Dunfey?” Dolesky narrowed his eyes.

“Why are you asking, really?” Hutch demanded.

“For that matter,” Starsky faced Dolesky, still not willing to let down his guard, “why did you contact me earlier? ‘Fundamental Business; Important we meet.'”

“Are we alone?” Dolesky asked, since he couldn’t see past the ante room.

“Alone enough,” Hutch answered.

“I’m working with the FBI,” he replied, stalling Starsky’s interruption with a raised hand. “In spite of the changes in the country, the bureau is still going after major players. Somebody has to — so someday there might be a democracy again. In the course of one of my investigations, I made a connection with Victor Sinclair. After a while, he introduced me to some of the members of the Abbey League. Just before I came here, he called me, told me you were both working undercover with Ariadne.”

Starsky inhaled, suspicious but wanting to have someone else on their side. His story was plausible.

“After I got here…I wasn’t sure I believed that. I gotta tell you, Hutchinson, Starsky, it’s the most convincing undercover operation I’ve ever seen.” He glanced between them, bemused. “Word was you’d enslaved your partner, and everyone believed it. The evidence — ” he inclined his head at Starsky’s pierced cock, ” — was impossible to deny. And I knew Ariadne and Manetti were the real thing. It took me a little while to figure out if I should even try to make contact. Now, you wanna tell me just what happened here, or am I ever gonna get past this ante room?”

After exchanging a silent look with Hutch, Starsky said, “Manetti said we could trust him.”

Looking straight at him, Hutch nodded and waved Dolesky into the living room with some reluctance.

Dolesky let out a low whistle when he’d walked all the way into the gold and white living room and surveyed the grisly scene. “Jeeeezus,” Dolesky said. “You boys have been busy.”

“It was self defense!” Hutch snapped, the aftermath of the violence obviously getting to him.

Dolesky eyed Giuseppe up and down. “The cook, too?”

“Sir,” Giuseppe said irritably, “I am a chef!”

“What’d you use in here, a meat cleaver?” Dolesky shook his head in dismay.

When the phone rang, everyone froze.

Hutch swung around to stare at Starsky. Dolesky took a step back, almost on Kuyt’s foot, and grimaced.

“You have to answer it,” Starsky said to Hutch, pointing at the clamoring phone on the bar. “Everyone knows you’re Dunfey’s second in command.”

Hutch swallowed and raised his chin, assuming his role like an actor on the stage. He picked up the ornate gold receiver and barked, “What?”

Starsky and Dolesky eyed each other, waiting. Starsky was suddenly very aware of his nudity. He needed a shower desperately — and some fresh air and some clothes and to be about a million miles away. Bay City would be good enough. His own house, his own life…

Unfortunately, their room was on the opposite wing of the villa, a long walk past too many prying eyes who would question why he was covered in blood.

“Dunfey’s busy. This is Hutchinson, his second in command,” Hutch said with a supercilious annoyance. “Just tell me and I’ll relay the message.” In the next second, he paled, gripping the phone with blanched knuckles. “Yes. I see. Just as Dunfey ordered,” he said, void of any emotion. “He’ll be pleased. What about his plane?”

“What?” Starsky mouthed to Hutch.

Hutch shook his head abruptly, looking haunted.

While Hutch handled the phone, Dolesky and Giuseppe moved dishes and cutlery off the table. They gathered up the tablecloth to cover Dunfey’s body and preserve the scene. The cloth wasn’t big enough to cover Kuyt and Patello, too. Giuseppe had extra linens on the serving cart. He unfurled the tablecloths with an impassive expression, handed one to Dolesky, and settled the cloths over the bodies.

“Keep the plane on standby — Jack had plans with a slave for the evening, but he’ll want to fly out after midnight,” Hutch instructed sharply, as if he couldn’t bear to talk to the guy on the other end any more. “He’s given me full authority to make decisions on his behalf. I’ll be in touch.”

“What?” Starsky grabbed his partner’s arm.

“Ariadne and Manetti are dead.” Hutch sat on a bar stool as if his legs wouldn’t support him, one hand against his chest. All the fight seemed to drain out of him. “The guards shot the helicopter out of the sky. It went down in the mountains outside Phoenix. No survivors.”

Starsky staggered from the news. “No! No!” He choked on the words. He’d resented her, nearly hating her for her desire to dominate in bed, not quite believing when she tried to tell him that a sexual master/slave relationship could be loving, beautiful. Yet, she’d been kind to him during his public enslavement, and even lectured Hutch on his care. He remembered Manetti rescuing him from Kuyt. If he hadn’t been there —

After all that he’d survived, all that he’d endured, this news nearly broke him. Starsky squeezed his eyes shut, turning away, not wanting Dolesky to see him break down, not while he was still decked out as a slave. He swallowed hard, struggling to pull his emotions in line.

One look at Hutch nearly destroyed him. Hutch was sallow, sagged against the bar, one hand over his face.

Dolesky looked rattled. “Oh, hell,” he whispered. “All those years she put up with Cosgrove for this?”

After a long moment, Hutch pulled himself together. “Dunfey told us he arranged for Cosgrove’s assassination,” he told Dolesky. “He set up a terrorist group. Planned to be the conquering hero when he took over Bay City.” He exhaled roughly, in control again.

Starsky swallowed hard. “They were trying to pin Cosgrove on Peter Whitelaw, but it won’t wash. We watched a member of Jack’s private army murder Peter live, privately filmed in some warehouse or something. They’d tortured Whitelaw until he named Ariadne, Manetti, and Hutch as conspirators. That’s what blew the lid off in here.”

“Damn,” Dolesky said, his eyes hard and angry. “Whitelaw was an honest politician. Ariadne, Manetti, Whitelaw, they could’ve done a lot of good for this country.”

“Hey,” Starsky said, reaching up to stroke Hutch’s hair. “With all of them gone…you’re in charge then.”

“Oh, fuck,” Hutch said savagely. “We have to find a way to get the hell out of here.”

“Yes.” Dolesky ran a hand through his disheveled graying hair. “Fortunately, you are in charge. As you just told the guy on the phone, you’re Dunfey’s lieutenant. You can give all kinds of orders while Dunfey is supposedly ‘entertaining’ himself.”

“Could work,” Hutch said bleakly, looking at Starsky for support. “Maybe. We have to think like cops, totally control this crime scene, Starsk. First order of business, we both need a shower and clean clothes. Giuseppe, can we get back to our rooms without being discovered by the guards?”

“Yes, there are passages that lead to laundry rooms, storage rooms. So that household slaves don’t have to annoy the masters with their presence. From there we can get to your quarters. You won’t be seen. And…I can get us more help…from the household…from Dunfey’s slaves.”

“Excellent,” Starsky said, mentally ticking off the people they had to deal with immediately. “Hutch, who were you talking to on the phone?”

“The guard, Franko.” Hutch stared at the tablecloth covering Dunfey for half a moment before giving himself a shake. “He went all the way out to the air field, which gets him out of our hair for a while.”

“We gotta round up all those whippos Dunfey called colleagues out there and bring in the cavalry,” Starsky said. “Manetti…” He almost choked on the man’s name. This was Manetti’s last act. “He got in contact with the local police. What did he say that guy’s name was?”

“Lieutenant Grimes,” Hutch answered.

“I know him.” Dolesky nodded. “I’ve been in contact with both the BC police and the Phoenix force for a while now. Your department…”

“There’s nothing left of the real cops in Bay City,” Starsky said tiredly. “All the good guys are gone; good riddance to Roschenzky and his gang of sharks.”

“The problem is, we don’t know what we’ll be walking into when we go back to Bay City,” Hutch mused. “Government — such as it was — is in a shambles thanks to Dunfey, and without a solid leader like Ariadne or someone just as responsible from the Abbey League, it’ll be all out anarchy.”

“That’s the future, guys,” Dolesky said urgently. “Right now, Hutchinson, you’re at bat with bases loaded. Dunfey is dead, long live the king, and that’s you. Step up to the plate and take charge or you’ll have all the anarchy you can handle by that damned indoor swimming pool.”

“Do you have a way to contact Lt. Grimes?” Hutch took a deep breath. “If we have any hope of pulling this off, it has to be a concentrated effort between us, the cops, and — ”

“The house staff,” Giuseppe said. “Once they learn Master Dunfey is dead, believe me, they’ll help.”

“I think that big guy, Douglass, will side with us, too,” Starsky said.

“I can coordinate with the police as soon as I get rid of a few things.” Dolesky reached under the edge of the end table. He pulled out a small bug and a transmitter that had been taped there.

“That’s how you knew what was going on.” Starsky eyed the tiny listening device. “How many do you have?”

“Just two in this room. I placed them earlier this morning — I arrived before the others and arranged to have a private chat with Dunfey.” Dolesky collected his other bug from under the edge of the bar. “I’ve got the recordings in my room. Including Dunfey’s confession about killing Cosgrove and taking over Bay City, and how he was going to enslave and torture both of you. I would have been able to react sooner, but I had trouble getting away from the dinner meeting. As for Lt. Grimes, his daughter was forcibly enslaved in California. He really hates slavers.”

Exhausted but needing to move or he’d collapse in a heap, Starsky looked out the French doors to the patio at the man bound like a statue in the moonlight. “Oh, shit! Giuseppe, come help me.”

“What now?” Hutch asked, staring at the masked man. “I’d forgotten all about him. Damn.”

Dolesky shook his head mutely and opened the French doors. Starsky stepped outside, taking a lungful of fresh air not tainted by the odor of blood.

“Hey, there — ” Starsky said softly, touching the slave’s arm. The man broke out in gooseflesh but didn’t move. “We’ll get you down, get you some help.” He shuddered himself, imagining the horror of being trussed up and left like an object. “C’mon, we have to get him off this pedestal!”

Dolesky, Giuseppe, and Hutch eased him to the ground, holding him erect since he was unable to bend enough to sit.

Starsky unsheathed one of his hidden knives and carefully put a finger under the knot nearest the man’s gonads to avoid cutting skin. Moving as swiftly as he dared, he sliced through the intricately woven macramé knots. The man gasped in agony as the ropes dropped away and blood rushed into his limbs.

“Don’t try to talk!” Hutch soothed when the man opened his mouth. Hutch unbuckled the white mask, revealing a wan face with dull brown eyes and very short dark hair. “He needs more help than we can give him here.” Hutch stared in disgust at the network of bruises made by the cruel ropes.

“Master Hutchinson, if you take one arm, we can carry him between us,” Giuseppe said, lowering the man to one of the chairs to the dining room table. “It will actually be safer to travel through the villa grounds this way. The guards are used to seeing slaves carried out of this room in this condition. They won’t think anything of it. Help me get him to the kitchen, and the staff knows what to do. We deal with this frequently.” He nodded, obviously well versed in caring for abused slaves. “Once in the kitchen, I can take you through the serving hallways to your quarters.”

“Excellent.” Hutch stood up, wiping absently at the blood on his sleeve. “Starsky told me you said that there are fifteen slaves on the property, plus ten the guests brought in, and fifteen guards for the entire villa — is that true?”

“Yes, which doesn’t include the four paid staff in the kitchen.” Giuseppe smiled. “Slaves and kitchen staff outnumber the guards — a good thing, eh?”

The dark haired slave raised his head, moaning. Giuseppe leaned down and whispered in his ear. The young man froze. “They’re dead?” he whispered back. He was a brown-skinned man with the face of a Mexican Indian. He stared at his saviors in shock, but with a dawning joy. “Dios y Jesus — gracias, gracias.” He started to sob, and grabbed Giuseppe’s hand.

Starsky recalled meeting Carlos in the kitchen when he first spoke to Giuseppe. “Hutch, we need to get as many of the council members as we can in the meeting hall — for some kind of late get-together.”

“I have cake, many kinds, that were for the party at the end of the council,” Giuseppe said.

“Most of them are already there, because of the problems in Bay City,” Dolesky reminded them. “It won’t be hard to convince the rest of them to abandon their…evening activities.”

“The police will be coming.” Dolesky crossed his arms over his chest, obviously thinking. “I’ll get a message to them that…there’s been a suspicious death. That gives them probable cause to enter. Any way to have a friendly face open the main gate for them?”

“The guards control the gate. It’s electric.” Giuseppe thought for a moment. “Seth was an electrician. He knows where the power grid is for the villa. The gates open automatically when the power goes down.”

“That’s what we need.” Hutch clapped him on the shoulder. “But not yet. Starsky and I have to change. There are details we have to work out, but get the word to the rest of the slaves and staff. We’re all getting out of here.”

“We have to hurry.” Giuseppe gestured urgently. “Do you want me to send maids in here — they’re used to…blood.” He swallowed and raised his chin. “They’ve had to deal with it often.”

“Leave everything as it is until the police arrive,” Hutch continued. “But don’t let the other guests know.”

“No problem,” Giuseppe said sourly. “We’re used to keeping silent. This is a house of terrible secrets.”

“Give us…” Starsky raised his arm to glance at his watch and looked at the leather cuff. He sighed.

Hutch made a small sound and checked his own watch. “Forty-five minutes.”

“We’ll be ready,” Giuseppe said with a nod.

“I’ll contact Grimes,” Dolesky said. “Since you guys are going through the grounds, I’ll let myself out through the apartment door. I’ll lock it behind me so no one else can get in.”

Giuseppe and Hutch shouldered Carlos between them and hoisted him to his feet to carry him to the kitchen. Starsky followed, head down, as if he were any other slave.

Starsky barely saw the inside of their room. Heading straight for the shower, he turned the faucet on full blast. He stood under the cascading water, too tired to move, the welts on his back stinging when the spray hit. Water washed away the blood, sending swirls of brownish red down the drain. His entire body felt strange, girded by the leather harness and weighed down by the grisly scene in the Gold Room. Didn’t matter that they were some of the worst of humanity, he’d pulled the trigger on Dunfey, and seen Kuyt and Patello laid out, dead. It felt wrong, as if he’d failed even though this had been their ultimate goal.

“Had to happen,” Hutch said softly, as he stepped into the shower behind him. He touched Starsky’s neck gently, and picked up the soap. Working up a lather, Hutch tenderly cleaned the collar and the skin around and under it. “We both knew that — right from the beginning.”

“Now you can read my mind?” Starsky asked sardonically, turning into Hutch’s embrace. His big body was slippery wet and so very warm, the pounding water flattening his blond hair against his head. Starsky ran his hand down the curve of Hutch’s skull, feeling the grooves and bumps of the bone. They were all such fragile beings.

“I could always read your mind.” Hutch ran soapy hands over Starsky’s body, poking a finger under each strap to get the blood and sweat out from underneath.

Starsky wanted to lean back and luxuriate in Hutch’s tender attention, but he couldn’t forget all they had to do — and what they had just done. His heart pounded against his ribs, his breathing accelerating. It was over; it was done. It wasn’t the first time he’d killed a man…

“Ssh,” Hutch whispered, the water flattening his pale hair to his head. He placed a hand over Starsky’s heart. “Don’t think, just feel us here right now. We need the quiet.”

“I can wash myself…” Starsky made a grab for the soap.

Hutch slid out of the way on the slick tiled floor. “My job,” he said simply, bending to scrub the front pelvic guards, making sure every inch of Starsky was clean. He worked on the harness methodically, pulling out the two knives, cleaning them and putting them aside to dry, and then scouring the sheaths that held them. “Turn around, Starsk,” Hutch said softly when he had finished the front.

Starsky faced the faucets, standing under the warm water pattering his tense shoulders as Hutch washed his back. He lathered every welt, every mark he had put there with a surprising gentleness, rinsing the soap just as carefully.

Ariadne, Starsky thought, Hutch will be a good master. He’s learning. He couldn’t bear the idea of her dying in a ball of flame and twisted metal, and was grateful the shower could hide his tears. Pressing his palms into his eyes, Starsky mourned her death and Manetti’s.

Hutch touched Starsky’s arm, turning him until they were face to face, and knelt under the running water.

Starsky blinked. What was he doing? “Hutch, don’t…” He paused when Hutch began cleaning Dunfey’s blood off the cock cage and the piercing. Starsky looked down at him in awe, surprised that his cock started to rise. After what they had just been through, he’d wondered if that might never happen again.

“I thought I was going to have to watch him rape you,” Hutch said loudly enough to be heard over the rushing water. Washing him carefully, Hutch removed every drop of blood that tainted him. “I thought he was going to win. That he would get to keep you forever. And I was going to have to watch. Because I had put you there.”

Looking down at the perfect, blond head, Starsky felt the past collide with the present. A long time ago, Hutch had pushed him down in the shower, and Starsky had taken him. Friends, partners, lovers, master and slave, one and the same, begun in a burst of water, like birth. This was wrong; Hutch should not be on his knees —

Hutch kissed his clean erection, then ran his tongue over Starsky’s swelling crown, the stainless steel ring, and every leather band now tightening and constricting his hard-on.

“Hutch, wait…” Starsky gasped, gripping Hutch’s head, tangling his fingers in the long blond hair, the shower beating down on them like a winter storm. “Don’t…” He suddenly needed to be in Hutch, to be surrounded by Hutch so that he wasn’t consumed by the fallout from Dunfey. He reached down, pulling Hutch up to latch onto his mouth, arousal slamming into him that had nothing to do with Phenine. This was pure need — a desire as old as their partnership.

Hutch responded with equal need, kissing him hard enough to push Starsky into the shower fixtures. The faucet knobs dug into Starsky’s hipbone, but he didn’t care. Hutch gazed at Starsky, his eyes heavy lidded and needy. Grabbing one more kiss that knocked their teeth together, Hutch returned to his oral exploration of Starsky’s confined dick.

Damn! If there was a way to forget the blood, fear, and violence, this was it. Starsky’s aching erection stood tall, ready to fuck. He wanted to drill into Hutch from the front, wanted to excite Hutch to the edge of madness and then plunge his cock into Hutch’s ass. To ride him hard and never let up. “No, it’s my tur…”

Hutch had other ideas. He stopped tonguing Starsky’s cock, placing the flat of his hand against Starsky’s chest, pinning him against the tiled wall. His expression was fierce. “Did you just tell me ‘no’?”

Suddenly, Starsky was looking into the blazing eyes of his master. His knees buckled and he would have dropped immediately into presentation if Hutch hadn’t been holding him up. “No, I mean — ” Well, that came out wrong.

Hutch blinked, but it was hard to tell if he had tears in his eyes or it was just spray from the shower. He gave a little shove, pushing the silver chit attached to the leather straps into Starsky’s flesh. “I kept seeing him kill you with that silver thing, Starsk, and I felt like your murderer.”

There was no way to respond to that, no way to mitigate Hutch’s fears, especially now that the danger was past. “It didn’t happen,” Starsky told him finally, planting his hands on Hutch’s waist. Holding on or anchoring them both, he wasn’t sure. “We’re here…” And very hard. His cock was swelling around the leather straps, and it hurt. Which was weirdly arousing. Hutch’s erection was poking Starsky in the hipbone, and that was even more arousing.

“You are mine, do you hear me?” Hutch said desperately. “I own you, forever and always.”

Starsky nodded, unable to look away from his lover’s…no, his master’s face.

“Say it. Say that you are my slave,” Hutch demanded.

He didn’t have to think twice. Starsky began speaking before Hutch finished. “I’m your slave, master,” he replied solemnly. Lowering his eyes like a penitent slave, he felt a wave of bliss. He wanted to give Hutch happiness, and it made him happy to do so.

“We’re one, two halves of a whole,” Hutch whispered into the drone of the shower. “You only come for me, when I say so.” The words came out angry, but Starsky heard the worry, the need, and the love underneath.

Starsky took a breath, getting water in his mouth from the splash of the water. His heart slammed against his ribs — against Hutch’s hand holding him immobile. He looked up at Hutch again. “I can’t come, not with this on.”

“Yes, you can; it just takes a while.” Hutch gave him a smile that hinted at so many different things.

About to retort sarcastically, Starsky saw the fiery glint in his master’s eye as Hutch dropped to the floor and bent over his prize. When Hutch fit his lips around Starsky’s length, Starsky was sure he really had died and gone straight to heaven.

Amazing.

Hutch clamped his hands around Starsky’s thighs, stroking the pad of his thumb over the brand. Partially healed nerve endings sizzled, tingles running continuously down his spine.

Starsky hadn’t thought his penis could grow any larger in its restraints, but he learned otherwise. With Hutch suckling his length, his erection attempted to snap the leather straps. His scrotum tightening, Starsky began to pant.

Hutch gathered Starsky’s sac with both hands, coming off his cock with a smack that even the steady drum of the shower didn’t drown out.

“What the hell?” Starsky cried out. He could sense the climax building, filling him to overflowing but frustratingly just out of reach. This was truly sadistic — what kind of master did that to his slave?

Hutch stood, still cupping Starsky’s genitals, and Starsky thought about forcing his aching cock right through Hutch’s belly button if he had to. Starsky choked a laugh, strung out like an addict.

He reached out to bring Hutch’s head to him, to kiss him. “Want to drill you like an oil derrick,” Starsky said breathlessly into Hutch’s mouth. The shower made it hard to kiss and breathe at the same time.

“Can’t,” Hutch said, far too logically for Starsky’s present state of mind.

“I need…” Starsky said harshly. What? How did he express what he wanted? Hutch had already told him he couldn’t come until he was allowed. “Please, Master,” he whispered into Hutch’s ear.

Hutch gasped as if the single word was a potent aphrodisiac. He widened his hands, grasping both their cocks together. Starsky nearly jumped out of his skin, the sensation so incredible and painful at the same time. His whole penis was too sensitive to tolerate handling and yet, conversely, he didn’t want anything but Hutch’s hands stroking fast and hot. He was going to spontaneously combust, even under running water, if something didn’t happen soon. Starsky could feel the arousal mounting to dizzying heights, but couldn’t quite reach the top and orgasm.

Hutch laughed, breathing in ragged puffs. He stiffened, leaning into Starsky to increase the friction of skin against skin bound in leather, and came, ejaculating in a sudden spurt against Starsky’s belly.

“You can come,” Hutch gasped, bracing himself on either side of Starsky’s shoulders to keep their bodies sliding roughly against each other.

That did it. Starsky shuddered violently, rejoicing. Having taken so long to come, the release took an age to finish, leaving him rung out and exhausted.

Hutch was the first one to recover. He put an arm around Starsky, like two drunks steadying one another. They rinsed each other off, removing all traces of semen and soap. Finally, Hutch reached over and turned off the tap, keeping Starsky close against him.

Their hearts were beating as one. They were alive, they were together, they were whole.

Starsky remembered the conversation they’d started when they first got in the shower. He still had questions. “Answer me this: if you could read my mind, then why couldn’t I always read yours?” He pulled two towels from the rack and handed one to Hutch.

“Because I was doing my damnedest to hide from you,” Hutch answered simply, toweling off his hair until it stood in dark blond peaks. “It was surprisingly difficult.”

“Why?” Starsky took a step closer to Hutch, and his partner came to him, as if they were thinking with one mind again. They kissed, lodestone to magnet, mouth against mouth, lips touching, tongues dancing. It was so good.

“Because you didn’t want what I did,” Hutch whispered against his mouth, breathing into him. He put his arms around Starsky, caressing each belt mark with a delicacy Starsky didn’t know he had.

It still stung, but he didn’t care because Hutch was touching him with such love.

“And now I do.” Starsky started to kneel, but Hutch stopped him. It was too soon. The orgasm in the shower, after all they had been through, was all they had left.

“Not here,” Hutch whispered, trying to make it sound like an order, not the regretful truth from an exhausted man. “Not now.”

Starsky ducked his head against Hutch’s shoulder, fighting the need born of his storm-tossed emotions: love, fear, mourning, passion.

Hutch kissed his mouth tenderly. “I’ll take a rain check.”

“In the desert?” Starsky forced a smile and looked away from his lover’s beautiful body. He wanted to lie in bed and make love for days, however Hutch wanted that love made.

“Flashfloods in the desert — on occasion.” Hutch ran his finger around the edge of the collar Starsky still wore.

Starsky rubbed his arms with the towel, then started on the wet harness. “Sounds like I could get in over my head.”

“I think I did,” Hutch said remotely. He looked around the bathroom and found the blow dryer. “We’re going to have use this on the harness, or it’ll take too long for it to dry. It’ll chafe.” He frowned. “It may tighten up a little as it dries, but at least it’s clean again. When the sheath is dry, we can replace the knives. Lean against the door so I can start on the back of it.”

So much for romance, Starsky thought ruefully as the drone of the hair drier kicked in. The warm air tickled his skin as Hutch lifted each strap, drying the skin underneath and running the hot air over the leather.

“The marks don’t look so raw,” Hutch said quietly. “That lotion Ariadne used really — ” Hutch stopped as if he just remembered what happened to her. He kept working the hair drier, but went completely silent.

Starsky didn’t look at him, aware that he was trying to get his emotions under control. If they looked at each other now, they’d both lose it.

Hutch finally got the back of the harness fairly dry, and handed Starsky the dryer. “Can you work on the front of it, while I start getting dressed?” It was a request. He could tell Hutch didn’t have it in him at the moment to be anyone’s master.

“Sure, Hutch,” Starsky said, as if it were a normal day and they were getting dressed for work.

Hutch padded into the bedroom naked and pulled out one of the suits he’d brought for the council meeting. He paired the black suit with a white shirt that had alternating bands of white satin and a purple silk tie.

“I want this off.” The harness was dry enough, but it was getting on his last nerve. He’d been wearing it for days and nearly forgotten what he looked like in normal clothes. Starsky hooked a thumb under the straps on his chest, making the silver ownership chit swing like a pendulum. “I don’t want to go out there as a slave any longer.”

Hutch nodded as though he understood, searching through the pockets of his blood-spattered gray slacks for the key he’d refused to give to Dunfey. Starsky sat down on the bed, holding out his hand for the little key.

A rapid knocking on the door stopped them both. Starsky caught Hutch’s eye. Was it one of the household staff or had they been found out?

“Mr. Hutchinson!” Giuseppe called urgently.

“Come in,” Hutch called, repocketing the key.

“Miss Roget is gone,” Giuseppe said breathlessly, closing the door behind him.

“Gone where?” Starsky asked. She’d been high on Phenine; he’d expected her to hump Anton until daybreak. Maybe Hutch had given her a relatively small amount? Hard to judge dosing when the Phenine had been mixed first with a strawberry smoothie and then dumped into a daiquiri.

“She must have recovered. She wanted to join Mr. Dunfey again,” he explained, inhaling to get his breathing under control. “And came back to the Gold Room.”

“Damn.” Hutch quickly slotted his purple tie under his collar and flipped the ends over and under into a classic Windsor knot. “Did she get inside?”

“No, Mr. Dolesky had locked the door,” Giuseppe said. “Carlos and some of the maids were still in the hallway. Even though Carlos is very afraid of her, he managed a clever lie. He told Miss Roget that Mr. Dunfey, his staff, Mr. Hutchinson, and Davey had all gone to the airfield to return to Bay City.”

“Good thinking!” Starsky stood up. “She went after him?”

Giuseppe nodded. “She and Anton left quickly. She still seemed anxious.”

“When she gets to the airfield, the plane will be empty,” Starsky said worriedly.

“If she’s as smart as I think she is, she’ll order the pilot to call Dunfey on the radio. He won’t be able to raise him. If Dunfey’s missing, and the pilot gets reports that the police are on the way, she’ll get on that plane and fly out of here,” Hutch said, his mouth set in a grim line. “We’ll lose her, but the rest of the mob is here. We need to get out there, and contain the riff-raff before most of the horde makes a break for it. It’ll be better if there’s someone here for the police to arrest besides us.”

“Go serve that cake, Giuseppe,” Starsky said. “Get your daughters out of sight, arm the slaves, but don’t let them show their hand until we arrive. Stall the members in the main room, even if you have to lock ’em in.”

“Explain that Dunfey has an important announcement about the matters in Bay City,” Hutch said, but he was looking straight at Starsky as if the only way he could get through the next few hours was to recharge his soul.

“I will.” Giuseppe left.

“Starsk.” Hutch swallowed, his eyes filled with anguish. “Removing the harness will take too long. And since I have to go out there and act like Dunfey’s second in command, it will totally blow our cover if you’re not… kneeling by my side as my slave. I’m sorry. I wish it could be some other way. But we’re both going to have to stay undercover for a while longer.”

“How much longer?” Starsky demanded, even though he knew Hutch was being logical. Fuck, he wanted out of this contraption.

“Soon.” Hutch placed a hand on Starsky’s chest, right over the silver chit and his heart. “I promise, as soon as I…we can.”

Starsky took his leather jacket out of the wardrobe, rubbing the old familiar leather between his fingers. This smelled like his old life, made him believe that he’d get back to being a cop for the first time since Dunfey pulled out that damned massive silver bullet.

“You are not a slave,” Hutch said firmly, gripping his shoulders. “You’re my lover. I wished I’d never — ”

“No time for that, either.” Starsky pulled away, hugging the jacket to his chest. “Where’s my watch?”

The watch was on the desk next to the computer where they’d left it hours ago. It seemed like days since then, Starsky reflected, his heart giving a sudden jolt. So much had happened, and they still had work to do.

Hutch picked up the watch and held it on the palm of his hand. “Give me the jacket.”

Confused, Starsky released it reluctantly.

Hutch slung it over the crook of his arm, carrying it casually as if he might need to don it over his suit jacket in the cool night air of the desert. He palmed the watch, and slid it into a pocket of his suit coat. There were two guns lying on the computer desk where they’d left them in their haste to get in the shower. Hutch inserted Kuyt’s Russian pistol deep into a pocket of the leather jacket. “You can’t wear these yet because you’re undercover, but I can keep them close at hand. For luck. So we can’t lose them again.”

Surprisingly grateful but unwilling to let it show, Starsky nodded, at a loss for words. He was still working to accept the continuation of an undercover role he wanted to be done with.

“Let’s go start a revolution,” Hutch said, shooting the cuffs of his shirt. “Hutchinson is in charge now.”

He picked up the gun he’d confiscated from Patello and tucked it out of sight in the small of his back, held in place by the waistband of his slacks.

“One more thing, master.” Starsky said, finding his voice. He infused the word with equal measures sarcasm and affection. “I want the key.” If he was stuck with this undercover role for now, he needed that small control over his own life.

“What’s mine is yours.” Hutch grinned, a hard one that hinted at the task ahead. He pulled the key out of his pocket, tucking it into Starsky’s fist.

“What’s yours is mine,” Starsky countered and slipped the key into the interior pocket in the lining of his leather jacket, zipping it closed. Hutch would keep the jacket safe until he could wear it again. They were set. And ready.

***

Starsky and Hutch walked into the meeting room as several slaves handed out slices of cake to disinterested patrons. The mood in the room was like the first rumbling of an earthquake; even the air felt unsettled, hot and dry as if the air conditioning had shut off abruptly. It raised the hairs on the back of Starsky’s neck.

He assessed the readiness of the slaves. None carried obvious weapons, but he sensed an undercurrent of eagerness. There were no mermaids frolicking, and a surprising number of slaves were standing around the perimeter of the room. Most were serving council members, but the members were also anxious, waiting for answers.

“No one’s eating their cake,” Hutch whispered.

“They want somebody’s head on a platter. It better not be yours,” Starsky replied softly. As they passed the dessert table, he nodded subtly at Giuseppe supervising the serving slaves. “We ready?”

“Each man and woman has access to what they need,” Giuseppe said as a young male slave with gold chains attaching his collar to rings in his nipples sliced more cake.

“Hutchinson,” Lvoff called out from a table near the front. “Where is Dunfey? What is happening in Bay City? We need facts not rumors. We have no phones. We cannot call our businesses!”

His slave, Douglass, seemed poised but stayed in position, crouched beside his master’s table.

“Yeah! What the hell’s going on?” Gavin Haley stood aggressively, stabbing a stubby finger at them. “If Cosgrove’s been assassinated, the executive board and I have to get back to Bay City now!”

“Calm down everyone!” Hutch called out just as Carlos slipped in through the door behind him. Hutch glanced back at him benignly.

Carlos inclined his head once, his eyes lowered like a properly trained slave, but his eyes moved back and forth nervously.

To Starsky, Carlos seemed excited, but he knew most of the men and women in the room who owned slaves wouldn’t notice.

Hutch beckoned Starsky to follow him and walked up to the main table, greeting members curtly with a handshake or nod. “Just be patient. I’ll explain everything — ”

“I checked the global web for news,” Dolesky said, sounding like every other council member. “Bay City is in all out war, and both Cosgrove and Peter Whitelaw have been assassinated!”

The sound rose as everyone tried to talk at once. Starsky saw the circle of slaves edge forward, so that two flanked each guard or the main doors.

“Quiet.” Hutch didn’t raise his voice, his soft authoritative tone more powerful than any shout.

The babble died away, leaving just a few mutters of dissent. Knowing what was expected of him, Starsky knelt beside his master, even though it cost him the view of the room. He was, however, at eye level with the council members’ slaves. Each one focused back at him.

“Davey, hold this,” Hutch ordered, handing him the leather jacket.

Starsky felt the weight of the Russian gun in the pocket, and shifted the coat so he could reach the gun if necessary.

Hutch held up his right hand, restoring peace. “First, thank you for all coming back here so late tonight.” He was calm, in control, imperial. “I apologize for interrupting your entertainment, but we’re in troubled times. I felt it imperative to inform you of what’s happened in the last few hours. You’re aware that Bay City is under siege. It’s true, and as Mr. Dolesky reports, President Cosgrove has been murdered.” His confirmation brought a hushed lull to the group. “I’m sorry to report that there have been even more unfortunate events tonight.”

Starsky looked at Hutch, shifting onto his haunches and using the jacket to disguise his posture. He was on guard, every cop instinct on alert, making it easy to ignore the welts on his butt. His heart rate sped up in anticipation. They couldn’t afford one wrong move, one wrong word.

“At Mr. Dunfey’s request, Ariadne Underhill left for Bay City in a helicopter over an hour ago.” Hutch paused, his voice catching on her name. His timing was Oscar caliber. The audience caught his emotional response and leaned forward, waiting. “Her helicopter took off — ” he said with a slight crack in his voice, the only sign of his mourning. ” — And crashed in the desert.”

“Was Manetti with her?” a man in the back asked, his face white with shock.

A Buccaneers fan, Starsky guessed.

“Unfortunately,” Hutch said sadly, “he was her pilot. They were over a remote part of the desert when it happened. No help was available. Neither of them survived.” He waited while the council members reacted. “There’s more news.” Hutch shrugged as if uncertain how to continue. “I may as well just say this straight out.”

Starsky mentally applauded Hutch’s performance. The council members were so fixated on what he might say, they didn’t notice the slaves and house staff coming to attention.

“Jack Dunfey was murdered in the Gold Room less than an hour ago.”

It was like yelling fire in the middle of a movie theatre. Immediately, chaos ensued as members jumped up, advancing on Starsky and Hutch, yelling, demanding answers, reasons. The sound was overwhelming.

“How could this happen?” Lvoff shouted. “You, Hutchinson! You and your slave had an appointment with him in that room. Were you there when it happened?”

After quickly conferring with the rest of the CEC executives, Gavin Haley yelled, “You did this, you bastard! Did you slit his throat the way you did Roschenzky? Do you think you can get away with it?”

Hutch suddenly produced the weapon he’d taken from Patello and aimed it at the mob, slowing their advance. Most were smart enough not to rush a man holding a gun. “All right, all of you calm down and hold your positions! That’s an order!”

Starsky was grateful that Dunfey had confiscated their weapons before the meeting began. But a single armed man will quickly lose control of a mob once they realized he couldn’t shoot everyone in the room.

“I did not kill Jack Dunfey,” Hutch insisted vehemently. It was, after all, the truth. “Why would I? We were about to embark on a joint venture that would be extremely profitable to both of us, as everyone here knows.” He looked out over the crowd, wearing his sincerity like armor, keeping the gun leveled at the nearest council members. “I was having dinner with Jack and Harriet, when she was taken ill and went back to her room. After she left, Jack ordered Kuyt to report to Harriet so he could be pierced and shipped to Luna for training as my new slave.” Hutch pursed his lips, showing his disapproval for Kuyt’s actions. “Kuyt went crazy. He knew where Jack kept weapons in the Gold Room — which I certainly didn’t. I’d never been there before — ”

Starsky was more than impressed. Hutch had always been able to lie glibly when undercover, but this was a masterpiece, all the more so because they had not had time to concoct a cover story ahead of time. From the rumbling of the crowd and the various comments he could hear, the council members were starting to believe the tale.

Hutch continued, strong and beautiful, looking like a commander. “When Jack ordered him to report to Harriet, Kuyt grabbed one of Jack’s guns and killed Jack before Patello or I could stop him. Then he killed Patello, too. I jumped into the fray to overwhelm Kuyt. He turned the gun on me, but in the struggle for the weapon, Kuyt was fatally shot. The soundproof room prevented anyone from hearing the shots, and Jack himself had sent the room’s guard to the airfield to check on his plane before any of this happened.”

Starsky waited, almost breathless, touching the hard metal pistol through the soft leather of his jacket. Had they succeeded? Had the attendees bought Hutch’s fabrication?

“We all heard Dunfey name you his second in command, Hutchinson,” Dolesky said. He looked around the room. “Where does that leave the rest of us? Jack was going to be the new President. That’s why the CEC execs are here. How are we supposed to move forward?”

Hutch held up his hand, and lowered his gun now that tempers seemed mollified. “Jack named me the Chief of the Special Police. That’s the position I intend to hold. I’ve discussed business here with many of you, and will continue to discuss it when we are back in Bay City. As far as the presidency goes — ” He focused on the man he knew would be his greatest enemy once they returned to BC. “Haley, you told me earlier that once Jack established his leadership, the day-to-day running of the government would be in your hands. With Jack gone, you’re the next in line for that job. I’m willing to put aside our differences…for the good of the country. What about you?”

Like every power mad politician Starsky had ever known, Haley was rocked at the thought that Hutch might be handing him the presidency. But not so rocked that he wouldn’t grab the reins. “Well…uh, that’s generous, Hutchinson. Considering the sudden loss of leadership…I, well, I would be humbled to — ”

Another CEC exec leapt to his feet and raised a glass. “I propose Gavin Haley act as our interim President! Until new elections can be arranged, of course.” Every exec at the table stood and loudly seconded the nomination.

As the others in the room focused on the CEC executives glad-handing each other and thumping Haley on the back in congratulations, Starsky watched the slaves shift into position. With surprising stealth, the naked slaves all pulled weapons hidden from view — behind potted palms, under tables, or under silver serving domes. Before anyone noticed their actions, the motley band of warriors was standing together.

Hutch and Starsky exchanged a glance. Starsky prepared himself — whatever his partner had in mind, he would follow. As Hutch was about to call for order, a familiar whooping siren suddenly cut through the air, reverberating off the walls of the compound, brilliant red and blue revolving lights throwing prisms of color over the four walls.

Hutch turned to Starsky with a look of relief. Starsky slid his hand inside the pocket of the leather jacket — his leather jacket — and pulled out the Russian gun. The Phoenix police had finally arrived, just as Manetti and Dolesky had promised.

Giuseppe’s people took advantage of the unexpected distraction to overwhelm the guards and disarm them, herding them into a corner with quiet efficiency.

“What the hell?” Leo Gillespie cried out as the guards were taken prisoner. His slave suddenly rose up with a savage growl and slugged him hard, knocking him to the ground.

Without warning, Douglass Watson tackled Lvoff to the ground, punching the Russian mobster viciously, as if afraid he would lose the opportunity. Lvoff screamed for help, but too many of the council members were under similar assault. No one came to his aid.

“The police are here!” Hutch announced blandly, as if realizing few would even hear him. “Don’t resist. If you cooperate, it will all go easier…!”

His words had little effect, and much of his speech was drowned out by multiple whooping sirens. Many of the criminals — especially those with outstanding warrants in the state — bolted from the room, trying to escape.

“I’ll be taking over Dunfey’s business holdings in Bay City,” Hutch continued to his diminished audience, before trailing off. About half a dozen men and women still sat at their tables in shock. None of them seemed to know how to cope with their slaves’ revolt.

“General Patton.” Starsky nudged Hutch’s ribs. “You’re preaching to what’s left of the choir.”

“I didn’t even get to my stump speech,” Hutch complained, holding out his hand to help Starsky to his feet. “It’s going to be cold outside. You’d better put that on.” Taking the leather jacket from Starsky, he waited with gentlemanly accord until Starsky slid his arms into the sleeves. “If anyone asks, you can tell them the truth, that I gave it to you.”

Starsky nodded as he zipped it up. “Nice thing about the truth is you never have to worry about forgetting the details.” Now if he could only get a pair of pants to cover his ass —

Outside, the siren’s wail was replaced by a booming voice amplified by a bullhorn. “This is the Phoenix police department. Come out, unarmed, with your hands up.”

A woman sitting near the pool began sobbing, her cries unheeded in the turmoil.

“Smart move pinning the murder on Kuyt,” Starsky whispered, as Giuseppe, Douglass, and other slaves took control of the council members and started herding them toward the foyer.

“Can’t have you up on charges of murder one.” Hutch inclined his head toward the now unguarded door. “We’ll have to be taken into custody like everyone else so all these whippos will still think I’m on their side, and I can get down to business in Bay City.”

The idea of going back to Bay City felt like a dream. Starsky nodded grimly. They weren’t there yet.

Tables had been shoved aside, a few chairs overturned, and plates shattered on the tiles. Clusters of people, a mixture of slaves and council members, gathered around the windows at the end of the room, watching the revolving red and blue dome lights of the police cars.

“Looks like you’re the captain of the Titanic, going down with the sinking ship,” Dolesky said, watching two armed slaves chase down Horace Marlow, the man who’d tried bargaining with Hutch for Starsky’s services.

“We can’t prove we aren’t connected to Dunfey,” Starsky said to Dolesky.

“And I’d like to maintain my cover,” Hutch added, leading the way to the exit doors.

“I think we can play both sides,” Dolesky said. “Though it means I’ll have to give up my own cover. Too bad. It served me well for years. I’ve got the recording with Dunfey ordering Ariadne’s death, and taking credit for the anarchy in Bay City, and both Cosgrove’s and Peter Whitelaw’s murders. And I don’t think it’ll be too hard using it to prove self defense. Giuseppe saved both your lives in there…as far as I’m concerned.”

“Good timing with the cops.” Hutch glanced at him wryly.

“Well, I have my ways,” Dolesky brushed the lapel of his suit jacket with false modesty, “but travel time made that take longer than I’d hoped. It’s not like this place is next door to the police station.” He eyed Giuseppe. The cook was directing Dunfey’s slaves to march council members into the hallway. “Looks like Giuseppe’s got things well in hand here.”

Starsky allowed himself a moment to gloat as Giuseppe’s staff herded the council members out of the meeting room and into the foyer. He could see the revolving lights and headlamps of the police cars congregated at the front doors of the hacienda. “General Giuseppe’s got himself an army.”

“Master Hutchinson, Davey.” Giuseppe appeared through the milling nude soldiers of his battalion, the square set of his shoulders completely different from his posture in the kitchen that morning. He beckoned them into a little alcove, away from the crowd. “We’ve — ” He seemed determined to announce this properly and nodded over his shoulder at Douglass who was armed with a one of Dunfey’s own weapons, no doubt liberated from whatever armory Dunfey had once stored them in. “Secured the building, and taken almost all the guards and guests prisoner. Some of the guards were not at their stations. They may have escaped.”

“Terrific!” Starsky said, clapping him on the shoulder. Dunfey’s guards and the council members were chaffing at their new status, but the slaves were in charge now. Starsky noticed the guard who had harassed him before, Walters, had received quite a beating. Apparently, he’d been using his position to abuse a number of Dunfey’s staff and they’d taken the opportunity to let him know how they felt.

Hutch shook Giuseppe’s hand solemnly. “We couldn’t have pulled this off without your help, and I’m grateful.”

“We’re the ones who are grateful, Master Hutchinson,” Giuseppe started, tears coming to his eyes when Glory and her sister walked forward with their mother. The three women were wearing servants’ clothing over their piercings, possibly the first clothing they’d been allowed to wear since being enslaved.

“I’m Hutch, and this — ” he gripped Starsky’s shoulder through the leather jacket, “is my partner, Starsky.”

“Old man,” Douglass broke in, before Giuseppe could respond. “The po-leece are coming in the front door. You think we should be doing something more than standing around yakking?”

“Listen,” Hutch said rapidly to Giuseppe. “Today, I’m no different than the rest of the council members. But believe me, once Starsky and I get back to Bay City, things will be different, I guarantee it.”

“I think you got their vote,” Dolesky said, indicating the slaves still controlling the mob. Suddenly, Dolesky shoved Hutch hard enough to make him stumble into a group of council members.

“Get off me!” Gillespie said irritably, but one of Dunfey’s slaves backed him up against the wall, brandishing an automatic weapon.

Moving closer to his partner, Starsky wondered if the man actually knew how to use the rifle. Dolesky shoved Hutch into line behind Gillespie and in front of Haley. Haley was insisting loudly that as a CEC executive, he was innocent of all wrong-doing, and would sue them all for the way he was being treated.

Dolesky raised his voice so that it rang out through the foyer as he flashed his FBI credentials. “Ken Hutchinson, you’re under arrest for multiple violations of the RICO statues. You have the right to remain silent — ”

“The hell I am! You’ve got nothing on me!” Hutch shouted angrily, swinging his gun around as if to shoot Dolesky.

Dolesky quickly batted the gun out of Hutch’s hand, disarming him. Grabbing his wrist, Dolesky easily jerked Hutch around to cuff his hands behind him. The other mobsters grumbled and shifted restlessly, but the slaves kept them covered.

Even though he knew Dolesky was putting on a show of taking Hutch into custody, Starsky wasn’t sure how he to react. Should be follow Hutch like a good slave or side with the newly formed slave army? He stood his ground, nervous that a riot would break out before the police could take control of the volatile situation.

“Come out with your hands up!” the bullhorn demanded again.

“Watson, open the door, please,” Dolesky said. “This is the FBI!” he shouted to the police outside. “I’m bringing out prisoners! Hold your fire!”

The big ex-football player lifted his chin and opened the door to a solid phalanx of guns bristling only yards away. It looked like an entire battalion was ready for war.

Hutch glanced at Starsky. The blood red strobe lights turned his blond hair fiery bright and washed out his blue eyes, making Hutch look like a vision from some erotic dream brought on by Phenine. Hutch opened his mouth to say something to Starsky, but was drowned out when the commander of the police blared, “Place all weapons on the ground, and put your hands behind your head.”

Hutch, already cuffed, finally stood quietly, but his expression was murderous. Not knowing exactly where his place was, Starsky handed Dolesky the Russian gun, and put his hands on his head, while standing shoulder-to-shoulder with his partner.

With Starsky’s gun hanging from one finger and Hutch’s from the other hand, Dolesky stepped out from behind them. “I’m FBI,” he said. “Special Agent Harry Dolesky. I need to talk to the officer in charge. Lieutenant Grimes, if he’s here.”

“Drop your weapons!” a cop wearing riot gear that covered his face ordered Dolesky. The FBI agent complied, still holding up his ID.

The rest of the troops swarmed past them into the house, their feet pounding on the tiles, as the line of council members walked out of the house, hands behind their head.

Behind them, the sound of police orders and protests rang out, but Starsky didn’t turn his head. He peered up into the night sky instead. The round-faced moon rode low, a silver coin tossed onto a black velvet scarf. Triumph swept through him, a feeling so similar to the high of Phenine that he wasn’t sure he could control his emotions.

It was surprisingly cool in the desert at night. Starsky was glad to be wearing his leather jacket, but wished again for a pair of pants. His legs and feet started to get cold.

As other council members and slaves left the building under police guard, they were marched to a large command vehicle parked in front of Dunfey’s extensive garage. Armed cops began separating people for processing.

Starsky kept his eyes on his partner. The back of Hutch’s neck was ramrod stiff, and he walked with his head held high. Was Hutch going to stay in his undercover character as Dunfey’s second-in-command for their interrogation, or spill the beans to the cops, since Dolesky already knew the truth? What would this arrest do for his reputation if — when — they got back to Bay City?

“Up the stairs,” a gruff voice commanded them, pointing into the large double-wide command vehicle, one of several parked in a line in the wide driveway. As big as a Greyhound bus, Starsky glimpsed a long hallway with multiple “rooms”. Interrogation pods and processing areas for fingerprinting and photographs, he suspected.

“Listen, I need to talk to your superiors,” Dolesky said, shaking off the officer’s hand, as he held up his FBI credentials close to the man’s faceplate. “I’ve got information on Dunfey’s operation that pertains to the Bay City upheavals. Hutchinson is in federal custody and under my protection.”

Hutch turned back to Starsky, but the cop moved between them, preventing any communication. “Move!” He gestured with his M-16, urging Hutch inside the vehicle in front of Dolesky.

“I’m right here, Dolesky,” Lt. Grimes called out, exiting one of the small rooms inside the command center. “And all ears. Bring your prisoner into interrogation room four, please.”

Starsky started to climb the stairs behind them, but the same riot-masked cop bared his way. “You’re wearing slave gear.”

“Yeah, so?” Starsky challenged angrily. “I’m a cop, undercover, and if you don’t let me in with my partner, I’ll show you a couple moves you never learned at the police academy.”

“Slaves have to be debriefed in another center away from the rest of the suspects,” the man insisted.

“Are you missing essential brain cells?” Starsky snarled, rapping his knuckles on the officer’s riot mask.

“Do that again and I’ll arrest you on charges of assaulting a police officer,” he said with tight authority. “The name is Sergeant Joel Marsden, and I have my orders. Those two in the wagon; you, over there.”

“Fuck!” Starsky exploded, but knew better than to charge a man holding a rifle that could shoot fifteen rounds a minute. He backed off, unable to do anything but obey.

“Sergeant Valentine will escort you over to the holding area,” Marsden said after a few minutes. “We brought…clothes.”

“Can’t handle seeing a guy’s butt, Marsden?” he taunted.

The first of the crime bosses were herded out of the villa, linked together in a long chain of handcuffs like pre-schoolers going to the park, presided over by more cops in riot gear. As they approached the entrance of the same command center Hutch had entered, Starsky scowled, frustrated. But when he saw another uniformed cop — Sergeant Valentine, he presumed — escorting some of Dunfey’s slaves to a different command vehicle to offer them clothing, Starsky’s anger drained away. He still had it better than Dunfey’s slaves.

Giuseppe and Watson brought their troops to the slave-processing vehicle and helped to hand out clothes and other coverings. Watson never took any for himself, no doubt because none of them fit his massive frame. He stood with his arms crossed over his pierced chest with the fierce look of a leader, talking quietly to one of the uniformed officers. Sergeant Valentine continued to hand out blankets, pants, and t-shirts while giving quiet instructions on what the slaves could expect during their processing. Glory and her sister surged to the front of the group and grabbed armfuls of clothes to distribute to their friends. There was an odd sense of relief and rage in the air, mingling with the continuing sounds of police actions coming from the house. Carlos cringed when a shot rang out and wrapped a blanket around his thin shoulders against the cold air. Giuseppe murmured something to him and Carlos nodded.

Starsky turned back, resolved to find a way into the main command center when he realized Hutch was standing at the top of the stairs far enough back that none of the other arrested criminals could see him. Dolesky stood beside him as Hutch stretched one hand toward Starsky. “Partner, we need your input.”

Dolesky leaned forward to address Marsden. “Officer, this man needs to give Lt. Grimes his report. Let him pass.”

Marsden lowered his rifle. Starsky would have given anything to see the expression on the guy’s face. He winked at the impassive guard and patted the front of his bulletproof vest. “Keep doing what you do best, Marsden, and some day you’ll get to walk with the big dogs.” Marsden shook his head, but Starsky could hear him chuckle.

As Starsky reached the top of the steps, Hutch slipped his hand around Starsky’s waist and drew him in. Someone else pressed a cup of coffee into his hand. There were so many people in the narrow space that Starsky never saw who gave him the coffee, but he took a long drink anyway. Belatedly, he realized he’d lost any chance to get a pair of pants and maybe some shoes from the other vehicle.

Inside the command vehicle, Starsky and Hutch waited, buffeted by people hurrying around them. Starsky sipped the coffee, not at all surprised when Hutch took the cup for a drink.

Lt. Grimes, a florid man in a Phoenix PD uniform, stood in front of room four, beckoning them. Before they could go inside, a policewoman walked up to Grimes.

“Sergeant Spears reports — ” she touched her headset and concentrated, “most of the people that were in the hacienda are either waiting processing here or in the slave-processing area.”

Grimes nodded his understanding.

“Keep them away from Hutchinson,” Dolesky said to the police lieutenant. “We need to maintain his cover.”

“Grimes,” Hutch said, “this is my partner, David Starsky. He had a completely different view of the events since he was undercover as my slave.”

“Interesting.” Grimes gave Starsky a long, uncomfortable visual assessment, his probing gray eyes taking his worth and weighing his merit.

Wanting to squirm, Starsky remained still, looking at Grimes boldly when the other man’s eyes came back to his face. After weeks of being told to drop his gaze in the presence of his “betters,” it felt liberating.

Hutch didn’t smile, but Starsky could feel his approval and pride. Glancing at him once, Hutch disguised his response by drinking some coffee.

“All right, gentlemen. I’m interested in hearing your reports. A stenographer is on the way.” Grimes shut the door after they entered room four. He waved Hutch, Dolesky, and Starsky to chairs around a standard rectangular table that could be found in any police station. “Dolesky, you’ll go first, since this is your operation.”

***

Bringing Grimes up to speed took a while. But eventually, the lieutenant had what he needed. “Agent Dolesky, we’ll make copies of your recordings, and we’ll have our staff type up transcripts and, of course, provide you copies. Might save you some time when you hand in your reports to your superiors. We’ll provide copies of our reports to them as well. We’ll use code names throughout for Starsky and Hutchinson, to maintain their covers.”

Grimes’ matter-of-fact approach to all that he’d heard raised Starsky’s opinion of him. He’d asked questions to clarify certain situations. He seemed unflappable during the rundown of the scene in the Gold Room, making sure he had every fact straight. It felt odd being at the other end of an interrogation, but Grimes had been a professional throughout the long ordeal. They couldn’t ask for anything more.

“Lt. Grimes,” Hutch said, as they stood to leave, “what about Dunfey’s slaves, and the slaves of the other people you arrested?”

Grimes sighed. “Well…Arizona is a free state, however, it is not illegal to bring slaves you already own into the state. But Arizona laws do not consider slaves to be part of an estate. When an owner dies, legally, his slaves are automatically free if they stay in Arizona. As for the men we arrested…well, it’s not our job to keep track of their legally owned property. We have not taken inventory of anyone’s slaves, since we don’t recognize slavery.”

“In other words…?” Starsky asked, wanting more clarification.

Grimes shrugged. “I just assumed all the slaves here were part of Dunfey’s household. They’re free to go.”

Starsky appreciated what Grimes was doing, but it wasn’t that simple. “They don’t own anything. They have no money, no resources — ”

Grimes held up his hand. “Right now the Gold Room is a crime scene, and we’ve cordoned it off. However, the rest of the house, the outbuildings, the garage, and other buildings are open. Dunfey’s slaves lived here, it’s their legal residence. They have every right, as far as Arizona is concerned, to remain in their residence as long as they wish. It’s shelter, there’s plenty of food…and who knows what other resources. What they decide to do with the household goods, until Dunfey’s estate is settled, is up to them. We have no jurisdiction there. I’m sure it’ll take Dunfey’s lawyers awhile to figure out who stands to inherit.”

Household goods, Starsky thought. Giuseppe and many of the other household slaves would know exactly where Dunfey kept his cash, gold, jewelry, and who knows what else. Besides the limos, he owned vehicles for the guards to use, and possibly other equipment. They could strip the place bare in a few days, take the cars and other vehicles, and get away. Giuseppe would be there to guide them and help them get resettled.

“As for you two, we may need to ask some additional questions in a day or two,” Grimes told them, using the same phrase Starsky and Hutch had on numerous people they’d questioned over the years. Starsky anticipated his next remark as they all shook hands. “You’ll need to stay in Phoenix until then.”

“That can be arranged,” Hutch said. “Dolesky, how can we get in touch with you if we need to?”

“I know where you’re staying. I’ll be in touch.” Dolesky flashed a tight little smile. “I won’t say it’s been a pleasure, but it’s been interesting, Hutchinson. Starsky.”

Starsky didn’t look back. Eager to get out of the tight little room, he was suddenly boiling in the enclosed space. Yanking open the door, he escaped, trusting Hutch to follow him. He wanted to leave, to run, fast and hard, across the desert. He wanted the Torino so badly he could feel the steering wheel in his hands. He craved that power and speed to drive all the crap out of his brain so he could rest.

Hutch stood beside him, strangely subdued even though Starsky could sense his tension.

“I want to go home, Hutch.”

Hutch nodded, but didn’t say anything.

“Who am I, Hutch? Who will I be back home? I’m not a cop anymore. In Bay City, I won’t even be a citizen. Who am I?”

“You’re David Starsky.” Hutch’s simple answer, reinstating his full name, was a privilege only accorded to free men. “You’re my partner, my best friend, my only lover — first, last, always. I’m not a cop anymore either. I forfeited that life for both of us.”

“You slit Roschenzky’s throat; I stabbed Dunfey through the guts. We’re the same,” Starsky said. The memories of his childhood rape and the bitter taste of Dunfey on his tongue were scars that would be with him forever.

“We’re still so much better than those two.” Hutch touched the bare skin of Starsky’s belly with the flat of his palm, something he’d done so many times when they were on the job in Bay City. A simple pat for reassurance.

“What if…” Starsky trailed off, completely unable to express even a fraction of what he needed to say. Hutch hated ‘what-ifs’ anyway.

“You alone made me a better man,” Hutch said into his ear, an intimate love verse, as if they weren’t surrounded by police, emergency personnel, and stragglers left over from the raid on Dunfey’s household.

Starsky wanted to stand there, his flesh branded by the heat of Hutch’s body, safe in the shelter of his master’s shadow, yet at the same time, he couldn’t abide the contact. Overwhelmed didn’t begin to describe his feelings.

“I want to go home, Hutch,” he said defiantly, clutching a fistful of Hutch’s shirt. “I want to go home, but not like this. I need to go back to Bay City as a man.”

Hutch ran the flat of his hand down Starsky’s belly. “We still have a job to do there.”

“Yeah, putting you on the throne of the whole crime syndicate.”

“Rather have a wooden chair in the squadroom at Metro. I’ll ask Grimes to have someone drive us back to Phoenix,” Hutch said, leaving his hand where it was.

Starsky covered it with his own to keep it there.

Lieutenant Grimes assigned a deputy to drive them back to their apartment. Starsky would have given his right hand to grab the wheel and shove his foot down hard on the accelerator, roaring across the desert to blow the memories out of his head. He was haunted by death — Ariadne and Manetti, Kuyt and Patello, and even Dunfey. He had to be content with leaning against Hutch in the back seat. Hutch seemed equally exhausted, but strung tighter than a guitar string. Hutch slid one arm around Starsky’s shoulder, as if needing the closeness as much as Starsky did, his brow puckered and drawn until the crease over his nose was as deep as a canyon.

“Hutch.”

The man who looked at Starsky clearly adored him, cherished him, and Starsky realized that something had shifted between them. He accepted the love as the gift he hoped Hutch intended it to be, and returned it equally.

“You should run for president,” Starsky said quietly, aware that the deputy in the front seat probably knew nothing about what went on in Dunfey’s compound, but it didn’t pay to say anything he could overhear. “Now that Ariadne — ”

“Me?” Hutch laughed sardonically. It smoothed out the stress and anguish in his features. “No, not me.”

“You’d be good. A good man for the job.”

“Anyone who wants to be president is crazy.”

“So, just proves you’re not crazy, since you don’t want it,” Starsky reasoned.

“I’m the one Roschenzky thought was corrupt enough to spy on other cops.” Hutch glanced at their driver and pitched his voice lower.

“You were sane enough to say no. And killing him nearly broke you.”

“Sending you away nearly broke me.” Hutch pulled his arm away and moved to put some space between them. Clenching his hands together, his knuckles blanched white.

Starsky shrugged deeper into his leather jacket, a souvenir of his old life. A bridge to what he and Hutch used to be. He understood Hutch’s pain now in a way he couldn’t have those first days after he was grabbed. It wasn’t long ago when Hutch’s statement would’ve pissed him off royally, but his feelings had shifted. He wasn’t quite sure where they were, as partners — hell, or even as lovers — but they were better than they had been the day Starsky was pierced.

“Starsky — ” Hutch started hesitantly, and then stopped, spreading his hands in supplication. “Remember when you told me that playing in the CEC’s sandbox would change me?” He grimaced, his eyes distant and sad. “No truer words were ever said. But this goes back farther than that. After Gunther shot you, I realized that…” His voice catching, Hutch shrugged and glanced at Starsky as if ashamed. “My link to you wasn’t just physical — not sex, not friendship, but something far deeper. You were wrapped around my soul, and I was fucking scared of losing you.”

“So you started the campaign to get me to submit,” Starsky said softly, remembering the odd and unwanted gifts of a collar and nipple clamps.

“You were dying — ” Hutch swallowed, shaking his head, guilt written across his features. “So what the hell did I do instead of cherishing what I had with you? I was so damned grateful you survived that I lost it. Became convinced I had to change things, had to…I don’t know, change you to make myself whole. I had this elaborate need to control everything until that need took over. I was wrong on all counts.”

“That when you started avoidin’ me more? Going off to Lincoln Street and meeting up with the Abbeyites? Grew the mustache.” He’d always considered the mustache a harbinger of Hutch’s darkest moods. “Let me think that we were united in wanting to bring Dunfey down?”

“God.” Hutch looked straight at Starsky finally, speaking so softly that Starsky had to strain to hear over the rumble of the car’s engine. “I can never change what I did.”

“You said you didn’t have any other options, that you did this to save me.” Starsky paraphrased Hutch’s unconvincing arguments back at Luna that first day. “But since piercing me satisfied your own needs, did you even consider anything else?” The words tasted bitter in his mouth. It was a vicious attack, one intended to provoke.

Hutch flinched as if he’d been struck, but held his chin steady, taking his punishment. “Maybe not, but if there were other options, I didn’t see them. Sitting at Huggy’s, I felt like your executioner.” He swallowed, staring into Starsky’s eyes. “I didn’t want to call you.”

” — the corner of Ninety-first where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there — “ still hammered in Starsky’s ears, Hutch’s familiar voice giving no warning of the ordeal he faced.

“Why did you?” How did you would have been an equally good question.

“Because I knew that if I didn’t maintain control of — the plan, the situation…” Hutch lowered his eyes to Starsky’s collar. He raised his fingers to touch it, and then dropped them into his lap, keeping a modicum of distance between them. “…Of you, we’d both lose. I had to control what I could. Roschenzky was ready to enslave you. He and Dunfey were on an parallel course with only one finish line, owning you, and what they would have done to you was ten times worse than…” His voice wavered, almost broke, but he continued speaking. “I sentenced you to hell.” Hutch pressed his lips together. “I made us unequal just when I should have concentrated on — ”

Starsky almost finished his sentence. In their shared past, he would have. Instead, he listened, trying to sort out rationality from emotional pain. He’d been victimized. Had Hutch truly been trapped?

“Me and thee. I should have turned inward to who we were.” Hutch shrugged, with an element of both resolve and regret. “Broken is a good word for it. I could barely sit there when I put down the phone, and finally just ran out without telling Huggy anything. Sat in my car — so close to Mission, imagining you walking into that warehouse expecting me, and getting — ”

Starsky made no move to comfort or sooth. He wanted Hutch to get it out, so they’d both be cleansed.

“I knew that the slavers pierced their captives immediately, that you’d be — ” He shook his head. “Starsk, as much as I wanted you in bondage, that I needed you to belong to me, I didn’t want that — not through torture, not through cruelty. But I can’t deny the truth. That’s exactly what I did to you. I hurt you, a lot, to own you, to make you mine. In spite of that, you remained your own man. And the only thing I ever owned was what you gave me of your own free will. At what point did I stop being able to control anything at all?”

“The minute I walked into that warehouse,” Starsky murmured, fighting a tendril of panic that welled up at the memory. The bag over his head…being thrown in the truck…He couldn’t let that sidetrack him. This was about him and Hutch, no one else. If they didn’t get past this, they had no future.

“Once they had you, I knew where you’d end up, but I wasn’t sure — what would h-happen. What Neville did wasn’t what I…expected.”

“Or imagined?” The car jolted over a rut in the road, exacerbating his many aches and pains.

Hutch had withdrawn, closed in. He no longer seemed to be expecting Starsky to allow him near, even though they were sitting so close. “I was afraid for you. I did what I could to save your life.”

Hutch’s methods might not have been optimal — might not even been the right course, given other circumstances. Starsky had never been one to see all sides, so he couldn’t imagine what Hutch could have done differently. What would he have done, had it been him instead of Hutch backed into that corner, with the wolves biting at his heels? Could he have enslaved Hutch? His belly lurched, bile coming up in his throat, but he swallowed, feeling clear-headed. He’d have fought tooth and nail for Hutch. He’d willingly killed to save his partner’s life.

Just as Hutch had done for him.

He had to believe that Hutch had tried with whatever means he had at his disposal.

“You’re free now.” Hutch closed his eyes.

“Yeah,” he whispered, tired beyond belief, “and we’re still together.”

“Wouldn’t have it any other way.” Relief softened the canyon between his brows, and Hutch opened his eyes. He leaned against Starsky, sighing heavily.

Starsky slid his arm around Hutch’s shoulders, pulling him closer, letting him know where he belonged.

They stayed that way for miles, Starsky’s fingers tightly fisted around a strand of Hutch’s flaxen hair. Watching the sun rise up over the flat expanse of desert, Starsky couldn’t think past that moment to what the future held. But at least they had one.

***

“This the place?” the deputy called out, stopping yards from the mall entrance.

“Thanks,” Hutch said tiredly.

The deputy opened the door from the other side and Starsky reflected bitterly on the irony of riding in the back of the cruiser, where criminals usually sat, when he and Hutch were the victors here.

“We appreciate it.” Hutch waited until Starsky dragged himself out and stood unsteadily on the black top, then sketched a wave as the deputy drove off.

The air was dry and still, although it was early morning. Once the car disappeared down the frontage road, they realized they were alone. There were no women tending their truck gardens, no children playing ragtag games of touch football in and around the long big rigs parked haphazardly in the huge lot.

“This isn’t our entrance,” Starsky said, raising his head. The still air of the morning promised intense heat later in the day. With the leather jacket on, he was already too warm.

Hutch looked around, as if he’d figured that out, too. He shrugged dispiritedly.

Starsky suddenly felt as if the collar and harness were choking him. He tugged at one of the leather bands across his chest. “Take this off me, master.”

“At your command, my slave,” Hutch answered solemnly without a hint of irony.

They walked the longer route to their apartment without speaking. Most doors were closed, inhabitants sleeping, but Starsky could smell the heavenly aroma of bread baking. The world had continued, just as it always did.

Once inside their place, Starsky wanted to take a knife to the leather confining his body, but many of the locks required keys to release him, especially the bands wrapped around his cock. Despite his impatience, he reflected that the harness had saved him twice from rape, and the both of them from being enslaved by Dunfey in the Gold Room. Hutch was right. It had protected him. He still wanted it off.

“My job,” Hutch said simply as Starsky stood near their bed. Pressing a kiss on Starsky’s cheek, Hutch lowered himself to his knees on the floor in front of him.

Touching Hutch’s bowed head, Starsky nodded. He unzipped the lining pocket of his leather jacket to get the key before taking the jacket off completely. “Use this wisely, young Jedi,” he said, placing the key in Hutch’s outstretched hand. It seemed right, somehow, to resort to their old banter.

When Hutch laughed in response, he seemed to be imbued with renewed energy. Hutch inserted the key into the first of the locks, unwinding the leather straps from Starsky’s body with loving attention. Each time a section dropped away, Hutch blessed the naked skin with a kiss.

At first, Starsky wanted Hutch to go faster, his impatience making him jittery and acutely sensitive. He’d had too many hands on him lately. Even Hutch’s familiar touch was grating. Each of Hutch’s kisses was like drops of hot wax on his skin, too much and yet strangely satisfying. He hissed, trying to get away, but Hutch had one hand clamped around his thigh to separate the band over the spine.

“It will take longer if you keep moving!” Hutch said, taking off the last of the pelvic girdle.

Starsky exhaled in a shuddery rush, opening himself up to tranquility. If he stayed in the moment, could he freeze time?

“I never owned you.” Hutch’s lips brushed against the flesh stretched tightly over Starsky’s hip, soothing the skin that had been under the leather. “But you’re all mine.” He removed the bands around Starsky’s ankles, running a finger gently across each foot.

“All yours.” Starsky tugged on Hutch’s hair so that he could look down on that face he loved. “You were always mine. I claimed you the day we met.”

Hutch’s smile was hesitant, blossoming into a beautiful thing that made him glow. He flicked the silver chit hanging from the leather bands criss-crossing Starsky’s chest so it tapped against Starsky’s breastbone before standing to take the whole upper ensemble off. The heavy strap attached to his collar slid out from under it, and suddenly Starsky’s head and neck could finally move freely without that constriction. Next, Hutch removed the wrist bands, kissing the thin skin above each palm.

Free. Starsky was surprised how much lighter he felt without all that leather.

Hutch unlocked and unbuckled the collar around Starsky’s neck last, tossing away the constricting band with a muttered curse.

Starsky groaned with relief, although his head felt like an overfilled medicine ball, too heavy and unwieldy for his neck. And without the collar, his neck was wobbly, as if it still needed the support. How long had it been since he’d been completely nude?

“You look like yourself again,” Hutch whispered, one hand flat on Starsky’s abdomen.

“Feel like myself, too.” Starsky cupped the back of Hutch’s neck, pulling them together. “I kinda feel like we ought to, I don’t know, not celebrate but…”

“Remember.” Hutch stood wearily, leaning into him. “The good days, life before the CEC changed us all.” He started to put his arms around Starsky but stopped abruptly.

“What, babe?”

“I beat you with a belt,” Hutch said as if he had to force the words from deep in his chest. “I should grovel, ask your forgiveness…” He turned away, shaking his head.

“Don’t,” Starsky said sharply. “Everything’s raw right now — ” In more ways than one. “And we — ” He wasn’t sure what was happening, but widening the gap between them wasn’t going to help. “I don’t know who we are anymore, Hutch.”

“Neither do I.”

Hutch was the one who was supposed to have all the answers. The one with the fucking plan. Starsky was going to have to step up to the plate for the both of them. “Shower and then sleep — together.”

Hutch nodded, but didn’t make a move to take off his clothes.

“Hutch!” Starsky got his attention.

Guilt darkened his eyes, made him look feral and distant. “I will never — ” Hutch ground out the words as if they came from the bottom of his soul, ” — let that happen to you again.”

“I know.” Starsky couldn’t help but feel a certain small satisfaction, but it was tempered with fear. He wasn’t sure Hutch could actually promise something like that. Hutch might never beat him, never force him to suck another man’s cock, but he was still a slave. “We’re both gonna get in that shower, together, and then sleep.”

Hutch gave a small, mirthless laugh as if he hadn’t expected Starsky to keep forgiving him.

“I’m no martyr.” Starsky tugged at the buttons on Hutch’s shirt, wincing when the tips of his fingers stung from digging his nails into the St. Andrew’s cross in an effort to escape the pain of Hutch’s belt against his ass. How long would it before they could get past this? Say one damned thing that didn’t contain hidden landmines primed to explode? “And neither are you. Hanging on that cross was hard, but I got through it for you — for us.”

“Us,” Hutch repeated tonelessly.

“We’re both wrecked. Get in the shower.”

The warm water pounded against his aching head. He kept one hand on Hutch during the entire shower, either soaping his long, broad chest or standing still under the spray while Hutch lathered him up. They didn’t speak, just gave and took what comfort each other had to give.

“You should see the doctor,” Hutch said when Starsky emerged from the shower, dripping.

Starsky dragged the towel off the bar and draped it over himself, feeling Hutch’s gaze on his naked body.

“Starsky.”

This was too hard. His brain had been on overload for far too long and it was shutting down. “Not now.”

Hutch raised a hand as if to say something more and then tilted his palm, a gesture of entreaty. No demands.

Without another word, Starsky padded into the bedroom to find something to wear.

Starsky got dressed in his old jeans with the Army insignia on the back, tucking his pierced cock and brand away from view. He slipped on a plaid shirt that had once been Hutch’s. Soft green and blue flannel, it was the only cloth that wouldn’t irritate the welts scoring his back. Too many thoughts assaulted him, needing attention when he had no more to give. He was drained. “Tell me again, who’s in charge, in Bay City?”

“Right now, I have no fucking idea.” Hutch tugged at the pale blue ribbed t-shirt he’d pulled on. “I’ve got to…get in touch with my contacts in the Abbey League — and I guess — technically? — I’m in charge of Dunfey’s operation.” He sat down on the bed suddenly as if overwhelmed. “Damn, I have to get my head around that.”

“Babe, you’re going to have to go back and make a play for leadership of Bay City.” That was a pretty intimidating thought. Hutch in charge of the biggest crime syndicate in Southern California. “You could flush ’em out from the inside. Everyone saw Dunfey name you as his heir.”

Hutch lifted the neck of his shirt to get air, the gesture both familiar and evocative of another time and place.

Starsky could see his partner standing in the squadroom of Bay City Metro on some blisteringly hot day in front of an old-fashioned fan. The whirring blades cooled the sweat off Hutch’s chest as he pressed one hand flat over his sternum, his eyes shut in pleasure.

After his difficult childhood and living on the street, it had taken him years to find something to hang onto, something to believe in. Then a tall, broad-shouldered man stepped in front of him at the police academy, asking for directions, and Starsky went down hard. He’d denied the attraction for half the day, pretending that the blond hair didn’t shine in his peripheral vision in each subsequent class. He’d pretended to ignore the undeniable allure that drew him toward Hutch, leaving him dry mouthed and shaky. When Hutch pushed him to his knees in the tiled shower, with the hot water cascading over them and getting in his mouth and eyes, he knew his destiny. Knew where he’d belonged all his life, and had never looked back.

That Hutch was almost a mirror image of the man who’d brutally raped him never occurred to Starsky.

Maybe it was karma, that he was forced into the same role time after time. Perhaps it just proved that the ability to see things from both an upper rung of the ladder and the bottommost one had merit.

“The one role I never wanted and got handed to me on a silver platter,” Hutch said, his mouth twisting into a sardonic smile. “Maybe we could use Dolesky’s contacts, too. His cover’s blown, so we won’t be able to work with him openly. This is bigger than anything we’ve done before, and we’ve lost our safety net. The Abbey League is scattered…Peter, Ariadne, Manetti all dead…”

“Are the people you met with on Lincoln Street still there?” Starsky worked the towel over his wet curls.

“I hope to God some of them are.” Hutch glanced at him, rubbing his breast bone with the flat of his hand. “You’ll never guess who I met at an Abbey meeting.”

Starsky was too tired to guess. He sat down on the bed next to Hutch, feeling every single bruise. “Who?”

“Alice Sweet.” Hutch smiled sadly. “You’d know her better as — ”

“Sweet Alice?” Starsky remembered her name with a jolt.

“She’s smart, surprisingly political for someone who was enslaved early on, when the troops rounded up hookers like so much garbage.”

She was in the Abbey League? Starsky found himself again wondering how he’d missed so much of Hutch’s life when they’d once spent seventy-five percent of their time together.

Hutch stood up, looking around the room as if he didn’t recognize the place. He rummaged through the bag he’d brought from California for aspirin. After dry swallowing four, he shook out two more and got a glass of water from the bathroom. “Do you have any more of those antibiotics Darkfeather gave you?”

“One.” Starsky pointed to the twist of paper he’d left beside the bed before they departed for Dunfey’s. Damn — it felt like an eternity, and it had only been yesterday morning.

“Take it, then,” Hutch said roughly, shoving the aspirin and glass at him. “You look like hell. I’m going to call Huggy. He knows how to find Darkfeather again.”

“I’m fine,” Starsky grunted. He unrolled the twist of paper and swallowed the aspirin and antibiotics with a gulp of water. When was the last time he’d eaten or drunk much? He was surprised that he didn’t really care. “She said to call her if I felt feverish or if my cock was swollen.”

Hutch looked at him sharply, obviously thinking the wrong thing.

“It’s not,” Starsky said irritably. “Infected.”

“I just — ” Hutch sat next to him on the mattress, his thigh pressed against Starsky’s. “I don’t want to think about anything. I’m not sure I’m even making sense anymore. We need to — heal us. Are you as tired as I am?”

“Yeah,” Starsky admitted. His body wanted to shut down, but his brain was buzzing, stray thoughts shooting randomly like bullets at a firing range. None of them made sense, but if he could just focus on one, then maybe he’d understand. “Don’t think I could sleep.”

“Lie down.” Hutch breathed in his ear, fingers stroking the hard muscles of Starsky’s shoulders. “Relax.”

“I can’t.” Starsky had to stay alert, ward off attack. If he slept, there was no telling what might happen.

“Starsk.” Hutch’s voice was a gentle caress. Apology, love, and regret laced through the single syllable. “Let go.” Hutch brushed his knuckles against Starsky’s chin, turning Starsky toward him.

They kissed, a sweet gentle kiss that took away the pain far more effectively than aspirin.

“I’ve missed us,” Hutch said softly against his lips. “Working together, a circle of two.”

“Stake-outs with a Coke bottle to piss in and corn chips.” Starsky savored the feel of Hutch’s unshaved cheek against his.

“Let me take care of you.” Hutch hugged him, holding him like a precious gift. “Be here, right now, with me; just let everything else slip away.”

Yeah, forget. Let go. Pretend the last few days — the last few years — never happened.

Hutch’s body was true and alive against his, but when Hutch started to push him down, Starsky jerked away, his heart pounding. What the hell was he doing?

“I’m sorry!” Hutch reared back, letting go, giving Starsky space. “I just wanted to undress you, help you relax…give back a little of what I’ve taken.”

“Who are you right now?” Starsky asked, needing firmer ground to stand on. “My partner or my master?”

“Your friend,” Hutch said, truthfully, waiting for Starsky to hear, to accept. “Your partner and your master. I want to be all of them, all one person. I love you — which in no way changes what I…want to do sometimes. That I like to see you…as mine, whatever that means.” He touched Starsky’s thigh tentatively, silently asking permission, which Starsky granted wordlessly. Hutch settled his palm more securely, giving a comforting squeeze.

“Regardless of this brand,” Hutch continued, “and the piercing, you are a free man, never ever doubt that. I’d take out an ad in the Bay City Guardian and make it official, but I can’t do that right now.”

“Because we have to maintain our covers.” Starsky stared at Hutch’s long fingers splayed across his jeans-clad leg, intentionally, or not, directly over the brand. If he could turn back the clock, what time would he reset it to? Before they lost their center? But where would that leave them? Drifting apart? Before that then, to the early days before the CEC fucked everything up? To that first day when he knelt down in front of Hutch? Was it too strange that he yearned for something new, something strong with Hutch? And that he could feel equal to his partner, even with Hutch as his master? He had to find balance. “But we’re equal in all other things, no matter what.” He wanted to hear Hutch say that.

“The most important thing to me is that you believe that I have always loved you,” Hutch said. “You are mine. I will never let anyone touch you sexually again.”

Starsky wanted to believe that, but they couldn’t know what they might have to do once they went undercover in Bay City. “I want to believe that.” They had to reestablish themselves, smooth away the jagged edges and get back to what they had been.

Hutch looked at him, not quite understanding. “I love you,” he said finally, stroking Starsky’s cheek with the ball of his thumb. “You’re exhausted, babe. You should lie down.”

“I can’t.” Starsky tried to resist the lure of Hutch’s caress, but it felt too damned good. “My back hurts.”

He saw the renewed guilt in Hutch’s eyes and wished it changed things, wished it mitigated all the pain. It didn’t, even if he wanted to bridge the gap and simply forget everything.

“I’ll take care of you.” Hutch laced his fingers around the base of Starsky’s skull, holding on with both hands.

This was enough for now, and Starsky needed the tenderness too much. Undoubtedly, Hutch needed to be the caretaker, to balance out his own transgressions. He lay back, letting Hutch take his weight.

Hutch unbuttoned the flannel shirt with infinite slowness, easing it off Starsky’s body, and tugged off his jeans with equal gentleness.

Although he was once again nude, Starsky felt adored, not degraded or debased. He remembered Hutch saying, “When we’re alone, I want you naked,” and had an odd moment of comfort in this return to basics.

“Come to me,” Hutch whispered, turning Starsky toward him, cradling him in the crook of his arm.

He didn’t resist. This was his sanctuary. Starsky closed his eyes, but didn’t sleep. He floated in his lover’s embrace, rising to the surface when Hutch kissed him, Hutch’s lips flavored with salty tears. Starsky looked up into his blue eyes, reaching up to wipe the moisture from his lover’s cheek.

“This is for you.” Hutch lay Starsky on his side, stroking gently from Starsky’s shoulder to his hip.

Starsky winced, the marks from Hutch’s belt stinging, especially when Hutch inadvertently touched the edges.

“This is mine, and I am sorry,” Hutch murmured his benediction. He got off the bed just once, bringing back a small tub of sweet smelling ointment. “Aloe vera. Not as good as…Ariadne’s. But it’ll help. I brought it from home.”

Starsky almost laughed. So totally Hutch to have bugged out of Bay City in disguise, bringing only essentials, but including a natural remedy like aloe vera next to the aspirin. The gel stung when Hutch applied it to the uppermost welt on Starsky’s back, but cooled instantly, giving a soothing relief. “Feels good,” Starsky muttered, arching his back as Hutch spread the ointment down to the lower weals.

“I — ” Hutch started to say something, but stopped abruptly. “It feels good to do this for you.”

Starsky peered over his shoulder at his partner. Hutch had that remote look in his eyes again, a mask hiding his innermost being, except for the visible track of dried tears on his cheeks. “Don’t,” Starsky said more harshly than he meant to. “If I’ve got to be here, laid bare in the sight’a God and my master, so do you. Don’t go away.”

Hutch’s brow smoothed out, the tension behind his eyes easing. “I’m not. I feel like we’re starting over from scratch. This is us newly made.”

“Yeah, and we can make it up as we go along, huh?”

Hutch actually smiled at that, a smile that didn’t quite light up his eyes, but it was a start. His dipped his finger into the aloe vera and smeared some onto Starsky’s buttocks. “You mean, like we always do?”

“It’s the way we’ve always operated, you big lug.” Healing warmth spread out across Starsky’s back and rear, sapping his limbs of the last of his strength.

“That’s master to you, Starsk,” Hutch said, affection in his voice totally belaying the command.

“That’s slave to you, Hutchinson.” Starsky raised up on one elbow to kiss Hutch. It was long, satisfying and just right, but he was too tired for much else. “Guess I am gonna fall asleep pretty soon.”

“Give me a few more minutes.” Hutch lay down next to him, their faces inches apart. No status differences here; no barriers to communication.

Starsky didn’t think about what he was doing, just automatically reached over to unzip Hutch’s slacks.

“You don’t have to do that,” Hutch said, looking surprised.

“I want to.” Going back to the beginning — to the first time, all over again. Starsky wanted to drag Hutch into the shower to set the scene right. To re-establish who and what they were to each other, to become one again.

“No, babe. This is my turn to give back to you,” Hutch stressed, and Starsky suddenly understood. Hutch needed to prove his worth again, more than Starsky did.

“Go for it.” Starsky acquiesced, raising his arms to Hutch’s shoulders.

Hutch pulled off his own slacks and then the rest of his clothing. Lying back down, he lined himself up with Starsky’s groin, skin on skin.

Starsky gasped, the sensation at once familiar and yet different. He wasn’t aroused, but he wanted to be. Wanted to give and take from Hutch. He tried to remember the last time they’d made love without leather between them, and couldn’t. He tried to remember when their lovemaking had last been between two equals, and couldn’t.

Hutch slipped a warm hand around Starsky’s cock, rubbing his length and stroking his pierced tip. There wasn’t any pain anymore, the crown more sensitive than it once had been. Enthralled, Starsky gave himself over to pure sensation, but his arousal was slow and hesitant in coming. Hutch performed magic with his big, strong hands. He coaxed and cajoled, whispered “I love you,” teaching Starsky to believe, to have faith in them as a team once more. Starsky rejoiced when his cock swelled to fill Hutch’s grasp. Distantly, he could feel Hutch stroking himself with his free hand. He wanted to help, but was too exhausted. It took all his energy just to maintain his erection and feel the pleasure Hutch was giving him. All he could manage was running his hands over Hutch’s body, touching him gently, like a lover, letting him know how much Starsky cherished him.

Hutch moaned passionately, letting him know how much those simple gestures affected him.

Finally, hard and erect, his whole body singing in harmony with Hutch’s, Starsky orgasmed, and felt Hutch come, shuddering with the release, a moment later. He fell asleep with Hutch’s mouth on his lips, whispering promises to his dreams.

***

He slept for a long time, only rousing when people came to bother him. A needle jab in his buttock hurt momentarily, but Starsky had experienced so much pain in such a short time the injection barely registered.

He was less sanguine about the hands that turned him over, tracing his injuries. He fought them off. “Don’t!” He was trapped again as captors gripped his arms. He tried to jerk away, smacking someone behind him.

“Sssh, Starsk.”

Pure love laced through six letters. The way he said it.

Hutch was there. He could relax. Hutch would make it better.

“Darkfeather needs to look at your back, see if it’s infected,” Hutch soothed into his ear. “Calm down. Rest. You’ll feel better tomorrow.”

“It’s too much!” Now that he wasn’t in fight or flight response, Starsky could feel Hutch’s solid bulk beside him, gently rubbing his shoulders.

“I know, but she’s not going to hurt you. No one is,” Hutch insisted.

Starsky opened his eyes just enough to see Hutch’s blond hair brightly illuminated from a single lamp. Darkfeather’s earrings glinted in the light when she nodded, frowning at the condition of his welts.

“They’re healing. I’ll leave more antibiotics, but it will cost dearly,” she said.

“I’ll pay any amount,” Hutch said. “He’s worth every penny.”

Starsky let Hutch’s words, his very presence, lull him back to sleep.

***

When he woke the next time, he was bound once again.

“Time to wake up, pet,” Neville purred, gliding his hand over Starsky’s caged cock.

“Nooo.” Starsky was on the welcoming frame, his body confined by glistening steel chains that wrapped him from torso to hips. A metal cage imprisoned his head.

No! NO!

He’d escaped this hellhole! This couldn’t be happening — he wasn’t a slave anymore.

Hutch freed me — and he’d freed himself, hadn’t he?

Starsky’s palms were clammy, his fingers wrapped tightly around the metal supports. The steel was solid under his hands, unyielding, real. Where was Hutch? Was all that had happened in Dunfey’s hacienda just a frame-induced fever dream? Starsky gulped air, his heart palpitating with an uneven rhythm that made his head pound and his chest ache mercilessly.

“United once again, eh, Davey?” Neville’s voice was like oil on water, insubstantial but dazzling. He reached through Starsky’s legs and clamped onto his balls with one hand. “You know how I’ve wanted to play with you. The whip, the plug, they all yearn for a taste of your flesh…”

Starsky squeezed his eyes shut, trembling. Where was he?

I’m not free.

He was trapped on the frame. Had always been here. Enslaved. Pierced.

Owned.

Who am I?

Not a slave, dammit.

Not Neville’s slave.

Starsky screamed as hands caressed his body, pawing his bound genitals, cruelly pinching and twisting.

“They all look the same on the frame,” the Brit drawled. “Sweet, frightened, and in pain. That’s the best part.”

“Ah, you are pretty, aren’t you, Davey,” Harriet Roget said, her voice mocking and as sweet as a violin.

“Remember your old friend?” Dunfey was there, holding up the silver dildo.

Fear seeped into Starsky’s bones. “I’m a free man,” Starsky yelled and opened his eyes. But Neville remained. He couldn’t fight that master.

He peered through the bars banding his head, seeing Neville as Hutch appeared out of nowhere, wearing jeans and cowboy boots with his Magnum stuffed down the front of his pants.

“Look who’s here,” Neville cooed, rubbing his long fingers over Hutch’s groin possessively. “Cowboy Ken, who knows exactly how to lasso a bull and emasculate him. Don’t you agree, Davey?”

Hutch didn’t speak, his blue eyes grey in the strange light. He was Starsky’s savior and enslaver all in one.

Hutch plucked Neville’s hand off his gun and flicked him away like a bug. Neville simply vanished. The hulking welcoming frame remained, monopolizing the space. Starsky wiggled, convinced he could escape, but he was bound as tightly as before, his head still immobilized in the metal cage.

Nothing is real, nothing is the same. Past, present, and future are all one with no end.

Hutch stood there, doing nothing, giving nothing away, as remote as Jupiter.

“Hutch,” Starsky called, but the fog drifting in around his feet swallowed the sound. “Hutch!” He concentrated on telepathy, because he and Hutch were on the same wavelength, bound to each other. One being with two hearts. “Get me out of the frame.”

“I can’t,” Hutch said out loud, finally looking at Starsky. He sounded remorseful, contrite. Pressing a hand to his chest, Hutch bowed his head. “I can’t release you, not ever.”

“Why am I here?” Starsky shouted, finally able to speak again. “Why did you enslave me again?”

Hutch’s blond hair shone in the light from torches hanging on the dungeon wall.

“Because I was afraid you’d leave me,” Hutch insisted as if they’d had this conversation over and over until it was simply another form of foreplay between them.

“I never wanted to leave you.” Starsky tried to lift his head, but it was too heavy, the weight of the metal bands around his forehead and jaw constricting his thoughts. Something was wrong, but he couldn’t figure out what.

“I’m lost, Starsk, I don’t know what my place is anymore. Where do I fit in?”

“With me.” Starsky wasn’t sure where he fit in either.

“You give me pleasure. Make me ache with joy.” Hutch’s gaze was unrelenting, skewering Starsky, as if his eyes were lit from within. “Always — even…” Suddenly, he had his belt in his hand, the brass buckle clasped tightly in his fist. He flicked the belt, then dropped it at Starsky’s feet. “When I whipped you at Dunfey’s, that was for me, not him.” He fell to his knees, his expression despairing. “I never wanted to hurt you. I want to give you…pleasure, pain. Love.”

Despite being trapped on the frame, bliss shot through Starsky’s core as if he’d been shot by an arrow from Cupid’s bow. For a moment, he thought he’d been injected with Phenine. But he was not under that drug’s influence this time. His feelings were real. Images assailed him of the two of them, entwined, chains on his body linking him to Hutch. Hutch holding out the leash and never letting go.

Ever.

He realized that when they made love as master and slave, he thrived on it. Being with Hutch was his happiness, his completion, his everything. He’d found his role in life — as Hutch’s willing slave, partner, and lover.

“You freed me,” Starsky said, in spite of being held immobile by leather, metal, and chains. Instantly, the welcoming frame disappeared as if it had never been there.

Hutch held Starsky in his strong arms. “To love you. We can do whatever the hell we want, make love however we want, be whoever we choose to be with each other.”

Hutch’s joy was visible to Starsky only, and that was more than enough.

***

The room was mottled by shadows when Starsky finally opened his eyes. Black and pale gray striped the mattress, turning everything into a pastiche reminiscent of film noir. Starsky closed his eyes, still half in the dream, and slid his hand down to his groin, afraid of what he might find there. He was relieved to feel his pierced cock cuddled limply against the brand as if the two abused body parts were commiserating with each other.

Where was Hutch?

Starsky’s mouth was dry as dust, his tongue thick and useless against the hard wall of his teeth. For a moment, he thought he was wearing a gag, but it was just the weight of his other arm over his face. Fear pulsed through him. He had to find Hutch, had to tell him —

He shifted carefully, waiting to feel pain on his back. He felt stinging along the welts that crisscrossed his flesh, but nothing else. He was nude, and remembered Darkfeather giving him an injection while he slept.

Still, it took real effort to hoist himself into a sitting position. There was a soft flannel shirt on the end of the bed. Starsky pulled it on quickly, feeling disconnected. What time was it? The apartment and the whole building was quiet, but there was an eerie, unnerving moan swirling around the place. The light coming from the single window was dull and flat as if all of Phoenix was muffled by a thick blanket.

“Hey,” Hutch greeted him, coming in to the bedroom with a tray. “How’re you doing?” He sat down next to Starsky and placed the tray on the edge of the mattress.

Starsky sagged back onto the bed, a sweetness settling in his belly. Hutch was here; everything was all right. “Waiting for you.”

Feeling Starsky’s forehead with the back of his hand, Hutch nodded tiredly. “No fever. That’s good.”

“Why’s it so dark?” Starsky peered up at his partner. Hutch looked haggard, but as if he’d found a measure of peace. Starsky investigated the bowl of what smelled like chicken noodle soup and poked at four pills, two white and two that were red and blue capsules.

“There’s a pretty bad sand storm blanketing the area. No one can leave right now; there’s no visibility.” Hutch brushed his knuckles over Starsky’s cheekbone and slid his hand around to cup his face, just staring at him.

Starsky had a moment of déjà-vu when Hutch had put both arms around him, surrounding him. This felt good, nice, making him want to lie back and just be. “What kind of pills did she leave this time?” Too many drugs had been forced on him. He wasn’t about to take anything without knowing what was in them.

“Only antibiotics and aspirin. I want to be sure those welts don’t get infected.” He lightly touched the skin between Starsky’s shoulder blades.

“Hutch, you didn’t hurt — ” That wasn’t quite the truth. Starsky looked down, almost sure he would see the belt wrapped around Hutch’s waist, but he was only wearing boxer shorts and a t-shirt. He still felt half in the dream, unsure where reality began, and the weird gray light that stole brightness from the lamp didn’t help at all. “I know how the guilt gets inside you and messes with your head.” This was surprisingly harder to admit that he’d expected. “It hurt — yeah, that’s a given. Whipping hurts.” He twisted around so he could look Hutch straight in the eyes, read his inner most thoughts. “But on any other day, in any other place, I would have gotten off on it.”

Hutch inhaled so quickly it must have hurt, his brows going up. “I thought — ” He trailed off, as if trying to digest what Starsky had just said.

“When I said I wanted you to spend a million on me, it wasn’t s’pposed to be in medical supplies,” Starsky said flippantly, to back away from the bald truth of his admission. He downed the pills, choking slightly trying to take so many at once. He swallowed about half a glass of water, rubbing his throat. He looked up to see Hutch watching him quizzically as if he wasn’t sure what to make of Starsky anymore.

That makes two of us, Starsky thought, realizing he suddenly missed the collar with an irrational longing. Thoughts of Neville, the welcoming frame…and the St. Andrew’s cross, crowded his brain. “I dreamed about Luna. It was bad. I think you chaining me to that cross brought all that back again.”

Hutch stood abruptly, jostling the soup. “I keep seeing you there, chained to the floor through your ring.”

“Fucking Neville.” Repulsion overrode the niggle of fear left over from the dream. With Dunfey dead, there were only a few other people Starsky would gladly send into hell after him. One of them was Neville. And Harriet Roget, who’d escaped. “I want him out of my head.” He twitched the blanket up around himself irritably.

“Starsky…” Hutch leaned against the doorframe, his whole body bowed like a question mark. He shook his head, as if dismissing what he’d been about to say and scraped his teeth across his upper lip. “I’ve been on the computer all morning. Hard to get a good connection, and then when the storm came up, I lost the web all together, but from what I read, things in Bay City are in complete chaos.”

“No one’s taking command?” Starsky asked, tasting the soup. It was hot, and felt good on his empty stomach. He wondered if the CEC execs who’d been at Dunfey’s had been arrested, or were told to stay locally, as they had.

“Exactly. Cosgrove’s murder ignited powerful reactions. People are in the streets, demanding change, fighting for a new government — ” Hutch mimed holding a sign aloft. “And undermining the coups that not only the Abbey League attempted, but Dunfey’s, as well. I got through to one Abbeyite who hasn’t been able to contact any of the others, but will send me whatever he finds out. So for now, we’ll continue our original plans, and return to Bay City as soon as possible.”

“If there’s that much chaos, it’ll be a long time before there’s even a provisional government in place.” He talked between spoonfuls, his appetite returning with a vengeance. “Gives you that much more power to forge and strengthen Dunfey’s alliances. Then we can take those bastards down all at once.”

“With any luck,” Hutch said without much enthusiasm. He sounded drained, pressing his forehead against the doorframe like a slave awaiting punishment.

Starsky sipped the soup, letting the warm broth give him back some strength. The idea of Hutch preparing a tray of food for him, worrying about him, caring for him, changed so many things. He’d always tended to Hutch’s needs. This was something new. Reaching out, Starsky turned on the small lamp sitting on the floor by the mattress. The brightness created a chiaroscuro effect, cutting the gloom into small squares that clustered just outside the circle of the light bulb. Hutch was thrown into shadow, even his usually shining hair a pale smudge in the murk. Outside, the wind shrieked against the building.

Starsky tapped the spoon against the bowl, watching the ripples spread through the broth. “What day is it?”

“Darkfeather came yesterday, a couple hours after you crashed.” Hutch rested against the doorjamb. “It’s noon now — not that it looks like it with all this sand.”

“Like Lawrence of Arabia.”

Hutch glanced at him with such fondness. He seemed to come to a decision, and approached the bed. “When we’re past all of this — when the dust…” his lips quirked as he recognized the unintentional pun, “has settled. I want you to pierce me.”

Stunned, Starsky nearly dropped the bowl. He hadn’t seen that coming even though he’d been looking directly at Hutch the whole time.

“So we’ll be equals in all things,” Hutch added belatedly.

“No!” As if he had a disconnect between mouth and brain, Starsky was as surprised to hear that as Hutch was.

“I meant — ” Hutch sat down on the bed, hand hovering over Starsky’s blanket-covered groin.

“Nobody pierces you,” Starsky said fiercely. “No. Don’t give that damned ring more power than it already has.” He gulped, bile rising in his throat at the thought of Hutch being held down, sharp metal shoving through his most sensitive flesh. “Hutch…” Starsky kissed him impulsively, needing to express how overwhelmed, how utterly amazed he was by the offer.

Hutch looked dazed after the kiss. “It was the only thing I could think of that might…make up for…”

“This can’t be…” Starsky shrugged, struggling to find a way to say what was in his heart, “some kind of biblical revenge, like an eye for an eye. We don’t have to be the same to be equal. As much as I fantasized about doin’ that to whoever ordered me pierced, when I found out it was you, I couldn’t even imagine —  When Dunfey put you on your knees — treated you like a slave, I wanted to rip his throat out, twice. Once for me and once for you.”

“Thank you,” Hutch said sincerely. He squeezed Starsky’s hand, inhaling in a rush as if he’d finally rid himself of the worst of his regrets.

“So, we can’t leave right now.” Starsky put the bowl to his mouth and swigged the rest of the soup, noodles and all. Outside there was a weird howling, the wind and sand battering the building with enough force to shake the panes in the windows. “Do you realize we don’t have to do anything? No slave training, no meetings. It’s like one of those extra days off we used to fight for after a big bust.”

Hutch raised his eyebrows. “Been a while. Dolesky wants us to debrief with the authorities. I need to establish contact with a few more people — Dunfey’s cohorts as well as — ”

“Yeah, but not right now.” He felt better than he had in a long time. Between Darkfeather’s medicines and some decent food, he’d regained his strength and the aches and pain from their battles had eased. Starsky lay back against the pillows, suddenly wishing there was some cheesy Japanese horror movie on TV or maybe a Bogey flick to while away the hours. A couple of brews and a pizza — even after he’d just eaten a whole bowl of chicken noodle — would complete the picture of good old fashioned goofing off day. “We need some down time, just being us.”

“As I said last night,” Hutch said slowly, “I’m not sure who I am anymore. I lost my way so long ago, and now I’m not sure which fork in the road had been the wrong one. But no matter what, you were always my northern star, the one I looked to when things were falling apart — and then I pulled you down with me…”

Starsky nodded because there wasn’t anything to say that would change that.

“You amaze me, Starsk. You’ve got this ability to swim to the surface when I feel like I’m drowning in two feet of water.”

Starsky regarded Hutch for a long moment, still wrapped up in the unaccustomed sense of freedom from duty. This was time for them to talk. They’d gotten past most of the blame and accepted what had happened. Now they could move forward. But that didn’t mean he completely understood Hutch’s rationale yet — or that he ever would. He’d have dark memories for the rest of his life. Yet Hutch no longer looked like the person who’d appeared in Starsky’s cell, ready to dominate him. He’d been frightening and sexually charged at the same time. Starsky wasn’t quite ready to admit that he was aroused by that side of Hutch, but that Golden Lion, Neville’s cowboy, had been compelling.

“You said you keep thinking about me chained to the floor,” Starsky said, sifting through the memories, feeling like he was walking on a landscape strewn with mines. “What were you thinking about?” When Hutch jerked, his face pale, Starsky held up a hand to finish his own thoughts. “I know you don’t want me submissive at your feet like some kinda dog, but — it obviously turned you on.”

It was Hutch’s turn to say “No!” automatically. He frowned, the muscles in his jaw flexing. “I mean…I don’t want to be that man even in my worst nightmares, but at Luna, I had to be your…master,” he emphasized the word while curling his lip, “to avoid acknowledging what I had done to control you. Seeing you like that burned in my gut like fire. I was so angry at how dangerous our lives had become, at what I’d done in the name of keeping you safe, at what had been done to you — what I’d allowed…” He paused as if summoning inner strength. “And, to be completely honest, how beautiful you looked in chains…”

“I was angry, too.” He’d been shocked to the core when Hutch slapped him for defying an order, and then when Hutch defined Starsky’s new life as his slave.

“The anger and the lust merged, overwhelming me.” Hutch wet his lips, staring absently out the window at the eerie grayness. “When we were in Dunfey’s Gold Room, all I kept seeing was you — on the floor at Luna. It kept playing over and over in my head. I was so…freaking scared…” he hitched a breath, but kept on, “that I was going to be forced to watch him rape you and enslave you forever and know…know that I was ultimately to blame.”

“Not for that scum you aren’t.” Starsky pushed away his blanket to move closer to Hutch until they were touching at shoulder and hip.

Hutch shuddered. “I haven’t been able to sleep since we got back. That damned silver dildo…I could see him forcing it into you…and you bleeding out…” He gasped, burying his face in his hands.

Starsky had lived with the memory of his rape for over half his life. Finally telling Hutch what had happened and then killing Dunfey had drained away nearly all its power. Had he inadvertently transferred his fears to Hutch? “C’mere.” Starsky pulled him into his arms, holding him while Hutch trembled. Hutch wasn’t crying, but he was close.

It had been years since Hutch let his guard down, revealing his inner monsters in such a vulnerable way. Starsky felt powerful, strong — he’d begun to conquer his demons. Now he could help Hutch do the same. He could feel some heavy pendulum swinging one way and then the other before slowly hanging still in the middle, emphasizing their equality. He had strengths; Hutch had others. Together, they were formidable.

Hutch sighed, leaning his full weight against Starsky. “Thank you.”

Starsky trailed his fingers down Hutch’s arm to his wrist, smoothing the sensitive skin below the palm of his hand. Hutch’s pulse leapt at Starsky’s touch.

“Starsk?” Hutch whispered, looking down.

Starsky kissed Hutch’s neck and followed his gaze, regarding his own ringed crown. The heavy metal circle gleamed in the lamplight, a perverse adornment meant to humiliate and debase. Hutch looked straight into Starsky’s eyes as he reached for the ring, sliding his forefinger down the length of Starsky’s cock in a slow, penitent plea.

“Did you ever read any of those old National Geographic magazines?” Hutch asked enigmatically.

Not sure where he was going with the question, Starsky shook his head, letting Hutch’s gentle petting spiral through his being, igniting a sweet desire.

“My mother was a frustrated adventurer — she loved the articles about deepest Africa and the remote islands.” Hutch spread his hand over the mound of Starsky’s groin, fingers bridging his thighs. “I’d snag them once she was done, hole up in a tree in our backyard and imagine myself as one of the warriors in the pictures. Strong, brave…and they all were tattooed, branded, and pierced.” He breathed in reverently, as if he could still see those natives, their chests bristling with ancient symbols.

Starsky sat up straighter, feeling a completely different image settle on him. One where wearing metal through his skin and permanent marks on his flesh were not debasing but powerful symbols to be admired. “Warrior, huh?” he whispered, captivated by Hutch’s beauty, his cat-like strength and commanding authority. Hutch made his mouth go dry with longing.

Hutch wrapped his hand around Starsky’s thick organ and then bent one finger around the rapidly swelling crown. “You are my shield, my helm, David Starsky. You constantly surprise me, the way you can adapt and improvise. I was afraid I’d break you, and you’d never be the man I loved, but — ” He gently slid the ring slowly through the pierce hole.

Starsky was astonished at how turned on he was by that dreadful, incredible caress. Snatches of memory flooded back of Neville doing the same thing when the pierced wound was raw. Neville had done it to emasculate him. That memory was so unnerving, it ratcheted up Starsky’s adrenaline. He started to pull away, growing panicky.

Hutch stopped immediately raising his hands in submission, not forcing the issue. “I only want to — change your feelings about this. If we can’t undo it, can we make it…special?”

“Hutch,” Starsky managed, squeezing his eyes shut and banishing Neville to the far reaches of hell. He opened them again, and gripped Hutch’s arm.

“I want this ring to be ours, something so much more than — ” Hutch tapped his chest, directly over his heart and then Starsky’s. “It binds you to me, not as master and slave, but as partners, wedded — ”

Echoes of every wedding Starsky had ever attended reverberated in Hutch’s words. “With this ring,” he whispered, love flooding his very soul.

“I thee wed,” Hutch finished solemnly, his face alight with joy.

“This is all yours,” Starsky said, indicating his ringed cock and the rest of his body. “You have every right. I want…”. All the anger was gone, replaced by something deep and primal. “I want you, Ken Hutchinson, the guy I hung out with, the cop, and most of all — my master. If there was some way — ” Starsky tried to sort out the sensations, the conflicting emotions knotted inside him. Everything Hutch did to him was arousing, even when it hurt or was alien to his previous notions of foreplay. What had changed, he wondered, his own body or his ideas of sexual desire?

Hutch slid his hand around the back of Starsky’s head, respectfully, gently. “I will start over, listen to what you want, what turns you on, instead of forcing — ”

Starsky surged forward, needing to feel Hutch’s body, needing to be skin to skin. “I want what you dish out, master. And I’m askin’ you to do it. Giving permission, if I have to.”

Hutch met him halfway, bringing Starsky into the shelter of his arms. “Oh, God — ” Hutch buried his face against Starsky’s shoulder. “I accept. I accept.” He chuckled, nipping at the taut skin over his collarbone. “Or should I be granting your wish?”

“You don’t look like a genii from a lamp.” Starsky gasped when Hutch’s teeth closed on the lobe of his ear hard, arousal tingling all his joints. That made it difficult to continue the conversation, but he had to establish boundaries. “I said it before; I won’t kneel in public. I won’t wear a collar for all the world to see. This is for us, alone. Can you be content with that?”

“Starsk,” Hutch whispered into the same ear, “if we lived in some other world in some other place, seeing you wearing my ring would still make me hard.” He kissed Starsky’s neck. “I’m content just still having you in my life.”

Starsky arched into Hutch’s embrace, pulling Hutch to him as they fell back onto the bed. Their mouths found each other, tongues touching in a primal dance of love and desire.

“I wish I’d been there when they pierced you,” Hutch said between kisses. He scooted away until he was kneeling on the floor in front of Starsky, leaning over Starsky’s lap, balanced on his elbows for support. Hutch nudged Starsky’s knees wider, lingering for a moment to place a kiss directly on the crescent moon brand.

Starsky hissed, the tiny wave of sensation dizzying, sending electric shocks directly to his nervous system. His cock swelled impossibly bigger, begging for relief. Bruises from the abuse it had suffered over the last few days mottled the turgid flesh, adding additional sensations. Starsky would have given anything for Hutch to palm his erection again, wringing it to completion.

“I would have been so careful.” Hutch kissed the weeping tip, wrapping his tongue reverently around the crown and the ring. He caught Starsky’s tense balls in his hand, squeezing lightly.

“Oh, damn…” Starsky hitched a breath, moaning. “Hutch…” No, that wasn’t right. “Master.”

Hutch looked up in surprise and smiled slowly as if he’d earned a precious treasure.

“I didn’t want it to hurt. Not like it did. If I had been there, I would have had to restrain you, to prevent you from moving, because I couldn’t risk damaging something so valuable to me. But once you were immobile, I would have used something to numb you. I would have put ice here.” He snagged the nearly empty pitcher on the tray and fished out an ice cube.

“Cold!” Starsky cried out when Hutch held the cube against his exposed flesh. “Please…master — ” He didn’t know what he was begging for. For Hutch to continue? For him to stop?

Not in a million years.

He moaned, half in fear, half out of his mind with arousal, unable to bear Hutch reminding him of that terrible moment. The piercing was still too vivid a memory; the beginning of his forced enslavement. If Hutch had done it, under loving and erotic circumstances, would that have changed how Starsky felt about the ring?

“Do you feel my restraints holding you in place?” Hutch said sharply, bringing Starsky back to him. “Do you feel my hand holding you now?” Hutch was all feral grace, beautiful in his ferocious power, and yet utterly tender as he mimicked preparing Starsky for the piercing. He brought his long fingers around Starsky’s scrotum and the base of his penis to take ownership.

Starsky couldn’t move, couldn’t budge, as if he really were bound to a chair by Hutch’s will alone. He closed his eyes, overlaying the cruelty of his captors with Hutch’s loving, commanding presence.

“Feel me holding you safe, babe,” Hutch murmured. “Keeping you warm even though the ice is freezing.”

“Yes…” Starsky caught the sob that threatened to escape. He was never warm except when he was touching Hutch. He’d been chilled for weeks, months, alone in a wasteland waiting for Hutch to bring him in from the cold. “Please, master.” He shuddered, goosebumps pebbling his skin, and yet he was scorching hot underneath, melting from pure desire.

“The ice numbs the flesh.” Hutch took the ice from Starsky’s crown and touched the melting cube to Starsky’s lower lip. “Takes away the hurt to give you something special, something of mine.”

Opening his mouth willingly, Starsky allowed it inside, holding the ice on his tongue to still the screams that crowded his throat. He could taste the saltiness of his own pre-cum.

“When I was sure you were numb, I’d take the sharp ring, and position it so carefully.”

Hutch stretched out Starsky’s cock until Starsky thought he would pass out from the strain. But he held still. Hutch had bound him to keep him from moving. He wouldn’t have dared to budge. He had no say in this, no way to refuse, and realized suddenly that he wanted none. This was him and Hutch, locked together, linked by a single ring.

“I would plunge it straight through,” Hutch said, “hard, fast, the way I like to slide my dick into your ass, Starsk. Like I was burying myself inside you.” Hutch jerked the ring, zipping it fast through the established pierce hole. With his crown partly numb, it felt amazing, wrenching an anguished cry from Starsky.

“So beautiful, baby. So beautiful, my pierced slave. Wearing my ring and my brand.” Hutch kissed the ring just where it entered Starsky’s flesh, using his tongue to baptize and cleanse. “Do you David, take me, Kenneth, to be your master, to love you and cherish you, always and forever?”

Starsky orgasmed violently, ejaculating like a erupting volcano, splattering semen across Hutch’s face and into his open mouth.

Hutch didn’t move to wipe the sticky fluid off his face. “I love you, Starsk, now and forever, to the end of time.”

Starsky grabbed a corner of the plaid flannel shirt he still wore, and used it to clean off his lover, pulling him up onto the bed. There was a hint of desperation in Hutch’s blue eyes, as if he wasn’t confident of his place. His own erection was enormous, still inside his pants. He hadn’t even touched himself.

There was no more reason to negotiate, in Starsky’s mind. He wiped the last of the ejaculate away from Hutch’s lip and pressed his open mouth to his master’s. Unzipping him and quickly taking Hutch’s rigid hard-on in his hand, he whispered, “I, David, take you, Kenneth, to be my master, my lover, my partner in all things, always and forever. And love you for all eternity.”

Hutch kissed him and moaned into his open mouth as he came powerfully in Starsky’s grip.

Starsky came to instant wakefulness several hours later, his head pounding. It took a few seconds to register that it wasn’t his head pounding, but an insistent knock on the door. Hutch scrambled up off the mattress, shoved one leg into his jeans and fell over, hopelessly tangled in the pants.

“Clumsy oaf.” Starsky chuckled fondly, locating his own jeans and sliding them on at a run. Just one of the many talents he’d acquired early in life because he was perpetually later than he should be for school and work.

By the time he made it to the door, jeans buttoned up, but no longer in his flannel shirt, the door assailant was gone, but had slid an envelope underneath the door.

“Who is it?” Hutch had donned pants and shirt, although his long blond hair was sticking up all over.

“Left a note.” Starsky ripped open the envelope and scanned the contents. “From Dolesky.” He passed the paper to Hutch, not at all unhappy with the information. Dolesky was working with the Phoenix police and the FBI, and the investigation at Dunfey’s villa was taking longer than expected. He’d wanted to debrief Starsky and Hutch at the downtown office, but that would have to occur at another time. With the situation in Bay City incredibly volatile, he understood they would want to go back. Dunfey released them and promised to stay in touch.

“Without the debriefings holding us here, sounds like the right time to leave,” Hutch said, tapping the note against his palm. “You?”

Raising his eyes, Starsky shrugged. “No time like the present, huh? It’s utter chaos back there, and you’re the one who’s supposed to take charge.”

“Scares me to death,” Hutch admitted. “Starsky, I feel the same way I did when my mother told me she wanted to run for office. This isn’t me — this isn’t what I expected to do with my life.”

“Join the choir, pal,” Starsky said cynically.

Hutch touched a finger to the open front of his shirt, not quite massaging his own chest. “It’s getting harder and harder to put on that Ken Hutchinson, tough, domineering — ”

“Sexy,” Starsky added. “And downright scary. Sometimes I don’t recognize you in him.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.”

“It’s — ” Starsky considered how to express his thoughts. “Good in a way, because I don’t think of you as my Hutch. You’re somebody new, somebody I gotta get to know.” He circled around Hutch. The stress of the last few weeks showed on him — he was leaner, with a few extra lines on his face, and quite possibly a hint of silver threaded among the blond locks. “How do you do it?”

“Sort of the same way you do. When I’m being that man, I don’t think about you,” Hutch admitted, turning to follow Starsky’s revolutions. “I have to turn off every scrap of…” he pointed to himself, “integrity, honesty, and love. Gets all boxed up and hidden. I’m afraid that someday…I won’t be able to open that box again and I’ll lose the best part of me.”

“That’ll be my job,” Starsky vowed. “To make sure you find your way back to — my master, to me.”

“Yeah?” Hutch graced him with a smile, one that was this side of uncertain, but relieved nonetheless. He walked back into the bedroom and picked up a piece of clothing. “We’d better pack up.” Hutch stopped suddenly, looking down at another pile on the floor.

Starsky didn’t have to read Hutch’s mind to know what he wanted. A large part of him wanted it, too, even though it scared him. “Yes, Hutch,” he said simply.

Hutch looked confused. “You said, not in public — ”

Starsky nodded. “Yeah, and I meant it. For some future time. But we’re still undercover. I’ve got to be your slave in Bay City, Mr. Second-In-Command. In public. Everywhere. So, buckle up, cowboy.”

Hutch scooped up the wrist bands from the tangle of leather straps on the floor. He inhaled slowly as if holding something precious and wonderful. “May I?”

“Didn’t have to ask,” Starsky said, holding out his wrists freely. “Today, anyway.”

“Thank you.” Hutch kissed the underside of each wrist before buckling on the thick leather. On the left, he pushed the cuff up higher than usual so that Starsky could strap on his watch, too.

Starsky flexed his wrists, surprised at how right it felt to be fettered once more. He’d never expected to want this so very fiercely, but more and more, the bondage and selective submissiveness fit him perfectly. “You forgot something,” he said quietly.

Hutch gazed at him for a long, slow minute before he reached out and stroked the skin of Starsky’s throat with the tip of his finger.

Starsky closed his eyes, savoring the simple caress. It promised so much more in the future when they had time to examine what worked, without all the current external pressures.

“I don’t know if I will ever get over hearing you ask for this. What do you need, my Davey?”

“My — your collar.” Starsky swallowed one time, to capture the feeling of before and after, his heart suddenly rapid and light. Expectant, excited. Not a trace of dread or panic.

Hutch bowed his head, the ceiling lights glinting in his golden hair. He sorted the leather collar from the rest of the straps and buckles, gently brushing off invisible dirt.

Starsky inspected the leather without touching it. Was there any blood left? He’d showered with the whole harness on back at the villa, and Hutch had scoured everything clean. Would it still be tainted by Dunfey?

Hutch wrapped both hands around Starsky’s neck, his thumbs meeting over his Adam’s apple. “I love you. Placing my collar on you will always be a gift. Yours to me.”

Starsky tilted up his chin, giving Hutch even more access to his neck. “I give it freely; something I couldn’t do as a slave.” He saw Hutch absorb the sobering truth, his eyes bleak for just a moment before he nodded once.

Hutch gazed gratefully at Starsky, caressing his unadorned neck. Bending, he kissed Starsky on the mouth, his lips warm and soft. Starsky surged into him, wanting to swallow Hutch whole and hold him inside.

Chuckling, Hutch moved behind him to slip on the collar. Starsky swallowed again when the leather snugged up tightly, not quite compressing his Adam’s apple. Hutch pushed the strap through the buckle and snicked the lock closed. “Beautiful.” He placed the key in Starsky’s palm and folded his fingers around it.

It felt like a new beginning. Starsky didn’t want to give the moment too much importance, even though he could see Hutch was affected, too. He laid his hand flat on Hutch’s abdomen, trailing his fingers over the blue ribbed shirt as he walked away. An old caress, familiar and strong to bind them together.

Because they had been in the apartment such a short time, packing didn’t take long. Once everything they had was jammed into suitcases and boxes, the place looked untouched, like an impersonal hotel room they’d only visited.

Hutch hunkered down next to the computer in an attempt to get any last minute messages before they got on the road. “I’ll be there in a few,” he called over his shoulder. “Just want to check the status of the — ” He hummed a few bars of the Beatle’s Revolution.

“Don’t get caught up in the rhetoric.” Starsky looked fondly at the long back hunched over the keyboard. Hutch was going to ache if he sat that way for long. “I expect you in the car in five.” He swung the door shut.

They’d decided to leave the mall just after seven p.m. The winds had died down, leaving a gritty, scratchy residue of sand covering every surface. It was particularly bad on the interior of the convertible.

Huggy brushed off the worst of the grime, and did bad Gomer Pyle impressions while wiping the windows clean. “Well, goll-ee, Starsky, you fixin’ to head on back to the big city without yer old pal?” Huggy drawled, standing hipshot against the bumper when Starsky came down the metal staircase carrying a canvas carryall and a bag of food.

“Bay City will be mighty weird sans Huggy Bear,” Starsky admitted, “but you’re better off not associating with us for a while. Hutch is going to take the evil empire by storm.” Starsky stowed the bags in the back seat, very aware of the leather cuffs that encircled both his wrists, and the collar snugged around his neck despite the heat radiating off the pavement.

Starsky shoved his hands into his jacket pockets. His emotions were all over the place. Was he uncomfortable letting Huggy to see the visible proof of his submission, or was it just a case of wanting to conceal some part of his life with Hutch from scrutiny? His old leather jacket and watch, familiar jeans and t-shirt balanced the scales between slave and cop. Yet the collar and cuffs, once a hated symbol of subjugation, had taken on a new and critical importance after Hutch’s comparison to the native warriors. It was as if Starsky could see things from a whole different angle he’d never anticipated. That in no way changed his view of slavery, just how he looked at his altered body. He squinted in the hazy glare of the low lying sun with a grimace.

“The Bear’s made his choice, and he’s starting out all shiny and new in the desert.” Huggy produced a pair of sunglasses from his jacket pocket and polished one of the dark lenses with his rainbow-striped scarf. He beckoned Starsky closer and slid the glasses onto his nose, hooking the ear pieces behind his ears with surprisingly gentle fingers. “But you give me the word, I’d come flyin’ back, blood.”

The sunglasses cut the glare, and sharpened more than just his view of the sandy, pocked parking lot littered with downed tree branches and storm-tossed trash. Starsky saw him and Huggy so many years ago, drawn together in mutual desire for the most basic human needs: warmth, security, and touch. They’d relinquished that original connection to become close friends who could confide in each other. For a moment, he almost wished Huggy had remained all things to him — lover, friend and pal — but there had never been that soul deep bond he’d felt with Hutch from the very first day.

Never would be.

“You’ve saved my butt so many times, Hug.” He pulled his friend into a rough, one-armed hug, feeling the brief press of that slender body against his sore ribs like a combination of self-flagellation and kinship. “Me and Hutch, both. Bay City won’t be the same without you.”

Huggy smacked Starsky lightly on the butt, giving him a lazy but sad smile. “I got business, you dig? Things to do, people to see. Might just start a franchise across the whole Southwest. Can’t you see it?” Huggy flapped his rainbow scarf like a pompous entrepreneur. “I still got my fingers in the pie down in BC, never you worry. Can’t shut the Bear out that easily.”

“Good thing,” Starsky said.

“I didn’t want to — ” Huggy shrugged elaborately, miming stirring a pot, “harsh on your mellow while you was recuperating, but Captain America told me some of what went down at Dunfey’s.” Huggy grimaced, his mobile mouth stretching into a grotesque mask. “Heavy shit, man. You need to shovel some of that crap out of your brain?”

It was said lightly, but Starsky could hear the concern layered under the jive. Huggy had always been both friend and confessor when Starsky thought Hutch couldn’t handle leftover fallout from his chicken days.

“I killed him,” Starsky said, his gut twisting. The sensation of Dunfey’s gore pouring over his hand and the taste of metal and gun oil assailed him for half a second — too long to ignore completely, not quickly enough to hide his reaction from Huggy. Starsky felt the blood drain from his head, leaving him momentarily dizzy. He dredged up saliva in his suddenly Sahara-dry mouth to speak. “Dunfey needed to be gone.”

“No question whatsoever.” Huggy had obviously seen him blanch. “And taking him out didn’t break your cherry after Vietnam and many years with the fuzz. Still, killing folk ain’t generally your style.”

“No.” Starsky huffed a breath. “Fodder for nightmares, but it wasn’t the wrong thing to do. Hutch — Hutch was there beside me, and that made it a whole lot better.”

“He treating you right, Starsk?” Huggy asked softly, tapping the silver S charm on the collar around his neck.

He didn’t know how to answer that. They felt new again, different than just a few days ago. For Starsky, slavery had become a multi-faceted diamond, beautiful, but sharp enough to draw blood. It gave a fearsome brilliant luster to the erotic twist Hutch had put on their relationship. After all they had been through, they had come out different men. Right now slavery gave Starsky a perverse…pride wasn’t the right word, but maybe, compensation.

“I didn’t expect it to work, Hug.” Starsky swallowed, feeling the tight fit of the collar against the movement of his Adam’s apple. He needed space to breathe and just be without having to explain himself. Dunfey’s killing and the take-down of the compound were all still jumbled in his mind. He wasn’t processing on all cylinders yet, especially after the intense bond he and Hutch had developed. “But it does, in a weird right way.”

The ring in his cock lay heavy against his leg, a constant reminder of last night and Hutch’s vow.

Good or bad — it was there to stay.

“You’d being honest with me, right?” Huggy murmured.

Needing to short-circuit the conversation before things got even heavier, Starsky turned to watch his partner traipse down the stairs with the last of their belongings. Hutch stumbled on the last riser, the boxes he was carrying tipping precariously.

“Gotta save him from himself,” Starsky said, glad to have a reason to move away from Huggy’s concern. He relieved Hutch of the uppermost box with a smirk. “Whatcha bringing, blondie; everything but the kitchen sink?”

“We might not have been here long, but we acquired a lot,” Hutch grumbled with surprisingly good humor. “Got some things I can’t leave behind.”

Starsky knew that included harnesses made of thick leather straps that fit over his body like a second skin and pieces of slave equipment that scared and aroused him in equal measure. Nipple clamps that glinted malevolently when attached to tender flesh and chains to wrap around his body until he was weighed down with the reality of slavery. Undoubtedly, there were some Abbey League eyes-only reports packed away, too. He tossed Hutch the keys, gratified when he caught them deftly.

“You packed the food and the clothes,” Hutch teased. “I got the heavy stuff.” He opened the trunk and stowed the boxes inside. “Hug, we could never have managed without you.”

“What it is, m’man.” Huggy eyed the convertible with a bemused cock of the head. “No fuzzy dice? You don’t have one grain of taste.”

“I know a friend when I see one.” Hutch smiled, lobbing the keys back to Starsky.

“Bartending school,” Huggy scoffed. “Where you learn a lot more than swirling gin.” He swung a look between the partners, probing a little too deeply in Starsky’s opinion. “You treat Starsky right.” It was an order, not a request.

“I intend to; we — ” Hutch glanced at Starsky, eyebrows raised, clearly asking what they should reveal to him.

“Yeah.” Starsky leaned against the sun-heated metal of the car, waiting, looking over the top of his sunglasses at the two men. This wasn’t his battle to win. If Hutch wanted more of Huggy’s help in the future, he had to make things right with their old friend. Huggy was a pragmatist. He’d always accepted that the hard choices life dished out existed in the gray spaces between black and white. As long as good triumphed in the end.

“This isn’t what it looks like,” Hutch said. His cheeks flushed pink — possibly from the sun, possibly from embarrassment.

“You didn’t pay money for your partner instead of sellin’ him to Dunfey?” Huggy said flatly. Glaciers would have been warmer than his voice. He’d gone from jovial to tight lipped in seconds. “I started to wonder who exactly was the enemy when you shelled out cash hand over fist for all the leather and bondage e-quipment.”

“Take it easy, Hug,” Starsky started, ready to stand beside Hutch in a show of loyalty. The wickedly hot rays of the setting sun splayed across the parking lot, exacerbating emotions, igniting what should have remained unlit. Starsky felt like he was being stretched taut between his two oldest friends.

“No, I deserved that.” Hutch nodded, tension coming off him like leftover eddies of sand from the storm. “We already talked this through. You were there, you know how it went down, and you also know Starsky could have had it a lot worse.”

“So you say.” Huggy crossed his arms over his rainbow colored scarf.

“So I know,” Hutch stated levelly. “Starsky is not my slave. He’s free. And we…” He looked at Starsky again, clearly deferring to him.

After being shoved to his knees for what felt like years, having Hutch ask him to take the lead was heady stuff. “I choose to be with Hutch. It’s a lot more complicated than it oughta be,” Starsky said, unable to explain all that was still tangled in his heart and head. “But we mended our fences. We’re together.”

“If you’re really free, why you still wearing his collar?” Huggy tapped the S charm again, watching Hutch.

“Because I want to,” Starsky said, turning to his partner. My master, he thought, and was gratified by a tingle of indescribable pleasure. He looked forward to exploring that side of their relationship. “That’s the way it is, Huggy.”

“You and me, we’ve evolved from those old days,” Huggy drawled, apparently mollified. His generous mouth stretched into a sincere smile for Hutch. “I just want to make sure we all keep moving forward alive, you dig?”

“Thank you, Huggy.” Hutch reached out a hand.

“Keep it real, my blond brother.” Huggy bumped his fist against Hutch’s outstretched fingers.

Hutch belatedly balled his hand into a fist, valiantly following Huggy’s ever more complicated sequence of bumps, elbow taps, and finger waggles. As usual, he didn’t quite succeed. Huggy laughed, finally shaking his hand.

Starsky smirked, bumping fists with Huggy and executing the maneuvers perfectly. Only a few months ago, he and Huggy had put away a bottle of tequila, practicing the street greeting until they were rolling with laughter, unable to connect their fists with any sort of style.

“See you, Hug.” Starsky said from the driver’s side, inserting the keys into the ignition. “Bay City, here we come.”

In the passenger seat, Hutch leaned over to ruffle Starsky’s sweaty hair. The sun was barely below the horizon, but heat lingered in the sunbaked earth.

“Shouldn’t take you too long,” Huggy said without looking at either of them. “The old Ten Freeway will take you almost all the way back.”

“Hug…” Hutch started

He waved a slender, dark hand, stopping Hutch before any more goodbyes could be said. “Ain’t for always, Captain America. You’ll be seeing me soon enough, and that’s for sure. You just make sure you set things right back in Bay City. Make amends for what the CEC fucked up.” Huggy stared at him, his black eyes like inky pools. “My people said it a long time ago. Nobody can be free when some people are still slaves.”

“Amen,” Hutch said. “We’re going to try our damnedest to turn things around.”

Starsky put his foot on the accelerator, gunning the motor. Just for the hell of it, he made a donut across the fading lines of the parking lot, the scorch of burning rubber fine in his nostrils. Smelled like old times.

Hutch’s laughter rang in his ears.

Twilight deepened, the sky a gray-green from the particles of grit still suspended in the air. A pale moon, almost transparent, was rising when they pulled out onto the long flat stretch of road. Starsky felt like he was driving straight toward the moon, as if it were a steady beacon leading them west, leading them home.

***

“Penny for your thoughts?” Hutch said quietly, head back against the seat of the car so that his hair streamed back from his temples in the hot wind. The darkness hid his expression and the moon played with the light in his hair, bleaching the blond out to ephemeral silver.

Starsky tasted sand on his tongue, keeping his eyes on the road. “Inflation musta increased the price higher than that by now.” They’d been on the road for an hour with very little conversation. Huggy’s probing had dredged up more of Starsky’s scattered emotions. He kept seeing himself on his knees, servicing Dunfey, and contrasting that with kneeling for Hutch. Was he deluded here? He’d always chafed at surrendering to some authority figure — was this any different? Could he maintain his own identity without losing a part of himself to Hutch? Had that already happened? His acceptance of the ring as a symbol of strength was so very new. He’d been joyous earlier; now, with the afterglow gone, he wasn’t so sure. He needed something real to hang onto, something that made sense in the world, and Hutch was the closest thing he had to a safety net.

Hutch grinned, stretching his arm across the back of the seats. His fingers rested lightly behind Starsky’s right ear. “I’ve got the money. You had any better offers?”

“No,” Starsky said as the car roared down the highway. Sweat adhered his shirt to his back. The desert cooled off after dark, but it was still too hot for his leather jacket. He was loath to take it off. Having it back was still precious. “I get the feeling you have something up your sleeve. You’re too perky.”

“I am never perky.” Hutch pretended to scowl at him, but there was a definite lightness to his being, something Starsky hadn’t seen in eons. Hutch glowed in the moonlight like a singer in the spotlight on a Las Vegas stage. “I’m wide awake. Let me do some of the driving. You get some sleep. Not much to see in the desert after dark.”

“Sounds like a plan.” Starsky pulled over just long enough for them to switch places. He pushed the seat back so that he could slouch on one hip. The weals on his back and ass still smarted, constant reminders of all that had happened. He’d love to forget for a while. Toss out all the mental pictures of Dunfey’s face, distorted in pleasure, rage, and death, his life’s blood pouring over Starsky.

Closing his eyes, Starsky tried to drop into sleep but, almost immediately, his eyes snapped open, his heart trip-hammering for no reason. Nothing was wrong.

Hutch maneuvered the steering wheel around some unseen obstacle on the road, humming to a song playing softly on the radio. Watching Hutch infused tranquility deep inside Starsky. Hutch used to be the one who railed against the system, pulling away rather than revealing his inner self when they were alone. He’d wanted more than Starsky was willing to give then, when Starsky was content — if unsatisfied — with the status quo of their relationship.

Hutch seemed to have found a momentary peace. Ironic. Hutch was going to have to straddle two worlds, as Starsky found himself doing. Like a tightrope act, precariously putting one foot in front of the other to maintain a balance. No matter how aroused Starsky was by a new, kinkier version of their private sex life, he was not sure where he could fit into normal society any longer. A slave for four weeks and he was unrecognizable — especially to himself. He might be free in Hutch’s eyes, but if Hutch was to portray a crime lord for the foreseeable future, then Starsky was going to be kneeling at his feet for a long time. At least Hutch could see both the new and the old Starsky — as he could see his old pal Hutch superimposed on the stone-faced mobster in the tailored suit.

Scary prospects. What would they find in Bay City? In all the flurry of leaving, he’d never asked what had Hutch learned in his last moments on the global web.

Forcibly banishing images of Dunfey, Kuyt, and Patello lying in bloody heaps on the floor, Starsky groped for something more positive. The instrumental on the radio changed to the James Bond theme by Wings. Live and Let Die underscored his thoughts, the strident drums echoing the beat of his heart. Flickering memories of him and Hutch pressed close together in the hallway outside Dunfey’s main room kept intruding. Starsky could feel the rasp of Hutch’s silk suit sleeve on his bare arms. He could see Hutch standing there beside Dunfey, two blond men, taking command. Flexing his jaw, Starsky cast Dunfey aside.

He envisioned Hutch standing at a podium in that three-piece suit with a confident air, his blond hair shining in the overhead lights. Hutch could be president — governor, mayor, whatever damned title they came up. His first order of business: abolish slavery once and forever.

Starsky almost laughed. He was hallucinating. Hutch used to balk at playing his guitar in front of a crowd on amateur night at their favorite bar.

Changing position to get off the welt that snaked around his left hip, Starsky felt the ring pierced through his shaft pressing against the fabric of his jeans, as if Hutch still held his thickness tightly in the warmth of his big hand.

This is not what defines me.

Starsky was more than just a body for sex, waiting for his master’s bidding. He and Hutch were equals, working side by side as a united front. He wanted that — Starsky and Hutch. He went low and Hutch went high, in sync. He had to preserve what they had been and would be again.

When he was honest, he had to admit he also wanted the dark side of them. What did that say about him?

Shifting uncomfortably, Starsky tried to ignore the ache of his welts. It was easy to remember Hutch putting them there and touching them afterwards, awe and adoration in his eyes.

“What did you get off the web? Any more news?” Starsky said to Hutch’s profile. The darkness of the night and the empty road isolated them from the rest of the world, creating an insular circle of two.

“I thought you were going to sleep.”

“No rest for the wicked.”

“Not much — I suspect a lot of Abbeyites went into hiding after Whitelaw’s confession. Certainly our main contacts did, like Victor Sinclair.” Hutch leaned his elbow on the open window ledge, driving with one hand. He looked at Starsky. “Seems it’s an all-out revolution to oust the CEC. Kids barely out of their teens are posting impromptu protests on the web, and crowding in front of CEC’s headquarters to show their solidarity to the cause.”

“Power to the people,” Starsky said, remembering the protests that had welcomed him home from Vietnam.

“Plus ca change, plus c’est la meme chose,” Hutch said with an ironic twist to the words.

Starsky recognized the French, if not the translation, but was pretty sure he knew what the phrase meant. “History repeats itself?”

“Pretty much the idea.” Hutch nodded. “The more things change, the more they remain the same.”

“Story of my life.” Starsky rubbed his knees, suddenly noticing the bruises on the boney parts.

“And despite my antipathy of political life with my mother, seems I’m destined to be thrust into leadership.” Hutch sounded anxious but laughed, stretching out his right arm until his fingers danced along the edge of Starsky’s collar.

The flutter of warmth at the base of his skull sent zingy shocks down his spine. “So, essentially, we’re goin’ in blind.”

“As far as I can tell.” Hutch nodded, hooking his wrist through the steering wheel to reach over and turn down the volume on the radio. “Dolesky and I agreed on a rendezvous if he doesn’t drag us down to the old federal building in the first couple of days.”

“Who’s running Bay City?”

“A mishmash of the old police — ”

“Corrupt as they come, excluding the two of us.”

Hutch made a disgruntled sound, but didn’t elaborate. “And whatever private militia the remaining CEC VPs can band together. It’s anarchy, a town ripe for the taking, with no holds barred.”

“That’s an understatement.” The bright headlights of one of the few cars passing on the opposite side of the road lit up the interior of the car for a moment, making him remember the Phoenix police rounding up the criminals at Dunfey’s place. “How many of the guys from the council meeting do you think made it out of Arizona?”

“How many saw me take charge? Dolesky said Grimes and his squad rounded up a few more in the desert after we got out of Dodge, and there will be a number that will be freed on bail or who didn’t have active warrants, so they’ll spread the word. And I doubt if they were able to hold any of the CEC executives.” Hutch visibly shuddered.

“A welcoming committee, huh?”

“Not one I want to take on, but…” Hutch placed his right hand over Starsky’s thigh, directly over the brand, as if seeking solace.

Starsky shivered, the area still sensitive to anything more than the lightest touch. “I was afraid, Hutch.”

“Of Dunfey?” Hutch exhaled, the sound stolen by the wind whipping over the top of the windshield, but Starsky could see the rise and fall of his chest. “I was, too.” He shook his head, his face grim.

“And we pulled off a trifecta,” Starsky said so low he was surprised Hutch heard him. “You pushed over the first domino, and the rest fell down — first Roschenzky, then Cosgrove, then Dunfey.”

“It was never a game, Starsky,” Hutch said bitterly. “And we had nothing to do with Cosgrove.”

“Bullshit,” Starsky snarled, wishing he could explain why Hutch’s hand on his brand made him so hot for more than that hand. “What you did mattered, Hutch. I sure as hell wouldn’t want to do it ever again, but we made a difference.” They had worked together in a concerted effort to eradicate the enemy.

“And in the process of trying to be some kind of fucking hero, I handed you over to the devil.”

“Don’t.” Starsky pushed the comforting hand away before he begged Hutch to stop the car and take him hard by the side of the road. The calm center to his storm had come undone, making Starsky wish he had never said anything. “Don’t second guess yourself. This is what we’ve got. So, what do we do with it?”

“You and me — remember what we used to say?”

“Me n’ thee,” Starsky said.

“A united force to bring back democracy and abolish the blight the CEC put on California. That’s what we can do, Starsk. If I have to go in and ream out Dunfey’s old order, so be it. I think I know where to start — Lincoln Street.”

“I can’t believe you bought a place there without me ever finding out.”

“Investment for the future,” Hutch muttered. “Had to do something with all the money my father dropped on my head. Sweet Alice was already living there. I wanted to make sure she had a safe place to stay.”

That had a ring of the old Hutch, the soft touch. Starsky rubbed his temples. He was tired with no end in sight.

“Go to sleep, Starsky. I’ll drive.” Hutch turned up the volume on the radio. Piano chords that sounded like the steady pulse of an artery beat in time with the car wheels, each revolution taking them back to where they started.

The rhythm of the car finally lulled Starsky into a doze. He felt suspended between wake and sleep, unable to commit to either. Hutch was singing a melancholy tune matching the ache in Starsky’s soul. They were together. Nothing else mattered.

“There are times when all the world’s asleep, the questions run too deep for such simple man.” Hutch’s voice ebbed and flowed like water in a stream, buffeted by the all that life threw at them, but still strong. Still flowing forward into a murky future. “Won’t you please, please, tell me what we’ve learned. I know it sounds absurd. Please tell me who I am.”

 

Book Three

They could see fire when the convertible crested the rise above Bay City. The city was spread out below them, a bas relief of anarchy and chaos. Buildings burned while explosions and gunfire illuminated the night sky. They’d been listening to reports of the ongoing conflict for several hours before they finally saw the evidence themselves. Between what had unfolded on TV in Dunfey’s Gold Room and the radio’s recap, along with their own knowledge of the Abbey League’s plans, they had a fairly accurate understanding of the chain of events.

After the Dunfey-funded group, A New Day, killed President Cosgrove in an attempted coup of the CEC, Peter Whitelaw led the Abbey League troops on an advance into the city even though Ariadne and Manetti were still at Dunfey’s.

“I doubt if Peter had any idea that A New Day was financed by Dunfey,” Hutch had said, frowning. He’d leaned forward as if he could drive faster to Bay City by sheer will. Periodic news reports had punctuated the late night music selection on the radio.

Starsky had slept during the ride but kept waking to hear the news updates. He took the wheel from Hutch as they drove over the San Jacinto Mountains.

Earlier in the week, student leaders and young people had begun to gather in the city center to protest the latest spate of draconian laws Cosgrove had put through. With the downtown in disorder, A New Day swept in to incite riots and advance on the CEC headquarters. Peter Whitelaw had brought his troops out of the foothills and confronted A New Day to prevent yet another murderous dictatorship from taking control. In the ensuing chaos, A New Day managed to capture Whitelaw, torture him for information about the Abbey League, and kill him brazenly on broadcast television. Whitelaw had been a highly respected politician, and the brutality of his death had been the catalyst for bloody battles in the streets.

Without Whitelaw at the helm, his troops had marshaled their forces and charged into the fray to take on A New Day. Battles broke out all over the city, endangering BC citizens. The Abbey League troops proved to be far better trained and were able to incorporate the enthusiasm of the student protesters in various skirmishes. With the Special Police wading in to muddy the waters even further, it had been difficult to understand who was fighting against whom. A New Day proved vicious, using guerilla warfare tactics against poorly armed civilians and the Abbey League’s troops alike.

At the same time A New Day killed Cosgrove, his executive board had been aligning themselves with Dunfey at his council meeting. After the raid on the villa, the Arizona police did not allow the CEC executives to leave immediately. The lack of experienced leadership on hand during A New Day’s brutal attack and the Abbey League’s and citizen’s assault on CEC headquarters overwhelmed the remaining VPs and employees. Their building was not only the target of A New Day’s coup, but the accumulated hatred of average citizens. A symbol of oppression, the landmark skyscraper was assaulted, smashed, and put to the torch. With its offices destroyed and its staff scattered, the surviving members of the CEC, with an effective militia, went on the offensive. Battles raged across the city.

“It’ll probably be several days before the Phoenix police let Gavin Haley and the executive board leave Arizona,” Hutch said when the news report went for a brief commercial break. “That won’t help the CEC survive this attack.”

Starsky nodded, pressing down on the accelerator as he drove up a steep grade. “By the time they let them go, there won’t be much for them to return to. Haley could just taste that presidency, too!” He laughed, Hutch joining in with grim humor.

“They might try regrouping in Nevada.” Hutch leaned back in the car seat, stretching his long legs. “Slavery is legal there, and the lax laws favor corporations and consortiums. Most of the slave training camps are, anyway.”

Starsky didn’t need to be reminded. “Think they’ll get the support they need to retake Bay City?” he asked, looking out at the headlights sweeping the dark roadway ahead of them.

Hutch shrugged. “Without a trusted leader like Ariadne to get these splinter factions organized and under one political roof, it could happen. The collapse of the dictatorship in California has to have the other corporations in a panic. Victor Sinclair might be able to step into Ariadne’s shoes, but I don’t know how popular he would be. The people always loved Ariadne, even when she was Cosgrove’s mouthpiece, and had to relay bad news.”

Starsky glanced at Hutch to remind him of his opinion about Hutch’s leadership qualifications. “Ask not what your country can do for you…”

“Forget it,” Hutch growled. “Dunfey’s death freed me, too, from being the Chief of the Special Police. I’m still working for the revolution, but in a position I’m better suited for — undercover cop…with my partner by my side.”

That made Starsky smile. He didn’t want to be the President’s First Gentleman anyway.

“…and the fighting between the CEC and the Abbey League that started the downtown, has now fanned out across the city and is moving up the coast,” the newscaster on the radio continued. “The overthrow of the CEC and the rebellion of the Abbey League and other democratic citizen groups are having an impact in other parts of the continent. Reports of skirmishes in other citystates are coming in hourly…”

They paused only momentarily to take in the sight of the burning CEC headquarters, before turning the car toward Venice Place. After a six-hour trip, and his three hours of driving, Starsky was tired, although the proximity to home revived him. Approaching familiar landmarks, Starsky and Hutch were surprised to find the off-ramp to Venice littered with make-shift tents of protesters barring access to that end of town. Not even slowing the car, Starsky guided the convertible around the city center on back streets over to his old neighborhood.

“You think with all this going on, they’re still after you for Roschenzky’s murder?” Starsky asked. Dread mounted in his belly. He’d been counting on the security of his own place, his own things, even if legally he owned nothing. As they passed more scenes of devastation, Starsky tried to convince himself he still had a home.

He had been gone for a four weeks. How could so much have changed?

“It’s likely,” Hutch said solemnly, staring out the window. “But I suspect the cops are stretched thin with all the protests. Looked like some of the warehouses on the waterfront were on fire when we were going past Venice.”

With any luck, the one on Mission and Ninety-first had burned to a crisp. He saw a familiar street sign. “There’s Camino Linda.” Starsky took the next left, the first of the narrow, steep streets in his neighborhood.

The road leading up the hill to his house was ripped up, chunks of asphalt and cement standing up like mini mountains wrenched out of the earth after a massive quake. There was no way the car could go any farther. Hutch looked silently at him, sympathy in his blue eyes that Starsky did not want to see.

Bitterness tightening his throat, Starsky parked the car on the corner, nosing it into a cluster of other vehicles at the bottom of the hill.

“I’m going to walk up to the house. You want to…?” Starsky shoved at the door, defying his own reluctance.

“I’ll go with you.” Hutch didn’t wait for an answer. Leaving the car, he forged ahead of Starsky, and then stopped, holding his hand out behind him.

Starsky caught up and passed him, brushing the outstretched fingers with his own. Because it was just after two in the morning, the street was silent, shrouded in shadows from the heavy canopy of trees overhead. All five houses on Starsky’s side bore mute testimony to looting and vandalism. He rushed past his neighbors’ homes without examining the damage too closely and came up short directly in front of his own place. The door was ajar, but apparently unbroken. Barely feeling his feet hitting the risers, Starsky took the stairs two at a time to push past the entrance. The interior of the house was stygian, and the lights didn’t come on when he flipped the switch.

“Fuse blown?” Starsky said out loud, surprised that his voice sounded utterly normal. He closed the door after Hutch. The lock was broken, but the hinges held, which was enough. Unzipping his jacket, he realized his hands were shaking. Fuck that. He dropped his jacket on the arm of the couch, trying to make out the damage to the room in the dark.

“The power is out.” Hutch prowled around until he yanked open a drawer and located some matches and a candle. “Most of the neighborhood is dark.” He scraped the match head on the side of the box, igniting a bright flame that glowed in the blackness, giving his face ghoulish contours. “The Abbey League planned to take out the main power station before the coup.”

“It’s been days now. We saw lights downtown. Why’s it still out?” Starsky caught his breath, looking around the room. He grabbed a second candle and touched it to Hutch’s to illuminate the place a little better. Whoever had trashed the place had done a thorough job. Couch cushions were slashed, the coffee table lay on its side, and his pottery collection had been thrown to the ground, many of them smashed. He started to pick up a small shard of a clay pot by the Huichol Indians, and the ceramic crumbled in his hand. “Damn — ” Starsky whispered. “Why?”

Hutch righted a pencil holder and tucked his candle inside so that he could examine the desk. Drawers gaped open, the contents strewn across the floor. Bits of old bills, tax files, and other papers had been rifled through as if someone were searching for something specific. “I don’t think this was random vandalism, just made to look that way.” He shoved some papers into an untidy stack. “Whoever did this knew you’d been enslaved, that what was yours had become mine under the law.”

“This is fucked!” Starsky kicked the couch, earning a sore toe for his outburst. “You said you came here? After…?”

“It didn’t look like this, not then.” Hutch turned slowly around, but the kitchen and bedroom were swathed in darkness and it was difficult to make anything out. “I got some of your clothes, the — ”

“Collar and nipple clamps,” Starsky snarled, remembering Hutch’s confession. “And then went to meet Roschenzky.” And killed him.

“Yes,” Hutch said succinctly, lighting a few more candles around the apartment.

Once upon a time, the warm glow would have felt romantic, old fashioned. Now it just emphasized the desecration of Starsky’s home. Kitchen cupboards were open, dishes smashed, sugar and flour dumped in snowdrifts on the counter. The flickering light molded the dining room table and chairs into black and grey objects.

“Somebody thought you hid something in my place.” Starsky turned over one of the ripped sofa cushions to sit down on the undamaged side. Why did that twist something deep inside him? He looked up to see Hutch standing so that he was backlit by candlelight. “Did you?”

Hutch held out his arms, as if to prove he held no weapons. “No. Not here. Anything I had that was… incriminating either came with me or was put in a safe deposit box.” He poked into the refrigerator, wrinkling his nose, and pulled out two sodas. He walked over to hand Starsky a can. “The cops probably went to my place first after they found Roschenzky. And when word got out about what I did to you — ”

“They figured you owned my place, too, and came callin’.” Starsky raised the soda to his mouth and drank deeply. It wasn’t cold but it was wet and sweet. He looked around the dimly lit room. He was better off than a lot of slaves — he had a roof over his head and friends. He was so damned tired. Driving for hours after waking up at noon hadn’t helped any, even with the nap he’d gotten. He felt jet-lagged. “I should clean this place up…”

“C’mere,” Hutch said softly. “Leave it for the morning, when it’s light out.”

“Hutch,” Starsky warned, aware that he was barricading himself behind an emotional wall and not sure why. It didn’t matter. Hutch always found a way in. Hutch always had a key for every single lock Starsky had ever worn.

“We’re both tired.” Hutch held up a candle to light the way. “There’s no way to get in touch with the Abbey League right now anyway. Let’s just sleep.” Hutch caught his hand, tugging him onto the bedroom.

For a moment, Starsky thought about resisting, but that was simply too much work.

Sleeping with Hutch in his own house. Felt like a dream — and he flashed on Neville, who had featured so prominently in his dreams lately. His own personal boogie man. No more of him, ever. No more.

The sheets and blankets of Starsky’s bed were twisted in a knot, pillows slashed. Feathers from the pillows covered the mattress, bedside table, and carpet. Together, Starsky and Hutch brushed off the worst of the feathers, and straightening the sheets and blankets to make a cozy nest for two. Starsky had spare pillows in the closet that were unscathed.

Standing next to the bed, Hutch shed his clothes without fanfare. Starsky approved. Hutch glowed in the candle light. His skin had an inner fire, warm and sensual.

Starsky flattened his hand over Hutch’s navel, fingers downward toward his lover’s prominent cock. “I want to go slow. Find each other again, find — ”

“Love.” Hutch wrapped his arms around Starsky, stroking his shoulders with a firm, grounding massage that softened Starsky’s tight muscles. Dropping his head onto Hutch’s shoulder, Starsky closed his eyes, kneading Hutch’s tight lower back. He knew exactly where Hutch held the tension and pain, especially after hours in the car.

Tugging up Starsky’s t-shirt, Hutch slid his hands around his flanks much more delicately, briefly brushing across the least of the welts.

“Still hurts?” Hutch whispered against his temple.

“Mostly not,” Starsky said truthfully. The welts were healing, but every once in a while, he was brought up short with a painful reminder. He pulled away to slip the t-shirt over his head. “Doesn’t matter.”

“Matters to me.” With one hand languidly tangled in Starsky’s long hair, Hutch flipped the top button of Starsky’s jeans out of the buttonhole. He took his time with the four lower ones, bringing Starsky’s libido to a simmering point. Pushing the jeans down off Starsky’s hips, he smiled and drew Starsky onto the bed. “Pain is an extraordinary sensation. It warns us when we’re injured, but with sex — ”

“There’s something more?” Starsky finished, kicking his pants away. “It’s not quite there for me. I wish it was.” He snorted derisively. With all the pain he’d had recently, a little more pleasure would have helped immensely. He’d caught that rare gratification a few times, but the arousal hadn’t yet canceled out the pain enough for him to want it more often. “With the Phenine on board, I would say ‘yeah’ because I wanted it to hurt so good then.”

Hutch trailed the tip of one finger around the outer edges of a weal on Starsky’s upper thigh. He never touched the center of the wound, just gently explored the edges, every once in a while dipping around to the opposite side, where the brand nestled close to Starsky’s groin. “How about now?” Hutch tilted his head to look at him.

“Ohhh…” The tingling, almost irritating, but mostly amazing feelings building up inside him were definitely raising the bar — and his cock. “Yeah.” He hitched a breath, stifling the yelp when Hutch reversed course and scrapped a nail over the welt. “Shit!” Starsky sat up, his heart slamming against his ribs and his cock erect enough to drill a hole in a wall. “How the hell — ?” he panted, half exhilarated and half still hurting enough not to want it done again. “I get what you mean, just…” Sitting up, Starsky found that smooth, sweet dip where Hutch’s collarbone met the slope of the neck and kissed him gently. This was one of his own places, where he always knew he’d be welcomed. “Enough for now, okay?”

“Okay.” Hutch inclined his head, kissing Starsky behind the ear, running his tongue over the collar, breathing lightly on the curls clustered there. His arms crept around Starsky’s ribs to hold him.

Starsky surged against Hutch, his cock filling, and put his left leg over Hutch’s right one so that he was straddling Hutch’s thighs. There was no finer throne. “Hu-utch,” he breathed out, panting. Would this excite him if he weren’t wearing collar and cuffs? He didn’t know yet, he hadn’t had enough time to compare doing it in slave gear or without.

“I want you to fly,” Hutch whispered. “To see all the stars in the cosmos.”

“All I can see is you,” Starsky said, mesmerized by the reflection of candle flames in Hutch’s pale blue eyes. He seemed insubstantial, made of fire. Coupling with him could be dangerous, but the aftermath could make Starsky powerful. It could forge them into one. He could remove the collar and cuffs from his body and still be chained to Hutch. He wanted that.

“All I ever saw was you,” Hutch vowed.

Their two cocks sprang at one another. The initial contact was akin to an electrical shock magnified threefold by the slave ring, which seemed to loop the shock back around to Starsky’s gonads. Starsky was sure the friction of Hutch’s foreskin against his circumcised cockhead made sparks.

“Oh, damn…” Starsky latched onto Hutch’s erection just as Hutch caught Starsky’s balls in a heated grasp. He was going to burn up, turn to ash, and fly into the night sky. Fire licked his inner core, roasting him alive. He couldn’t breathe, but it was so very, very good. He fisted Hutch’s length in a frenzy of need, unable to look away from those unearthly eyes smoldering in his lover’s face.

“Starsk, Starsk…” Hutch cried out. He thrust forward, his whole body vibrating as lava spilled out, bathing Starsky’s cock with white hot come.

Starsky erupted seconds later, while still wringing the last of the fluid from his partner. He couldn’t see and couldn’t hear. He was nothing but exposed nerve endings, feeling everything; Hutch’s hand cupping his still trembling penis, the collar pressing against his throat and the cuffs encircling both wrists.

“Hutch, what did you do to me?” he said when he could speak.

“What I did to you?” Hutch chuckled, his voice husky and slow as whiskey on the first swallow. “You slayed me.”

Starsky looked at him. Hutch was himself again, not a fire god, not the feral panther who had taken him at Luna, not even the hard bastard who had banded him with leather. Hutch was Hutch, with all his beauty and his flaws. His flaxen hair was sweat-plastered against his forehead, his cheeks flushed in the candlelight. “I love you.”

“It’s more than mutual, babe.” Hutch kissed him. He leaned back in bed, bringing Starsky down on his chest with his arms linked loosely around Starsky’s waist. “Every part of me is yours. You’ve changed me in ways I can’t even begin to describe.”

“I’m not sure I wanted you changed,” Starsky murmured tiredly.

“What do you want?” Hutch whispered into his ear.

“Us, this…” Starsky spoke against the taut skin stretched over Hutch’s collarbone, tasting salt on his lips and tongue. “Not all those other Hutches. Just the one I’ve always known.”

“You always had that one.”

“The job wore you down, changed you. It wasn’t me.” Starsky could feel the beat of Hutch’s heart against his cheek and the echo of that pulse down below in the quiet cock that lay snug against his own, caught between their bodies. When he closed his eyes, he could still see the afterimage of the candle flames caught in Hutch’s eyes imprinted on his retina like stars blazing in a void.

“Is there a way back?” Hutch asked sadly, flattening his palms on Starsky’s hips.

Sensation ebbed and flowed through Starsky’s body, the ocean at low tide. Some of it was the low ache from the beating at Dunfey’s, tolerable because Hutch was holding him and they were alone.

“Because, I can’t…” Hutch confessed, his voice cracking. “What’s left if we’re both changed?”

“A new way?” Starsky lifted his head to brush his cheek against Hutch’s bristly jaw. The rasp of stubble was like sandpaper, his own five o’clock shadow enough to roughen Hutch’s fair skin. “Invent ourselves all over again.”

“So who do we become?”

“I don’t know. Right now, we’re not cops, and I sure as hell ain’t a slave.” Starsky saw himself reflected endlessly in Hutch’s eyes in the dim candle light. Part of Hutch but separate. “I am free. As a free man, I choose to look like a slave, if it will help us free the rest of ’em.”

“Would you want it removed?” Hutch touched Starsky’s cock ring. “I’ve heard there are new methods…”

“Darkfeather gave me a name,” Starsky said softly. “Phoebe.” The name had been tucked deep in his mental filing cabinet since he’d first heard of her.

“That’s the same one Ariadne told me. We could find her, get this out.” Hutch ran his forefinger around the interior of the metal circlet, brushing gently against the tip of his cockhead.

Starsky imagined himself whole again, without the symbol that immediately identified him as a slave to anyone who glimpsed the ring. And then he remembered Hutch turning the ring in its pierce hole, vowing to love him.

He changed the mental pictures, going back years to their early days, when he thought he’d had everything he’d ever wanted in life: a fast car, a job that made a difference, and a lover who swooned every time Starsky went down on him. Life had been good. He’d resisted Hutch’s kinkier ideas then because of his own dark secrets.

But what if —

What if the ring through his cock was only something to entice Hutch?

He’d dated girls with pierced nipples before the government used piercing as a way to denigrate and debase. If Hutch had pierced him lovingly, he would look at the ring with a whole different attitude. And if he didn’t have the ring, he wouldn’t be able to slip into the ranks of the slaves themselves, hiding in plain sight. It could help him make a difference. Fight slavery and other crimes. And wasn’t that what he’d always wanted?

“It’s not the right time to remove it.” Starsky ducked his head over Hutch’s collarbone again. Oh, God, it hurt to admit that.

“I promised you that I would always treat you as a free man,” Hutch said. “I could have lost you so easily with my own bad choices. You tell me when the time is right.”

“I gotta prove to myself that I am not — ” Starsky stopped, the words inadequate to describe what was inside him, ” — the little chicken who sold himself on the street to that piece of shit, Dunfey. Hutch, I was so damned afraid of — ”

“Being seen?” Hutch made a sad sound, rubbing Starsky’s thigh with the palm of his hand.

“Being exposed for the throwaway that he was. So I had to be the best cop. I had to have the best arrest record, the best car, and the best partner.” Suddenly, Hutch was too close, his body too arousing. Starsky jumped up, adrenaline jacking him up until he couldn’t stand still for a moment. He snagged his jeans from off the floor and yanked them on, clumsily buttoning the fly to preserve his dignity.

“Starsk?” Hutch sat up, his eyes no longer holding the light of the flames.

“Now I discover that I didn’t hide my secrets as well as I thought!” Roaming his bedroom, Starsky began tucking clothes back into drawers. He needed a broom to sweep up all the feathers. He wanted to slug whoever had come into his home and damaged his property. “And that you had…” he waved his hands without purpose, feeling vulnerable, “as many secrets as I did.”

“Not at first.” Hutch frowned, slowly putting on his slacks. “Why are you pulling away now?”

Starsky slotted books back into the shelves and set an uprooted plant back into the pot, even though it was dead. This place was his. He had rights, possessions, a place in society that had nothing whatsoever to do with what was hanging from his penis.

“Damn, we were good, Hutch. We were like Batman and Robin or…I don’t know — Superman and…”

“Captain America?” In the wavering candlelight, Hutch’s smile was bemused. He expression held something else, as if he couldn’t bear to look away and miss a single second of watching Starsky.

“We fit together in every kinda way.” Starsky picked a comic book off the floor. Ironically, it was Captain America and Ant Man of the Avengers battling the long ago evil of his father’s generation, the Nazis. When the U.S. was whole, and the rest of the world fractured in a million pieces. “And if I thought about it much, which I didn’t — ”

Hutch chuckled. He came to the doorway between the bedroom and living room, holding out his hand.

Starsky kept his distance, needing to get out all that he’d harbored for so long. “Maybe I left things between us alone because I didn’t want to look too close. I wasn’t goin’ anywhere near anything that smacked of those days on the streets. No anal stuff. No…whachacallit — rubber dicks and strap-ons. I was having fun. Girls were good. You were better…. Then you starting moving away and I didn’t know what happened, except nothing was good anymore.”

“Nothing at all,” Hutch said softly. “I was hiding stuff from you as much as you were hiding it from me. We kept missing opportunities to come clean until I…”

“Hutch, if you knew about me, what I was, right from the get-go, why didn’t you say anything?”

Hutch sat on the couch as if he didn’t know where to put himself. “We both kept secrets, Starsk. We all have things that we keep inside, even between — ”

“Lovers and other strangers?” Starsky looked down at him, taller for once.

“If you didn’t want to tell me, that was okay, because at first — I wasn’t willing to admit what I needed. Except with anonymous boys with your eyes and curls in the bathhouses, and later the slave houses, until those stopped working for me. Finally, I had to admit I wanted the one and only.”

“So then, things got complicated?” Starsky felt something give inside him.

“They were always complicated, babe.” Hutch sounded bitter but resigned. “Life is only simple when you’re a kid and don’t know any better.”

“It’s complicated even then; kids just find the simplest solution.” Starsky wandered into the kitchen. When he opened the refrigerator, the smell was like a decomposed body. “Oh, man…” He pinched his nose, slamming the fridge shut. “Nothing’s ever coming out of that again until the hazardous waste disposal unit comes through.”

“I told you. I’m just tired.” Hutch reached for him again. “Come on. We’ll talk to someone in the Abbey League in the morning, get the ball rolling — dig up some of Dunfey’s old connections.”

If he did what Hutch asked, was it suppressing his own wants and needs to suit his lover and his master? Or was it fulfilling his own desires? Because he was exhausted. Lying next to Hutch was bliss. It didn’t cost him any freedoms and it satisfied them both, mentally and physically.

“Yeah.” Starsky nodded. “I don’t care if the sheets have been on the bed for over a month, I just want to get some shut eye.”

“You don’t have to tell me twice.” Hutch yawned, holding his hand all the way into the bedroom.

Starsky threw back the coverlet and climbed into bed with his lover. Cocooned in the darkness flickering with candlelight, they curled against each other, home at last.

***

Starsky woke when Hutch slid off the bed and draped a blanket over him. “Go back to sleep, babe. I need a shower.”

“Mmm,” Starsky muttered, too groggy to be coherent. He drifted for a while. If he got up, he had to face whatever their return to BC might hold. Staying wrapped in the blanket linked him solidly to his own past and kept the present at bay.

His belly finally woke him fully. It had been hours since he’d had food, and he was ravenous. The sandwiches they had packed for the trip were distant memories. There might be something left over in the dinner bag, but that was in the trunk of the car, a steep walk down hill. He wasn’t quite ready to go back there again.

“Here.” Hutch thrust something at him before Starsky could open his eyes all the way.

“Huh?” He closed his fingers around the plastic wrapped breakfast bar. The words “whole grain!” and “organic” were written in bright red letters on the wrapper. The bar looked vaguely familiar, but he was sure he’d never bought anything so…nutritious.

“You’re a fascinating conversationalist this morning, Starsk.” Hutch broke off a chunk of his own rectangle of pressed granola and raisins, and popped it into his mouth.

“Like this is gonna help.” Starsky peered more closely at the label. “You bought these more than a year ago. They’re still in the cupboard because I hated ’em then, and I’m not gonna eat them now.”

“Suit yourself.” Hutch patted Starsky on the tummy, his pale blue eyes remote and guarded. “Good thing you have a gas heater, at least the shower was hot even if the water pressure was pretty low.” His hair was still wet from the shower and he was only wearing a pair of old jeans.

“Hutch, we’re back now. We can work things through,” Starsky said in response to emotions Hutch was working at hiding. They had to stop keeping each other at a distance. “We just got to move slow. One step at a time.”

“This isn’t some AA meeting, Starsky,” Hutch said, chewing his granola hard enough to pulverize it into dust. “Hi, I’m Ken, and I want to see my partner wearing my collar.”

“Hi.” Starsky stuck out his hand, the leather cuff around his wrist dark and shiny against his skin. “I’m Dave, and I’ll wear it. But on my own terms and for my own reasons.”

Hutch licked his lips and grasped Starsky’s hand, one long finger stretched out across Starsky’s palm so that it just touched the edge of the cuff. “They’re yours — wear them when you want. Or not.”

“I’ll wear ’em for you, always,” Starsky promised. He would never lay claim to the collar and cuffs. If he played slave, then he didn’t own what enslaved him. Hutch did. And as a free man, he could take them off at the end of their session. “They’re yours. We share this, or it doesn’t work.”

“I’m still in awe…” Hutch’s eyes softened. He reached up and traced the edge of the slave collar, setting the little S charm in motion so that it banged against Starsky’s collarbone. “Every time I see you like this, with my…markers on you, Starsk, it’s like a gift I dreamed about for so long that it can’t be real.”

“If you felt them like I do, you’d be damned sure they were real,” Starsky retorted even as his body reacted favorably to the light dance of Hutch’s finger down his chest to his exposed left nipple. One part of his brain begged to stay like this, enthralled by Hutch’s wandering foreplay, while the more rational part of his brain reminded him that they had a job to do. “Hutch, shouldn’t we…call your contact at the Abbey League? Get the ball rolling?”

“Electricity’s still out,” Hutch said, his pale blue eyes now drinking Starsky in as if he were champagne and Hutch was ready to get plastered. “No phone.”

“Then, we gotta f-find…” Starsky stammered to a halt when Hutch used both thumbs to press down just slightly too hard on both nipples at the same time. For a second, Starsky was sure he was still doped up on Phenine, because the firm pressure was incredibly arousing. With his thumbs still held in place, Hutch splayed his fingers down Starsky’s ribcage. The stroking was halfway ticklish and almost painful, especially when it connected with his old bruises and the welts where the belt had licked around the sides of his body. As he was trying to adjust to the idea that he really was getting off on light pain, Starsky gasped when Hutch kissed him in the fragile dip above the sternum right where the S charm bumped. “Hutch, Hutch…”

“We need to find a phone,” Hutch said quietly, his lips still in contact with Starsky’s skin. “I heard you.”

Starsky could feel could feel the warm passage of air flowing in and out of Hutch’s mouth against his breastbone.

“I don’t…” he started, but he hadn’t the faintest idea whether he meant to stop Hutch or urge him to keep going. The idea of Hutch stopping was abhorrent, but there were more important events going on in Bay City right now. Sex would have to wait.

Making his choice, Starsky said, “Take the leather off me.”

“Yeah.” Hutch got his breathing under control and ran a hand through his disheveled hair. “Is the key in your jacket pocket?” Starsky nodded mutely and Hutch moved quickly over to the couch where Starsky had dropped his jacket the night before. He walked back more sedately, cupping the key in one hand as if he’d found something precious. “When you’re wearing my collar, Starsk, I don’t see some cowed slave waiting to be beaten. I see you enhanced, proud and fierce.”

That was the third time someone had told him that wearing the slave collar hadn’t diminished him. How could something made to humiliate elevate him? It made no sense. He had to come to terms with slavery, and his own belief in how destiny had shaped his life.

“Take them off so I can get a shower,” was all he said.

***

“I’ve got to admit it’s getting better…” George Harrison crooned from the radio when Starsky turned on the car ignition. “A little better all the time.”

“It can’t get no worse…” Hutch added melodically.

“You think it’s a sign?” Starsky asked rhetorically. He didn’t really expect an answer, but the sun was up, the stale breakfast bar he had grudgingly eaten had been marginally tastier than the K-rations in the Army, and they both were wearing clean clothes that had still been in his bureau. He’d never thought much about their tendency to leave clothes at each other’s house before, but now, wearing his own jeans and red Henley shirt, and seeing Hutch in a pair of old, but still decent, jeans and striped Oxford shirt with the collar unbuttoned almost turned back the clock. They could so easily be driving into BCPD six months ago. No, make that two or three years ago, when stuff between them had been good, like it felt this morning.

“Getting so much better all the time…”

“This is KBCK,” the DJ announced. “I’m Tommyhawk, and this is the free citizens’ radio, my compatriots. That was the Beatles’ Getting Better, a golden oldie! And not moldy in the least because their message is relevant. Things are getting better all the time. Keep your radio tuned to this station for the latest — and greatest — news of the free world. Despite ongoing fighting and protests in the city center, there are unsubstantiated rumors that the battle has shifted — ”

Starsky looked at Hutch in surprise. “Do you think he’s spouting bullshit, or does he really know something?”

“The movement has to have some way of getting their information out,” Hutch mused. “I wonder if — like the Abbey league — the citizens’ groups have gone the internet route, too?”

“We predict that Bay City will be soon liberated from those capitalistic pigs, the CEC, and is poised on the forefront of a new utopia,” Tommyhawk continued.

“Utopia?” Hutch repeated, resting his arm on the open window ledge of the convertible. “Not sure if that’s a good sign. Utopia is a fantasy.”

“They’re a rock group,” Starsky said flatly. Under normal circumstances, he was generally the optimistic one, but he was hedging his bets. He had to, to survive. Cautious optimism, brought on by the warm Southern California weather and their own hard-won honesty with each other, was enough for now.

“We’ll continue to bring you news of the occupation of the park in front of the CEC throughout the day,” Tommyhawk proclaimed. “But right now, more Beatles!” An explosion of electric guitar ushered in Revolution.

Starsky navigated the car out of the canyons and stopped at the bottom of a steep road. To the left was the freeway on-ramp, to the right, the small strip mall where he’d bought groceries and gas. Despite some vandalism and graffiti on the side of the market and plywood boarded over one of the windows, a few shoppers were going into the grocery and a couple stood talking in the parking lot. Life went on, even with the government in complete disarray.

“Hutch, where are we going? As much as I want to blast into Metro like nothing happened, that’s not our smartest move.”

Hutch blew out a breath, tapping his finger his finger to the music,. “We need a secure place to make calls, which requires a working phone and — ”

“Food.” Starsky pointed at the store.

“Food and information.” Hutch nodded. “Is it safe for us to be seen? Will I get arrested? Will whomever is left in Dunfey’s organization accept me?”

“Not to mention who’s vying to be CEO of all we survey,” Starsky said. After his shower, he’d refused to put the collar and cuffs back on. His re-entry into Bay City was not going to be as a slave. “You getting arrested will fuck up the works royally. Let’s avoid that at all costs.”

Hutch dug into his jacket pocket. “Huggy gave me the keys to the old Pits.” He held up a battered key ring with the letter P dangling next to a couple keys. “It’s downtown, which, from what we saw last night, has power. Even that store has electricity. Your place is so high up that the utility company hasn’t gotten to your area yet.”

“Hope Huggy has some coffee and muffins squirreled away,” Starsky muttered, turning the car away from the mall and onto the freeway. His stomach was jumpy and not simply because he hadn’t eaten much. This was the most crucial operation he and Hutch had ever undertaken and right now, he felt like they were the last two rational people on Earth. He kept remembering the shock of hearing that Dunfey had had Ariadne’s helicopter shot down. He felt the thick, hot spurt of Dunfey’s blood on his hands again and tightened his fingers on the steering wheel.

“That was Back in the USSR by the amazing Beatles!” Tommyhawk shouted in typical DJ fashion. “We’ve got people stationed all over BC with on-the-spot observations of the changes to our fair city. We’re talking to lovely Lesley on the street in front of our studio at South Cabrillo and Twenty-third. Les, has the fighting settled?”

“The CEC’s large private military presence is all over town, and they’ve quelled most of the violent uprisings. We’ve heard reports of pockets of resistance to the south, with the pro-democracy Abbey League forces taking on the CEC’s militia, but the independent protesters crowding blocks between Washington and Thirty-fifth have so far been peaceful. The militia is letting them protest. While they’re working to keep order, rumor has it that militia leaders are discussing a truce with the Abbey League. Because President Cosgrove is dead with no current head of state, the CEC government is in shambles and in active retreat, which means the militia has no overseeing commander-in-chief. If the militia leadership decides to support the organized Abbey League, that could change everything. Many are voicing a cautious optimism about rumors of a paradigm shift, but again, these are only rumors. The big question is, who will be our next President. Where will the new government come from, and what shape will it take? The citizens are ready for democracy.”

“What’s the rumor?” Hutch asked as if the radio would answer him.

“Guess we need to be on the street to find out,” Starsky said, driving carefully. It wasn’t the usual mid-week city traffic, but there were enough cars on the road that he had to stay alert.

“Do you have any more information?” Tommyhawk asked his on-the-street reporter.

In the distance, they could hear a group chanting, “What do we want!” “Democracy!” “When do want it?” “NOW!”

“We do know that the group, A New Way, that took responsibility for killing the man who has become a martyr for the cause of democracy, Peter Whitelaw, has been taken into custody by CEC forces.” she responded. Behind her, there was a low level chant that sounded like “We are the Builders of a Free Tomorrow!”

“Good,” Hutch said violently, settling his shoulders as if he was still wearing his old shoulder holster. His blond hair blew back from his temples in the wind coming over the convertible’s windshield.

“Dunfey was surprised that they’d started early.” Starsky put in, trying to interpret Dunfey’s motives. “They must’ve seen an opportunity to assassinate Cosgrove and moved on it. And that forced Peter to make his move without Manetti or other back up.” Angry at Peter’s brutal death, he felt charged with a ferocious energy to get moving.

“I’ve heard that the Abbey League is claiming those arrests as their victory, even though the CEC took the survivors of A New Way into their custody,” Tommyhawk said to Lesley. “What about the fire?”

“The main tower of the CEC headquarters is still burning, but firefighters say it is eighty-five percent contained,” Lesley answered. “The building, however, is a total loss and will have to eventually come down. What environmental hazards its burning will have is unknown, but the air around the building is foul. People with asthma and other respiratory illnesses should stay clear. The smog is bad.”

“Has electricity downtown been restored?” Tommyhawk asked. “Yesterday, I felt like I was talking to myself, there were so few listeners able to get the show.”

“I talked to Bob Anderson from Bay City Gas and Electric, and he said that seventy percent of the city has had power restored since the massive black out three days ago. However, outlying areas still remain dark.”

“There’s our answer,” Hutch said, staring out the window at the freeway. “The Pits is the best choice. I can make some phone calls from there.”

“South Main Street, here we come.” Starsky swung the steering wheel to change lanes. A raucous car horn blared from a disgruntled driver, and Starsky had to swerve back into his own lane.

“With Roschenzky dead, and the CEC in disarray, it’s a whole new ball game at Metro,” Hutch said, “and we don’t know the players. He was in tight with Dunfey and the CEC executives, but there could be others.”

“You might have a murder rap hanging over your head,” Starsky reminded him grimly.

“If I can talk to someone…” Hutch lapsed into silence, his distress palpable. “Damn — when Ariadne was alive, we had someone at our back who knew the complexities.”

“For what it’s worth, I’m right behind you, babe,” he said softly, reaching over to brush Hutch’s hand briefly before steering the convertible toward their exit.

“That’s worth more than a million,” Hutch looked at him, his eyes sincere. “I feel like we’re lost without a playbook. I want to call Minnie and Sweet Alice. They’ll be monitoring the situation from two different perspectives.”

“Minnie?” Starsky laughed. Sure, she was smarter than half the yahoos on the force, but had been shoved into stereotypical female roles like filing and support. Minnie could run the place if she had a chance.

“Minnie’s got her finger on the pulse of Metro,” Hutch said as if he knew exactly what Starsky was thinking. “She’s not with the Abbey League — that I know of — but I trust her.”

“Yeah.” It took Starsky awhile to jockey the car into the queue on the off-ramp. Once off the highway, he headed down Mandrake in the direction of Huggy’s old place. He saw a few police cars and other official looking vehicles, their roof lights revolving red and blue, stationed at strategic points. Some of the cars were obviously military — but who was giving them orders? Although the block in front of the Pits was quiet, they could hear chanted slogans and voices advocating change projected by loudspeakers coming from a few streets away. A black pall of smoke hung heavily in the air from the burning CEC building. Hutch coughed sharply from the acrid smog. Starsky could feel the gritty smoke tickling the back of his throat, making him want to sneeze.

He parked the car in the familiar alley behind the Pits. For a moment, it didn’t feel like anything had changed at all. He almost expected Lonely to stumble over, call them Starpy and Hup, and ask for a hand-out. But there was not a homeless man to be seen.

“No hookers, no two bit whippos lookin’ for a mark. Place seems deserted,” Starsky observed.

“Which is probably for the best, so we can keep a low profile,” Hutch said, digging the keys out of his pocket.

Starsky watched Hutch’s fingers scrabbling through his jeans and thought about all the times he’d waited for keys lately. The sounds from the gathering several blocks over were getting louder, cheers and shouts easy to hear.

“It’s time for change!” a woman yelled from the main site of the protest. “We are the Builders of a Free Tomorrow!” A swell of voices echoed her until the catchphrase bounced off the buildings.

Hutch cocked his head, listening to the growing fervor of the group. “It’s the reason I got mixed up in this whole mess to begin with, Starsk,” he said. “If we didn’t advocate change, how else can I justify the outcome?”

“By not looking back,” Starsky answered.

Hutch unlocked the back door of the Pits and peered into the dark hall next to the kitchen. “Nobody inside.”

“What if Hug turned the phone off?” Starsky asked. Why the hell hadn’t they thought of that before? It had been an entire month since the Bear was in business.

“He didn’t have a lot of time to bug out,” Hutch said confidently, flicking a switch to flood the bar with light.

It struck Starsky that Hutch and Huggy had had a lot of time to confide in one another — and that Huggy had orchestrated a hell of a lot of Hutch’s getaway and dealings with Dunfey. That left a bitter disenchantment in his chest. There was so much that he still didn’t know. He could hear the “time-for-change” chant from the crowds on Thirty-fourth Street even through the walls. He needed to listen to his own advice. Don’t look back.

Hutch ducked into the kitchen to rummage around in the pantry he had unlocked with another key. He came back with two cans of orange juice and flicked the metal tabs on top.

“So he left everything?” Starsky turned around slowly to survey the room. The front window was boarded up with an old piece of plywood he remembered Huggy using to support the mattress on the bed he used to keep upstairs. There was just enough of a draft to prove the windows had been shattered since the riots. But apparently no one had attempted to break in. The cluster of wooden tables had been shoved into one corner, chairs piled one on top, and the pool table hastily covered with a tarp. One green baize corner peeked out. Starsky tossed back the covering to find the colored balls trapped neatly in the rack.

“Huggy told me we could use what we needed, as long as we paid the bar tab.” Hutch smiled, looking more relaxed than he had all morning. The familiarity of the place must be settling his nerves.

“Looks better than my house does.” Starsky untangled a chair from its fellows and straddled it backwards. “Anything other than OJ in the back there?”

“Enough to make some breakfast,” Hutch said absently. “Let me call first, okay?” There was a glimpse of trepidation in his eyes before he ducked his head and lifted the receiver on the wall phone.

Starsky didn’t recognize the number as he watched Hutch dial, but he suspected that Hutch was calling Sweet Alice first. She was safer — and a member of Abbey League.

Hutch smiled the moment someone came on the line. Wanting to hear too, Starsky got up and went around the bar. He leaned into Hutch with his ear close to the phone in time to catch the words, “…house numbah seven.”

Sweet Alice’s honey-infused Georgia accent, without a doubt. Starsky could almost see her, long blond hair draped over one shoulder and a hint of ironic amusement in her blue eyes.

“Alice?” Hutch greeted hesitantly, tilting the receiver so Starsky could hear better.

“Oh, thank you, sweet Jesus!” she cried happily. “Hutch, Ah’m thrilled t’hear your voice. We were worried.”

“We’re both back in Bay City, Starsky and I,” Hutch said. “I’m just as happy to hear you. Are you safe? Was there vandalism on Lincoln Street?”

“Darlin’, Ah think this was the best part of town to be in. Snug as bugs in a rug.” Alice chuckled. “Those people marching and chantin’ couldn’t have been nicer to all us slaves.” Her voice dripped sarcasm on the last word. “We’re the downtrodden, and along with overhauling the government, they want to protect us.”

“Good thing.” Hutch closed his eyes briefly.

Starsky could sense some of the weight of the world Hutch was carrying around fall away.

“We desperately need information — and to talk to… our friend Abbey about current events,” Hutch said carefully. He was trying to be discrete in case of possible wiretaps on the Lincoln House.

“Of course, sugah!” Alice said. “We’ll be waitin’ for you whenevah you can come by.”

“Tomorrow, if not sooner,” Hutch assured her, his bright smile the same one he always saved for Alice.

“Well, Mr. Popular, Minnie’s been clamorin’ to get in touch with you, as have the folks at Underhill-Blaylock,” Alice continued.

“Underhill-Blaylock?” Starsky interrupted before Hutch could say a word.

“Hey, there, Starsky,” Alice drawled. “I heard tell you’ve had an awful time of it.”

From whom? he wanted to ask, but didn’t.

“What’s going on at the…publishing firm?” Hutch rejoined the conversation with a questioning glance at Starsky.

“Our friend Abbey,” Alice continued, drawing out “friend” into two syllables, “has opened those offices, and the staff needs to talk to you at your earliest convenience.”

Hutch sighed, which gave Starsky a moment. He plucked the receiver out of his partner’s hand. “Alice, will it be safe for Hutch to go into Metro, or should we arrange to meet Minnie elsewhere?”

“Minnie and Ah have been bondin’ ovah tea lately, waitin’ for your arrival, and Huggy called last night to tell me you all were leaving Phoenix. Minnie swears on her mama’s grave that Hutch can walk right in the front door.”

“Which ain’t the same as saying he won’t get cuffed once he’s inside,” Starsky growled.

“Starsk,” Hutch murmured, snagging the phone back. “Any word on what Minnie has to say, Alice?”

“You know Ah ain’t privy to the inner workin’s of the po-lice department, sugah, but once you’ve stated your business there, high-tail it ovah to Underhill — ” She giggled. “Don’t know why, but that struck mah funny bone. High tail it to Underhill — because those folks need to speak with you sooner rathah than later.”

Starsky could hear the smile in her voice.

“Alice, we’ll catch up with you after we’ve met with people,” Hutch told her.

“You take care, all right? Ah don’t want to hear any more bad news. Though I am truly glad that ol’ polecat, Dunfey, is dead,” Alice said softly, the tiniest quiver betraying her usual optimism.

“That makes three of us,” Hutch said. “Goodbye.” He hung up thoughtfully, frowning.

“She obviously didn’t want to say certain things over the phone,” Starsky said.

Hutch nodded, leading the way into the pantry. “I can’t tell if Alice knows more than she’s letting on, or if she’s just being cautious.”

Starsky scanned Huggy’s shelves. A small freezer held some bacon, and there were stacks of stale hamburger buns. “Looks like BLTs without the L and the T,” he said.

After Hutch reached Minnie by phone, and she assured him it was safe for them to come in, they left the Pits. Starsky drove as close as he could to Metro, but the area between Washington Street and the main station of the Special Police Force, formerly the Parker Building, was barricaded. The activists were confined a few blocks to the west and, as reported on the radio, militia and cops were everywhere. The blacktop was damaged in places, but as long as he maneuvered around the potholes, the roadways were passable. Some blocks looked frozen in time, without any visible damage. People were out, going about their business, but looked shell-shocked and nervous.

“Look.” Hutch pointed to the CEC building ten blocks away. A thick column of black smoke climbed over the other skyscrapers like an ominous shadow.

“Good riddance,” Starsky snarled.

Starsky couldn’t get near his usual spot in front of Metro, but got a lucky break when a delivery van pulled out several blocks short of Washington Street. With a deft twist of the wheel, Starsky slotted the long blue convertible into the empty space.

“You always did have a way with parking.” Hutch tried on a smile, but it was forced. He gave off a wave of apprehension as they walked down the street and, when they passed unfamiliar uniformed officers, Hutch stiffened.

“Hutch, if Minnie says it’s…”

“As good as she is, Minnie doesn’t have the authority to hand out pardons,” Hutch said tightly. Putting a hand on Starsky’s arm to slow his pace, Hutch steered them onto a side street.

“It was self defense. He had a gun on you,” Starsky said, looking over his shoulder at a young cop in blue guarding the steps of the police department.

“Not exactly an optimal argument when I had just — ” Hutch glanced around. The intersection of Washington and Twentieth was deserted; no one could overhear them. ” — Enslaved my best friend and was carrying a fortune in cash in the trunk of my car.”

“But he threatened you, manipulated you — ”

“Threatened your life.” Hutch nodded, his jaw flexing. “Starsk, I know I…was in the right, that he forced my hand, but it’s my word against a man who held a lot of power and authority in the department, if not the whole city. A man who’s dead, who can’t argue in his own defense. He has — had friends in high places. To a lot of those people, I was a corruptible cop who is now part of Dunfey’s organization. It doesn’t look good.” He laid his hand on Starsky’s back for a second. “And if I go to jail, or worse…”

“Legally, I’m still a slave…” he finished slowly. Starsky felt those words like a knife in the gut. He was suddenly aware of the metal in the end of his cock, even though it was out of sight under his jeans. What if Hutch was arrested? Minnie’s reassurances to the contrary, Hutch might be wanted for murder. As Hutch’s legal property, that left Starsky hanging in the wind. He could be seized and sold to pay for Hutch’s defense.

That was not going to happen.

“You’re vulnerable,” Hutch said earnestly, gripping his wrist so tightly Starsky could feel his bones compressing. “If worse comes to worse, you run. As far and as fast as you can. Alice knows where I keep cash, and the names of people — the underground railroad that helps slaves get to non-slave states.”

“Hutch.” Starsky jabbed his finger into Hutch’s chest, feeling defiant. “I’m not leaving you.”

“There’s also Dunfey’s organization, which I haven’t even begun to contend with. Being seen going into Metro doesn’t set exactly the right tone.”

Starsky considered this, then raised his head and walked to the corner that lead around the back of the building through the parking lot. “Are you coming?” he asked confidently.

Hutch flashed a small, but rueful smile. “You’re a force to be reckoned with, you know that?”

“You only just noticed?” Starsky puffed out his chest with a wink.

Pride and wonder lit Hutch’s eyes, which was a damned sight better than fear. “Sometimes you blow me away.”

What I could do with that comment on any other day. Starsky tucked it away, walking shoulder to shoulder with Hutch through the empty lot to the building. “Never saw so few parked cars.”

“Eerie — they’re all out on the streets,” Hutch agreed.

The man standing guard had to be a green rookie. He glanced at Starsky and Hutch without an iota of recognition. “Any weapons?” he asked in a high-pitched voice, failing in any way to project a confident, strong presence. “Your names and reason for coming in.”

Starsky cut his eyes sideways to see how Hutch wanted to handle it. All signs of the jittery, uncertain Hutch were completely erased. He wasn’t quite the remote, sexy cowboy, but his blue eyes had gone hard and icy, with an undeniable authority that had the rookie quaking before Hutch even said a word.

“Detective Sergeant Ken Hutchinson.” Hutch snapped his wallet open and shut too fast for a mortal man to actually glimpse the badge inside. “To see Sergeant Kaplan. I’m not packing, but you can frisk me, if that’s what you’re into.”

The innuendo wasn’t lost on the rookie. He went pale and then flushed bright pink. “No — no, sir! Sergeant Kaplan is in the detective squadroom,” he blustered, finally turning to Starsky.

“With him,” Starsky said blandly, plucking open the sides of his leather jacket to show that he wasn’t armed. He wished he was. He’d never felt like less of a cop. He had to resist the urge to look down to see if the ring was visible through his jeans. He knew it wasn’t. But the press of the ring into his flesh and the rasp of his jeans on the brand established him as someone other than the man who had left here weeks ago.

Stepping inside Metro brought on a surge of memories like a flashback. Starsky paused, emotions swamping him. The panic he’d felt that day he’d run out of the building to meet Hutch flooded back in a wash of recall that was so raw, he had to take a deep breath to force down the shakes.

“Starsk, Dunfey just went into the warehouse on the corner of Ninety-first, where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there.”

He could hear the words as clearly as if Hutch were saying them directly into his ear.

“Starsky? Are you all right?” Hutch placed his hand in the small of Starsky’s back. The one spot that seemed made for his hand and could calm Starsky down or rev up his motor, depending on the situation.

“Yeah, yeah — just thought I heard something.”

“Once upon a time, this place was a haven in a weird sort of way,” Hutch muttered. “Instead, now I’m basically a criminal and — ” He licked his lips, surveying the battered linoleum, industrial green walls, and old posters urging staff to give blood and buckle seatbelts as if he had never seen them before. “This is the last place you were — ”

“Whole,” Starsky answered. He felt dirty, drenched in blood and semen. Not fit to be a cop anymore.

Hutch looked him over then shook his head. “No one right now is more whole than you, babe. Those symbols are nothing unless you give them power. They’re just decorations; they don’t represent the man you are inside.”

The last thing Starsky wanted to do was start an argument in the hallway, although he and Hutch had had a couple of doozies in the past right on this spot. Two nights ago, in bed, Hutch had turned the slave ring into a wedding ring, which had helped Starsky see it that way, too. Later today, when they got back in bed, it would be that again. But they weren’t in bed now. They were in the police station. And in this place, that steel ring was a hell of a lot more than simple jewelry. The one benefit is that it gave him access to places he could never go without it. It could give him a way to bring slavers to their knees. But to do that, he and Hutch had to be cops. And Starsky would somehow have to be both a cop — and a slave. Could they make that happen?

The familiar squadroom appeared to be as vandalized as the buildings outside. The glass in one of the swinging doors was completely missing, in/out baskets overflowed with untended paperwork, and empty chairs had been shoved haphazardly into a tangle under the windows on the far wall. Phones were ringing off the hook with only two officers trying to keep up with the onslaught.

Detective Ben Simmons was hunched over a computer, cursing slightly under his breath — which made Starsky smile.

His partner, Dan Babcock, scooped up a pile of folders and straightened, his mouth going slack when Starsky and Hutch pushed open the damaged doors. “Hey, Ben, look what the cat dragged in!”

Minnie Kaplan bustled through the double doors, rear-ending Hutch and nearly knocking him into the room. Starsky barely managed to get out of her way in time.

“I knew you wanted to talk, Minnie, but you didn’t have to — ” Hutch turned to greet her, plastering on a smile.

“Hutch?” Minnie jumped back, catching her glasses before they fell off. She threw her arms around him, hooking Starsky into the hug with a cry of joy. “Starsky, my God, am I glad to see you two!”

“Minnie!” Starsky wanted to bottle her hugs. He goosed her for old times’ sake.

“Trashy boy!” she admonished, laughing with tears in her eyes. She covered by adjusting her glasses and dabbing at her lashes. “‘Bout time you got here! We have so much to talk about — ” Minnie said with an authority she’d never conveyed before. She included Simmons and Babcock as they walked over to shake hands in greeting. “An FBI agent named Dolesky contacted us after the raid on Dunfey’s place — ”

“We’ve had him on our radar for a while,” Simmons told them, shoving the pile of paper Babcock had been holding into a file cabinet. “We’re coordinating with Dolesky on some of the background information he needs, but he’s leading the investigation with the Phoenix police. He told us what happened with Dunfey.” He looked meaningfully at Starsky. “Believe me, we’re all glad that fuck is dead. We couldn’t believe how deep undercover you guys were.”

“It must’ve been horrible for you both,” Minnie said sympathetically.

Starsky let out a breath he hadn’t been consciously holding, catching Hutch’s terse nod. They didn’t dare say too much about what had happened at the villa, but it was reassuring to have their co-workers backing, nonetheless. “It was rough, but we managed. Dolesky really came through for us.”

“It was ‘eyes only’ stuff,” Hutch said.

Simmons and Babcock nodded soberly, used to the secretive nature of some of their cases.

“As for what happened to our former captain,” Minnie said, her mouth in a severe line that didn’t suit her generally sunny personality, “I can’t say that there aren’t some serious hurdles you’ll have to jump over, but — ”

“You did good, Hutchinson,” Dan Babcock said quietly, shocking them both.

You did good killing Roschenzky? Starsky thought, stunned. Had they all hated the corrupt bastard so much they wanted him dead?

Hutch couldn’t hide the surprise on his face, either.

The phone was ringing again, but they ignored it. “Most of us consider it the first salvo in the war to topple the regime,” Simmons told them.

“And it needed to be done,” Minnie added.

Hutch staggered and dropped into a chair, his face pale. “I’m not sure I understand, but…thanks. I…we’re grateful for your support. But let’s hold off celebrating until I talk to the brass. Who is in charge around here now?”

“You’ll find out soon enough,” Minnie said smugly. “Settle in. Can I get you anything?”

Hutch and Starsky looked around at their friends, at a loss for words. Hutch shrugged ruefully. “We could use some coffee. Anything in the pot?”

“Not a thing.” Starsky peered at the sorry excuse for a break cart. No coffee brewing, no donuts or Danish pastries plump with glistening jelly. Only a jar of desiccated creamer that he’d bought over three months earlier. “What’s going on around here besides a government take-over and war in the street? Where is everybody?” Starsky focused on what used to be his desk. The computer he’d been wrestling with when Hutch called on that fateful Tuesday, was barely visible behind a mountain of unfiled arrest reports, old memos, evidence bags, and case folders. The place smelled like cigarettes though smoking was not allowed in the squadroom.

“Most of the CEC shills are all gone,” Minnie sighed, shaking her head.

“What do you mean, gone? How many are left?” Hutch asked sharply, looking at the messy room.

“Not enough to be effective,” Simmons said, jerking his chin at the paperwork. “Which means we need to get going. We need the two of you back here.” He and Babcock grudgingly returned to their ringing phones.

Minnie beckoned them closer. “We organized the few people loyal to the old department. Brought in some senior people, some retired folks, and some of the really new, raw rookies who hadn’t been — ”

“Corrupted by Roschenzky and his cronies?” Starsky asked, disgusted. All the blatantly dishonest and immoral practices perpetrated by the former authorities had left a black mark on the police department, and it would take a lot of effort to get the public to trust cops again.

Minnie crossed her arms, looking weary. “We’ve divided the work load. Simmons and Babcock are overseeing all the homicide cases. I’m the sergeant-in-charge, and Linda Baylor’s managing robbery and vice.”

“You always were the backbone of the place,” Starsky said, clasping her arm with pride. “I’ll go fill the pot up with water to make some coffee.”

“Kaplan!” a familiar voice, one Starsky had never expected to hear again inside the Bay City PD, suddenly bellowed from the captain’s office.

Hutch jumped to his feet, looking both delighted and stunned. “Was that…Dobey?”

“That’s the captain!” Starsky turned expectantly to Dobey’s office door, leaving the coffee pot on the break cart. What was Dobey doing back here after four years?

“Kaplan, where’s that — !” Harold Dobey burst through the door from his office into the squadroom and stopped short, staring at his former detectives. His expression of genuine joy lasted only a second before he shuttered it under his usual gruff exterior. “Starsky, Hutchinson,” he said in greeting, Minnie apparently forgotten.

“Cap!” Starsky said brightly, wanting to forestall anything Dobey had to say to them until they were inside his office. It was fine to have their friends welcome them back without recrimination, but Dobey was a toe-the-line kind of guy. Would he allow a pierced slave and the man who had murdered their former captain — no matter how despised — back into the fold? “Looks like retirement suited you. Edith must have been cooking some great healthy food. You’ve lost a ton of weight.” He realized he was babbling. Both Dobey and Hutch gave him stern glances. He shut up abruptly.

“I’m glad to see you, Captain,” Hutch said more formally, holding out his hand.

“I’ve been expecting you,” Dobey said, shaking hands with Hutch. There was relief in his eyes below his furrowed brows. “In my office, now.” He moved back inside, obviously expecting them to follow immediately.

“You’re back in your rightful place, Cap,” Starsky said, as he walked through the office door, his nerves in a sudden jumble. He’d caught Hutch’s nervousness, could feel it bleeding off Hutch in waves.

“Apparently, I have Hutchinson to thank for that,” Dobey said, sitting down behind his desk. “The morning after the Abbey League successfully routed the CEC, the phone woke us up. And let me tell you, Edith does not enjoy being roused from her beauty sleep.”

Starsky laughed, surprised at this unexpected glimpse into Dobey’s private life. Previously, he might have mentioned the wife and children on occasion, and he’d invited his detectives over for barbecues and Christmas dinners, but implying that he and Edith were sleeping in the same bed was unparalleled. Times had changed.

“She was even more astonished to be talking to Victor Sinclair, who had become the titular head of the Abbey League since Peter Whitelaw had been killed. Mr. Sinclair, himself, respectfully asked this over-the-hill captain to head up this department. He said you, Hutch, had told him I was a man of, quote, ‘exemplary integrity,’ unquote. So…thank you for that.” He raised one shaggy, graying eyebrow. “How could I say no to the leader of the only pro-democracy, anti-slavery organization that’s tried to put this citystate to rights, and look my wife in the face?”

As if a puppeteer had cut his strings, Hutch dropped into one of the nearby office chairs, his face ashen. Needing to be near his partner, Starsky perched on the arm of Hutch’s chair, his knee pressed against Hutch’s arm.

“I’m glad you agreed to come back on board,” Hutch said sincerely. “We need honest people in authority.”

“Speaking of which,” Dobey leaned forward, a judge intent on uncovering the truth, “As you know, Len Roschenzky was not the man I would have wanted as my successor, but I had no say in the matter. He was hand-picked by the CEC to oversee this department and I was forced out.”

Starsky found himself nodding, even if it had never been stated so bluntly. That was exactly what they’d suspected. He glanced at Hutch for validation, but Hutch was watching Dobey and had gone still.

Dobey raked them with withering disapproval. “I have it from several sources, Hutch, that you worked a deal with Captain Roschenzky to enslave your partner, and when that deal went bad, killed Roschenzky. Is this true?”

Hutch stiffened. “Yes, sir.” He never looked down, acknowledging his guilt to his superior.

Proud and frightened, Starsky concentrated on the now — he couldn’t discern the future or wager a guess at what Dobey might do. It felt hard to breathe, as if all the air in the room had been sucked out.

Dobey didn’t move, his expression caught between dismay and curiosity.

“Cap?” Starsky began, desperately thinking of something to say that could mitigate Hutch’s self-incrimination. Of all Hutch’s actions lately, knifing Roschenzky was the one he condoned without reservation.

Narrowing his eyes, Dobey gazed at Hutch for a moment longer as if waiting for Hutch to call uncle in a contest of wills, but Hutch never backed down or lowered his gaze. “Were you there, Starsky?” Dobey asked sharply, obviously already knowing the answer. “If not, then I want your partner’s statement. What plausible motive do you have, Hutch, for any of these actions?”

Hutch flinched and Starsky could feel the muscles in Hutch’s arm bunch against his thigh. He had the urge to stroke his lover’s shoulders but held back. Hutch needed to do this on his own.

“Roschenzky’s death was self defense. He threatened Starsky, had been threatening him for months,” Hutch started slowly, brushing his fingers against Starsky’s leg before clasping both hands in his lap. “It began when he offered to promote me — to move me up the ranks, without Starsky. He said Starsky couldn’t be controlled, that the CEC wanted him eliminated or enslaved as part of a sweep to eliminate cops who wouldn’t knuckle under.”

Dobey’s fist crashed down on his desk blotter. “Why wouldn’t he have done the same to you? Why would your own captain tell you, of all people, that he wanted to kill or sell your partner?”

“Because he already believed I was dirty and on his side.” Hutch swallowed.

“Hutchinson!” Dobey hollered. The entire squadroom must have heard him. “Start from the beginning!”

Starsky watched Hutch draw into himself as he recounted the chain of events that led to Starsky’s enslavement and the death of their former captain. He tried to put himself in Hutch’s shoes as he listened to the gauntlet of dangerous choices Hutch had dealt with. It was obvious that Hutch had felt trapped.

“…Roschenzky assumed I was a duplicitous, crooked cop who could easily be blackmailed,” Hutch explained. “He’d told me that there was a timetable, that changes had to be made before he became head of the CEC’s internal spy network. I overheard him telling one of his flunkies that he had to eliminate Starsky. Roschenzky was going to have him killed or sold to Dunfey. I couldn’t let that happen.”

Hutch paused, looking up at Starsky with anguish. Starsky had — if not accepted, then tolerated — his new status. But he still hated that Hutch had done this all behind his back, without giving him any recourse.

“I’d already set my…own plan in motion, to deal with both Dunfey and Roschenzky. I had the money to make it work. So I confronted Roschenzky alone, as we’d arranged. After I showed him the money, he pulled a gun on me. He had his own plan, one that didn’t include letting me walk out of there alive. Like most greedy people, he wasn’t interested in the deal. He intended to take the money, kill me, and sell Starsky to Dunfey anyway. He’d taken my gun before the meeting started. But I still had a knife he didn’t know about. We struggled. He died. I lived.”

“You got the drop on him using only a knife?” Dobey was clearly skeptical.

“I’ve been a street cop a long time, Captain. You remember what it’s like out there. I know how to handle myself. Roschenzky had never worked the streets. He was a desk jockey, a political hack. After the fight, I thought — ” Hutch closed his eyes as if reliving the entire incident. “I hoped things would turn out…differently. He was alive when I drove away. I swear it. I called it in, told them to send an ambulance and paramedics. And then I ran.”

A new detail in the story. Starsky slotted it into his mental file.

Dobey ran a blunt finger along the edge of his desk with a reluctant nod. “The official report from the coroner states that the paramedics found Roschenzky bleeding but alive in the garage. He died at the hospital.”

“It was self defense, Captain!” Starsky snapped, anger, fear, and so many other emotions battling within him. “Roschenzky had a gun on him, was blackmailing him, had already threatened to kill and enslave me, and flat out said he was going to kill Hutch and take his money! The man was scum — if Hutch had been a cop investigating Len Roschenzky for any one of the dozens of crimes he’d committed, all Hutch would have gotten was suspension for using an unofficial weapon in the pursuit of a felon!”

“Starsky,” Hutch said wearily, resting his forehead in the palm of his hand. “I only wanted to protect you. If I have to go down — ”

“Enslaving you, Starsky, was hardly protection.” Dobey scowled, crossing his arms over his vest. His revulsion was easy to understand. As a black man, Dobey had strong feelings on slavery. “It’s a violation, objectionable on every level.” This was not one of his usual harangues because Starsky and Hutch had bent a law; this was Dobey’s moral code. Slavery was wrong. Pure and simple. It had been one of the many reasons Dobey and the CEC hadn’t seen eye to eye.

“Hutch didn’t start this!” Starsky protested, as surprised as Hutch seemed to be to hear himself defending his partner’s actions. He wasn’t sure what he wanted to say, just that he had to pull Hutch out of the hole he’d dug for himself. “Cap, you said yourself that Roschenzky was dirt — ”

Dobey raised his eyebrow as if he was going to argue the semantics, but gave a gruff nod instead.

Starsky plunged into the opening, tiny as it was, aware of Hutch watching him with a modicum of hope in his eyes. “I went to Dunfey’s warehouse — it was a trap. Roschenzky had me kidnapped and enslaved on Dunfey’s orders,” he said too rapidly to give Dobey a chance to interrupt. “But Hutch hunted ’em down — got the drop on that scumbag, and bought my chit at Luna before Dunfey could do it. If he hadn’t done that, I’d be owned by Dunfey right now. Do you have any idea what happens to the slaves Dunfey owned?” He was panting by the end. He hadn’t just bent the truth, he’d twisted it to his own needs. Had it helped any?

Dobey held up a hand, stopping any further versions. “I hear your argument, Starsky, concerning Hutch’s culpability in Roschenzky’s…death.”

Hutch released a breath, placing both hands squarely on the arms of the chair. Doing that made him slide his right hand underneath Starsky’s thigh. “Captain, you backed me when I was falsely accused of Van’s murder — ”

“This is another matter entirely!”

Hutch nodded soberly. “I’m ready to talk to the legal department to prepare for a hearing. I’ll enter a plea — ”

Dobey inclined his head and tugged at the knot on his tie, clearly a stalling tactic. “That would be the usual M.O., but under the current situation here…that is…well, we no longer have a legal department. And, for the record, I haven’t seen any paperwork charging you with any crime. The DA resigned yesterday under allegations too numerous to go into right now. And though I cannot excuse your actions, Hutchinson, with the city in flux and with no legitimate government — there isn’t any actual evidence against you.” Dobey cleared his throat.

Hutch opened his mouth and then closed it again, which Starsky thought was a good thing. Shouldering the blame was one thing, but Roschenzky had been on par with Dunfey. The city was better off without either of them.

“I wanted to hear what you had to say for yourself,” Dobey said quietly, his lips compressed into a grim line. “I wanted to see if you would be honest with me, as you always have been. I found the stories circulating about you two…hard to believe. And I found it even harder to believe, if the worst of these rumors were true, that you would still be partners in any sense of the word. But I see that hasn’t changed.” He paused as if still arguing with himself as to what was the right thing to do.

“My homicide department consists of two — two — honest, hardworking detectives,” he admitted, sounding weary. “I used to have ten in homicide alone. The rest of the police department is in a shambles. There is no Chief of Police, not even an Acting, and evidence of Roschenzky’s corruption and outright crimes mounts every hour as we retrieve his secret files. It’s a mess. Even if we ever get the paperwork in any kind of recognizable order, Roschenzky’s death can only be listed as caused by ‘persons unknown’.”

“Thank you, sir,” Hutch said, bowing his head.

An uncomfortable silence settled over the room. Starsky rubbed the back of Hutch’s neck, afraid that the unexpected relief of Dobey’s admission might cause him to break down. He decided to charge ahead and change the subject. “Minnie said Agent Dolesky forwarded reports from the raid on Dunfey’s compound in Phoenix. But you probably didn’t get all the details. We took down Dunfey. He’s dead.”

“Even after Hutchinson — ” Dobey looked uncomfortable, as if even saying the words sullied him, “secured your ownership chit out from under him, you still had dealings with Jack Dunfey?”

“Starsky is not my slave,” Hutch said firmly, lifting his head. His voice rang clear. He sat up straighter, apparently struggling to resume his role as a competent cop.

Starsky smiled, and stopped rubbing his partner’s neck.

“Starsky is a free man, and now that we’re back in Bay City, I’ll ensure that his status is fully reinstated. But even before Roschenzky offered me that promotion and threatened Starsky, I’d been working against the CEC with the Abbey League, that hopes to restore democracy to California.”

“Hmm,” Dobey said noncommittally, “they’re still fighting remnants of the CEC.”

Hutch nodded. “Dunfey planned to replace Cosgrove himself and take over the government, as if it weren’t corrupt enough. He told us he financed the terrorist group, A New Day. After the whole thing with Roschenzky and Starsky came to a head and I left Bay City, the Abbey League wanted me to convince Dunfey that I had gone rogue so I could get close to him, to somehow stop him from taking over the government. My cover and Starsky’s had to be bulletproof. Dunfey had to believe that I was completely corrupt. We were undercover at his villa in the desert at a council meeting he’d had with mob bosses and the CEC executive board. The details are in Dolesky’s reports.”

Dobey pressed his thumbs together, his dark eyes unconvinced. “You two have always gone to bat for each other, muddying the water so it was hard to know who did what, but, Starsky, I do not believe that you would willingly take the part as a pierced slave in this unsanctioned undercover operation.”

Feeling like he was walking on a tightrope, Starsky didn’t blurt out the first thing that came to him. Harold Dobey was easy to con when it came to practical jokes, but he had an eagle eye when it came to bullshit. “It wasn’t my — choice,” he said diplomatically, the nearly healed welts on his back suddenly making themselves known. “I’d already been fucked over, excuse my French, on Roschenzky’s orders — kidnapped, pierced, and collared. I was on my way to becoming Dunfey’s slave when Hutch…bought me out from under him.”

Hutch’s hand slipped around Starsky’s back to his shoulder and remained there while Starsky talked. He relished Hutch’s quiet support. “I…needed t’do something to get back, Captain. To claim my own freedom. It wasn’t like any other undercover we ever did before, but we succeeded.”

“You took a beating,” Dobey stated, examining Starsky for so long that he was sure Dobey saw the belt marks on his back and the brand, too.

“More than once.” Starsky nodded, feeling Hutch’s hand drop away. He would have despaired that loss except for the tiny glance Hutch gave him. That flash of blue eyes told him all he needed to know. Hutch wasn’t pulling away from him, he was giving Starsky autonomy. “I — ” He caught Hutch’s gaze and held on for a second. “We survived.”

“We’ll probably never get a full report of what went on there,” Hutch said. “Over twenty people in one house, criminals and a full board of CEC executives, plus all the slaves and guards. It was a tinder box waiting to be detonated.”

“I don’t envy the Phoenix police.” Dobey shook his head at the magnitude of the investigation. “We have enough on our plate right now. Can you two still work together as partners after all this?”

“Yes!” they said in unison, then glanced at each other, abashed.

“We’re dealing with stuff,” Starsky admitted, feeling that connection with Hutch buzz through his blood. Not sexual, but deep and abiding. It had been strained, even deeply wounded, but something he couldn’t put a name to was still there, binding them more strongly than most partners could ever hope for.

“When I heard the stories after Roschenzky’s death, that Hutchinson had fled the scene without reporting in, and then what happened to you, Starsky, I was angry and horrified,” Dobey said, rubbing his chin. “I could not reconcile that with what I knew about the two of you — what I’d felt about you both as honorable men…” Dobey continued sadly. “Then I heard other rumors from the Abbey League, which gave a different slant on things, and made me wonder what the true story really was.”

“I didn’t feel like I could trust anyone in the department,” Hutch said humbly, rubbing his hands nervously over his knees. “Other than Starsky, and I couldn’t tell him without showing my hand too soon.”

“Have you changed your mind now, Captain?” Starsky asked, more moved than he’d expected to be. He’d always valued Dobey’s faith in him and Hutch, no matter how loudly the Captain yelled. It was one of the things he’d missed with their new captain. Roschenzky had only cared about what could bring him power or money.

“I have always been proud to call you not only two of my best detectives, but my friends,” Dobey said, steepling his fingers on top of the untidy stack of reports on his desk. “I never questioned what you two had between you because the results were there. You got the job done that needed to be done. In spite of everything — that still holds true. Your unorthodox methods have brought me more gray hair than anyone else on the force.”

“You may get a few more before this is over,” Hutch said ruefully. He glanced over at the office door to ensure it was closed. “Right now, we’ve got pressing matters in BC.”

“That’s the understatement of the year,” Dobey harrumphed. “But I’m hearing that the wind is about to change. Something has to, even if it’s just having the military establish an interim government to keep peace.”

“Hutch’s ties to the Abbey League are important,” Starsky admitted, hoping Hutch wouldn’t mind. Since they’d already fed Dobey filtered truth, it made it easier if there was one thing they weren’t lying about.

“You also need to know, that when we were undercover in Dunfey’s organization, Dunfey named me his second-in-command.” Hutch’s face was flushed — from embarrassment or anger, Starsky couldn’t tell. “Dunfey, planning on being the next president, named me as Roschenzky’s replacement, as Chief of the Special Police. Coming here wasn’t just dangerous because of Roschenzky. Everyone at that meeting saw me take control after Dunfey was dead. If they find out I’m still working with the police…”

“Hutchinson, I know how to deal with undercover cops!” Dobey hollered, his normal bluster returning. “How do you plan to deal with this? How many of his cohorts do you think you can bring in posing as Dunfey’s replacement? I’m going to need regular reports if you continue working here. No more unsanctioned operations!”

“It’s a work in progress at the moment,” Hutch admitted.

Starsky wandered over to the water bottle in the corner of Dobey’s office. He could use a drink — something stronger than water would be heaven, but he didn’t have any alternatives. So, water it was. After downing a cup, he brought one to his partner and resumed his perch on the arm of Hutch’s chair.

“With Dunfey out of the picture, I needed to keep the remaining mobsters on my side, so I told them that if they pledged allegiance to me, they would have a place in my organization.” Hutch frowned. Starsky could see the wheels turning in Hutch’s brain. He was percolating ideas. “The cops and Feds were baying at the door at that point.”

“But a bunch of guys heard him.” Starsky handed Hutch one of the cups of water he’d filled. “Who may or may not have gotten word to their associates here. We don’t know how many of them managed to get out of Phoenix.”

“Do you have names?” Dobey asked shrewdly, leaning forward.

“I know for certain that Leo Gillespie and Michael Lvoff were arrested.” Hutch ticked them off on his fingers. “And Horace Marlow. Gavin Haley, and the other CEC execs were hollering about their rights, and how they had to get back to Bay City to reorganize the government. But since the CEC’s collapsed, they might have gone into hiding in Nevada. The raid was chaotic and I had to stay out of the way since I was supposed to be in custody.”

Dobey nodded, taking notes. “I’ll contact Phoenix to get the exact list of names. Eliminating Marlow alone will put a definite crimp in the tobacco smuggling pipeline.”

“Leaving a void other whippos will fill,” Starsky put in, while watching Hutch. Hutch had gone through a gauntlet of emotions since they walked into Dobey’s office. But this kind of planning kept him focused and in control.

“If you can get those names, Captain, we’ll know exactly where to concentrate our efforts.” Hutch downed the cup of water in one swallow. He looked sideways at Starsky, watching him just as openly. He smiled and turned back to Dobey. “If we can divide and conquer Dunfey’s confederates, we can weaken the stranglehold he had on Bay City. Posing as Dunfey’s hand-picked successor, I can take over Dunfey’s businesses, with Starsky undercover as my slave.”

“I don’t like it, but it has merit, especially with the background you’ve already set up.” Dobey gripped a pencil as if he wanted to snap it in half. “You’ll need a base of operations. However, a number of Dunfey’s warehouses, including one on Mission and Ninety-first, and another on dock fifteen, were burned to the ground. Arsonists lit up dozens of places throughout downtown and the wharf.”

Starsky grit his teeth, refusing to give in to the nightmares the first address stirred up. He was glad it was destroyed. “Hutch already has — ” He turned to his partner; should he tell Dobey about the house on Lincoln? Hutch didn’t hesitate, inclining his head once. ” — Real estate on Lincoln that will be a perfect undercover location.”

“You own a slave house?” Dobey roared, all friendliness gone from his face.

“It was a safehouse for Abbey League meetings,” Hutch interjected quickly. “And for use as a way station to help enslaved citizens get to freedom — to states that don’t have slavery laws. I never — ”

“I’ve heard of that group’s anti-slavery activities.” Dobey sat back, looking slightly mollified. “People are calling it ‘Tubman’s Train,’ after Harriet Tubman and the whole underground railroad in the eighteen hundreds. My church has been raising money for them. You’re involved?”

“Only peripherally,” Hutch admitted, his face blank, all emotions tightly hidden. “I bought the building to provide a safe space. Others do the work. But as Starsky said, it’ll be perfect for our cover.”

“What we need is for the beat cops to look the other way until we can set up shop, build up a clientele, decide how to net the fish without alerting other slimeballs on the street,” Starsky said, crushing the paper cup and tossing it into the wastebasket. Slid right in without touching the metal sides. Two points. If he could get that lucky in life, he’d be set. “It probably won’t last long, ’cause word’ll get out that guys disappear after dealing with Hutch, but it’ll work for the short term. And if we can get the biggest fish — ”

“You’ve put some thought into this,” Hutch said with a disarming grin.

Starsky smiled back at him, feeling like old times, working details out in front of Dobey.

“An operation like this takes time to put into place.” Dobey scribbled a few more things on his notepad. “Set up your organization — I’ll deal with when and how we’ll communicate. Do you want a task force?”

“The fewer in on this, the better,” Hutch answered, standing as if to leave. “Starsky and I’ll work on logistics before we get back to you. Talking to some of our other contacts will help. Which we need to get started on…”

The meeting at Underhill-Blaylock, Starsky thought, as he got to his feet. But he had to voice what had been on his mind for a while. “Until Hutch files the emancipation paperwork, legally, Cap’n, I can’t own anything, can’t earn wages — ” He felt his cheeks warm, but he didn’t let that deter him. No matter what Dobey’s ideologies were, some members of the police department, not to mention other citizens of BC, would take one look at his ring and dismiss him as submissive. Less than human. Even if Hutch freed him, Starsky had to appear to be a slave for the immediate future. That might work to their advantage in the sting, but he needed to know what his options were.

He saw Hutch go pale. “I promise to — ”

“I refuse to recognize a cruel and humiliating law made by men I wouldn’t listen to when they were in power,” Dobey broke in angrily. “I am the captain, and I’ll decide who works here. I need both of you on the force. You’ve both got back wages coming, and Starsky, there’s a pay check in your name.”

Which the bank might not cash. Starsky shoved that thought away. Right now, it was uncertain if some banks even had the funds to cover their own assets.

“There’s one thing I need to discuss with you before you leave,” Dobey cautioned, standing up with a grimace. He rubbed his lower back, frowning. “Considering what you’ve just told me, it might have unexpected value.” He looked straight at Starsky, obviously troubled. “What you did as a boy — ”

“You knew?” Starsky asked tightly. Damn, the hits just kept on coming — number one with a bullet: Chicken Little works the streets.

Dobey’s eyes grew sad. “It wasn’t common knowledge, and it’s not in your file, but Roschenzky made sure the brass heard about it. To prevent your promotion.” Dobey grimaced. “That’s completely over with, in my book.”

“Never, ever made any difference to me,” Hutch said, brushing his fingers against Starsky’s leather jacket.

“Means a lot,” Starsky said woodenly. It hurt like hell. A small old wound cracked open inside, the puss of his old life still festering. Even forgiving that sad fifteen-year-old and purging the secret of rape hadn’t healed him.

Hutch left his hand where it was, not quite touching Starsky’s arm, not encroaching, for far longer than necessary, a questioning look on his face.

“We have a lot of work ahead of us to turn this force around.” Dobey rapped his meaty knuckles on the desk. “It’s been a long time since I sat behind this desk, but I’m not too old to see how this place has deteriorated. I let myself be railroaded out of the department because I didn’t want to witness any more unscrupulous practices and promotions of people unqualified to give out parking tickets, while the police got away with exploiting the people they were supposed to serve.”

Starsky stood straighter.

“Besides Simmons and Babcock, you two are the only experienced detectives on this squad I can trust,” Dobey continued. “We need to pull together, regain what this department once had — integrity and reliability.”

“Captain?” Minnie stuck her head in, arms piled high with paperwork.

“Come on in.” Starsky held the door open for her. “Can I take something?” He lifted two thick files off the top and set them on Dobey’s desk.

“More of the data you asked for about Roschenzky.” Minnie thrust a manila folder into Dobey’s hands. “This is the last of the stuff we managed to salvage after the fire at the CEC headquarters.”

“How did you get this?” Hutch asked, relieving her of several stacks to peer at the contents.

“We’re trying to get evidence on the top players in the government — the most corrupt CEOs and VPs, to prove that these people need to be ousted.” Minnie pushed up her glasses and ran fingers through her disheveled hair. “I went after their computer files immediately after Cosgrove’s murder, but my connection was poor. I boosted power from the mainframe — ”

“So whatever files Roschenzky had on his backdoor dealings and multiple crimes are now stored on our computers while theirs are going up in smoke?” Dobey asked with a harsh smile.

Starsky shook his head, glancing over the uppermost page. Undeniable evidence of corruption from the highest ranks. He glimpsed Dunfey’s name near the top of a list of money paid for services rendered. What services, he wondered? There was so much to do — so much had to be done to turn Bay City around. The anger and resentment that had waxed and waned for the last half hour came roaring back. Damn them. Damn them all.

“Yes, sir!” Minnie grinned. “And not just stuff on him — lots of familiar names in high places.”

“Then I have a lot to read up on.” Dobey looked quite pleased. “If I find some connections that will dovetail with your investigations, Starsky, Hutch, I’ll tell you.”

“Thanks, Captain!” Hutch said.

Starsky stiff-armed the door to the hall, blasting past a pair of uniformed cops shepherding a line of cuffed protesters to booking.

“Hey.” Hutch pulled him to a stop. “You’re going so fast I can’t keep up and my legs are longer. What gives?”

“Just fed up!” Starsky turned on him, the urge to lash out at anyone, but particularly Hutch, suddenly very strong. With a part of his brain that was still rational, he understood why Hutch used to criticize him when the tension got too much. When Hutch was at his most burned out and jaded. A partner, a lover, was safe and close. What was the old saying? We only hurt the ones we love? So true. “Fuck, Hutch! The whole force knew about me! I thought — ”

“Not here.” Hutch hauled him bodily to the stairs, going so fast Starsky’s feet didn’t touch every step.

Starsky’s first reaction was to fight, hot adrenaline flooding his muscles. He jerked back, but Hutch was strong and quick. He clamped a hand around Starsky’s wrist, too similar to a locked cuff for comfort, using forward momentum to propel Starsky upward.

“Let go!” Starsky snarled just as he realized where Hutch was going. Interrogation room nine, on the third floor. They had used the room more than once for something other than questioning suspects. The sound system was faulty, the video camera a piece of crap. The other detectives preferred rooms with better lighting and equipment.

Hutch shoved Starsky inside and slammed the door shut. “Talk to me!”

“I thought I could turn my life around!” Starsky spat, pacing the confines of the room. The table bolted to the linoleum gave barely him enough space to move. “Recreate the kid who earned his bread on his knees — invent somebody new, a war hero, a cop. And now I find out every fucking person around me knew. Knew what I did.” He slugged the wall as hard as he could, the impact radiating up his fist to his shoulder. The first time wasn’t enough, so he did it again, the pain almost blotting out his rage. “And now…” He drew back his arm to slam his fist once more, barely aware of the streak of blood already marking the industrial green wall.

“Starsk!” Hutch intercepted the blow, blocking it with his hand over Starsky’s fist. “Stop. I put you back on your knees. Hit me, if you have to.”

“Fuck you. I won’t give you the satisfaction.” Starsky bucked against him, the feel of Hutch’s long, hard body an aphrodisiac that easily cut through the fury. He didn’t want that swell of desire now. Starsky wanted anger, trying to coax it into a blaze again, and broke free of Hutch’s grasp, scrambling away from temptation. “Once we had trust, Hutch!” he said violently, his knuckles throbbing, his dick hard as a rock. Very inconvenient. “Why didn’t you trust me with any of the stuff you were involved with?”

“I don’t know when it began, Starsk. We’d grown so far apart I wasn’t sure we were on the same page anymore.” Hutch ground his palms into his eyes, the lines of his face haggard. “At first it was such little stuff. We didn’t hang out together. You rejected what I wanted — so I went to the slave houses for a curly haired guy I could pretend was you. We were never exclusive — we always boffed other women — ”

“Other men,” Starsky accused, ramming his damaged fist upward in an obscene gesture. He’d had sex with women. Hutch was the only man he’d ever loved. He didn’t consider his teenaged hooking as part of that count. “And then you started meeting the Abbeyites and pulled even farther away.”

“I don’t think it was the Abbey League as much as it was Roschenzky — he knew too much about me. Twisted it — and what you’d been as a kid — like a knife in my heart. Finally, I just needed to get you away from him.” Hutch laughed bitterly. “And if there was one thing I knew, it was that if I’d told you — asked you to leave for your own safety, you would have stood your ground, guns blazing.”

“Damn straight.”

“That’s where my trust went, Starsk.” Hutch sounded like he was begging. He leaned against the tabletop, head down as if talking to himself. “I knew that if you found out what was going down and turned on Roschenzky — maybe on me — he’d kill you and I would have lost everything. I had to prevent you from making a pre-emptive strike.”

“Don’t give me that same old crap; you saved my life by buying my body!” Starsky shoved a stiff finger at him, the anger fanning his arousal. “It ain’t gonna wash. You bought me so you could have me.”

“Yes,” Hutch whispered, pinning Starsky with those blue eyes, as fathomless as a Nordic fjord.

Starsky didn’t know if those northern depths would be icy or pure as glaciers, so cold that they felt hot. He wanted to find out. Wanted to dive in.

“It’s pathetic that I would rather have you alive and hate me than dead.”

So raw, so blunt. Starsky didn’t know how to refute that. “God, I wanted to hate you. I really did.”

“I know.”

“Don’t talk anymore,” Starsky ordered abruptly, so turned on he was vibrating. It hurt, it was powerful, and it was fucking awesome.

“Why?” Hutch asked warily. He stepped away from the table and balanced on the balls of his feet.

“You remember a year ago?” Starsky challenged, unable to look away from the erection tenting the front of Hutch’s jeans. So Hutch felt it, too, that indefinable connection that bound them together no matter what. “Last time we were in here?”

“Finished questioning Loose Lenny, and Billings took him off to holding.” Hutch didn’t have to be told. He reached up to switch off the video camera directly over his head. His eyes went soft. “You went down on me.”

“I’m taking back what was mine, Hutch,” Starsky announced. He’d always thought Hutch brought out the submissive in him. Now he could see how much of their relationship he had controlled. Hutch came to him for sustenance. He’d looked for relief with those curly haired slaves, but always come back to Starsky — even when Starsky refused his demands. Starsky had power on his knees. Had power in his submission, and could do his job, as a cop, as Hutch’s partner, whether he had a gun in his hand or a cock in his mouth.

He stalked Hutch, backing him against the wall.

Hutch, his lips slightly parted, watched Starsky, expectant, unresisting.

Starsky laid claim to his lover, molding the palm of his hand around the back of Hutch’s head.

Hutch held Starsky’s eyes for a beat longer, then went for his mouth hard as if establishing his own rights. Their teeth clashed and tongues vied for position.

Biting Hutch’s lower lip with a growl, Starsky jammed his groin against Hutch’s. Their arousal peaked and flared, their primal desires coming forth.

Hutch cupped both hands around Starsky’s ass, nearly lifting him off the ground, matching Starsky’s rocking motion. Their rutting was feral, no finesse required.

“Zippers,” Hutch whispered fiercely, his hands occupied kneading Starsky’s ass.

Untangling his fingers from Hutch’s blond hair, Starsky inserted his left hand between their bodies, getting his own fly undone. His pierced cock leapt out, hot and needy, pulsing with blood.

Hutch’s zipper was somehow harder — possibly because Starsky’s brain was fogging over with lust, possibly because of the angle. Finally, it came down, Hutch’s erection spilling out into his hand.

Hutch clutched Starsky tighter, their abdomens only separated by two upright cocks. Starsky grasped both rods, the friction of heated skin-on-skin electrifying. The metal ring rasped against Hutch’s foreskin, and he gave a ragged cry of lust.

Starsky rubbed against Hutch’s cheek, his head about to explode from the pressure, the vibrations spreading through his body making his hands shake. He rubbed the ball of his thumb over the top of both steel-hard lengths slippery with pre-come, feeling Hutch stiffen.

Hutch shuddered, gulping air, and came a moment before Starsky went over the edge. He felt everything — air searing his lungs, Hutch’s nails following the trail of a welt, Hutch’s lips against his, giving and exchanging life, their cocks sealed together connecting them into one being, joining their hearts into a single beating organ.

Starsky sagged, pulling Hutch with him, as they slid down the wall into a puddle of arms, legs, and penises. Starsky’s cock lay just below Hutch’s so that the crowns overlapped. The silvery ring had looped over the tip of Hutch’s penis, as if he were pierced, too.

Hutch loosened his hands from around Starsky’s ass, and delicately touched the metal ring. “Such a little thing that changed so much.”

“Felt much bigger when it went in,” Starsky said softly, feeling like his whole body had flown apart and was slowly reconnecting, joint by joint. “We’re in this together, Hutch, for better or worse. Puttin’ the past in the past is the only way I can do this.”

“We start new,” Hutch said with a bemused quirk of a grin. “Hi, I’m Ken. I’m in love with my partner.” He slung his arm around Starsky’s shoulders, pulling him into a kiss. “And I want to make this world a better place for him to live in.”

“I’m Dave,” Starsky responded, sucking on Hutch’s tongue for half a minute before reluctantly releasing him and climbing to his feet. “Weird coincidence, I love my partner, too, even when he’s an asshole.” The monumental scope of their future had been reduced in size by just a fraction, but it suddenly seemed in their grasp. How was still a huge uncertainty. They had to find a starting point — and figure out the details as they came up. “Can we work together? Sometimes it feels like we’re talking without words and other times, I can’t figure out who you are.”

“Your partner, always,” Hutch said, getting up off the floor. He used a hanky from his pants pocket to wipe Starsky clean, giving the ring a quick polish before cleaning himself. “We need to meet with the Abbey League,” he said, changing the subject. “You and I need to talk this out, later.”

“Will the answers be any different tonight or tomorrow?” Starsky asked stubbornly, feeling the ring in his cock pressed against his thigh and throbbing in time with his heart. Every heated emotion, from anger to arousal, was revealed through the ring. It had turned into a sounding board for his soul.

***

Starsky had to loop around Bay City to get to Underhill-Blaylock, using side streets and routes he would not normally have taken to get from one side to the other due to the condition of the roads. Protesters and Abbey League troops had used chunks of cement and paving stones as barricades and weapons, leaving some formerly wide avenues impassable.

The Underhill-Blaylock building, named for the firm that published Ariadne Underhill’s novels, was now the headquarters of the Abbey League. The five-story building was guarded by grim-faced men holding machine guns. Even Hutch’s identification didn’t grant him immediate passage. He and Starsky were forced to cool their heels in the marble-floored lobby while a suspicious receptionist called upstairs.

“I guess security is important, especially with the ongoing fighting and lack of police,” Hutch said frowning, observing the guards by the elevators.

“You ever been here before?” Starsky asked.

The building was elegant and old fashioned — not some sleek, mirrored glass complex, but an Art Deco extravaganza with gold scrollwork, a turquoise and yellow ceiling inlaid with a sunburst pattern and thirties style scalloped shells at regular intervals along the walls. Framed book covers featured not only Ariadne Underhill’s most famous works, but several other authors the firm published. Few windows faced the street on the ground floor, so the lobby had escaped vandalism. Although they were a mile away from the main demonstrations, Starsky could hear booming reverberations coming from that part of the city as the fighting waged on.

“No, we mostly met in what we thought were less conspicuous places — like the houses on Lincoln, people’s homes — ” Hutch said. “Whitelaw and Ariadne have become martyrs, so they’re using the Underhill name — ”

“And money?” Starsky added. He rubbed his right thumb over the knuckles of his left hand, wincing. The skin was swollen, the scrapes starting to scab over. Stupid to have slugged the wall at Metro.

“To their advantage. The question is, who’s going to lead the organization…” Hutch turned when he heard the ping of the elevator. Then his jaw went slack with shock.

Starsky swiveled to see what Hutch was looking at and gasped. “Oh, my God!”

“Hutch, Starsky!” Manetti called out loudly, making everyone in the lobby turn. The big man strode out of the elevator, his bald head gleaming in the overhead lighting, a smile wreathing his face. He grabbed both of them in a bear hug that nearly cut off Starsky’s circulation.

“You were killed!” Starsky protested, reeling, trying to get a good look at him. He felt solid enough to be real, but Starsky was afraid to let himself believe.

Manetti was dressed in his sartorial best in an expensive gray suit and a darker gray tie with silvery diamonds. He didn’t appear to be injured in any way, although there was a certain careful way he moved, a hesitancy when he walked, that signaled something Starsky couldn’t put his finger on. Maybe he’d been injured in the crash?

As Manetti let them go, Hutch grabbed his head as if he could only believe he was real by staring into his eyes. “You bastard!” he whispered, so overcome, Starsky thought he might cry. “You miserable bastard!”

Manetti laughed his big booming laugh and grabbed Hutch about the waist, hoisting him into the air. He looked like he wanted to cry a little, too.

He managed to release Hutch before damaging him permanently, then hauled them both into another long hug as they all started laughing like fools in the staid business lobby. The guards and secretary politely turned away. Starsky was overwhelmed with such a wash of emotions, he wasn’t sure how to react. He embraced Manetti just as hard without saying a word. They were holding each other so tightly, Starsky could feel the loose change in Manetti’s pocket and some hard object that Manetti must’ve been carrying in his pocket press into Starsky’s hip.

“Glad to see that you both got out of Dunfey’s more or less in one piece,” Manetti said, still holding onto them as if reluctant to let go.

Hutch draped an arm around Manetti, trying to catch his breath. “Starsk, can you believe it?”

When Manetti gave him one last squeeze before letting him go, Starsky felt the rigid object brush against his hip again. Something familiar about that gave him pause. When they’d been at Dunfey’s, he’d been Hutch’s slave; he’d only ever come in physical contact with Manetti when he’d rescued him from Kuyt and Patello. Manetti had helped him back to his room by supporting his arm. This is the first time he’d ever been in a full-body embrace. He tried to analyze what exactly was bothering him. Starsky gripped his friend’s arm, stepping back to take a critical look.

Manetti was several inches taller than Starsky. His throat tightening, Starsky suddenly knew what he’d felt press against his hip. He knew it with a certainty that astounded him. He recalled Ariadne and Manetti at Dunfey’s villa, Manetti’s behavior with her, rubbing her feet, tending to her, more than a thoughtful fiancé — he’d been almost worshipping his lady…Damn! He pushed his concerns aside. If Manetti was alive, then so was Ariadne. That’s what was important, nothing else.

“You look pretty good for a corpse,” Hutch was saying, pounding Manetti on the back. He gazed at him with an addled grin, as if he couldn’t get enough of him. “So damned good to see you again! But Dunfey said his men shot down your chopper.”

“Well, technically, they did. Clipped the rotors.” Manetti shook his head, directing them to the elevators. “We had a pretty good head start when the guards came over the radio and told us to land the bird or be shot down. I knew if we landed, they’d either just take us back to the compound to either enslave us or give us to Dunfey to kill. I headed for the Phoenix Mountains Preserve and pushed the bird hard. Dunfey’s men were gaining on us and started shooting. They hit the rotors just as we crested Camelback Mountain. The bird was crippled, going lower and lower, with the mountain between us and Dunfey’s guards. Luckily, I had radioed Victor Sinclair and told him what was going on. I got the bird down with just a few bumps.” He mimed struggling with the stick that controlled the chopper. “The gas tank was leaking, and I knew Dunfey’s guards weren’t going to give up. I had to get Ariadne to safety and convince them we were no longer a threat, so I pulled a shirt out of our luggage, soaked it in the gasoline, shoved it in the open gas tank and lit that baby up.”

Starsky grimaced, fascinated nonetheless. “That’s some fast thinking.”

They paused beside the elevator bank.

“The guards saw the fireball when the copter blew up, and never bothered to climb over the mountain to see if you were in it,” Hutch said, grinning. “Thank God for lazy guards.”

“It would’ve taken them hours to get there in the dark. Victor called the staff at the Preserve and got people out there to help us find our way out. When they showed up, I was carrying Ari on my back like a pack mule. It wasn’t like she was wearing the right shoes for hiking over bare rock.” Manetti shook his head fondly. “Victor told us to use fake names we’d already set up in case of emergencies when we might need to hide our identities, and since our luggage went up in the copter fire, it made sense we didn’t have any IDs with us.”

“Why didn’t you tell anyone you were still alive?” Starsky asked, awestruck by the change in circumstances. He had to force himself to keep his eyes on Manetti’s face and forget about his personal issues at the moment. He had to wonder how this proud, intelligent man could voluntarily demean himself like that?

“Yeah. It’s been days — why all the secrecy?” Hutch persisted, hope blossoming in his eyes. “So Ariadne’s all right? Where is she?”

“In good time, my friends,” Manetti said with a secretive smile. He inserted a key into a slot next to the last elevator of four. The doors opened immediately. “We’ll take this straight to the penthouse.” He pressed the single button on the elevator panel after they entered. “Anyway, we were a little banged up, but no real damage, and the nice folks who pulled us off Camelback delivered us to Sky Harbor airport in Phoenix. Ari had a private jet there, which we took to BC.”

“Is Ariadne here?” Starsky asked. He forced his mind away from speculating about Manetti’s status and tried to concentrate on more important issues. Was Ariadne still planning on taking control of the government? Could she with all the chaos going on? And if she did…and his suspicions about her relationship with Manetti were correct, would that effect the slavery issue? If she’d enslaved her own lover, would she still willingly free other slaves?

“You’ll be with her in just a few minutes,” Manetti said reassuringly. “She’s a very busy lady, but she can’t wait to see you. After Dunfey’s guards came after us, she was terrified for you guys, knowing you were with him and Harriet in the Gold Room. We heard that Harriet got out of there before the cops arrived. And…” he looked at Starsky, “we heard about what happened in the Gold Room. Harry Dolesky called us.”

Starsky and Hutch glanced at each other, but said nothing, just nodding.

Manetti changed the subject to lighten the mood. “Ari’s really looking forward to this meeting. We’ve got a lot to talk about in a short time, with a lot to do, and not much time to do it in.”

In the small confines of the elevator, Manetti’s large frame seemed to take up most of the physical space. Starsky had respected the man the first time he’d met him. Manetti was one of the few free men who’d always looked Starsky in the eyes instead of glancing at his groin, as if assessing the worth of a man with a ring through his cock. Is that why Manetti seemed to know how to straddle the line between self-confident independent man and willing submissive? Starsky was having enough trouble finding his own self-worth to accept his piercing. Why in the world would Manetti do it willingly?

“We’ve been hearing rumors about the fighting — on the radio,” Hutch said, his eyes on his partner.

“I’ll get to that,” Manetti said more cautiously. He turned to Starsky, as if realizing that he was full of questions that didn’t have anything to do with the revolution. “Ari and I want to hear what happened to you two at the villa, but I have something to show you. Especially you, Starsky.”

Aware of Hutch’s scrutiny, Starsky inclined his head slightly, trying not to stare at Manetti’s crotch. The lines between Hutch’s eyes deepened in confusion.

Manetti hit the stop button, and the elevator halted smoothly. Starsky felt trapped. If they were anywhere else, he would have bolted. He didn’t want to confront this issue. Even though he was curious — and intrigued — he wanted Manetti to keep it private, something between him and Ariadne. The way Starsky wished his submission to Hutch could have been. He could almost feel Manetti’s physical strength pouring through his dark eyes, asking for something — acceptance? Approval? Starsky wasn’t sure he could give that.

“You and I are the same, Starsky. We have been for a while. I couldn’t say anything while we were undercover at Dunfey’s.” Manetti carefully unzipped his fly, exposing his cock. A round, golden ring glimmered at the end, an expensive and beautiful piece of jewelry, not the typical stainless steel ring Starsky and other slaves wore. Manetti had a mixture of giddy pride and anxiety. He wanted them to be happy for him.

Hutch looked almost as stunned as he had when Manetti appeared. Speechless, he turned to Starsky as if acknowledging there was nothing he could say. For a brief moment, Starsky wondered if Hutch was remembering the offer he’d made, for Starsky to pierce him.

Starsky had to look away from Hutch. He didn’t want to think about that, ever.

It wasn’t possible for Starsky to feel shocked at the sight of a pierced cock any longer. He’d seen dozens by now, but wished he hadn’t seen Manetti’s. “Even though we’re are on the same side, Gary, there’ll always be a huge difference between us — you’re a free man,” Starsky said dryly. “You had a choice…which I didn’t. So, I’ve gotta ask. Why? Why would you volunteer for that? And when did she do you?” He stared resolutely at the elevator doors instead of Manetti’s golden ring.

Hutch moved closer to him, his leg a warm presence against Starsky’s. His eyes flicked to Manetti’s ring and then away. He gazed over at Starsky with such stark concern that Starsky was almost undone.

Hutch got why Starsky was uneasy with this.

“I think I’ve wanted it from the moment I met her,” Manetti admitted, zipping up against Starsky’s condemnation. “I asked her to ring me the night we had that dinner with the two of you. We did it the next day.”

“You chose to become a slave?” Hutch asked incredulously, high color flushing his cheeks. “I’ve known you for nearly a year, Gary. Why show your…love for Ariadne like this? It’s not only risky, it’s…”

“That’s low coming from you, Hutchinson,” Manetti said sharply.

“We had vastly different circumstances.” Hutch’s hackles were up, his face hard and angry. He visibly contained himself, emotions shifting under his skin, the muscles of his jaw twitching. “Most of which you were fully aware of. Did you do this willingly or did she — ?”

Exactly what Starsky wanted to know. He’d always had concerns about Ariadne. Her unusual private life worried him. That he was in a similar, if not exactly the same, relationship with his partner made it all the more difficult to be critical.

“I asked and Ariadne agreed,” Manetti said, mashing the button to start the elevator again. The whole car shuddered as it gathered speed, going past the third floor. “She does not own me. I’m her lover. I understand why you don’t see it the way I do, but if this were any other time in our history or any other place — if this ring didn’t mean what it does in Bay City, wouldn’t you see it completely differently?”

“Specious logic,” Hutch said very quietly, obviously uncomfortable with the ethical knot the three of them were tied in. “Because, here, now, that ring symbolizes degradation and lack of consent — no matter how much some of us may want to see it simply as — ”

“Jewelry with attachments.” The words were out of Starsky’s mouth before he’d thought them through. He shrugged, not sure where he fit if he were arguing this philosophically. He hated the kidnapping, the assault, the complete disregard for the slave as a human being, yet where he once would have denounced what Manetti had done without a second thought, now he understood the underlying desires. And in another life, he might have chosen to do the same. What did that make him? A hypocrite? Deluded? Or a man in love seeing his situation with new eyes?

“I have my own demons to deal with — ” Hutch reached out to Starsky, a grateful look softening his features when Starsky took his hand. “And I can only thank Starsky for forgiving me. Doesn’t make what I did right.”

“Does it make what I did wrong?” Manetti soberly smoothed down the pleats of his slacks.

“No,” Hutch admitted, with a troubled expression. He looked straight at Starsky, sending waves of love.

The elevator doors slid open as they reached the top floor. “I serve my lady.” Manetti lifted his chin, his sincerity and devotion plain to see. “It doesn’t diminish me, because I was already her slave in my heart. I love her, and she loves me.”

“You’re…” Starsky stopped, unable to go on, sliding his fingers through Hutch’s. He was even more conflicted, wanting to bow to Hutch, while wanting to eliminate the cruelty of legalized slavery that subjected innocent people to humiliation and torture. Bowing to Hutch didn’t feel like humiliation. It was like offering up a part of himself and accepting an equal part of Hutch in return. Is that how it was for Manetti? Starsky knew what it felt like to be debased and degraded — not just because of his past, but because of what he’d had to do at the villa, on his knees in front of all those free people. But alone with Hutch, he felt cherished. “There’s more than two sides here,” he finally said, “and all of ’em are complicated.”

Manetti cleared his throat. “Ariadne plans to emancipate all slaves and make slavery illegal.”

“Good,” Hutch said. “I want to hear that from her.”

A heavy door carved with Art Deco nymphs and satyrs swung open. Ariadne rushed out, gazing at them with tears in her eyes. When she threw her arms around Hutch, Starsky couldn’t stop staring at her, feeling like she was an apparition back from the grave. Her graying red hair was pulled smoothly back in a French twist with something glittery fastened in the back, and a trio of gold bangles clinked on her wrist when she pulled away from Hutch to press her hand against her trembling bottom lip. She was dressed more business-like than the last time Starsky had seen her, in a sleek burgundy jacket and narrow skirt. When she enveloped Starsky in her arms, she not only looked alive, she felt alive, and she smelled wonderful. He closed his eyes to keep his emotions in checked and hugged her hard.

“I wasn’t sure we’d ever see you again,” she said, her voice choking. “I was so afraid for you when we left.”

Manetti stepped past Starsky and Hutch, going to his lady’s side. When Starsky released her, she stepped back, as if giving them all a moment to regroup from their emotional reunion. She clasped Manetti’s hand happily. He wasn’t about to kneel in front of them, but there was an undeniable tension, an awkwardness between the four of them that hadn’t been there previously.

“I kinda thought you’d ended up out there in the desert like the Roadrunner,” Starsky quipped to clear the air.

“Meep, meep,” she said, laughing. “I did see Wiley Coyote run by the chopper.” As if she couldn’t help herself, she pulled Hutch and Starsky into another spontaneous, joyous hug. “I guess Gary told you ourlatest news. So what about you? What happened with Dunfey?” She was wearing some floral perfume. The scent reminded Starsky of an old fashioned garden full of gardenias and jasmine.

Hutch sneezed, which he covered with a chuckle. “I expected to come here for a huddle with the remaining Abbey members, maybe help Victor Sinclair plan a memorial service for you once things stabilized. Seeing you is so much better!”

“Come on in,” Manetti said, waving a hand into the suite of offices. “We were having a late lunch — there’s salad, bread, a little soup left, I think.”

They walked past a young man peering seriously through a pile of paperwork and into a large, sunny office. The assistant she’d talked about buying from the slave auction? Starsky wondered. The young man was dressed normally in business attire. Realizing the view took in much of the city, Starsky went over to the window to look out. He couldn’t see any more flames from the nearly destroyed CEC building, but the smoke was still black and thick overhead, and there were several fire trucks parked in front. He could see marchers along Washington Street — some holding signs that read, “Take Our Country Back!…from Corporations!” and, “People Cast Votes. Corporations Buy Elections,” and, “Democracy Not Corporatocracy!” and the one he liked best, “No one is free when others are oppressed.” A row of soldiers stood at each intersection down the long street to keep protesters from spilling out into other areas.

“It’s cream of spinach,” Ariadne added, sitting behind a large desk that housed two phones, dozens of files and reports, and a computer that wasn’t turned on. “It was delicious.”

“Sounds delicious.” Hutch helped himself to a bowl from a cart loaded with food and sat on a dark blue loveseat.

“I’m so hungry, I’d even eat that.” Starsky pulled himself away from watching the spectacle. The bread was still warm; he could smell the sourdough in the air. Inspecting the soup, Starsky decided against it. What was it with Ariadne and weird vegetable soups? Give him good old chicken noodle any day. He loaded up on salad, which at least had blue cheese and bits of bacon. After buttering two slices of bread — he knew Hutch would take one — he sat next to his partner on the loveseat.

“Hutch, Starsky,” Ariadne said, “Dolesky told us Dunfey was killed, but we don’t know the details. Can you tell me what happened? I was really conflicted about leaving.” She glanced at an empty water glass on her desk.

Attentive to her every move, Manetti picked up a carafe of sparkling water and filled her glass. She smiled and ran her fingertips over the back of his hand before drinking. He ducked his head with a smile meant only for her.

Starsky glanced at Hutch, wondering where to begin. Hutch snitched the slice of bread just as Starsky expected him to. He bit into it, chewing with a wry quirk of his mouth and giving Starsky the floor.

“The Gold room wasn’t exactly a haven of sensual pleasure,” Starsky answered. He could still see the silver dildo and other sex toys Dunfey had planned to use on him like a mental horror movie. He put his salad bowl on the coffee table, looking up at Ariadne and Manetti. “We went in expectin’ the worse, and got it.”

“It was tense,” Hutch said, “but we needed to keep Dunfey calm. He had a guard on the door, and Patello and Kuyt in there with us. And Harriet and her slave. We managed to get rid of Harriet — ”

“With a little of her own medicine,” Starsky put in. He would have preferred to see the witch laid out next to Dunfey.

“You gave her Phenine?” Manetti guessed with a smirk. “Kinda wish I’d seen that.”

“She and Anton left — flying out in Dunfey’s plane soon afterwards,” Hutch said. “When the news broke about Cosgrove’s murder, Dunfey started to come unglued. When they forced Whitelaw to give us all up on TV — ” He inhaled abruptly, remembering. “It sent him over the edge.”

“Hey, babe,” Starsky said softly, gripping Hutch’s arm.

Ariadne pressed her hand to her lip again, grief altering her face. “I am truly, truly glad we didn’t have to see that live. It’s been replayed numerous times on television and each time it’s a shock. He was a good, decent man who fought with us all the way.”

“A great loss,” Hutch said.

“His was the worst, but a lot of good soldiers from Abbey were lost in the last couple of days. All the more reason to keep moving to our goal,” Manetti said. “Peter would have wanted that.”

“He named me — and you on camera?” Ariadne repeated. “Jack must have gone ballistic — was that why he had his guards try to shoot the helicopter down?”

“Yeah,” Starsky sneered. “He put a gun to Hutch’s head and had plans to — make me beg for mercy. I wasn’t about to do that.” If ever there was a night he’d rather forget forever, that was it.

As if realizing Starsky didn’t want to relate the gory details, Hutch took up the story. “He took Starsky and me prisoner — we thought for a few moments it was all over. But we’ve been in tough spots before. You remember Giuseppe, the chef? He helped us. When the smoke cleared, we walked out alive…and Dunfey, Kuyt, Patello — they didn’t. Getting Dunfey out of the picture energized his victims. With Dolesky’s help, we got the servants organized under Giuseppe and that ex-football player you knew, Gary.”

“Douglass Watson,” Manetti supplied, going to the lunch cart to pour a cup of tea. He added sugar and cream and placed it by Ariadne’s right hand. “Excellent.”

“You neglected to mention that you stood up in front of the attendees as Dunfey’s successor,” Ariadne said seriously, touching the hot tea cup tentatively. She blew on the surface and sipped with obvious enjoyment. “We’ve heard that from several sources on the street. Which puts you in a tenuous position. What do you plan to do?”

“Bring down Dunfey’s criminal organization from the inside,” Hutch answered promptly, finishing his soup.

“How?” Manetti asked, fixing another cup of tea for himself, without milk and sugar.

“A lot of it depends on who is in command — who I can rely on, and what laws are on the books.” Hutch sat up straighter, expectant. “What’s happening with the revolution? With the government?”

“Are we looking at Madame President?” Starsky asked. He bit savagely into the sourdough to banish the taste of blood in his mouth brought on by just the mention of Dunfey.

“Our original plans were to sweep in and take control of Cosgrove’s office through a non-violent transfer of power,” Ariadne reminded them, collecting Manetti to her side with a glance. He complied instantly, pulling a chair next to hers and sitting close enough that their arms touched. “That wasn’t possible after A New Day assassinated both Cosgrove and Peter. There was already a spontaneous uprising of young people and regular citizens fed up with the CEC’s regime. They were in the streets peacefully, but that got quickly out of hand when Dunfey’s group jumped the gun, and the Abbey League charged in.”

Having seen the aftermath, Starsky could easily picture what it had been like in the war zone.

“On that first day, while we were at the villa and unable to communicate, the military came out in force after the protest marches began,” Manetti continued, sweeping his hand in the direction of the demonstrations.

“Dunfey confessed that he’d paid A New Day to kill Cosgrove,” Hutch interjected, turning toward Starsky, including him in the memory.

“A New Day wrested control from the Corporation — the acting CEOs who were holding down the fort while the other executives were at Dunfey’s abandoned the sinking ship like rats. Peter Whitelaw sent in the Abbey troops waiting to advance — but he was captured sometime later that day,” Manetti said. “We think it was Peter’s death that really invigorated the people’s protest.”

Ariadne curled her hands around her tea cup. “By the time Gary and I arrived, it was anarchy. Since then, we have had secret meetings with Abbey members, as well as some of the remaining CEC VPs who are willing to listen. Because the CEC headquarters went up in smoke, and much of the city police force — that worked directly for the CEC — have abandoned their posts and probably left the state, we’re actually in a better place to intervene now. We’ve also been discussing things with the CEC’s militia. Most of the leaders were career military people who hated the CEC leadership, but felt they had to be loyal to the recognized government. The militia is on the verge of joining the movement. Once we have their loyalty, we can stop worrying about the executive board at Dunfey’s coming back from Arizona and attempting to retake the government by force. So, we’re on our way to being able to establish a provisional democratic government. Which is why I’m — ” She smiled confidently at Manetti. “We’re going on the radio and TV later today to publicly seize control with the generals behind us. Victor Sinclair and several other Abbey members are waiting in the wings. We have a strong lineup for the provisional government, which includes representatives from the Abbey League, like Victor and others, John Smith as the Treasurer, members of the civilian group that’s protesting, and even two members of the old CEC regime that worked tirelessly with the Abbey League to bring them down. These were people who actually had the people’s trust.”

“And, yes, Starsky,” Manetti said, amused, “Ariadne will be the provisional president.”

“So, basically, this will be like a dictatorship?” Starsky asked, unsure what to think. He’d never really thought about the fact that most democracies didn’t have elections first, but after the government was in place. While he and Hutch supported Ariadne, she had been Cosgrove’s press secretary, which meant many other citizens might not.

“Right now, unless you want to hand power over to the special forces — which was controlled previously by the CEC — she’s the best candidate for the job,” Manetti said defensively, scowling at Starsky.

“I agree.” Hutch sat up straight, wiping breadcrumbs off his hands. “Ariadne was always the Abbey League’s first choice, but what about the people?”

“I would never be a dictator! Benevolent or otherwise,” Ariadne retorted, but smiled to take the sting out of her words. “Once we establish democratic rule with checks and balances and a constitution, of course we’d have proper elections with rights and responsibilities a real democracy requires. I’m hoping within six months to a year.”

“Good.” Starsky nodded once. Because he was sitting, his eye was almost level with Manetti’s groin. The pleats in the other man’s slacks hid the outline of his Prince Albert, but when Starsky looked down at his own crotch, he could see the unnatural protrusion at the end of his bulge. He hadn’t planned on mentioning it, but the question spilled out. “What about slavery?”

“The Thirteenth Amendment was added to the U.S. constitution in 1865,” Ariadne said with fire in her eyes, her love of history evident. “It’s the primary reason Cosgrove and his minions were so quick to ditch the U.S. Constitution when they came into power. The Constitution, one of the most egalitarian political documents ever crafted, is worthy of adoption whether or not the United States is ever again a whole and contingent nation.” She glanced at Manetti fondly and then directly at Starsky, open and honest. “Forced slavery is wrong in all aspects. If we regain power as we hope, I will outlaw slavery immediately. I will never allow another citizen to be pierced without consent if I have any ability to prevent it.”

“That’s what I wanted to hear.” Starsky let out a pent-up breath, most of his misgivings about her falling away. “What about your own situation — are you going to admit that you and Manetti are…?”

Ariadne held up her left hand. There was a small gold ring on her fourth finger that matched the ring Manetti had through his cock. “We’re engaged. What I do in my private time is off-limits — as I expect yours is.”

“No question,” Hutch said.

Hutch put a hand on Starsky’s knee, whether as precaution or simply love, Starsky wasn’t quite sure, but he didn’t care. He liked having it there.

“When we make our announcement this afternoon, one of the first things we will declare is that Bay City will be reverting to all laws and statutes that were on the books before the CEC takeover and Cosgrove’s government,” Ariadne continued. “The CEC destroyed democracy and the current laws are a mishmash of immoral and virtually unenforceable regulations that pandered to the CEC’s greed. If we want to be a respected citystate, then we have to show a solid, even-handed government. And the best way to do that is to reestablish the Constitution, the previous democratic laws, have free elections, and end slavery.”

Starsky rolled a bit of bread between his fingers, molding it into a small ball. He would be truly a free man — entitled to his own name, back pay, and citizenship. So why did he still feel apprehensive? Because he had to pretend for a while longer until he and Hutch were no longer undercover. And that scared him. “What about compensation? Something to help slaves move back into society — a lot of them have no real home, no job skills.”

“Good point — ” Ariadne said thoughtfully, tucking an errant hair back behind her ear. “We’re planning to establish a panel to find practical ways to support their transition.”

“Guidance, training, job counselors.” Manetti grabbed a legal paid to write things down. “Help getting the displaced back into homes and family units if possible.”

“We want to help with that,” Starsky said. Something positive out of the hell of slavery. He’d never expected to find himself on the side of the downtrodden and in a position to help out. He’d always tried to go it more or less alone — especially before Hutch came along — and suddenly felt the need to reach out and connect to others who had had it worse off than he.

“While I completely approve of making slavery illegal once more,” Hutch said, catching Starsky’s eye to include him. “What we really want is to go after the bastards who run the slave trade — we all know that sexual slavery existed before Cosgrove. With Dunfey gone, they’ll be less centralized, but they could just go back to importing the girls from south of the border.”

“A valid concern,” Ariadne agreed, the bangles on her arm jangling when she jotted a few notes. “How quickly could you get started on this?”

“You own a place on Lincoln, don’t you?” Manetti asked.

“Yep.” Hutch stood up, walking over to the window to point in the general direction of Lincoln. “That will be my headquarters since Dunfey’s is in ashes. It will have a dual purpose, both as a refuge for former slaves and to entice both the criminals and CEOs who regularly go to places like that.”

“We’re thinking of keeping the place open to process former slaves through,” Starsky said, embracing the feeling of working in tandem with Hutch again. Once more finishing each other’s sentences and knowing almost exactly what the other would do before he even did it. “We’ll act like middle men, put up money for the people they offer, and, once it’s actually illegal to sell slaves, collar the fuckers who are still selling.” He’d meant arrest but the thought of buckling a slave collar around the necks of certain mobsters had great appeal.

Hutch waggled his finger in agreement. “With some imagination, we’ll lure out the worst traffickers who both sell and use slaves. Once they’re incarcerated, we can free their slaves and reintroduce them to a better life.”

“I like the way you two think,” Manetti said, slapping Hutch on the back. “Any way we can help, just holler. I can even act as your legal counsel.”

“As much as we appreciate the help,” Starsky said, “with your name closely linked to Madame President’s, it probably ain’t the best idea for you to be seen with the likes of us.”

Manetti shrugged good-naturedly, his whole being immediately orienting toward Ariadne. She raised her cup and smiled over the edge at him.

“I’d originally wanted to invite you two into my inner circle.” Ariadne drank her tea with an expression of deep contentment. “But I can see that you’re better suited for a different path.”

“Once undercover cops, always undercover cops,” Hutch chuckled, elbowing Starsky.

“Hey, but we could be available for dinner…”

“Speaking of your inner circle,” Hutch said suddenly, “you were, of course, aware that Roschenzky was the CEC executive’s right hand.”

Ariadne nodded. Of course she was.

“Dunfey named me Chief of the Special Police,” Hutch said wryly. “There shouldn’t be any Special Police. Our motto used to be ‘To Protect and Serve,’ and should be that again. You ought to eliminate the ‘Special Police,’ and reinstitute a city police department that is particularly not special. We were at headquarters today, and the place is a shambles. Good cops are trying to get the department back on its feet. If you’re looking for leadership, you ought to consider appointing Harold Dobey as Chief of Police for Bay City. No one could corrupt that man.”

Ariadne smiled, listening to his earnest suggestion. “We need many hands to rebuild this broken city.” She nodded, setting the empty cup down carefully on the china saucer. Manetti swiftly removed it from her desk with a slight bow. “I’ll put that at the top of my list. Gary, see if we can get Captain Dobey in here for a meeting tomorrow. And let me say again how happy I am to see you both alive and well and in Bay City. I’m so happy to have you on board. Once Bay City is again a democracy, I believe other cities and states will follow our example — I believe their citizens will demand it. There’s been a great deal of rumbling from many parts of the former U.S.”

“The people are rising up in all corners of the country, recognizing that what we used to have worked far, far better than what it came to be,” Manetti said soberly. He pulled up a hassock and sat at his mistress’ knee with complete aplomb. There was no self-consciousness or embarrassment in his open submission. It was part and parcel of who he was, and he had accepted the role fully. Yet, he could also operate independently, speak his mind, and function as an integral part of society. He was definitely not some dead-eyed, humiliated slave without free will.

Someday, Starsky wanted to feel the pride that Manetti had in his submission. For the first time, he thought that might be possible.

“New Mex-Arizona and a number of other states,” Ariadne began, spreading her fingers out over a map of the continental states, formerly one nation, under the blotter on her desk, “including Minnesota, where your mother was the governor, Ken, have not only kept democratic governments, but are making alliances with neighboring states in an attempt to keep a strong front against the more egregiously corrupt states such as Nevada and Louisiana.”

“My mother resisted the break-up of the U.S. for as long as she could,” Hutch agreed, his eyes suddenly unfocused and far away.

Starsky watched him. He always got introspective thinking of his mother.

“I think Minnesota was one of the last places allied with Washington D.C. before the Federal government collapsed.” Hutch sat back on the couch, one hand touching his chest where it showed above the buttons of his shirt.

“That’s true. I was sorry to see her voted out years ago.” Ariadne frowned slightly. “I wish she were still around to give us pointers. She managed to maintain one of the best democratic governments with the help and support of Michigan and Wisconsin. That’s a goal I strive for.”

Starsky glanced at Hutch. He’d never really paid much attention to the governor of some state so far away, even if she had been Hutch’s mother. Hutch had always distanced himself from her — and his father — for reasons Starsky had never completely understood. Should he have asked? He doubted that Hutch’s alienation of his parents had anything to do with his pulling away from Starsky, but on the other hand, if Starsky had asked — might he had known about Mr. Hutchinson’s death and all the dominos that fell in the aftermath? Not to mention Hutch’s fortune.

“Right now, as you obviously know, there are twenty-one regions across the continent that used to be fifty states in one country,” Manetti said, leaning over Ariadne’s arm to poke a finger at various places on the map. That this brought him in contact with his mistress was probably only partially coincidental. She raised her eyebrows and smiled indulgently. “If we can bring more places to come under our umbrella of government — notably Northern California and Oregon-Washington,” Manetti went on, “we could restore democracy on the entire west coast. That might be the catalyst for other cities and states to join us or do the same.”

“The Abbey League has been working in other places besides Bay City,” Hutch reminded them,
” — obviously in Oregon — which was unfortunately raided, and Arizona and beyond.” The fire of revolution glinted in his blue eyes.

Starsky would have followed him anywhere when he looked like this. Was this another Hutch, or just an extension of one he’d pretended not to see in the past? Not just his partner, not his master, but a man raised in the political world. The man he’d imagined could be president one day, even if Hutch didn’t agree. “A whole new world,” Starsky said reverently. “Or maybe just the old one back.”

“What’s that the protestors on the street say?” Ariadne peered over her shoulder at the throngs of people crowding the streets. “‘We are the builders of a free tomorrow.'” She sobered, taking a deep breath that flared the front of her burgundy suit jacket. “Right now, I just want to take care of today — and that means a televised press conference in two hours.” She held up a sheath of typewritten sheets. “My speech.”

“Good luck with that,” Starsky said, standing up. It was time to go, to let her prepare. Things were going to change, and quickly, after that. At least, he hoped so.

She inclined her head with thanks, the small jewels in her ears catching the light.

“We’re going straight to Lincoln, to make plans to deal with what’s left of Dunfey’s organization,” Hutch said, catching Starsky’s eye.

“I can’t wait to see your new place,” Starsky said sarcastically, “after hearing so much about it.”

Hutch rolled his eyes, getting to his feet.

The phone on Ariadne’s desk rang and Manetti answered, talking softly to the caller before he pressed the hold button, waiting for Ariadne’s attention. She touched his hand, her face shining with an inner light when Manetti bent down to whisper in her ear. “I need to take this, Ken, David,” Ariadne apologized. “Send Gary reports regularly, along with your police captain. I hope it won’t be long before we can celebrate your success.”

“Congratulations, Madame President,” Starsky said, realizing he meant every word.

Manetti sketched a wave as the two of them left, already absorbed in whatever business the phone call had brought. He leaned toward Ariadne waiting for her to finish the call.

Starsky and Hutch went down in the elevator. When they got off, one of the lobby guards stopped them, pointing out at the front door. Starsky could see that two other guards were standing directly in front of the main portals to prevent entry — or exit. There was a low murmur of noise coming from the street.

“Word’s gotten out that something is going to happen from here in the next couple hours,” a dour man wearing a bulletproof vest said. “Press are all over the street — TV and radio. It’s a mess.”

“Thanks — we’d rather not have to wade into that.” Hutch raised an eyebrow, glancing at Starsky. It was obviously not in their best interest to be seen by the media if they wanted to maintain their undercover roles.

“I know you’re friends of Miss Underhill’s.” The guard gave them a cautious smile. “There’s another way out.”

“A back way?” Starsky asked. They’d parked a block away. As long as they could skirt the reporters, they could get to the car. Lincoln Street was across town, nowhere near Underhill-Blaylock or the path of the protesters.

“Through those doors in the rear, just past those Ficus trees,” he directed. “Takes you out to the janitorial tunnel to the rear of the building.”

“The escape route?” Hutch asked, amused.

The grouping of potted trees, which were quite large and well leafed, nearly hid the door completely.

“Yep.” The guard winked and turned his back as Starsky and Hutch trotted away.

***

Starsky had only ever gone into any of the houses on Lincoln while working — for drug or contraband raids or while looking for kidnapping victims like that VP’s wife. He couldn’t remember her name, just the shock of seeing her dyed blond hair and bizarre tattoos all over her back. What had happened to her after her husband rejected her?

He forced back those memories when Hutch parked behind a Victorian mansion painted cream and yellow. All the Lincoln Street houses were stately old homes that had fallen into disrepair until Lincoln became the place to go for sex with a slave. Now most of the mansions were show places. Hutch’s building was larger than most. It looked well kept and discrete. If a CEC/VP wanted to partake, this would be the place he’d go to.

“Hutch.” Starsky got out of the car, looking over the neat back garden. “Do you remember looking for that VP’s wife — the one who was kidnapped?”

“Louise,” Hutch said promptly, locking the car door. “Louise Zellig.”

VP Paul Zellig. The name popped into Starsky’s head. “That was the first time I’d really…thought much about slavery. It…”

“Scared you?” Hutch nodded, tucking an arm around him. Starsky could feel Hutch’s heart beating against his own when they hugged. “Me, too.” Hutch ran his hands down Starsky’s back. “I still wanted to believe the party line in those days, that rounding up prostitutes, addicts, and the homeless was giving them shelter. That only criminals were enslaved.”

“So you did something about it — joined the Abbey League, while I just…turned a blind eye.” Starsky spoke against Hutch’s warm neck.

“Starsky, you — ” Hutch moved back enough to look him in the eye, direct and proud. “You fought harder than anyone. Raised your voice, told the brass what you thought. Went after the worst perpetrators. I kept in the shadows because I was straddling the fence. I was with the Abbey League and using slaves when I couldn’t get the idea of you wearing my collar out of my skull.”

“I knew you were doin’ it,” Starsky admitted, remembering the feeling that Hutch needed more than he could give. “I just didn’t know why. I should have asked.”

“Water under the bridge,” Hutch said lightly.

“You always helped.” Starsky stared at his Hutch, seeing the tall blond with the mile-long legs as if for the first time. This was Crusader Hutch, the man who wore his heart on his sleeve and dispensed green portraits of Andrew Jackson as if they were nothing. Starsky used to wonder why Hutch didn’t run short of cash with the sheer number of twenties he handed out. Now he understood why, even while Hutch used to drive his car on retreads and lived in a second-story walk-up with poor water pressure. Inherited wealth. Millions just sitting around in some cold Minnesota bank. “You always knew what had to be done; what you wanted to do.”

“That’s not entirely true,” Hutch said softly, his heart in his eyes. “I kept getting lost, kept losing the momentum. Over and over, I’d start down some path and despair of ever coming back.” He massaged the furrow between his eyebrows, sorrowfully. “Until I realized that every step in the wrong direction was only because I was fighting my attraction — my need for you.”

The craving for Hutch’s touch, for the taste and smell of him, was so ingrained, Starsky wasn’t sure he could survive without a constant infusion. But he couldn’t cave in to it here in the parking lot behind a slave house.

“Starsky, here we have to be in character. You’re my — ”

” — Slave.” A chill ran Starsky’s back, depositing that block of ice in his belly that had been there at Dunfey’s. His arousal completely vanished. “Naked. Collared. Right.” He wasn’t wearing slave gear, not for the meetings with Dobey and Ariadne, but he suspected that Hutch had them with him. “Yeah. Give me the lay of the land — how many people are here?”

“Sweet Alice is — ” Hutch fished several things out of a bag he’d brought from the car, including Starsky’s collar and cuffs. He deposited those in Starsky’s hand, keeping a key that he used to unlock the back door.

” — The manager. I gave her authority over running the place. She’s already helped a number of slaves get to free states through the Tubman Train, as well as sheltering slaves who have been abused other places. We might have seven residents — or more? We’ll ask her.” He walked into a hall that led to the kitchen with Starsky right behind.

A pretty girl with the delicate features of a girl in an old-fashioned daguerreotype was standing by the sink. When Starsky and Hutch entered, her gold-green eyes went wide with fright. A brown leather collar banded her slender neck. A large bruise on the curve of her jaw marred her beauty, but it was healing to a yellow hue. She pulled a thin purple robe around her. “M-master Hutch!” She dipped her head so she wasn’t looking straight at either of them.

“I didn’t mean to scare you,” Hutch said softly. He held out a hand. “You must be new?”

“Alice said you were back. She showed me your picture.” She bobbed an awkward curtsey. “I came a week ago, Master. I’m called Petal.”

“Is that your real name?” Starsky asked. “I’m Dave Starsky.”

Petal peered at him from under pale lashes, her head still lowered. “Patricia…Lawson,” she whispered.

“Hello, Patricia Lawson.” Hutch took her hand and used his left index finger to tip her chin up until she could look him in the face. He smiled. “You don’t have to act like that with me.”

She nodded wordlessly, but Starsky suspected she would agree to anything. “What are you making?” he asked, trying to put her at ease. “Smells delicious.” He could sniff out chicken, garlic, and onions.

“You always want to eat,” Hutch teased, inhaling the aroma.

The pot on the stove boiled over, liquid hitting the gas jets underneath with a sizzle.

“Oh!” Patricia turned so quickly her robe flipped open, revealing her pierced nipples. “Soup. We were so busy last night, some of us never got time to eat. I wanted to have something ready…for tonight.” She turned off the flame.

“That’s nice,” Hutch said, grabbing a dishtowel to help her mop up the spill. “Starsky?” He glanced meaningfully at Starsky’s jeans and shirt. “Inside the house?”

“Damn. Forgot,” Starsky muttered. Hutch, as his master, expected him to be nude in the house, so he’d have to undress in front of Patricia. It shouldn’t embarrass him — she had nothing at all on under her lavender robe — but it did. It hadn’t taken him long to get re-accustomed to being dressed most of the time. He had a bitter flash of memory of Hutch saying sternly, When we’re alone, I want you nude. But that was before. Things were different now…weren’t they? Trying not to think about it, he wondered if Hutch would let him have a robe like Patricia’s. He’d ask when he got the chance. Focusing on that, he set the slave gear on the table, and reluctantly shucked his jeans and slipped his red Henley over his head. It was odd to think of how a few items of clothing could change his status.

Patricia stopped sponging the counter to stare at Starsky. “I didn’t realize you were…a slave.”

Starsky had to fight an overwhelming urge to cover his ringed cock. He met her eyes, accepting his status. He owed her that much.

“Starsky is my personal slave, Patricia,” Hutch said. He looked at his naked partner with what looked like a combination of regret and pure lust. Hutch finally had to look away.

“With luck, the protests will bring results,” Starsky said, to break the impasse, “and we’ll all be free.”

Patricia shrugged pessimistically, wringing her sponge out in the sink. “People say things will change.” She took out spoons and bowls. “But it’s just talk. I’ll get Alice. She’s napping.” Placing silverware and dishes on a tray, she left the kitchen.

“Who could hit a girl like that?” Starsky exploded, talking fast as Hutch picked up the collar and cuffs. He didn’t think he could tolerate the tight fit around his neck, wrists, and ankles just then.

Hutch looked at the collar, touching the S charm. “I couldn’t, but…I hit you — I might do it again.”

“Hutch!” Starsky retorted. “That’s different!” He blew out a breath with a long hiss. Was it? Starsky shook his head. “I want a robe, like hers.”

One corner of Hutch’s mouth turned up and he canted his head, blue eyes twinkling. “Lavender, Starsk?”

Trying not to smile, Starsky flipped him the bird. “Red with a white stripe.”

“I’ll see what’s in the closet.”

Taking the collar, Starsky placed it around his neck without buckling the strap. Making sure Hutch was watching him — not that Hutch had been able to look at anything else since Starsky undressed — he slowly and deliberately knelt at Hutch’s feet. Something complicated that felt like joy welled up inside him, although it was tempered by his hatred of slavery. The arousal he had felt in the parking lot didn’t return. Emancipation could not come too soon.

Hutch toyed with Starsky’s hair where the curls clustered at the nape of his neck. “You need a haircut,” he said, in a voice that wanted so many things they couldn’t do just then. He buckled the collar tightly into place. “I love you more than I can say.”

“I love you,” Starsky whispered, kneeling on the linoleum in the warm, sunny kitchen. It seemed surreal, as if he would wake up and it would be a month earlier — those first weeks in March again, he and Hutch in his kitchen having coffee before a shift. No hint of what was to come except a sense that they no longer spoke the same language.

Starsky shifted when Hutch held his wrist and fastened on the thick cuff. He felt like Hutch was tethering him to this world.

“All I ever wanted was you.” Hutch secured the second cuff. “What do you want, Starsk?”

“To belong to you.” The answer came from the depths of his soul. The plain truth. Starsky looked up into Hutch’s hooded eyes, the back of his skull catching against the edge of the collar.

Hutch moved behind him and knelt to fasten both ankle cuffs snugly.

“But it feels like we’re butting heads,” Starsky said as Hutch locked the cuffs in place, “like we’re locked in some kind of power struggle.”

“A power exchange,” Hutch said very quietly, walking in front of him again, and reaching to the base of Starsky’s head to tug at his curls once more. “Shifting back and forth.”

Starsky tried to rise, but Hutch’s light pressure on the back of his neck increased, now insistent. Someone was behind him. Hutch wanted him on his knees, subservient. Part of his role, but that wasn’t all.

“Handsome Hutch, Ah’m so glad you’re back…”

Starsky craned his neck to see a gorgeous blond dressed in a blue satin robe and heels. A sleek silver ring rested at the base of her neck, more necklace than collar.

Alice smiled at them, then ducked her head submissively, but her blue eyes were lively. “Ah’ll come back.”

“No, Alice, stay,” Hutch said with authority. Her master, too.

Starsky felt awkward on his knees even though she was also Hutch’s slave. Once she had known Starsky as a free man, a detective. Embarrassment flushed through him. He didn’t like Alice seeing him like some common slave? Where the hell did he come off feeling superior? He was a slave, just like she was. Would he blow his undercover role this soon? Hutch’s other slaves had to accept him as one of them. But he had to accept it first.

Hutch held out his arms to greet his manager. “Alice, you’ve done more with the place than I could have imagined.” He kissed her cheek, and Starsky saw momentary sadness flash across her face. She’d always had eyes for one man only, Ken Hutchinson.

“If there’s one thing Ah know how to do, it’s entertain.” She sounded like she’d just gotten off the bus from Georgia though she’d lived in Bay City for more than a decade. She returned the chaste kiss. “Ah’m glad you’re back.”

Starsky finally stood, watching their quiet interaction with the same sense of being the third wheel that he always had when Alice was around. She adored Hutch, and his fondness for her fell somewhere between an affectionate brother and an amicable ex-boyfriend. Starsky knew they’d had sex on occasion; Hutch had always dallied with both male and female hookers as well as society folk. What was more remarkable was that their on-going friendship had survived despite everything.

Alice had been enslaved early, as most working girls were; their pimps took advantage of the opportunity for higher revenue since they wouldn’t have to pay slaves anymore. Alice was a survivor. Her resiliency had allowed her to remain amazingly undamaged by years of prostitution and slavery.

“Starsky,” Alice drawled, belatedly acknowledging him, “I always knew you and Handsome Hutch were meant to be together.”

“Good to see you, too, Alice,” Starsky said gruffly.

“You all right, Starsky?” Alice asked, looking more closely. Despite her fixation with Hutch, she’d always been able to see inside Starsky. Maybe that was why he often felt slightly uncomfortable around her. She grazed her cool fingers over the faded bruises on his face and glanced at Hutch, clearly asking who was responsible without saying a word. She was an obedient slave who did not question her master. “You need a Band-Aid for your hand?”

“It was a fight,” Starsky said, glossing over the most recent bruise.

Hutch was watching him, his eyes delving far deeper than Alice ever could. “Starsk, Alice was the perfect choice to be manager. I could trust her and she knew how to…”

“Deal with the clientele?” Alice put in with a small smile.

“And it got her out of a difficult situation,” Hutch added, “with a former master.”

“To put it mildly.” She seemed to pull inward for a moment.

Starsky really didn’t want to know more. Had Hutch paid for Alice, too? “We met Patricia,” he said to change the subject. “Where’d she come from?”

“Some run away from their situations.” Alice grimaced, jerking on the belt of her robe as if she wanted to strangle someone with it. “Others…her master brought her here because he couldn’t afford to feed the two of them anymore, not with the CEC crumbling around his feet.”

“Let’s go into my office where we can sit. Any other new arrivals?” Hutch asked, leading the way into the hall. “And do you have a robe for Starsky?”

“Of course.” Alice smiled, waving her fingers at Patricia and a willowy, beautiful man in a short striped kimono hovering near the curved staircase to the upper floors. “Malcolm, Petal, everythang’s all right.”

They walked into a room Starsky could easily identify as one of Hutch’s places. It was filled with potted plants, and an Indian dreamcatcher hanging from the ceiling over the file cabinet and phone. The desk was cluttered with paperwork. To one side was a day bed, the afghan rumpled in a heap, and a cup of tea sitting on the end table. Must be where Alice had been resting.

Hutch took the desk chair, nodding when Starsky sat on the day bed.

Alice hovered momentarily as if caught in her roles as Hutch’s manager and a slave in his house before sitting gracefully next to Starsky. She bobbed up again immediately, going to a narrow closet and extracting a dark blue satin robe like the ones worn in old British movies. “Here you go, Starsky.”

Starsky put it on, annoyed at how grateful he felt to have even that much to cover his nakedness. Dammit— he couldn’t let this affect him so much. It was an act, but one that had to seem as real as possible to fool Dunfey’s colleagues. As if getting his head around it, he deliberately kept the robe open so Hutch had a full view of him.

“How’s business been?” Hutch asked, clearly having trouble pulling his eyes away from Starsky to glance over a book of accounts. “Looks like we’re making money.”

“This place’s got a good reputation,” Alice said proudly, sitting again on the day bed. “Folks know that the service is prime, and the slaves are well cared for. That bein’ said, Hutch, you remember Candy and Eli?”

“Of course.” Hutch nodded, and his eyes strayed to Starsky again. He was keeping his thoughts under wraps, despite their newfound honesty with one another.

Starsky couldn’t fathom what was on Hutch’s mind, but he suspected guilt was at the top of the list. Despite Hutch’s flair for kink, making money off slaves must gnaw at him. Starsky took some pride in the difficulty Hutch was having keeping his eyes off his body, and hoped the distraction helped alleviate his remorse. Teasingly, he spread his legs so his ringed cock and brand were more obvious.

Hutch scowled, and looked straight at Alice.

“They’re feelin’ poorly this morning after a hard evening with a member of the departin’ CEC,” Alice reported. “I gave them the day off. There are seven slaves in the house at the moment, so they’ll scarcely be missed. Petal, Jasmine, and Seely can fill in…”

“VP/CEOs were here?” Starsky interrupted sharply, forgetting to be self-conscious. “When?”

“Darlin’, there’ve been more ex-board members here since the overthrow and the riots than Mistah Cosgrove evah had at one time in his chambers.” Alice shrugged. “A few of them took their aggressions out on those kids, and there wasn’t a damn thing Ah could do about it. Ah can’t threaten a customer or make him leave. Ah told him Master Hutch would be back soon — ”

“Alice, I am so sorry,” Hutch whispered, fury in his eyes. “Is there a doctor who’ll treat slaves?”

“Ah don’t think they need one, just a day t’rest. Petal made ’em soup.” Alice sipped her tea.

Hutch frowned. “Alice, what have you heard about me?”

She pursed her lips. “Lots being said, Handsome Hutch. That you…” she stared into the cup as if reading the tea leaves, “murdered that police captain and stole his money. You enslaved Starsky. And you’ve taken ovah Dunfey’s position. I…” She put down the cup carefully.

Hutch waited silently.

Alice nodded as if making up her mind and looked straight at him. Starsky noticed Alice observed minimal slave behavior around Hutch. She trusted him. “Ah knew you had money.” She twisted a curl of blond hair around her finger. “So knew you couldn’t of stolen that old shit’s — pardon mah French — cash.”

Starsky chuckled. “Don’t hold back, Alice. He was a fucker, through and through.”

She grinned, still slightly troubled. “The rest was hard to fathom, but,” she turned to Starsky, “here you are, so it’s obviously true.”

“Yes, what you heard about Starsky is true,” Hutch said carefully. “But regarding Dunfey’s position, I want you to know that it’s a set up. We’re still police, and we’re working undercover — both of us.”

Alice sat back with a little cry, her face bright with happiness. She looked between them for a moment as if checking the veracity of Hutch’s statement before nodding. “Ah knew something was up. Ah just knew it.”

“You can’t tell anyone,” Starsky cautioned. “We need to maintain our cover until we end the operation.”

Alice mimed locking her lips and throwing away the key.

“We’re going to nail the bastards who think they can bleed a city dry and treat people like groceries for sale. Bet you never expected to be working with the police.” Starsky finally felt like he was on solid ground.

She smiled slightly, somehow coy and sweet at the same time. “Instead of for the police?”

Hutch raised a blond eyebrow with a quirk of his mouth. “We’ve always relied on your keen powers of observation and ability to assess any given situation.”

“You were always the first — ” Starsky began.

“Hooker,” she said succinctly.

” — We went to for information,” Hutch finished. “We want to shut Dunfey’s organization down.”

“You’re settin’ up shop here, using this as a front for the sting,” she said, her forehead wrinkling as if she was slotting disparate bits of information into place.

“How did you get so smart?” Starsky asked, impressed with her grasp of their job.

“Starsky, no hooker is worth her salt ‘less she can analyze what the cops are up to and deal with the fall out.” Alice snorted. “I may have earned mah money on mah back, but I still had eyes and a brain.”

“You sure do,” Hutch said dryly. “Let’s just hope the mob around here isn’t as smart as you are.”

“Most men — ” she smirked, apologetically waving a hand at them, “excluding you two, of course, can’t see the world past their dicks.”

“Thanks for the exclusion from the rest of the male population,” Starsky chuckled. “This has to look legit, though. You’re one of the few who’ll know the truth.”

“You look just like the rest of us, Starsky,” Alice said sympathetically. “And with all them rumors ’bout Master Hutch, won’t be hard to make it seem like he’s running a…” she glanced at Hutch worriedly, “criminal organization.”

“Yeah.” Hutch glowered. He took a deep breath like he was going underwater. “I’m still passionate about helping slaves to freedom, but no one else can know that, Alice. I cannot stress that enough.”

“No problem by me.” She shook her head. “Can Ah be a detective like you all?”

“Detective Sweet has a good ring to it,” Hutch said, leaning back and crossing his long legs. “But what we need is your insight. You know who comes here. We need names of anyone who might be engaged in illegal activities, especially with slaves.” Hutch glanced around for pencil and paper, patting the desk like he was blind.

Starsky hid a grin. The man could never find a writing utensil. Starsky stood to open a few drawers in the desk. There was a jumble of pens and pencils in the top, but he had to look through three more to find paper.

Hutch accepted the necessary equipment with a distracted smile.

“Last night there were six. Of those, two men and a woman, stood out,” Alice said. “One of the men, Harold Swenson, is a repeater. Likes to smack around the small and the weak. Ah’ve known his kind all mah life. The other man was a VP/CEO Ah’d seen on the news and in the paper, but he signed in as,” she curled her lip, “the Marquis de Sade. He took out all his aggression on poor Eli. The boy looks bad.”

“I won’t put up with that,” Hutch said, taking notes. “In Phoenix, we talked to Dunfey’s cohorts with ties to Southern California. They’re just the kind who’ll use the turmoil in Bay City to make a fast buck on their slaves.”

“Especially if slavery is abolished,” Starsky said confidently.

“You’re looking through rose colored glasses, darlin’,” Alice said, her blue eyes sad. “Ah mean, it’s called the oldest profession in the world for a reason.” Alice took the paper from Hutch and jotted down a few more names.

“Tell me more about these men.” Hutch deliberately consulted his list. “The Marquis and Swenson. They came last night? How often has Swenson come previously?”

“Swenson’s jist small fry, Hutch,” Alice said. “A nasty bottom feeder, but he’s got cash.”

“But if the Marquis looked familiar, he must be a more important VP, right?” Starsky said.

“Exactly.” Hutch glanced at the clock.

Starsky checked the time, too. It was a quarter to three.

“Good, ’cause the way he was poking his nose ’round, Ah was worried he was the Special Police.” Alice drank the last of her tea. “I’ll ask the others, see what more names we can come up with.”

“We’ll send the list to Dobey so he can run makes on their assets, find out where they’ve been liquidating their stuff,” Hutch mused.

“You said a woman came by?” Starsky asked. “Was she the only one?”

“Last night.” Alice nodded.

Starsky plucked the paper from Hutch, glancing over the names. One stood out — a woman named Harry.His belly knotted and he could feel a phantom hand running over his naked skin while he lay trapped on the welcoming frame. He pointed her name out to Alice. “Was she older? Gray hair? Elegant but like a coiled viper?”

“Yes.” Alice pulled her robe closer. “Harry. She had a big slave with her, Anton. He liked to watch.”

Sweat broke out down Starsky’s spine. Fuck, he wished her plane had gone down in the desert. He looked at Hutch, who picked up on his change of mood.

“Harriet Roget?” Hutch said as if he had tasted something foul. “She was here? Dammit. She found us before we found her.”

“She’s got connections.” Starsky was cold again, as if he’d walked into a meat locker. He crossed his arms to hold in a little warmth. “We gotta go after her, and anyone working with her.”

“Shouldn’t be too hard to trace her,” Hutch mused. “We’ve got power on our side, too.”

“Alice, did she ask you anything?” Starsky demanded, pacing the length of the room, anything to generate heat and burn off some of his adrenaline-fed restlessness. Just the idea that the bitch, Roget, had been here scared him. He had to find a way to use that fear to battle her.

“Said she could do a whole lot better if she were in charge.” Alice frowned, tucking in her feet so that she didn’t trip him. “And she wanted to know when Hutch would be here — ‘to have a meeting.’ Who is this woman?”

“She was Dunfey’s right arm,” Hutch said, “and owns several slave-training businesses, including Luna.”

“Where they sent me — ” Starsky couldn’t keep the anger out of his voice. “She’s the brass ring. The major connection to Dunfey’s inner circle. We grab her and the rest of ’em will have limited markets to buy or sell slaves.”

“Mah daddy once bought us tickets on the merry-go-round,” Alice said with a fierce sadness. “He held me up and I caught hold of that brass ring and never wanted to let go. I took it home with me, so proud, to show mah mama. ‘Cept, she wasn’t there. She’d run away while we was gone. After that, it was just me and daddy. And he taught me what he liked to do to little girls that day, the bastard.” She nodded. “Never thought the brass ring was good luck after that. So let’s grab this Harriet, and then put one through her tits. See how she likes it.”

“I like how you think, Alice,” Starsky said.

“Before getting out the piercing needle, we need to let Dobey know she was here,” Hutch said decisively. He shook his head. “There’s so much to do, but first —  Please call the rest of the…staff for a meeting, Alice. I want everyone to see the press conference that’s on at three.”

Alice nodded, getting up. She hurried out, her blue mules click-clacking on the hardwood floor.

Hutch flipped a page in the account book with a grimace. “God, Starsk, I only bought this place to have privacy for Abbey League meetings, and somehow, it’s made a profit. With blood money.” He held up both hands, closing his eyes as if to discount the numbers on the page. “I don’t want this. I don’t want any part of this.”

“Then do what we talked about before,” Starsky said softly, tucking Harriet-fucking-Roget away for when he would have to deal with her. He put one hand on Hutch’s shoulder, stroking his tense muscles. “Do some good with it.” Brushing his knuckles against Hutch’s silky hair, Starsky knelt, the robe puddling around his ankles. He couldn’t have said why or what motivated him, but it felt right. He remembered watching Manetti submitting to Ariadne — there was a strength and pride in being true to oneself and still a man. He chose to bow to Hutch.

Hutch dredged up a smile, but his self-disgust was still evident. “You don’t have to do that…”

“I know I don’t have to,” Starsky whispered. “I want to. I do it for us when we’re alone, so it’s special. Then it doesn’t mean anything, doesn’t touch me inside when I’m doing it in front of all those other yahoos.”

“Thank you.” Hutch placed both thumbs on Starsky’s cheekbones, his fingers covering Starsky’s ears, and leaned down to kiss him. “Thank you for loving me, for forgiving me, and for being my anchor and support. I could not do this without you.”

Warmed through, Starsky surged in to kiss Hutch again and realized with that warning prickle on the back of his neck that there were people behind him.

Hutch peered over Starsky’s head and broke the embrace, becoming Master Hutch between one breath and the next. “Davey,” he said firmly, “stay by my side.”

Starsky breathed out, accepting his role as Hutch’s slave.

“Come in, come in,” Hutch encouraged them. “I want to meet all of you.”

The room was too small for one master, seven slaves, Alice, and Starsky. When Hutch noticed how cramped it was, he frowned. “Starsk, wheel the TV into the main front room while I greet everyone?”

Grateful to escape and have something to do, Starsky got to his feet and maneuvered between bodies over to the TV. A couple of men and women smiled warily at him, curious about their master’s newest and obviously most prized slave. Starsky nodded at each one, pushing the television out.

He could hear the roll call as he walked out into the hallway.

“Dinah, sir,” a woman said politely.

“Seely,” a man said.

Keeping a tally in his head, Starsky heard Malcolm, the young man he’d seen in the front hall, and Patricia. He could just make out the soft voice of a different woman — Candy or Jasmine? — as he positioned the TV. Chairs, sofas, and loungers were spaced around the set. A small bar sat at one end of the room and a tiny desk with the sign, Please pay before you go upstairs with your slave, written in calligraphy on the wall. His belly tightened as he walked back to Hutch’s office.

Starsky stood in the doorway, watching the nearly-nude slaves subjugate themselves before Master Hutch, memories of kneeling on the hard flagstones at Dunfey’s coming back in a rush. While he had accepted and internalized his undercover persona, he’d once again be reduced to a voiceless, naked slave, and had to remember to act submissive whenever anyone entered the building.

“I’ve taken over Jack Dunfey’s territory,” Hutch said. “But I’m not cruel and won’t allow cruelty in my house.”

The people kneeling on the floor, of course, remained silent. Alice knelt also, and Starsky could see the way her lashes brushed her cheeks that she avoided looking at Hutch when he spoke, just as the other slaves did.

“A press conference will be on TV that will be important for everyone in Bay City, citizens and slaves,” Hutch said carefully, his expression hidden under a smooth mask. “Make yourselves comfortable while we’re watching. Sit wherever you’d like. When there are no customers in the house, I don’t require strict protocol.”

Only Starsky could see below the surface to Hutch’s discomfort. It was one thing to fulfill his dream of having Starsky collared and cuffed, and another to realize that he really owned all these slaves. Had some of them come with the house, and Hutch deluded himself that he was not their owner, or had most of them arrived after he left?

“The TV’s in the front room, Master,” Starsky reported and stepped aside to let the others pass. He identified Patricia, Malcolm, and what had to be Eli, and Candy, both looking wan. Eli walked gingerly.

Starsky recognized the look of someone with groin swelling. Since Hutch had known Eli previously, he couldn’t have been recently pierced, which meant that Eli’s genitals had been roughly handling last night. Starsky cringed, wondering what his own future would be like. Would he have to give blow jobs to the clientele or actually let them abuse him? He had to stop speculating. This wasn’t Dunfey’s. Hutch was in charge here.

Alice gave him a bright, sweet smile as she walked by.

“Why do I feel like we’re in some kinky porno movie and the script isn’t finished yet?” Hutch whispered, sliding one arm around Starsky’s waist and kissing him behind the ear.

“Does that make me the horny plumber or pizza delivery guy?” Starsky asked, trying to sound lighthearted.

Hutch’s smile was real, wrinkling the corners of his eyes. “I always said you were far better looking than those porn actors.”

Alice turned on the TV just as Manetti strode to a podium on the screen. He smoothed his tie and introduced himself to a crowd of reporters while the slaves found places to sit in the front room. Hutch stood beside one of the couches, his arms crossed, eyes once again hooded. Starsky stood beside his partner, then realized no one was kneeling or sitting on the ground. Before slavery, he wouldn’t have noticed whether a group of people chose to sit on chairs or the rug. Now, seeing Eli, Candy, and a pretty Asian girl together on the couch seemed almost subversive.

Posing for pictures, Manetti was calm, in control of questions from the media, and confident. After a few remarks, he introduced Ariadne and stepped aside to let her take the stand.

She had changed since that morning, now wearing a feminine yet business-formal dark blue dress with a small jacket and a single strand of pearls. Her red hair was coiled on the back of her head. She looked almost regal.

“Good afternoon. As you know, I was former President Cosgrove’s press secretary. In that position, I often had to speak for him. However, even as I held that position, and had to work to advance the CEC’s agenda, behind the scenes, I was on the Executive Board of the Abbey League, a pro-democracy organization working for years in secret to end the reign of the corrupt, abusive CEC. My position as Cosgrove’s confidante and spokeswoman give me access to the inner workings of the CEC, and to information critical for the Abbey League to move our agenda forward. The Abbey League was orchestrating plans for a peaceful political coup when A New Day, a group known to be allied with the criminal element, killed President Cosgrove and forced us into a confrontation. We all know the result: the torture death of an honest politician, a man who worked tirelessly for democracy, Peter Whitelaw. His murder spurred our population to join us in a cry for freedom as old as mankind. Let our people go. All of you here have been covering this confrontation as it has unfolded in the streets of our city.”

She paused, giving herself a moment to confer with her notes, and for the reporters to catch up. “I’m here today because, as you already know, the CEC has collapsed. Their building has been destroyed, their executives deposed, their staff scattered to the winds, their assets frozen. While their militia has been trying to restore order in the streets, they have been without leadership, a ship without a rudder. The Special Police force the CEC instituted has also collapsed. Their leaders, who routinely abused their power, fled, and their rank and file is decimated. We have negotiated terms with both the militia and the police, and I’m pleased to tell you our negotiations have been successful. We have oaths of loyalty from both the militia leaders and the remaining staff at the police department.”

She waited again, putting her notes on the podium as if she knew this part by heart. She faced the cameras, charismatic and vibrant, smiling. “The Abbey League has accomplished its goals. With the help of the citizens’ group, the Builders of a Free Tomorrow, we can confidently say we are in control of the city. Our first act will be to reinstitute the Constitution of the former United States. Also, as of today, the Abbey League has appointed me as the interim President of Bay City and Southern California, until we can stabilize our democratic government, enforce our Constitution, and have free and honest elections,” Ariadne said in a clear, no nonsense, voice.

Waiting until the clamor of questions from the reporters and the frantic flashing of camera bulbs died down, she continued. “The Abbey League does not wish to continue the martial law that has been imposed on this citystate in the last few days. Our discussions with leaders from the Builders of a Free Tomorrow have been positive, and representatives of that group will be a part of our new government. The old militia will, like the former U.S. National Guard, help restore order in a peaceful manner, and also help rebuild our damaged city. The police department will be held to rigorous standards of fairness, honesty, and oversight and will once again bear the motto, To Protect and Serve. Together, the Abbey League and Builders of a Free Tomorrow will work to reinstate a democratic, fair, and honest government of the people, by the people, and for the people, giving a voice to all citizens.”

There wasn’t a sound in the room. Starsky glanced around, but they were all glued to the screen, watching Ariadne establish the new government. He imagined everyone in the city wondering, what does this mean for me?

“I’d like to reiterate this most important point — we are reinstating the original Constitution of the former United States,” Ariadne said, looking at the camera as if speaking directly to each viewer. She held up a copy of the historic document, the elegant script of “We the People,” visible. “And I’d like to urge other cities, states, and territories to consider following our lead before your citizens force you to. The CEC fractured what was once a great nation into entities hostile and suspicious of one another. It’s time to end our estrangement and heal ourselves.” She smacked the podium with her palm, her gold ring winking in the overhead lights. “The Constitution written by Thomas Jefferson was amended many times, and, no doubt, will be again, through the democratic process. Those amendments ensured that the rights and privileges of our citizens would be upheld: including freedom of speech, the right to assembly, and, as stipulated in the Thirteenth Amendment, the basic right of all citizens to be free.”

Ariadne paused dramatically, as if wanting to be sure everyone was paying close attention. She raised her voice, her oration as powerful as a revival evangelist. “No one can be free when others are forcibly oppressed! Cosgrove and the CEC spread a malignant stain across our city that sullied every citizen. It ends now. Our new democratic government will fully enforce the Thirteenth Amendment of the Constitution. As of today, slavery in Southern California is hereby illegal!”

Immediately, a cacophony of sound, both televised and in Lincoln House, erupted. Someone whooped in glee and the rest followed suit. Alice jumped up, grabbing Seely in a bear hug. He grabbed the woman next to him, dancing her around the floor.

Starsky grinned at an equally jubilant Hutch, pounding him on the back. Ariadne made it public! It was real! He tried to grasp what that actually meant to him, but it was too fresh. His emotions were all over the map. One thing he knew for certain, he would never take his freedom for granted ever again.

“We’re free!” Malcolm shouted, drumming his heels on the carpet.

“I can’t believe it!” Patricia gasped, hugging Jasmine. “Master — I mean, Mister Hutchinson…”

“Sssh, ssh!” Dinah called out, waving her hand to get their attention. “I want to hear the rest.”

The ring through the end of Starsky’s cock seemed heavier than ever now. Would it be possible to have it removed? And when? Not before our job is done…

“Settle down!” Hutch called out, smiling. “There’s more.”

Eli clenched his fists, standing apart while Malcolm and the others laughed. Most of the group stopped celebrating long enough to listen to the rest of the speech, but the atmosphere was charged with happiness.

“I’ll accept questions after I finish my statements,” Ariadne was saying to the camera. “I want it clear that we have not established a dictatorship, forcing our will on the people, or replaced the CEC with simply another despot-like group. With power comes accountability. We will rectify every injustice, overturn every cruel law, prosecute every criminal action the previous administration perpetrated. And we will do so publicly, not behind closed doors. The new democratic government intends to establish open forums for communication with our citizens, repair the damage that has scarred our city, restore order, and encourage free enterprise as we institute freedom for all our people. Our first order of business will be to establish a realistic timeline for fair elections in the near future.”

Even the reporters cheered at this. Their applause went on so long, Manetti had to step up to motion the media to silence. “Comments later, folks. Let Ms. Underhill finish.”

“Our citizens will be the final judges of whether their new leaders are governing well,” Ariadne concluded. “In the coming days, we will release information on how former slaves can transition back to citizenship and reclaim their names and lives. We will also establish when many other new — ” she chuckled, sounding as excited as everyone else, “or rather, old laws will be back on the books. We’ll work hard to help our citizens, who have suffered so much, to move gracefully into our democratic future together. Thank you. And now I’ll take those questions…”

The group sitting around the TV didn’t wait for the question and answers; they all turned to Hutch.

“What now?” Alice voiced what the rest of them were thinking. “Hutch — what do we do? We’re free, but…” She seemed so overcome, she didn’t appear to be able to think straight.

“I’m blowing this joint now!” Eli said belligerently, grimacing when he moved.

“But where will we go?” Candy asked plaintively, tears filling her eyes.

Was she crying for joy, or fear? Starsky wondered. He could imagine a little of both.

“If anyone wants to leave, you are free to do so,” Hutch said loudly, striding in front of the group and turning off the TV. “Things in the city are still likely be chaotic until the new President and her staff have time to smooth out the transition.” He glanced around, waiting for everyone to quiet down. “If you want to leave town — to find your way home, or travel to an area where slavery was never legal, I understand and am willing to help you.”

“What do you know about it?” Eli shouted angrily.

“Listen to Mast — I mean, Mr. Hutchinson!” Seely said, pushing shaggy brown hair off his forehead.

“It’s hard out there, but you have options now,” Hutch said softly, looking at Eli compassionately. “I’ll still need a group of experienced sex workers who want to stay and work and earn a good wage.” There was another spate of comments. Hutch held up a hand. “I’ll give real paychecks, days off, medical attention — whatever you need.”

“Do we have to decide now?” Dinah asked, knotting her fingers in her lap. She shrugged her shoulders, the pink striped robe barely covering her ample breasts. Realizing this with a twist of her mouth, she tugged the opening closed. “I have no home. I used to be a secretary in the CEC until a VP decided he liked what he saw.”

“I know this is overwhelming,” Hutch said with a nod. “Please feel free to come to me with your needs and concerns. I want to help. Right now, first thing, you’ll all earn five dollars an hour for the time you spend with a client, and we’ll establish a base salary just for staying on the…staff.”

Alice inhaled sharply as if expectant but not entirely hopeful. Life had given her too many backhands for that.

“Everyone lives under my roof for free,” Hutch said. “I’ll help you get IDs, citizenship papers, whatever you need. But I also need employees. Alice may have told you I’ve taken over Jack Dunfey’s territory, and in spite of the changes in the city, I’m determined to be successful in that role — do you all understand?”

Starsky wasn’t sure whether Hutch was scaring him to death or turning him on.

“I’m getting out while I can,” Eli sneered, racking a hand through his tangled black curls. “I don’t need no minimum wage or a fucking hand out for doing what a slave does.”

“Eli!” Jasmine whispered, aghast, almond-shaped eyes wide.

“No one’s stopping you, Eli,” Starsky said, stepping in front of him. “But Hutch can protect you — ”

“You think you’re some kind of hotshot ’cause you both used to be cops?” Eli stalked away, stopping at the foot of the stairs to stab a finger in Hutch’s direction. “I remember you sniffing around the slave houses. You aren’t any different than the fucker who jerks me around nightly. I can do for myself.” He bounded up the stairs.

“Anyone else?” Hutch exhaled slowly.

“Ah think we all need time,” Alice said, looking at the other six, “to think on it.”

“Good idea,” Seely said quietly, glancing at Malcolm. He inclined his head and the group left together.

“Miss Sweet,” Hutch said, giving her a hug. “You have rights once again.”

Alice’s smile was a thing of joy and wonder. She touched the curve of her breasts, the rings in her nipples visible through the thin silk robe. “Ah haven’t been called Miss Sweet in years…”

Starsky hugged her, too. “Sweet becomes you, either before or after Alice.” The first time he’d had to fill out an arrest report on her, he’d been amused that her street name was her real name in reverse.

“Thank you!” She pressed trembling fingers against her mouth, and even though she was still smiling broadly, there were tears in her eyes. “Thank you, Hutch.”

“Don’t thank me, thank the Abbey League and Ariadne Underhill. It’s less than you deserve, dear lady.” Hutch kissed the back of her hand like a gallant knight. “Whatever you need to get started.”

“Startin’ over at my age?” Alice dabbed the tears away, blinking furiously. She struggled to regain her composure and succeeded admirably by lifting her chin and pushing a sweep of long, fair hair back over her shoulder. “This place is more than just a job for me…” She shrugged. “First time Ah’ve felt like Ah had a home in a long time. I’m not planning on goin’ anywhere.”

“When all this is over,” Hutch said, glancing at Starsky with renewed spirit, “we’ll turn the whole place into a non-profit organization, with you as the manager, to aid those in need.”

***

Hutch’s reign as Dunfey’s legitimate heir took little effort; the news had preceded them from Arizona. He certainly looked the part, a wealthy man living with a stable of slaves. By the next morning, underworld figures used to Dunfey’s protection and management were already contacting Hutch, as were some former employees of the defunct and disgraced CEC. With slavery abolished, they were scrambling to sell off their slaves out of state so they might still make a profit before they could be stopped.

With the tumultuous, celebratory atmosphere created by Ariadne’s announcements, Bay City was suddenly like Mardi Gras. Downtown businesses that had boarded up their windows during the fighting flung open their doors. Slaves bold enough to grab freedom and run were streaming into the streets, leaving their owners behind. The media could barely keep up with press releases from President Underhill’s offices.

Starsky drove to his place to get clothes for him and Hutch since they were going to stay at Lincoln House. Sitting behind the wheel, he enjoyed the mid-spring weather, air pouring over the windshield buffeting his hair on the freeway. Since he’d never been visible as a slave in BC, he didn’t feel the stigma of being ringed as he had in Phoenix.

He was surprised to find the potholes and cracks in his street had been filled in enough to make it passable. When he drove up to his home, the neighborhood was much livelier than it had been the morning before. Power had finally been restored and people were repairing damage to their homes. Old Mrs. Grayson gave Starsky a friendly wave when he pulled into his driveway. She’d done that every day he’d lived in Laurel Canyon.

“Hi, Mrs. Grayson!” Starsky called, running up his front steps. She’d probably never know that he was a different man than he’d been the last time she’d seen him.

He undressed quickly, barely glancing at himself in the bathroom mirror. Hutch had removed the collar and cuffs for his trip through the city, and he felt almost insubstantial. The giddy euphoria around town was infectious.

After changing into fresh jeans and a blue shirt with white trim, Starsky stuffed clothes for both of them into a bag, happy to be allowed to cover the marks of his previous status. Even though Hutch and the citystate considered him free, he would have the brand and the hole in his cock forever. He couldn’t think past the present — they had to deal with Dunfey’s organization quickly before the slave trade, smuggling, and other crimes fled for safer places, with the perpetrators successfully hiding underground.

The slave houses on Lincoln would revert to prostitution again, but clients would still expect a kneeling, naked “slave” to serve them. They’d gotten used to treating other humans like objects, and liked it. Starsky hoped that the civilian population would be able to see past the trappings of slavery — the piercings and tattoos — and bring those people back into their community once more.

His packing done, he left the house and went shopping. He had his own money and could go where he wanted and buy whatever was offered. A far cry from what he’d imagined his world would be like not so long ago.

After picking up food and office supplies, on impulse, Starsky parked about a mile from Lincoln. Mersey Street had once done a lively business in slave paraphernalia. Now their stock was no longer necessary except as kinky sex gear — a limited market. One store had leather restraints of all types, another had metal collars, cuffs, and chains marked down drastically. Starsky shuddered, passing items on the sidewalk to entice shoppers. There was a tiny iron-barred kennel that would have barely fit a large dog advertised as a convenient method for transporting a recalcitrant slave. A sign declared everything half price. He hoped the store didn’t make a cent.

A sign on the door of a jewelry store declared Clearance Sale on Slave Jewelry. Starsky lingered despite his initial aversion, peering in the window. Trays of silver and gold Prince Albert rings in different sizes glimmered, some set with jewels.

Until yesterday, Starsky never thought of the cock ring as jewelry that could be beautiful. He desperately wanted to feel like the piercing was something he and Hutch had done together, like Manetti and Ariadne. Just thinking of the trauma of his piercing sent an echo of pain through him. While he really wanted to rid himself of this thing he had no choice in wearing, he also ached to glorify it as something precious between him and Hutch.

Maybe if he could remove the ugly piece of steel threaded through his cock and replace it with something that wasn’t forced on him, something he chose, something…beautiful… He focused on a silver ring set with one clear blue sapphire. Telling himself to walk away, Starsky entered the store, his belly suddenly in knots.

What in the hell am I thinking? He was going to have that damned ring removed as soon as possible, right? Still, he gazed down at the glass case inside shop defiantly. Various hoops of silver, platinum, and gold winked at him, many studded with gems. But the one in the window with the bright blue stone the color of Hutch’s eyes kept pulling him back.

“Can I help you?” A small man with almond-shaped eyes, a narrow nose, and black hair gazed at Starsky. “I am Martin Yee, the owner. Before you consider purchasing jewelry from this display,” he began rapidly, as if reciting from a prepared statement, “I must inform you that it is illegal to use these to pierce a slave — I mean, any person — against their will for the purposes of enslavement or indentured servitude.”

“Don’t worry.” Starsky waved a hand, dismissing Yee’s concerns. “How much does that one cost?” He pointed to the sapphire-studded ring, telling himself he was crazy to even ask. He didn’t have that kind of money. He still had to pay his back rent, get his house repaired, buy a car…

“Seventy-five percent off,” Mr. Yee said mournfully, mentioning a sum that was amazingly reasonable.

“Can you hold that one for me until tomorrow?” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop himself. What was he going to do with a sapphire-studded Prince Albert ring?

“Certainly! Your name please?” Yee said, smiling. Probably the only sale he’d had all day.

Starsky supplied his name and Laurel Canyon address, mentally telling himself to walk out of the store and never return. “I’ll be back tomorrow with cash,” he promised, watching Mr. Yee take the ring out of the display.

The jewel caught the light, refracting millions of shades of blue from violet to the palest summer sky — the color of Hutch’s eyes when he was relaxed and slaked after orgasm. Whether or not he ever showed the ring to Hutch, its beauty was something Starsky wanted desperately to hold onto.

Starsky nosed the convertible behind the Lincoln house and collected his purchases, still ruminating on the sapphire. Would he actually go back once he got paid? A small throb in his belly both galvanized and terrified him. If he kept the ring in his cock to serve Hutch as his private slave, was that giving Hutch what he wanted without considering Starsky’s needs? Was serving Hutch still tangled in his mind with his life as a teenaged hooker? Did he feel his adult accomplishments, now that he was a free man, would be compromised?

He loved Hutch. That was a given.

He loved kneeling before Hutch, taking and giving sexual pleasure. All true.

He was discovering an unrealized wealth of arousal in bondage with Hutch — and wanted more of it, but on his own terms. Not forced. Not subjugated. Free to chose when and where he’d be submissive.

Was that being true to himself? Or appeasing Hutch?

And then there was the subject of pain. Starsky felt like he was dancing a fine line between wanting the kinky high that pain could provide and being scared of what would happen if it got out of hand.

He wanted to be with Hutch. He wanted to kneel before Hutch.

Did he truly want the jeweled ring? Could he separate that from the rest? Or did it come, part and parcel with choosing submission?

His brain reeling from overload, Starsky dumped his purchases in the kitchen and peered into the front room. The house seemed deserted.

Hutch came down the stairs, ticking things off on a legal pad as he walked. Putting his left foot out into space, Hutch scribbled something on his yellow pad and missed the step.

Starsky launched himself, catching Hutch before he fell. “Hey! Watch where you put those big feet.”

“Thanks.” Hutch laughed. “Got too caught up in chores. The upkeep on this place is endless!”

“Isn’t that Alice’s job? Where is everyone?” Starsky brushed lint off Hutch’s shirt just to touch him.

“Bay City Court House,” Hutch answered, tucking his legal pad under his arm to run the back of his knuckles down Starsky’s cheek. “I’ll bet the place is swamped with applicants for official IDs. Alice and the gang wanted to be first in line when they opened.”

Starsky rocked forward enough to kiss Hutch on the lips, relishing the languid abandon. No one was here to see them or judge. “According to DJ Tommyhawk, it’s anyone’s guess when the IDs will be ready.”

“There must be mountains of paperwork to process.” Hutch kissed him again, brushing back Starsky’s hair to nuzzle his ear and run his fingers delicately over the skin of Starsky’s neck.

“Tickles,” Starsky murmured, hunching his neck. It also reminded him of what wasn’t there. “Hutch, We never got to talk about — ”

A knock at the front door cut him off. Hutch raised his eyebrows, pretending a sternness he obviously didn’t feel. “Answer the door. Around here, that would be expected of you,” he said sotto-voce in case the person on the porch could hear. “Especially if it’s one of Dunfey’s cronies. No matter what Ariadne says — ”

” — What happens on Lincoln Street isn’t going to change so quickly.” Starsky turned on his heel, hating this part of his role, and swung open the door.

A delivery boy with his hair shaved into a narrow band over the crown of his head stood on the front step holding a large flat box. “Deliver for a David Starsky. Sign here?” He thrust a clipboard at Starsky.

Starsky felt immense pleasure scrawling his full name at the bottom of the invoice. He’d been deprived of that right for weeks, and the status of being a citizen with full protection under the law was not something he would ever take for granted again. He inhaled the aroma of a hot pizza. “Smells great!”

“I been smelling it all the way over,” the boy confessed, sniffing with appreciation. “My truck’s not very big.”

“Oh, man,” Starsky murmured approvingly. Taped to the top of the cardboard box was a lumpy envelope. Pulling it off, he found his detective’s badge, a hefty pay check, his driver’s license, and a scrawled note from Minnie. He tucked everything into his back pocket, feeling more and more like his old self. For the first time in a while, he didn’t even notice the weight of the cock ring.

Folding back the lid of the box, he stared at the contents. Salami and pepperoni beckoned him to sample their succulent flavors. Black and green olives glistened like jewels among green peppers and tomato sauce. The pizza was thick with creamy melted mozzarella and provolone. A loaf of crusty garlic Italian bread came with it. “This is heaven.”

Setting the box on a small table in the foyer, Starsky reached for some bread for a quick bite. “Help yourself to a slice,” he invited the delivery boy. He had a skinny, hungry look that reminded Starsky of his teenage years.

“Thanks!” The boy dipped into the box for a small piece.

Starsky laughed, savoring the garlic bread. “Hutch! You got some cash for a tip?”

Hutch came out of the office and gave a fiver to the grinning kid.

“Thanks!” the boy called as he ambled back to his truck, munching.

“Who’s that from?” Hutch asked.

Starsky carried the pizza into the kitchen and set it on the table. He pulled the note that had been taped to the box out of his pocket and handed it to Hutch. “Must be Dobey and Minnie’s ways of keeping in touch.”

Hutch glanced over the note with a nod. “He wants to minimize calls and visits. Linda Baylor will be coming in tonight as a staff member.”

“Haven’t seen her in a long time.” Starsky realized she’d be seeing him as a collared slave. He refused to let that get him down. Hell, he’d seen her tarted up as a slave for sale on more than one vice operation. She had the pierced nipples to prove it — something he’d never allowed himself to dwell on previously. Were they fake nipple rings or had she pierced them in the past when it hadn’t signified a lowly status? “Is she our main contact?”

“Yeah. I spoke to Dobey this morning. He wants to minimize how many people know about it.”

“Good.” Starsky took a warm slice of pizza and held it up to Hutch’s lips.

Hutch sank his teeth into it, flicking his tongue to catch Starsky’s fingertip. He made an appreciative sound.

Starsky popped the same finger in his mouth, grinning when Hutch’s pupils dilated with obvious longing. He took his time with an olive, holding it between his teeth like a magician before sucking it in with a succulent pop.

Hutch groaned, his lust evident. “We’ve got too much to do! I’ve had a call from a slave dealer who wants to get rid of his ‘merchandise’.” He spat the last word with obvious distaste. “I was happy to oblige.”

“You set up a meet?”

“Tomorrow afternoon. Eight ‘packages,’ payable on delivery. But, this guy is small potatoes next to Harriet. Minnie did some digging. Roget fronts half the slave houses and training facilities in Nevada, and wants to move what’s left of the trade there since Nevada is still a slave state.”

Starsky peered into the fridge and located half a dozen bottles of imported beer. Taking two would leave barely enough to wet the whistle of any well-heeled patrons.

Hutch plucked a bottle from Starsky’s fingers.

“We’ll need to get more, and a better label than this one.” Starsky flipped off the cap and took a long swallow. “Tastes like watery piss.”

“You have such a way with words, Lord Byron.” Hutch drank half his bottle in one go, undoubtedly thirsty after his morning with scheduling and accounting books. “More stuff to buy to keep the place going.”

“Didn’t your father ever tell you that you have to spend money to make money?” Starsky watched Hutch out of the corner of his eye while picking up a piece of pizza with pepperoni.

Hutch had a million different things going on in his head, but he wasn’t brooding or depressed. Seemed like the two of them had passed the same black mood back and forth for a while, but both had loosened up with every day back in Bay City. Especially now that they had a higher purpose.

“My old man could pinch a nickel until it squealed like a pig.” Hutch finished the beer and tossed the bottle into a recycle bin. “Which is undoubtedly why he accrued such a fortune.”

Starsky chose another piece. Looking at everything on the pizza, he wondered out loud, “If you eat pasta and antipasto, do they cancel each other out?”

Hutch guffawed, laughing too much, over-reacting to the joke, but Starsky took it as a good sign.

“I’ll be here all week.” Starsky took a mocking bow. “Ba-bum-bump.” He added the rim shot with a little flourish. “Haven’t seen you laugh like that in a while, babe.”

“When was the last time you told a joke?” Hutch smiled, joy brightening his eyes to a clear, summer blue. The color of the sapphire at the jewelry store.

“Touché.” The ring in his cock had stifled most of his simple pleasures, like teasing his partner. He wondered if getting his badge back neutralized its effect like a magic talisman.

Hutch caught hold of his belt buckle, towing Starsky to him until they were face-to-face and hip-to-hip. “I’d love to tie you to my bed and hand-feed you salami until your eyes bulge out…”

“Mmm. Would that be your salami, Master?” Starsky leered and started to take a drink of his beer, but Hutch beat him to it, closing his mouth over the lip of the bottle with a naughty gleam, and nearly drained it.

“But first I want to lure Ms. Roget here and strip away every vestige of her power,” Hutch continued after swallowing, as if he hadn’t just given the bottle a blow job.

Starsky’s groin tingled like he’d stuck one toe in an electrical socket.

“She wanted us to know she was here,” Hutch continued. “Throwing down the gauntlet.”

“Daring us,” Starsky said as casually as possible, which was supremely difficult, considering they were discussing a woman he loathed, and Hutch was tonguing the last drop of beer off his bottom lip. Starsky took a drink, placing his mouth where Hutch’s had just been. Suddenly, all he really wanted to do was throw the big blond on the kitchen table and fuck his brains out with the zesty aroma of an antipasto pizza in the air. Italian salami had always been a turn-on.

“Exactly.” Hutch absconded with the beer bottle, guzzling the contents.

“Hey!” Starsky protested, but Hutch just looked at him, unrepentant.

“I asked Minnie to canvas the nicest hotels, see if she could find out where Harriet is staying. Then we’ll reel her in.”

“You tell her to send the antipasto pizza, too?” Starsky winked.

“That was all her idea.” Hutch bumped his hip against Starsky’s. “Should I be worried that she knows exactly what gets you hot?”

“Looks like it gets you hot, too,” Starsky said. “The question at hand is what gets Harriet Roget hot?”

“A gilt edged card with crossed collar and cuffs?” Hutch suggested.

“A whadda you call it…open house, showing off the place to potential clients?” Starsky put in, anxious to get the woman into their territory — and arrest her. He’d be very happy to include Anton in with the deal.

“That’s more what I had in mind,” Hutch mused, nodding thoughtfully. “With certain,” he flattened his hand against Starsky’s belly, “specimens that she’d be drawn to available front and center.”

“Why do I get the feeling the best way to trap her is to dangle me in front of her like a worm squirming on a hook?” Starsky complained.

The long, slow track of Hutch’s eyes down Starsky’s body was as close to telekinetic sex as Starsky had ever experienced. “Apt analogy,” Hutch said, lowering his eyelids. That effectively severed the connection between them. He walked quietly into his office.

Starsky felt like a marionette with broken strings, which was an oddly liberating sensation. Like being given his life back. He took a step to prove that he could, and trailed Hutch into the smaller room.

“Except fish bait is helpless,” Hutch reminded him, “and you, my love, are not.”

The memory of blood gushing over his hand, threatening his grip on the knife, flashed through Starsky’s mind and he swallowed, tasting bile in his throat. “You got an actual plan or we just playing this one by ear?” He straddled a chair to get his emotions under control. Nothing was simple — going after Roget was what he needed to achieve catharsis, and yet, if she won and took control, he’d be ringed for the rest of his life, a slave to demanding masters.

Possibly with Hutch alongside him.

It almost happened at Dunfey’s.

“Until all the pieces are on the chess board, it’s difficult to decide the next move,” Hutch said, leaning against the desk, his hands shoved in his pants pockets.

“Mixing your metaphors,” Starsky said grumpily. “First we’re fishing and then we’re sitting on the white squares, waiting for the black queen to advance.”

“Ah, but once we expose the queen, she’ll be forced to retreat.” Hutch raised an eyebrow with a cool smile.

“I just want to knock her off the board permanently.”

“You gonna tell me what she did?” Hutch asked quietly, shoving the hair off his forehead. There was a streak of pen ink over his right eye that gave him a quizzical expression.

“No.” Starsky slashed his hand diagonally. “Not going to make a statement, officer.”

“Starsk, this is not an interrogation.” Hutch dropped heavily into the desk chair, all playful seduction gone. “Are we okay here?”

“Hutch,” Starsky whispered. The name was so right in his mouth, he wanted to say it over and over, like a mantra. “We’re better than okay. We both got stuff we’re not proud of.” His quick laugh felt more sad than happy. “Without you, I’m not whole.”

Even without making a single move to close the gap between them, Starsky could feel Hutch coming into him, filling him up. This was not telekinesis, it was more like those transporters on Star Trek. Deconstructing the molecules and rearranging them somewhere else. Turning two people into one. How did he stand on his own feet when there was always someone to lean on?

“Without you, I’m not alive,” Hutch said, advancing on him suddenly to cover Starsky’s mouth with his own. Hutch kept moving until he’d backed him against the office wall.

He felt hot, almost feverish against Starsky’s skin, and that made Starsky feel vibrantly alive. They hadn’t had any time to make love the night before, not when Hutch had so many responsibilities as owner of the house. Starsky had stayed quietly by his side all evening, observing business transactions between clients and “slaves”. So this felt long overdue. He clutched Hutch’s arms, unwilling to let go.

Angling his hands under Starsky’s embrace, Hutch reached down to unzip Starsky’s fly without breaking their liplock.

Starsky had only ever gotten this hard this quickly with Hutch. Just the brush of Hutch’s fingers against his groin sent him into overdrive. “Oh…” He opened his eyes, staring into that blue, exactly the same hue as the sapphire. He could see tiny reflections of himself, his mouth wide and panting, when Hutch closed his fingers around Starsky’s cock. Fire ignited from that single stroke. He caught his breath, feeling like he’d been pierced through the heart when Hutch slowly slid the cock ring through its hole again and again, creating zingy shockwaves through his body. His balls contracted.

“God, you’re beautiful,” Hutch said just as Starsky thought the same thing of him.

My master. He wanted this. Partner, friend, lover, and master, all rolled into one. His Hutch.

“Mine. My master,” Starsky whispered raggedly.

“My only love, my forever.” Hutch smiled, knowing and wry, milking Starsky’s cock.

A vibrating momentum built up that powered the explosion centered in Starsky’s core. He felt a sudden force, not entirely his own, lifting him out of himself. Hutch held Starsky close, supporting him as the orgasm ripped through him. Starsky kissed Hutch and sagged, going to his knees.

“Are you all right?” Hutch asked gently, brushing his fingers through Starsky’s sweaty curls.

“You killed me dead.” Starsky chuckled, settling onto his heels. “I’m terrific — and ready to return the favor.”

“Oh!” Hutch’s eyes lit up with anticipatory pleasure. He dragged a chair over and sat down, bracketing Starsky with his knees. “Like the old days.” He leaned down, kissing Starsky fervently.

Freeing Hutch’s straining cock from his slacks took seconds. Then Starsky employed all his favorite tricks, really enjoying a blowjob for the first time since Dunfey’s. He slowly brought Hutch to the edge and then backed off.

“No fair!” Hutch cried with frustration mixed with mirth. “Finish me off…”

Starsky grinned around his mouthful. Power exchange, indeed. The one with his mouth on the cock held all the power in the world. Better than having ’em by the balls. He brought him to the edge and backed off again, enjoy his lover’s sounds of frustration.

Using a gripping suction, Starsky sealed his lips tightly and began to hum. Hutch rocked forward with a shout and came, semen flooding Starsky’s throat. Starsky accepted what Hutch gave him, swallowing with pride and love.

Hutch slouched back in the chair, toying with Starsky’s hair at the nape of his neck and flexing his fingers to give a light scalp massage. Starsky rested his head on Hutch’s thigh, at peace.

“Thank you,” Hutch whispered as if afraid to break the spell. “I used you in the past without…” He shook his head, at a loss for words. “I’d need the sex, the… release, so badly I didn’t give back as often as I should have.”

“I know.” Starsky nodded, still curled in the harbor of Hutch’s thighs. It was almost easier to think when he wasn’t looking directly at Hutch. But he couldn’t stay here forever. It was only a temporary sanctuary. “You said the other day that we’d talk — and as usual, stuff got in the way, and it didn’t happen. But there are a couple things we need to get out in the open.”

“Yeah?” Hutch’s voice went up at the end of the word, sounding wary.

Starsky stood, zipping his jeans closed. The less time that ring in the end of his penis spent out in the open, the better. He watched Hutch zip himself up, too. “How long have you owned this place?”

Hutch idly picked up a pen from the desk. He turned it around in his broad palm as if contemplating what it was used for. Putting it down, he aligned it precisely on the blotter. “I bought it after my father’s funeral.”

Last November, Starsky thought. Only six months ago. Such a short time for so much to have changed.

“The lawyer in charge of his estate gave me some cash the next day, before I left for BC,” Hutch continued. “I didn’t get the full inheritance until later. I didn’t know what to do with that much money.”

It was easy to figure out who did. “Abbey League needed funds.” Starsky began to wonder if the Abbey League had used Hutch just a little bit, too.

“Right.” Hutch nodded, staring at the floor. “Ariadne had funneled as much as she could through private donations, but the group desperately needed money to expand, to prepare for the coup.”

“So you bought Seven Lincoln Street as an investment,” Starsky stated flatly. “And the Abbey League used the upper floor for meetings.” He had gone up there yesterday. A big, wide room, it had probably been an attic early in the century. “What I want to know is, did the slaves come with the purchase? Did you own other slaves before me?” He struggled to keep anger from coloring everything that came out of his mouth.

“I…” Hutch exhaled in a rush. “The…man who owned the house previously retained ownership of the slaves that were here when the sale went through. He’d had an onsite manager, which was fine by me.” Hutch grimaced and finally looked up at Starsky, flickers of self-loathing behind his eyes. “About two months ago — the original owner had a heart attack. Died — as if I wasn’t fucked enough with everything that was going down. The manager, a slave, used the escape route we’d set up and fled.”

“Which left you with?” Starsky prompted, his belly cramping. The idea of Hutch owning slaves sickened him all over again, even though he’d known it had to be true.

“Up to my ears trying to deal with Roschenzky and Dunfey. The last thing I could handle was managing this place, too. Alice had only recently come into the… stable.” He bit the tip of his tongue as if the word tasted sour. “The original owner’s words, not mine. But I knew she had what it took, and appointed her manager.” He flung an arm in the direction of the upper floors. “Except for Candy and Eli, whom I met a week or so before I took off for Oregon, all these other people are new. Slaves regularly came and went through the underground network to safety. I never thought of myself as owning them.” He held open his empty hands.

“Except for me.” Starsky stood over him, the emotions caught up in what Hutch had done still not completely sorted out. Forgiveness, love and — yes — submission didn’t totally negate manipulation and deceit. In time, he hoped the hurt would subside.

“Except you, and there was so much…” Hutch raised an eyebrow ruefully. “Baggage intertwined with you. I went down that path with such single-minded focus to keep you for myself, and to keep you alive, that the truth is I didn’t consider any other options.”

This was more honesty than Starsky had expected. “You like to dominate.”

“Does that surprise you?” Hutch asked sarcastically, cocking his head, one eyebrow raised.

“I’m only surprised that I want to submit to you,” Starsky snapped, irritated at himself. He’d wanted to have a levelheaded discussion. Maybe that wasn’t yet possible. “I don’t know why, what compels me.”

Hutch didn’t speak for a moment, his expressions tamped down tightly behind a pursed mouth. “My father dominated everything and everyone around him. Even when my mother was in the highest office in the state, he’d — browbeat her. I told myself I would never be cruel, never force…” He covered his face, rubbing his forehead. “I worked hard at being a kind, considerate, giving person.”

“Which you are,” Starsky said sincerely.

“Until you came along. You made me want to adore you and hurt you, in equal measure,” Hutch whispered, reaching out with tentative fingers to brush the seam of Starsky’s jeans. “I felt this connection instantly. The moment I laid eyes on you. Wanted you like I’d never wanted anyone in my life — ever.” He wrapped his hand around Starsky’s leg, holding on for dear life.

Starsky had felt that bond like a new skin sealed around his heart. He’d been down on his knees for Hutch that first day without a second thought. “I always knew you needed more from me than sex, that I couldn’t possibly give you enough. I just wouldn’t allow myself to see the reasons why. When’d you first tie somebody up?”

“High school, experimenting with half the cheerleader squad. It was fun and easy, and I liked it more than the girl I tied up.” Hutch gave an inelegant snort. “Starsk, you and me, our teen years were lived so differently, I never had a clue that what I wanted out of you was taking you back to — ”

“Hell.”

“My teen years were fun for me. No responsibility. Discovering everything my body could do and could get me. Adding bondage to sex was like you putting catsup on fries — it added spice, intensified the moment.” He ran his hand up the outside of Starsky’s jeans to his hip, standing as he did so. Hutch pressed his thumb a fraction too heavily into the dip below Starsky’s prominent hip bone. He looked straight at Starsky with a question in his eyes, keeping the pressure hard and firm, staking a claim.

Starsky shuddered a breath, surrendering, all fight draining away. Hutch pressed harder, intentionally hurting, no longer asking permission. Starsky closed his eyes, coming into the circle of Hutch’s other arm, needing his support. His cock rose, fitfully at first, then fully erect as the ache in the curve of his groin intensified.

He wasn’t going to beg — and he wasn’t even sure what he wanted. For Hutch to stop? To have Hutch unzip him again and drain the desire out of him? God almighty…

Starsky moaned when Hutch dug his nails in, which really did hurt even through the denim of his jeans, and nearly jumped out of his skin when cheery voices came trooping in the front door of the house.

“We’re back!” Alice called from the foyer.

“Damn,” Hutch whispered, half grinning. He kissed Starsky softly on the lips, brushing the tip of his thumb against Starsky’s jeans. “Give me a rain check?”

“Did you look at the weather report?” Starsky asked with a smirk. “No rain in the forecast, Master.” He danced away, the slight ache below his hipbone nothing in comparison to the throb in his cock. Damn was right.

“Must be raining somewhere in the world,” Hutch said wistfully. He poked his head out the office door to the group going toward the kitchen. “How did it go? When will the ID papers be available?”

“The line must have gone around the building twice,” Patricia sighed, shedding a light blue jacket. “There was a whole bunch of volunteers to help out.”

Jasmine nodded, lugging a sack of cheese and crackers from the local market. “Amazing to see all the slaves…I mean, people there dressed in regular clothes!”

Starsky could only imagine the chaos. He was glad he didn’t have to go since he’d gotten his proof of citizenship more expediently. He mentally doused his erection in a cold shower. It only half succeeded.

“We had to fill out papers. Someone must have been cranking them out on the printer all night,” Dinah said, biting her bottom lip. “But it’s a start. Once upon a time, that was the kind of thing I did for the CEC.”

“No one was quite sure when the official ID cards will be printed,” Alice added quickly, touching Dinah’s shoulder sympathetically. She lead the way to the kitchen, carrying a bag of groceries. “The office was overwhelmed with applicants and this is only the first day.”

“Malcolm and Seely are still out, walking together alone for the first time. Young love!” Candy sat down at the kitchen table to investigate the left over pizza. “Where did this come from?”

“A gift from a — ” Hutch started, suddenly flustered.

“Patron,” Starsky finished smoothly for him, flashing a smile. “Hutch and me were — sort of — making a list for stuff we’d need tonight. I want to get out of here for a while. Anything more I should pick up?”

Hutch saw the bags Starsky had left more than an hour earlier on the counter and unpacked them. Alice did the same for the sacks she and Jasmine had brought in. Cans of vegetables and beans, boxes of pasta and cereal and seasonal fruit tumbled out onto the Formica. Alice tucked the cheese and soda water into the fridge.

“Alice, you know what the clients need. What else?” Hutch said.

“We were low on liquor last night,” Alice mused.

“Not much beer in the fridge either.” He liked this give and take, almost like a family.

“There’s more in the refrigerator upstairs,” Candy said over her shoulder, munching on cold pizza.

“There’s a refrigerator upstairs?” Starsky said.

“Between rooms D and C on the second floor,” Patricia said absently. “Some clients get thirsty.”

“Thought I’d get more beer, more vodka, scotch, probably some tequila,” Starsky said. He needed to stay away from Hutch and get his cop brain back.

“We usually use Best Liquor, down on Main,” Alice directed. “Dougie knows our regular order.”

“Get champagne.” Hutch pulled a tight roll of cash from his pocket and peeled off a couple of larger bills, gazing into Starsky’s eyes longer than necessary. He winked slowly, sending a promise that one of the bottles of champagne would be just for them.

Starsky grinned and plucked the money from his partner’s fingers. Felt almost like a normal life.

***

Hearing laughter in the main room downstairs, Starsky stood in the middle of the room he shared with Hutch, not at all ready to go entertain customers. The suite was furnished in the elegance befitting a crime lord with a four-poster bed, built in wall unit, and loveseat. The I reminded Starsky too much of their room in Dunfey’s villa, especially the hooks and paraphernalia for securing a slave artfully on the furniture. He’d have preferred staying in his place in the canyons.

Starsky stared at his reflection in the full-length closet mirror. Hutch had insisted on decking him out in the entire leather harness, not just the usual collar and cuffs. They’d argued, and Hutch, of course, won. Starsky ran a finger over the crisscrossed straps, looking down at himself. At least Hutch had skipped the cock cage. The harness felt tight, restrictive — and it scared him how much he liked the bondage.

He had to get a grip on his emotions. He was procrastinating because he’d begun to realize how much harder playing his slave role got with each passing day. He’d quickly grown used to hiding behind the normalcy of clothes. Walking downstairs as Hutch’s decorated slave, nearly stark naked, brought back the horror of Dunfey’s and his fear that Hutch might have to call on him to perform once more. It was a test of endurance. How had Alice survived as a slave for years and stayed sane?

He surveyed himself critically. The bruises were nearly gone, the welts on his back healed. He’d regained the weight he’d lost at Luna, but still woke from dreams sweaty and hyper alert, sure that he’d been injected with Phenine.

Closing his eyes, Starsky sank down into presentation, thighs spread wide to show off his ringed penis and brand, hands palm up on his thighs, chin to his chest. By peering through his eyelashes, he could see himself in the mirror, the steel ring glinting in the lamplight and the harness he’d worn at Dunfey’s bisecting his chest, drawing the eye to his musculature. He didn’t get the appeal of this juxtaposition between exposed genitals and demure posture. So why did he kneel so readily for Hutch? Why did it feel so good and yet so wrong at the same time?

He took a deep breath, centering himself for the evening ahead. Yesterday had been a trial run, so he and Hutch could get into their undercover roles. Starsky had stayed at Hutch’s feet most of the night. He hadn’t had to do anything but attend Hutch, but they also hadn’t arrested anyone, either. Hutch had put out feelers to Dunfey’s old cohorts, and a few had come to establish a relationship with him.

“Starsky, sugah?” Alice rapped quietly on the door and poked her head in. “Lots of clients arriving, and Linda Baylor’s downstairs to take Eli’s place for the evening.”

“Let the party begin,” Starsky said, rolling his eyes as he stood.

Alice was wearing a miniscule, see-through black teddy that accentuated her body and fair complexion. The sexiness of the garment that didn’t cover her crotch seemed more provocative than if she’d been nude, but still revealed her pierced nipples. Even so, it was better than nothing. Starsky’s harness didn’t seem enough by comparison.

“Hutch says you need t’get your ass down theah,” Alice said. “He feels nekkid without you by his side.”

“He said that?” Starsky asked lightly, imagining Hutch naked, but under completely different circumstances.

“You all right, Starsky?” Her blue eyes remained steadily on him, seeing below the surface.

Alice’s question sent echoes through Starsky’s brain, back to all the times she’d asked him that over the years. “You’d make one hell of a psychologist, Mz. Sweet.” He smiled benignly. This was no time for a philosophical discussion on the traumatic ramifications of slavery and how profoundly it affected them.

“Darlin’, I’m a hooker. Only takes a minute or two t’jack off a lonely man. The rest of his money pays for a sympathetic ear and a kind embrace.” She shrugged. “Ah think bartenders have a similar life.”

“I’m glad you’re on my side.” He gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, the scent of roses coming off her skin.

Alice smiled, waving him out the door. “You’re strong, Starsky. Don’t let anyone make you think otherwise.”

“Likewise,” Starsky quipped.

He paused halfway down the staircase to survey the scene.

Linda was posing as a slave under Hutch’s protection. Her fiery hair was a riot of curls piled on top of her head and her pierced nipples peeked from under a vest that had no chance of covering her ample bust. She chatted with a small-time hood Starsky recognized from the streets. He couldn’t quite recall the guy’s name, but Hutch could. Starsky noticed details and odd evidence; Hutch remembered names and dates. It’s what made them such a good team.

“Davey!” Hutch called with steel in his voice. “I’ve been waiting too long for you.”

A couple of men glanced up when Starsky entered the front room, their eyes raking over him mercilessly. A rush of shame roiled through his chest, but he fought it down. He’d done this before; he could do it again.

“Forgive me, Master.” Starsky sank to his knees at Hutch’s feet, head bowed.

“Make me wait again and you’ll wear a gag for twenty-four hours,” Hutch said, threading his fingers through Starsky’s curls until his fingers rested directly on Starsky’s scalp.

“Tell him, Hutchinson!” One of the men laughed nastily. “I’d like to see that!”

“Y’know, Clyde,” Hutch said darkly, “I should fit him with a gag anyway. Davey talks a lot.” He opened a drawer and pulled out a short length of chain. “However, I do have some better uses for his mouth.”

Starsky eyed the chain without moving. Hutch was putting on quite a show.

“Instead,” Hutch continued in his master voice, “a little reminder of what happens when a slave disobeys never hurts.” He pooled the chain in his palm, shaking his fist to make the links clink together.

“Show ’em who’s in charge,” Clyde agreed with a grin, holding up a tumbler of whiskey in support.

“Davey, as punishment for failing to come promptly, you’ll wear this chain for the rest of the night. Raise your hands.”

Obeying his master in front of an approving audience, Starsky held out his wrists so that Hutch could link the chain between his cuffs. Restrained like that, he could only spread his arms about a foot apart.

“Y’know what I heard?” another man said with ribald laughter. “Carrying the extra weight of the chains keeps the slaves slim. See, it’s even health-conscious!”

Clyde guffawed. While the men were joking with each other, Hutch caught Starsky’s eye and gave him a solemn nod. Hutch knew how much Starsky hated being on display and it helped immensely that he acknowledged that.

“Thank you, Master,” Starsky said with his head bowed, staring down at the chains binding him.

“Master?” Alice asked diffidently. “If you don’t need me right now, one of my regulars is here.”

Starsky watched her red satin marabou-trimmed shoes walk by. Hutch was in the cowboy boots with the silver toe tips. Clyde — the name Dyson popped into Starsky’s brain — wore black loafers.

“By all means, serve our client,” Hutch said. “I presume you’ll enjoy Linda, Clyde.”

“Can’t resist a redhead,” Clyde answered, nudging Linda’s gold slippered feet with his black loafer.

Where the hell did Linda keep her badge?

“I’m here to serve, Master Clyde,” Linda said in a husky voice.

Alice disappeared with a man in brown Oxfords. Starsky raised his head slightly so he could see the room. One by one, the ex-slaves had gone upstairs with clients, leaving Starsky alone with Hutch.

“What took you so long?” Hutch hissed, his tone similar to the one he’d used to call Starsky downstairs.

My master’s voice, Starsky thought, with a knot of dread in his gut. He looked up from the floor into Hutch’s stormy expression, and had to fight an instant erection. He didn’t have the cock cage on to help him control his reaction. “You spoiled me. You let me wear clothes. I’m…this…Hutch — ”

Hutch rolled his eyes, exasperated. “If you can’t handle being naked, Starsk, this is gonna be a real short operation. Do I need to demand, like I did after Luna, that when we’re alone, I want you naked? Do I?”

Those words rocked him. He gave up trying to control his erection. “No, Master. I can handle it.”

Hutch sighed and then surprised him by stroking his hair, his neck, and tilting his face up so he could look in his eyes. “You think this is any easier on me just because I’m dressed? You think I like watching these kids go up those stairs? Or Alice?” He swallowed hard. “No one wants this over more than me. Starsk…I need you.”

Nothing he could’ve said could have effected Starsky more. “I live to serve you, Master,” he said in character, but he meant it down to his soul.

Hutch graced him with a smile and a quick kiss. “I’ll hold you to that later. Listen, I heard from Harlan Marlow earlier today. He’s furious about Ariadne liberating the slaves.”

Starsky knew him; he’d arrested him ten years ago for abusing underaged boys in the tumultuous early years of the CEC’s takeover. But the man had proved to be a model prisoner and had gotten out of prison early. Now he maintained a slave house only four doors down that specialized in young male slaves. “You talked to his brother, Horace, at Dunfey’s. Remember? He said Dunfey used Harlan’s place exclusively.”

Hutch nodded. “Said Harlan kept one boy just for Dunfey. A curly-haired boy that looks like you.”

Starsky wasn’t likely to forget that. “We need to shut that fucker down.”

Hutch looked him in the eye, his gaze stone cold. “No matter what it takes?”

Starsky opened his mouth then shut it again, but he couldn’t pull his eyes away from Hutch. Not when he looked like that. You said you’d never let anyone touch me sexually again…and I knew even when you said it, you might not be able to keep that promise. Swallowing, he said, “No matter what it takes…Master.”

Hutch’s smile chilled him. “That’s my Davey. Get some appetizers from the kitchen. We’ll share.”

Without even thinking, Starsky obeyed. Carrying the tray of cheese, crackers, and fruit was more difficult than he expected when he had to coordinate both hands at once because of the chain connecting his wrist cuffs. How long was Hutch going to make him wear this?

Less than an hour later, they’d finished the snacks and were drinking coffee when the doorbell rang.

“Answer it,” Hutch said, putting his cup down.

Starsky rose from the floor to go into the foyer. He had to remember to raise his hands together to grab the doorknob or risk wrenching one of his wrists in the process. Swinging the front door open, he lifted his head to identify the caller. His heart slamming against his ribs, Starsky froze.

Harlan Marlow.

He stood speechless while Marlow gave him a long scathing look.

“Well, well, well.” Marlow slouched against the doorframe, one arm slung around a nude young boy. He was slight, with dark curls and a vivid bruise around his left eye. Apparently, with Dunfey gone, Harlan had decided to use the boy for his own amusement. “What do we have here? Little Davey Starsky, in slave gear, like a common whore.”

A month ago, if Marlow had even dared to cross paths with him, Starsky would have beaten him to a pulp just for the fun of it. Keeping his mouth shut like a real slave was harder than he could have imagined. He had to struggle not to stare at a boy who could have been his son. Starsky doubted if he’d seen his fifteenth birthday yet.

“I like what I see,” Marlow drawled, inclining his head to get a good view of Starsky’s body. “You look like my boy, Pony, here. Maybe you’re his daddy.” Marlow reached out, tapping the small charm on Starsky’s collar. It swung lazily, banging Starsky on the collarbone. “You two would look pretty hanging side-by-side.”

When he tried to pinch Starsky’s nipple, Starsky couldn’t help himself; he moved out of reach.

“Tsk, tsk, tsk,” Marlow admonished. “That should be worth five licks of the strap.”

“Come in, Master,” Starsky managed through gritted teeth, moving back to let them through.

The nude boy stepped into the house and automatically knelt just inside the door.

Just then, Candy and Jasmine escorted their clients down the stairs, stopping at the bottom because they’d have to pass Marlow. Both girls went unnaturally still at the sight of him. Clearly, they’d had to deal with him before.

“I see some old favorites, as well. Ladies, protocol!” Marlow said sternly, planting a hand on Starsky’s shoulder to push him down next to Pony. “On your fucking knees with your pink cunts showing. Where’s your master?”

The two men with Candy and Jasmine slipped out past Marlow without a word. The girls dropped immediately into presentation, but Starsky resisted, dodging out from under Marlow’s hand.

“Here I am,” Hutch announced. His entrance was perfectly timed, his appearance the epitome of a man in command. Blond hair framed a face of elegant symmetry, his blue eyes as hard as marbles. “Davey, heel.”

Starsky twisted away from Marlow. Taking two steps to Hutch’s side, he was mortified at how glad he was to escape and couldn’t wait for a chance to take Marlow down. He dropped into presentation slightly behind Hutch, since they had never worked out exactly what “heel” meant.

“It’s crowded in the foyer, Marlow. Why don’t we go into my office?” Hutch proposed, catching Starsky’s eye. “Candy, Jasmine, log in your hour and take your breaks. There’s food in the kitchen.” Their eyes on Marlow, neither woman moved.

“You’re soft, Hutchinson,” Marlow scoffed, glancing around. “No discipline.”

“Kindness never goes out of style.” Hutch looked down at the boy crouched by the door. “Did you bring him as a peace offering?”

“Mi casa is your casa,” Marlow said in deplorable Spanish. “Pony, show the man what you’re worth.”

The curly haired boy flipped backwards, his body bowed like a bridge, his pierced cock standing at attention.

“He was Dunfey’s favorite,” Marlow said while the boy held his position. “He can stay like that for an hour. One of your girls could ride him the whole time and he’d never budge. You can do anything you want to him when he’s in position, and he’ll never make a sound or move. That’s training. Go ‘head, Hutchinson. Try him.”

Appalled, it was everything Starsky could do not to lunge at Marlow. Even without looking at him, Hutch must’ve sensed his tension, because he reached down and pulled a lock of his hair hard. It helped.

“Amazing flexibility,” Hutch said hastily, “but we can discuss trade later. Release him, Marlow.”

Marlow shrugged. “Presentation, Pony.”

The boy folded back into his original position without a sound or change of expression.

Starsky felt sick inside, especially to see someone who looked so much like he did as a teen. He burned to liberate the boy. Send him somewhere he could grow and thrive.

“Candy, Jasmine,” Hutch said, apparently noticing that they had never left. “Take Pony into the kitchen for a snack, while his master and I go to my office to discuss business.”

“He’s fasting tonight,” Marlow said snidely, holding his hand flat out at the boy as if he were a dog trained to hand signals. “He can stay right there while we talk.”

The two women looked at Hutch for direction through lowered lashes, unsure what to do.

Hutch smiled. “You’re both released. Get something to eat.” He glanced at the women, then at Pony, and nodded once.

Candy and Jasmine scrambled to get out of the foyer. Starsky knew as soon as Marlow was behind closed doors, the two women would bring Pony food from the kitchen and make sure he finished it before Marlow returned.

“Listen, Hutchinson,” Marlow said, “I came over to brainstorm ways to circumvent the new emancipation laws, but I can see you’re already kowtowing to that bitch, Underhill. Havin’ them log in! Givin’ ’em meal breaks.”

Starsky’s belly tightened in anger. Marlow beat his boys and refused to feed them. He couldn’t think of anything bad enough he could visit on this man to avenge that kind of abuse.

Hutch regarded Marlow like a scientist observing some repellant new species. “We don’t see eye to eye, Marlow.” The two of them walked toward Hutch’s office. Starsky kept an appropriate two steps behind… close enough to hear. “Underhill’s as corrupt as Cosgrove was; she’s just throwing her weight around right now. Cross a few palms with enough money and suddenly, the new police force will look the other way when they drive by this street just like the old police force did. Hell, the cops are always our best customers. Come on. I’ve got some ten-year-old bourbon and a bottle of wine that’s older than any of your boys. What’s your pleasure?”

As they entered the office, Hutch shut the door behind them. Starsky went to his knees, prepared to pour drinks if Hutch asked, and maintained his cool by observing details with a cop’s eye. Harlan Marlow and his brother, Horace, looked alike. The Phoenix police still had Horace in custody — and since the two brothers hated each other, it was unlikely they’d communicated.

“Davey,” Marlow announced without explanation as he settled in a plush armchair. His eyes never left Starsky’s body; he stared as if Starsky were a ham sandwich and Marlow hadn’t eaten in years.

“Hmm?” Hutch paused, pouring bourbon for himself. He held up the bottle to ask Marlow if he’d like some.

“You asked what’s my pleasure. And I said, your boy, Davey.” Marlow gave Hutch an oily smile. “With a side of the finest French vino you got.”

“Star — ” Hutch corrected himself instantly. “Davey is my personal slave. He’s off limits. I don’t share him with anyone. Ask for something else.”

Starsky held himself still, his eyes down, watching everything in his peripheral vision. He could hear Hutch’s promise: “I will never let anyone touch you sexually again.” Starsky wanted to believe Hutch would hold to that vow.

“That’s not what I heard,” Marlow said derisively. “Word is he gave Dunfey a public blowjob, serviced that bitch, Underhill, and her fiancé, and then, while you were negotiating favorable terms with the people you wanted to do business with, he sucked off half a dozen men as a bonus to seal your deals.” Marlow smirked. “And you watched every performance, at your insistence. ‘Cause you like to watch. So, get off your high horse, Hutchinson. You use him the way we all use our boys, for whatever works to our advantage.”

Starsky froze. They’d played their roles too well at Dunfey’s. They’d make it look like he’d been the main course for Hutch, Ariadne, and Manetti during the siesta, and the rest was just rumor that took on a life of its own. Of course, some of those bastards would have bragged that Starsky had serviced them. It made them look important to claim they’d had Hutchinson’s slave, a former cop, that they’d negotiated that hard a deal with him, just like Dunfey.

“Where’d you hear that?” Hutch asked. “I thought your brother was in custody.”

“Haven’t talked to him, but Charlie Vega was at the council meeting, and he’s out on bond. We go way back.”

Starsky filed that name away for future reference, picturing a dark Latino who’d sat near the swimming pool at the council meeting. Was the guy now in BC?

Hutch raised a skeptical eyebrow with infinite patience and sipped his liquor. Picking up a corkscrew, he drilled it into the cork in a bottle of wine. “You’re still asking for my personal slave. My most expensive slave. What could you possibly have to bargain with that I’d be interested in?” He slid out the cork with slight pop. Hutch poured a glass of dark red wine, the aroma of fermented grapes filling the room.

Marlow shrugged and accepted the Bordeaux. “A merger. You have a huge place with very few slaves, I have a small house with more slaves than I can handle. Plus, I inherited my asshole brother’s tobacco import business now that he’s living on Arizona/New Mex’s dime for the unforeseeable future. We would be good together.”

Hutch glanced at Starsky. His face was impassive, but Starsky could easily read between the lines. How far could they push Marlow? If they took him down now for Pony’s abuse, he’d be out on bond in a day and reveal their operation to the world. Should they string him along to lure more middle-weight slave dealers before dropping the net? Starsky turned his palms down on his spread thighs. He worried about Hutch’s choices.

“Marlow, you’re out of your league,” Hutch said, sitting at his desk, still holding the corkscrew to unthread the cork. “I’ve got all of Dunfey’s organization to restructure. Merging your house with mine looks good in on paper for you, but in this political climate, I’m not interested in throwing money into slaves who are going to demand wages now that they’ve been freed.” He waggled his fingers dismissively. “Your brother’s smuggling operation is undoubtedly a lost cause. With the way Underhill is moving, she’ll have trade agreements with the other states in no time. Cigarettes won’t be a cash crop in a month. I need new lucrative ventures, Marlow.”

Marlow sat quietly, his eyes narrowed. He obviously hadn’t expected to be rejected and anger blazed on his sallow cheeks. “You don’t want to play ball in my court,” he snapped, “I’ll take my business out of state, if I have to. After that bitch’s speech, three of the chickens in my roost up and skipped. Said they didn’t have to be slaves any longer.” He stood, clenching the delicate wine glass in his bony hand, ready to walk out.

“Slow down, slow down,” Hutch mollified, picking up his glass of bourbon. “If you’re willing to relocate — I might be willing to deal.” He gently rotated the amber liquid in his tumbler.

Starsky would love to have a peek at Marlow’s account books. His profit margin was probably in the red. Why else try to move in on Hutch?

“What are you getting at?” Marlow swallowed half his Bordeaux and set the glass down hard on Hutch’s desk. “I keep control of my stable.”

“No skin off my nose.” Hutch laughed shortly. “Yours is a niche market, anyway. But if you’d like to broaden your horizons — I have partial interest in a house in Nevada, and I’m planning to buy the other partners out soon. I could bring you in as manager. You’d be out of Southern California. Slavery’s legal there and likely to stay that way.”

“Nevada’s where the slave biz is booming. That’s a generous offer!” Marlow said eagerly, sitting back down.

“Thing is,” Hutch drawled as if he were considering all options, “I’d need something more from you. You’re taking your boys. I’m not interested in Horace’s tobacco. What else have you got for me?”

Marlow hesitated as if weighing the ramifications. “Names,” he conceded begrudgingly, leaning back against the cushions. “Facts to take down people.”

Hutch didn’t move for several minutes.

Knowing he’d been forgotten in the negotiations, Starsky raised his butt off his heels, watching Hutch. Did Marlow know they were still cops? Was he volunteering to be a snitch?

“Why would you rat out a friend?” Hutch asked slowly, biding his time.

“Did I say anything about friends?” Marlow countered. “I know how Dunfey worked, Hutchinson. Knowledge was power. If he had anything on anybody, he squeezed hard. To take over their enterprise. If you’re working his territory, you’ll want to do some squeezing of your own.” He smiled like a shark circling a smaller fish. “I’ll be out of the state. Nobody’ll be able to trace it back to me.”

“Now I am listening.” Hutch sipped his drink with a tight smile. “Tell me more.”

Starsky kept his eye on his partner, feeling the subtle shift in the air. Marlow gave him the creeps. The man had the morals of a vulture feeding on something still living.

Marlow helped himself to more wine, splashing some onto the carpet. “Not before we work out the details.”

Hutch hedged. “How do I know what you have is worth my while?”

“Ben Forest,” Marlow said with a shit-eating grin.

Damn. Hutch’s Achilles heel. It was everything Starsky could do not to react.

Hutch froze, the muscles in his jaw popping. “He’s still in prison. I put him there.”

Marlow just kept grinning, then shook his head slowly.

Starsky want to touch Hutch, to comfort him in some way, but caught himself before he broke position.

Hutch sucked in a breath, regaining his composure in seconds. “When did Forest get out of prison?” he asked through clenched teeth.

“Few months back,” Marlow said insolently. “Thought someone with your connections woulda known that. I heard from a little birdie that you want him.”

Roschenzky must have put out the word on Hutch’s forced addiction so long ago. Starsky closed his eyes. Their past would be both their undoing.

“You know where he is?” Hutch asked and turned to Starsky as if fighting to keep his composure. Not a twitch of his mouth betrayed the emotions running through him, but Starsky felt every ounce of Hutch’s despair. Hutch would do anything to take that man down — Starsky swallowed, anticipating his part. Didn’t matter what Hutch had promised him. This was different. It was Forest.

Starsky raised his chin and nodded once. He’d do it if Hutch asked. Ice filled his belly once again, freezing out all hope of a different solution.

“You willing to pay up?” Marlow asked, eyeing Starsky with outright lust. The front of his slacks rose, and he rubbed the palm of his right hand slowly over his erection.

“Schedule a meet with him.” Hutch pushed the phone across his desk.

“And?” Marlow sat up abruptly, his hard-on prominent.

“If this is legit, and Forest agrees to a meet, I’m… willing to negotiate…for Davey’s favors…” he glanced at Starsky, but Starsky couldn’t look at him right now.

Marlow leaned forward, grinning hugely. “Never thought I’d get a chance to fuck the cop who fucked me over, but little Davey, it’s payback time!”

“Wait a minute! That’s not on the table!” Hutch snapped. “I never agreed — ”

Marlow’s eyes turned hard. “You don’t think I’m negotiating for a neat little blowjob, do ya? Forget that. I can get that a dozen times a day from any of the meat in my stable. No, Hutchinson. This is hard bargaining time. I want to fuck him. Is that clear enough? And if you think I want the pleasure of your company while I’m doing it, think again. I want two hours with your boy, free access, and I want him alone.”

Starsky couldn’t believe Marlow’s terms. Hutch would never allow —

“Alone? With Davey?” Hutch stood up angrily, looming over the smaller man. “So you can beat the shit out of him the way you do your boys? You could cripple him in that time. Kill him, even. I spent a fortune on that slave. I don’t need to spend another fortune patching him back together so you can get your jollies.”

“That’s fair,” Marlow said reasonably. “I know you’ve got a setup with cameras. You can watch from another room. I just don’t want you breathin’ over me. And I give you my word, no beating, no whipping, nothing like that. He’ll be in such good shape, you’ll be able to nail him to your heart’s content as soon as I’m done.”

Hutch paused, as if trying to find a loophole, a way out. Starsky might as well have been a statue. A statue carved of ice. He couldn’t believe the rabbit Marlow had pulled out of his hat. Was Hutch really going to agree to leave him alone with Marlow?

“But I want absolute proof,” Hutch continued. “I need to hear Forest’s voice on the phone, talk to him, get him to agree to a meet. Only if that happens…” Hutch sat back down and got quiet again. Finally, he curved his fingers around Starsky’s neck possessively, stroking the skin above his collar. “Davey?”

Just like that. Hutch had asked. Starsky grew smaller inside. He nodded almost imperceptibly.

Hutch sighed. “All right. If Forest agrees to a meet. You can have Davey on your terms. After he takes care of your needs, we can negotiate terms and conditions of our other deal.”

Hutch’s voice was so devoid of humanity, Starsky had to bite his lip to stay strong. The only outward sign was the tightening of his fingers on Starsky’s shoulder. He dug his nails into Starsky’s skin one time and then flexed his fingers. Starsky wanted to grab his wrist to keep it there, but Hutch moved his hand away.

As smug as a cat swinging a mouse by the tail, Marlow picked up the phone and dialed quickly. “I don’t know his number off my head, but it’s in my file at my place.” He spoke with whomever answered and nodded, grabbing the pen Starsky had found for Hutch the day before. Writing 555-6973 on the paper Hutch slid under his hand, Marlow added the address of an up-scale ocean view apartment building on the west side of Bay City.

“He’s come up in the world. Four-fifty-seven Camino Verde is a step up from his last digs,” Hutch said, standing to give Marlow the chair by the desk. “Make the call.”

Marlow dialed the phone, waiting through only two rings before a man said, “Hello?”

Starsky was far enough from the phone that he could only hear male tones, but the look on Hutch’s face spoke volumes. He’d gone pale, the furrow between his eyebrows deepening.

“Forest!” Marlow said. “Harlan Marlow here. I’m with Hutchinson; he took over Dunfey’s piece of the pie.” He chuckled, low and cruel. “Yep, you heard right, my friend.”

Hutch took the phone without preamble. His face might have been carved from stone. “Been a long time, Ben.” Amazingly, Hutch almost sounded friendly.

Starsky wet his lips, conscious of Hutch’s struggle to keep his undercover role. The edges of his mouth turned up slightly. “I’m picking up the reins on all of Dunfey’s old projects,” he said quietly. “You’re barely back in the game, Ben. If you want to carve out a corner for your drug operation, you need to deal with me.” He nodded once, his anger tightly under control. “That sounds like a workable solution. When can we meet? That soon? I’ll be available. I’ll look forward to seeing you. Harlan can give you my number.” He handed the phone back to Marlow.

Starsky let out a breath he hadn’t realized he was holding. His mouth was dry just when he needed saliva. He tried to tell himself if this netted both Forest and Marlow, it would be worth it. He told himself that again.

“Hutchinson’s got a blond filly in his stable, Ben, just your type,” Marlow said cockily into the receiver. “Be sure and ask for the bonus fuck! It’s good working with you, too. I’ll get back to you in the next few days, see how the palaver goes.” He hung up with the satisfied expression of a man who held four aces.

Hutch brushed the tip of his thumb over the fingernail marks he’d made in Starsky shoulder, obviously reluctant to let him go, but fully aware that he had to. “You’re a man of your word.” Hutch reached out to shake Marlow’s hand. “You can look forward to completely new accommodations. Welcome into the fold.”

“One thing, Hutchinson. You got to give me time to pack up and get out before you move on Forest,” Marlow said, a glimpse of his yellow belly showing through the bravado.

“Not a problem,” Hutch said coolly. “I prefer a non…” he paused, as if keeping a lid on his feelings, “volatile work environment myself.” Hutch paused again, then pointed a finger at Marlow. “I also expect you to keep your word regarding the condition of my slave, Marlow. Do I make myself clear?”

“Like glass,” Marlow said, grinning. “Go sit in front of your surveillance equipment. Drink some more of your bourbon. Get comfy. Maybe you’ll learn something about how to get the most out of your stable, Hutchinson.”

Hutch’s Adam’s apple bobbed up and down, his jaw clenching over and over. Finally, he said quietly to Starsky, “Davey. Escort Mr. Marlow to the VIP room. Serve our client. Give him whatever he wants.”

Starsky rose to his feet. He could barely look at Hutch, afraid that he’d break his cover. “Please, Master,” Starsky murmured. “You said…” His nervousness wasn’t entirely faked. “Please, I’ll…”

“Davey, are you asking for a gag?” Hutch grabbed Starsky’s arm hard, pulling him very close.

“No gag, Master,” Starsky replied, his heart beating fast.

“I’ll be happy to slide a gag into that mouth, more than once.” Marlow rocked his groin in Starsky’s direction with a throaty laugh. “A good big rod to drown out his cries. But…wait a minute. You’ve got his hands chained in front — it’d be too easy for him to try something underhanded…” Marlow chuckled at his own joke. “Get it?”

“You should be a stand-up comedian,” Hutch said without cracking a smile. “What’s your point?”

“He clocked me good when he arrested me that time,” Marlow said to Hutch, talking over Starsky as if he weren’t a human being. “I don’t want to take any chance he could…resist. Chain his hands behind his back.”

“Is that all you want?” Hutch looked completely unimpressed.

Starsky wished he could read what was going on inside his partner’s brain. Hutch had closed down, his need to go after Forest strong enough that he was willing to cater to a low-life like Marlow.

“Davey,” Hutch said softly, unhooking the chain from his right wrist. He propelled Starsky around with a light shove.

When he brushed the flat of his hand over Starsky’s belly, it felt like a plea for forgiveness. Starsky clenched his jaw, wanting to face Hutch, read his motives in a silent glance. But he couldn’t because he was a slave and had to do what his master told him to do. No matter what.

Without another word, Hutch clipped Starsky’s wrists together behind him, the chain rotating his arms in the back so that he had to puff out his chest to stand straight.

The smile on Marlow’s lips looked like the sharp edge of a blade. “That’s more like it.”

Bile rising in the back of his throat, Starsky walked out the door, past Pony still crouched drowsily in the hall.

“Master?” Pony asked, perking up.

“Sit,” Marlow barked. “Stay. I’m busy.” He pointed a stiff finger at the boy. “Don’t move from that spot.”

“Don’t worry about your boy,” Hutch said, his eyes heavy lidded. Starsky could finally read his partner. Hutch was furious, even if Marlow couldn’t see it. “I’ll watch over him.”

Wishing he could emasculate Marlow with a dull butcher’s knife, Starsky led the way down the hall to the opposite side of the house. There were two large private rooms on the first floor just past the sweeping mahogany staircase. The first was primarily for larger parties or orgies. Starsky hadn’t seen it used yet. The second was parallel to the kitchen in the back of the house. He stopped in front of the VIP room.

Hutch stepped forward to fling the door open and turned a small dial on the wall. Wall sconces lit up, illuminating a room that had red curtains hung against the walls, framing a large round bed. A thick bar ran along the wall draped with leather straps and metal cuffs just waiting to be used. The bed had numerous struts and bars around it, places to secure a slave in any position.

Starsky stood miserably between the two men, wondering how long he’d have to spend in this devil’s playroom. He couldn’t believe Hutch had agreed to two hours. He swallowed, aware of the collar surrounding his neck and the heavy leather harness girding him, his chained wrists resting uncomfortably at the small of his back. Marlow could do anything to him in that amount of time. He’d promised not to beat or whip Starsky, but there were so many other subtle but equally painful and debasing things he could try. Restraining Starsky in numerous poses anywhere in the room was only the start.

“We only invite our special guests to the VIP room,” Hutch said, grimly. “It has everything you could ask for, every toy.” He placed a hand on Starsky’s back, sliding his fingers up under the strap that covered his spine. “He’s yours for two hours, Marlow. I’ll be watching.”

Marlow looked around, pushing aside a curtain to see the sex toys piled on shelves. He was ecstatic. “This is more like it, Hutchinson.” He pumped Hutch’s hand. “You won’t regret workin’ with me.”

“I’ll leave you, then,” Hutch said. He tugged Starsky’s chin, making him look Hutch in the eyes. “Presentation, Davey. Show your best assets and serve our client well. Don’t embarrass me. I’ll have to punish you later for speaking out of turn in the office. Five stripes with a belt after you’re done here.” Then he left.

Hutch’s code for “I love you.” Starsky held that in his heart as he assumed his slave pose. He glanced up, trying to anticipate whatever Marlow wanted to do first.

“Don’t move.” Marlow held his hand flat in the stay command, walking around him as if admiring his new acquisition.

Starsky wanted to growl like a dog, but held himself still.

“Hutchinson’s got you well trained.” Marlow started to unzip himself. “A quickie would be just the ticket to take the edge off before we really get started.”

Starsky forced himself to raise his chin to be ready to take the man in his mouth. It was the last thing he wanted to do.

Marlow put a thick forefinger on Starsky’s lower lip, encouraging him to part his lips. “I like a lot of suction.” He rubbed his finger against Starsky’s lip suggestively, smiling; his grin was repulsive. “Wait. You need something to put you in the right frame of mind. I’m not a big ol’ softie like Hutchinson. I want you to remember every second with me.” He slanted his hand stiffly downward. “Forehead on the floor until I get what I need. It’ll be a nice surprise.”

The inflection in his voice intimated there would be nothing nice in Starsky’s future.

Leaning over, Starsky folded face down onto the carpet, chest nearly touching the floor. He shifted his weight, rotating his shoulders back, and gripped the chain with both hands.

Just don’t think about what’s in store.

Marlow routed enthusiastically through the selection of sex toys. “It’s like a supermarket in here,” he exclaimed, practically giggling. “Too many choices! Didn’t know Hutchinson had all this.”

Starsky’s heart pounded loudly in his ears; he had to strain to hear Marlow as he shifted in place.

“Davey.”

Starsky cringed, but didn’t move. “Master?”

Marlow came back again, bracketing the sides of Starsky’s knees with his leather shoes. “Presentation, boy. Look what I have for you.”

Sitting back on his haunches, Starsky peered up.

Marlow held up a pair of nipple clamps with viciously sharp teeth. Without really looking at Starsky, he admired the clamps, as if they were expensive jewelry. Then he waggled them at the camera in the corner of the ceiling for Hutch’s benefit. “Great toy chest, Hutchinson! He’ll love these, I’m sure.”

Starsky came to his knees.

“You’re a natural, aren’t you?” Marlow sneered as Starsky straightened. “Can’t wait to be chained? Stand up, slave.”

Starsky rose in one fluid movement, clasping both hands together in front of him. While Marlow was busy browsing the toy store, he’d eased his linked wrists slowly over his ass and legs, the way he’d done in Phoenix to show Hutch his moves. Moving as subtly as he could, he’d prayed Marlow was too busy to look his way. There was no time to consider the consequences if he got caught half way. The short chain Hutch had used for “punishment” actually made the process faster and less of a strain, since his wrists weren’t linked directly together.

Marlow was about to attach the first clamp to Starsky’s nipple when he blinked in surprise. “Hey…Hutchinson chained your hands behind — ”

Using his fists like a battering ram, he slammed into Marlow’s groin, and shoved him hard against the bar along the wall.

Marlow screamed and collapsed, grabbing the bar for support. “What the fuck?” Marlow raged, twisting, nearly folding in half over his injured groin. He was no longer erect.

Starsky body blocked him, ramming an elbow into the man’s flat belly, driving the air out of him. Diving under the nearby curtain, he closed his fingers around a pair of standard police-issue metal cuffs, and slapped one of them around Marlow’s left wrist before he could recover. In one quick move, he secured the other cuff under the bar and around Marlow’s right wrist, so that Harlan was securely cuffed to the immovable bar. “Hey, you’re a natural, Harlan!” Starsky taunted. “Can’t wait to cuff you properly, wrists and ankles.”

“You little shit!” Marlow kicked out at Starsky, but was in too much pain to be effective.

Starsky moved away quickly. He’d had all evening to get used to the chain’s restrictions, so it didn’t impede his moves much at all. He slugged Marlow twice in the face, fast and deadly, and saw the man’s eyes go glassy. “That’s for Pony and your other little boys. Scream, Marlow,” he jeered. “The room is soundproofed.”

Hutch appeared suddenly beside him, grabbing his fist, pulling him away from Marlow forcibly before he could hit him again. “Hey! Starsky, easy! Remember, I said no hitting!”

“You said he couldn’t hit me,” Starsky said with a smirk. “And he kept his word.” He leaned forward in spite of Hutch’s physically pulling him away. “By the way,” he said to Marlow, letting satisfaction settle in, soothing the iciness in his chest, “Hutch was taping you the whole time, asshole. You are under arrest.”

“You and Hutchinson are dead, Starsky. Do you hear me?” Marlow raged.

“Death threats? Old hat, asshole,” Hutch said, letting Starsky go now that they were several feet away.

Starsky grabbed his badge from a hidden shelf to shove in Marlow’s face. “You have the right to remain silent…” Cosgrove and the CEC had revoked the Miranda rights, but Starsky knew Ariadne would reinstitute them. “You remember how that went, Marlow? You’ve heard that song often enough.”

“I ain’t talking.” Marlow glowered, jerking on his bonds, while still groaning and trying to protect his groin.

“He remembers!” Starsky said to Hutch, holding up an encouraging thumb. “You have the right to an attorney…” The rest of the spiel came back easily, although he hadn’t recited the words in years.

“And don’t worry about your next accommodations,” Hutch assured him. “We’ve arranged for another VIP room in another state. Not Nevada, but it’ll be very comfy.”

“You’ll be held in maximum security, in solitary confinement,” Starsky said. “Won’t be able to chat with your old friends. Too bad.” He winked.

Through an agreement Dobey worked out with Dolesky, the Phoenix police, and Bay City’s new administration, any prisoners Hutch and Starsky caught through their sting would be shipped to Phoenix and held in solitary until the operation was over. Dolesky wanted to be sure there these prisoners couldn’t warn anyone else, even through their lawyers. Once all the old laws were reinstituted, they wouldn’t be able to legally do that again, so they could only take advantage of this special situation for a short time. That would keep him and Hutch safe.

“It’s for your own good, Marlow,” Hutch assured him. “Nobody likes a guy who beats up kids. Of course, you already know what the big fish in prison do to child molesters. You had to deal with that the last time Starsky took you down. Well, since you’ll be in solitary, you won’t have to worry about that, at least for a while.”

Marlow’s eyes narrowed and he bellowed inarticulately.

Hutch unlocked a drawer in a built-in dresser. Inside was a small police band radio. Starsky wondered if Linda Baylor had used it earlier or whether she’d just frog-marched Clyde Dyson out to an unmarked car as planned. When Hutch pressed the talk button, Starsky listened to the familiar squawk with nostalgia.

“Dispatch!” a male voice answered.

“Hutchinson. Got a pick-up. Can I have a silent escort over to Seven Lincoln? He’ll need a medical.”

“Baylor’s car just left to go back to your location,” Dispatch said. “Should be there in five.”

“We’ll be waiting. Out.”

Hutch replaced the radio with a satisfied smile. Starsky hunched his shoulders, still cuffed and chained, feeling suddenly very naked without his leather jacket and holster. The jacket was in the closet upstairs. He was weary despite his elation. They’d have to go after Forest before he started wondering about Marlow’s disappearance.

Starsky leaned against the doorframe, watching Hutch’s blond hair gleam in the overhead light.

“You okay?” Hutch whispered, pulling Starsky into the hallway and letting the door close. He quickly unhooked the chain from Starsky’s cuffs, rubbing Starsky’s shoulders. “More flexible than Gumby.”

“Does that make you my pony pal, Pokey?” Starsky inhaled Hutch’s scent.

“I’ll show you ‘Pokey’ later.” Hutch buried his face in Starsky’s hair, surrounding him with warmth. “I know we planned almost everything, but I was still worried. We hadn’t figured on the chain…Once he showed up, I couldn’t come up with an excuse to take it off. When he insisted on chaining your hands behind you, I was afraid — ”

“Hutch, we got him.” That was too close, but there was no dwelling on it now. “What about Forest?”

“If the sound system picked up everything in my office, Dobey should have sent a team over to Camino Verde before we even got Marlow back here,” Hutch said, kissing Starsky’s mouth. “There are two warrants out for him for trafficking in Oregon, and another for a drug-related murder. We can hold him indefinitely.”

“You don’t want to take him down yourself?” Starsky asked in surprise, moving back slightly so he could get a good look at his partner.

“I did it once, and it felt damned good.” Hutch closed his eyes, relaxing for the first time that evening. “Now, as long as he’s off the street, I’m content to stay here with you.”

Starsky grinned. “We’d better monitor the police band. Car should be here any minute.”

“After you, partner,” Hutch smacked Starsky lightly on the butt. “Uh, maybe you should get some jeans on?”

“And my jacket,” Starsky agreed.

***

With Hutch’s help, Starsky quickly removed the slave gear before Linda arrived to pick up Marlow, and left the harness in the bedroom upstairs. Wearing what he thought of as his detective clothes — jeans, red Henley, and leather jacket — he and Hutch turned the prisoner over to Linda and a uniformed cop with a light heart. And a rumbling belly. The conquering heroes deserved a meal.

Sitting at the big kitchen table after inhaling a hearty sandwich Alice had put together for them, Starsky stared at Pony. The boy looked enough like him to be his son.

Pony — who insisted that was his real name — was demolishing his second massive sandwich. Hutch leaned on the kitchen counter, drinking coffee after polishing off his own food. Hutch glanced at the boy and then over at Starsky, catching his eye. Starsky toyed with the crust of his bread. It was eerie and just a little unnerving to see a younger version of himself, and it was obvious Hutch was affected, too.

Alice, Jasmine, and Candy sat around Pony like a trio of indulgent godmothers. Apparently, they’d been feeding him for almost an hour. None of them could bring themselves to ask the kid when was the last time he ate.

Alice found Pony a t-shirt that came to his knees and someone’s hot pants that looked like basketball trunks on him. At first, he refused to wear them because “Master Marlow don’t allow it.” But Alice finally convinced him that Master Hutch would. The boy kept tugging at the clothes, as though his skin was so unused to being covered that he couldn’t get comfortable. Dressed, his resemblance to Starsky at that age was even more unsettling.

Starsky exchanged another look with Hutch. Someone had to question the kid. Finally, he said, “Hey, Pony, do you remember Master Dunfey?”

It was the first thing anyone had said that made him stop chewing. He wouldn’t look directly at either man. After a pause, he swallowed the mass in his mouth and said quietly, “Is he coming here now?” He started to tremble.

“No, he’s not coming here,” Starsky said quickly. “He’s not coming here, ever. Pony, Dunfey’s dead.”

The boy stared round eyed at Alice, Jasmine, and Candy as though he couldn’t trust Starsky to tell him the truth. The women all nodded.

“You don’t know that,” Pony said to the three women. He couldn’t look Starsky in the face.

“Dunfey’s dead,” Starsky repeated. “I know because I killed him.”

That startled him. Pony looked directly at Starsky, his eyes huge, but he still seemed too afraid to believe.

“And Master Marlow ain’t comin’ back either,” Starsky added. “‘Cause, if he does, Hutch’ll kill him.”

The boy stared at Starsky, then at Hutch. Unmoving under Pony’s scrutiny, Hutch casually leaned on the counter, sipping coffee as though threatening to kill a slave owner was something he did every day. Dropping the rest of his sandwich, the boy launched himself at Starsky, wrapping his painfully thin arms around him so tightly, Starsky could barely breathe.

The women all had to look away, a few of them wiping tears.

He felt like he was hugging himself. “It’s okay, son,” Starsky murmured, feeling the boy’s trembling, silent sobs. Starsky had been victimized once by Dunfey and it scarred him forever. How many times had he damaged this boy? How many nights after Dunfey had this child cried himself to sleep in silence? How many nights had Starsky?

Alice stood to talk to Hutch. “You wanted to know when Malcolm and Seely were leaving. They slipped out of here while you were busy in the back with Master Marlow. They had a train to catch and couldn’t wait. They promised they’d call when they arrived.”

Hutch nodded. “I’m sorry I missed them.” The boys’ departure had obviously gone completely out of his mind with everything else that had happened tonight.

Starsky knew Hutch had given Alice two thousand in cash for the boys, plus a list of Abbey League contacts along their “underground railroad” that would help them get settled safely out of Bay City. Hutch was especially concerned that they be protected from unscrupulous people who would round up freed slaves and ship them illegally to Nevada. And the boys knew that they could always call Hutch directly for help. He’d done the same for Eli, when he left soon after Ariadne’s televised speech.

“What about the rest of Marlow’s…the rest of his house?” Hutch wasn’t about to call it his “stable.”

“Dinah went down there to scope it out,” Alice said. “His whole group is nothing but babies! Besides Pony, Marlow had three more boys in their young teens, a little girl that might be twelve, and a girl maybe fourteen in advanced pregnancy. She’s never seen a doctor!” Alice crossed both arms, her hands fisted as if she wanted to slug someone. “Dinah says there was nothin’ in the house to eat! So, I sent Petal down there with half our pantry. I didn’t think you’d mind, Hutch. They’re probably still cooking.”

Hutch smiled. “You did the right thing, Alice. That’s why you’re the manager. You always do the right thing.”

Pony pulled away from embracing Starsky, and rubbed the back of his hand across his mouth to clean off a smear of mustard. “I don’t want to go back there,” he said fervently. “There’s never any food. I can work. Help out here. Do chores and stuff. And Master Marlow says nobody sucks and fucks better ‘n me.”

The blood drained out of Hutch’s face. Starsky imagined that for Hutch, it must’ve been like going back in time and seeing fifteen-year-old Davey Starsky on the street saying that. “You don’t have to do that here, Pony. You don’t have to do that ever again.” Hutch’s voice was strangled, like he could barely talk.

The boy shrugged as if it were no big deal, and went back to his sandwich. Pony glanced at Starsky. “You really a cop?” he managed to say around another mouthful. He narrowed his deep blue eyes, obviously unconvinced.

“Yep,” Starsky answered.

“Even with…” Pony thrust his arm forward, middle finger raised, “a slave ring in your dick?”

Starsky was suddenly aware that every pair of eyes at the table were on him. Candy and Jasmine looked shocked that the boy would ask such a blatant question of Hutch’s personal slave without addressing Hutch first. The slave rules in this Lincoln house were clearly going the way of the dodo.

“Yeah,” Starsky said softly.

Pony chewed more slowly. “I don’t understand,” he said, taking a quick drink of milk to swallow.

Starsky shrugged. “Sometimes shit happens. I got snatched and pierced, just like you. It shouldn’t have happened, but it did.” A momentary flush of rage surged up, washing over him in a wave, and he had to fight to regain control. He didn’t want to resent Hutch, but the anger was obviously still lurking inside. Total forgiveness would take time. Starsky cleared his throat, seeing Hutch’s eyes on him, soft, sorrowful. The anger drained away. The love was still there.

Pony nodded sagely, then patted Starsky’s arm. “So cops can be slaves, too.”

“You know, you’re free now, Pony.” Hutch forced a smile, still eyeing Starsky cautiously. “You can stay here as long as you want, but you’re not a slave anymore.”

The boy shrugged as if those were just words. The food was real, the house was real, the people being kind to him were real. That seemed to be enough for now. Starsky knew there was no way to reassure him that his future was in far better hands. He’d been there. Pony needed to time to find his own way in his new life.

Pony ate everything on his plate, and poked at the crumbs of his third sandwich. “I ain’t never been full to bursting before,” he said, patting his belly.

“Well, then, time to get you settled in,” Jasmine exclaimed. She and Candy took him upstairs to get him bathed and find him a place to sleep.

“Damn,” Hutch said wearily, dropping into a chair when he was sure the boy was out of earshot. He scrubbed one hand across his face with a grimace. “What are we going to do with all these kids and a young pregnant girl?”

“Get her medical care first off!” Alice tapped the kitchen table, her nostrils flaring. “That’s just…what kind of a man doesn’t have the decency to give her proper, basic care! Even food!” She crossed her arms, blue eyes blazing.

“Never seen you so worked up, Mz Sweet,” Starsky said with what he hoped was enough charm to lighten the mood.

Alice pursed her lips and inhaled fast. “Bay City can’t change fast enough for me. Don’t know how I acquired this…rabble-rouser inside, but she’s raring to bust out. We need doctors who will care for…former slaves, doctors who have compassion.”

“And no Phenine,” Starsky muttered to himself. He grinned, heartened by the fire in Alice’s eye. “What’s that old Yiddish saying? From your mouth to God’s ear?”

Hutch sighed, looking overwhelmed. “I’ll call Manetti during the day, see what he recommends. In the meantime, we’ll close Marlow’s house for business, and Dinah and Petal…I mean, Patricia, can manage things there until we can get more help, or figure out what to do. We’ll find a doctor.”

“We’ve only got a limited time before this sting will burn itself out,” Starsky reminded him. “Sooner or later, Dunfey’s cronies will notice their business associates are disappearing.”

Just then the phone in the kitchen rang, terminating the discussion. Hutch lifted the receiver. “Hutchinson.” He looked at Starsky. “It’s Linda. She wants to give me some details on Marlow’s charges and get a quick statement from me over the phone. And she says Dobey wants to talk me after that. I’m going to take this in the office.”

Starsky nodded.

“Hold on, Linda,” Hutch said, hitting a button to transfer the call. Waving at them, Hutch hurried out, leaving Starsky and Alice alone.

Starsky smiled as she cleared the table and put the dishes in the sink.

“What’s on your mind, Starsky?” Alice plugged the sink to wash the dishes.

“I’ll dry,” he offered. He was stalling.

“I expected you to.” She added dish liquid and turned on the tap.

“Once Malcolm and Seely get to where they’re going,” Starsky started, trying to organize his thoughts, “how will they — ” He shrugged, taking the dripping plate she handed him. “Fit in? I mean, I know Hutch gave them contacts who will help them find places to stay, to work…but how can they put all this behind them when…they’ll still have their rings?”

“Oh.” Alice nodded without looking at him and applied herself to the dishes. “Y’know, the slavers worked really hard to make sure it was impossible to remove the rings without risking injuring or permanently scarring folks.”

Starsky wrinkled his nose. “So I heard.”

“But people kept tryin’. Some got badly cut, burned…” Alice looked down at her hands in the bubbles, her expression remote. “I had a friend, she was desperate to get out of the life and back to her kids. The process killed her.” Alice carefully washed a tea cup, placing it precisely on the drain board as if she had to rigidly control all her movements or shatter.

“Damn,” Starsky whispered, gently rubbing the back of her neck. That was the first time he’d noticed her narrow silver slave collar had no buckle or clasp. It had been soldered around her neck. His gut contracted, visceral reactions from his own piercing. Would it ever go away? His was recent, but Alice had been enslaved for a decade.

Alice inhaled deeply, straightening her shoulders. “Thank you, Starsky.”

“But now — ” Starsky started cautiously, feeling like he had to maneuver through treacherous waters. “I’ve heard a name. Phoebe?”

“A saint on earth.” Alice smiled. “Smart as a whip, if a mite eccentric.”

“She knows how to remove a ring without maiming?” Or worse, Starsky added mentally.

“That’s what they say. You want me to arrange a meetin’?” Alice asked with a wistful sadness in her eyes.

“If you know where she is,” Starsky asked, surprised as she was when the words came out of his mouth, “why don’t you don’t go?”

“It’s been so long.” Alice touched the circlet around her neck, the hoops in her nipples visible through the flimsy bathrobe she wore over the see-through teddy. “Maybe it don’t matter to me anymore, maybe because of my friend who passed, Ah don’t really know. Maybe it’s because Hutch finally gave me a home where I didn’t have to be afraid all the time. Gave me a purpose more than I’ through the day. Maybe that purpose will be even bigger now. And maybe there’ll come a day when I need to go up to Phoebe’s place in the foothills and pay her a visit.”

“Cup of tea, homemade cookies, and ring removal?” Starsky flicked a thumbnail as if he were tossing it away.

“Something like that,” Alice said, handing him a wet glass. “Is Hutch okay with it?”

He knew she meant removing his ring, and realized Alice had to have many questions about their relationship. That’s okay. He still did, too. He remembered Hutch wishing he could remove the ring almost as much as he wished he’d put it in himself, the right way. In his mind’s eye, Starsky saw a blue sapphire on a silver ring, like a guiding star, leading him to peace, and obliterating the last of his anger. “Oh, yeah. Hutch is fine with it. It was his idea.”

“Then, when do you want to go?”

Starsky slipped into the office quietly. Hutch was still on the phone.

“Thanks, Captain,” Hutch said, leaning against the desk in his office, rubbing his forehead. “They were able to pick Forest up?” He listened with a half smile, pumping his fist in the air. “Fantastic. Charges?”

Starsky plopped onto the couch.

“A team found a shipment of Superhero at a warehouse owned by Forest,” Hutch relayed, putting a hand over the phone’s mouthpiece.

Starsky grinned. Added to his outstanding warrants, that would keep his ass in the slammer.

“Yeah, I’m still here, Cap,” Hutch said, listening to Dobey. “Starsky was instrumental in busting Marlow.” He nodded absently. “Perfect. Two for us and one for Baylor on our first night. It feels good.”

Starsky watched his lover and thought about those terrible days after Forest. Maybe Hutch could finally put that nightmare behind him.

“We’ll meet with Minnie tomorrow, get her up to speed. We’ve got sound and video for her, too.” Hutch glanced at Starsky. His eyes were full of emotions. Starsky let them fill him from the inside out. “Thanks, Captain.”

“They picked up Forest?” Starsky asked, though sure of the answer from Hutch’s side of the conversation.

“Babcock and Simmons did. Said he had two naked blondes with him, both high as kites on Superhero.” Hutch bitterly tapped the inside of his left elbow. “The girls hadn’t even heard they were now free.” He sank down into the chair. “God, Starsk, sometimes I wonder about humanity’s level of depravity, and then I see what I did in the name of…” He held out his hands in resignation. “I don’t even know anymore.”

“You think too much,” Starsky murmured, coming into the V of his thighs. He fit his thumbs under Hutch’s jawbone to angle his face up. “I think…” he grinned at his minor joke, “it’s time to let that go.”

“You can do that?” Hutch asked incredulously, as if he’d re-convinced himself that he would never be completely forgiven. A sudden shy hope blossomed on his face, the fear that pinched the skin around his eyes easing.

Starsky kissed Hutch long and hard. Possessively. He watched Hutch’s eyes widen, then close in ecstasy. “I used to be so scared that you’d stop loving me — that I was constantly letting you down in some way I couldn’t really figure out.” Starsky kissed him again, enjoying the sensation of controlling Hutch — just a little. He’d learned so much about himself lately, that he could be a man: aggressive, strong, yet submissive and malleable. He was the sum of many parts; the teen years he’d tried to deny were as much a part of what made him who he was as his love of good food and his hatred for those who abused the helpless. “Now I know you were as scared as I was, for different reasons. We communicated so perfectly on the job and when we were hanging out that we never even considered — ”

“That we were stuck in one place,” Hutch finished, running both hands down Starsky’s sides to cup his buttocks, his long fingers coming around to rest on the crotch of Starsky’s jeans.

“From that first day, we both…played the same parts. I gave and you took, and I never pushed any further because going down on you — ” Starsky groped for the right words. He’d never allowed himself to dwell on this. Had he kept Hutch from probing too deeply into his past by controlling him sexually? If so, what right did he have to accuse Hutch of manipulating things? Had he given Hutch a blowjob from the start because he resembled Dunfey?

No.

Never.

“Going down on you terrified me, like I was falling back into to what I used to do, but…”

“Starsk.”

“I loved you — was in love with you instantly, like bein’ hit by lightning,” Starsky whispered into Hutch’s mouth, squirming to allow Hutch more access to his groin. He suddenly wished he was naked. “And in a weird way, it hurt and was heaven at the same time.”

“Yeah.” Hutch shared the same air with Starsky. Breathed life into him and accepted the breath Starsky returned. He surged to a standing position, clutching Starsky’s shoulders, then his head, kissing him passionately.

They stayed locked together for what seemed like an eternity, re-learning each other, finding exactly what aroused and what was simply ticklish. Starsky laughed, resting his cheek on Hutch’s shoulder. Hutch pushed his hands under Starsky’s jacket and shirt to finger his rib cage and armpits, causing fizzy sensations almost too intense to endure. But he liked it too much to put an end to the erotic torture.

Starsky slid his hands under Hutch’s soft cotton dress shirt, pressing both palms along his spine. His skin was warm, the muscles strong and vibrant.

Hutch held Starsky around the ribcage, firmly, as if he might lift him. “It was easier to pretend when we were at your house,” he said after a long time.

“What?” Starsky eased back, still keeping his hands on Hutch.

“Easier to pretend that I was…satisfied.” He shrugged, stepping back and dropping his arms to his sides.

Starsky let Hutch retreat. They were so in sync, but it was often easier to bare the soul with a few inches of space. Too warm, he took his leather jacket off and draped it over the end of the couch.

“Because, whenever we were together,” Hutch continued, “that was almost enough. We had fun together.” He reached out and Starsky matched his gesture, touching palm-to-palm. “You were good to me, Starsk. I was the one…”

“Old territory, babe,” Starsky said softly, feeling the heat of Hutch’s hand through to his center.

“At my house, all my fantasies crowded in on me.”

“Is that why you haven’t gone back there yet?”

Hutch raised his eyebrows with a wry twist of his mouth. “So much has been going on, it just seemed like one more thing on the to-do list that I could put off, but…yeah…you’re probably onto something.”

“Tell me those fantasies.” Starsky curled his fingers around Hutch’s, drawing him nearer.

“You know them.” Hutch ducked his head, looking at Starsky out of the corner of his eye.

“Tell me again. What was the very first one?” Starsky coaxed. “Do you still remember?”

“Yeah.” Hutch looked down Starsky’s body, lingering on the fly of his jeans.

Starsky felt the intensity of Hutch’s lust rush straight to his cock, which rose obediently, expectantly. He wanted skin-on-skin, the sooner the better.

“A couple weeks into the academy,” Hutch said, wetting his lips. “We’d already gotten under each other’s skins.”

Starsky chuckled, working the zipper of Hutch’s slacks down. “In more ways than one.”

“Got so I couldn’t walk into the showers in the gym without…feeling you on me, Starsk.” Hutch hissed when Starsky eased his slacks over his hips and past his buttocks to puddle around his ankles. “We had a class in taking down a suspect. How to restrain one, cuff him, all of it.”

Starsky reached into the slit in Hutch’s boxers to expose his cock. It pulsed in his hand, soft and hard at the same time. “I remember.” Lifting Hutch’s slacks so he wouldn’t trip on them, Starsky tugged Hutch back to the couch, and pushed him to sit down. Starsky liked this dynamic — he wore clothing and Hutch was half dressed. “You were the cop and I was the suspect. You had me down in under thirty seconds, with your knee in my back and — ”

He remembered the rush of adrenaline, which brought back the scent of the rubber floor mat and the crush of Hutch’s weight holding him down as Hutch pulled his arms behind him. Not painfully, the way Hutch might have if they were really arresting someone, but tightly — intimate. Starsky had heard the sound of other cadets slamming into the mats as their partners duplicated what he and Hutch were doing, but the click of the handcuffs around his wrists was still a shock. Hutch had hauled him up and Starsky had stumbled against him. That earned Hutch a lower grade because he held the suspect too close to his body.

“You in cuffs — I was hard the rest of the day,” Hutch murmured, reaching out to touch Starsky wherever he could. “I recalled that moment for — I don’t know — until we graduated, probably a lot longer than that.” He widened his thighs, giving Starsky more access, but Starsky concentrated on caressing Hutch’s corded leg muscles, working his way down to the curve of Hutch’s calf.

“You want to re-enact that historical scene?” Starsky offered. Hutch wasn’t the only one who was hard from the memory. He could almost imagine the rough, slippery texture of the mat against his skin…

“Now?” Hutch asked, the wistful tone belying the heady desire in his eyes.

With his fingers wrapped around Hutch’s knee, Starsky could feel his partner’s pulse thudding against the flat of his hand. “You got cuffs on you?” Starsky lightly frisked his partner, standing to touch Hutch’s shoulders, and put his mouth on Hutch’s. He knew the answer to the question. There were no cuffs in the slacks he’d just pushed down, and nowhere to hide cuffs in the breast pocket of Hutch’s pale blue shirt. Just to be sure, he nuzzled the soft fabric with his lips, biting at the nipple hidden underneath. No cuffs there.

But he knew where they were, had seen multiple pairs of the department-issued cuffs in Hutch’s desk drawer when he was looking for a pen. They were within reach. He shivered at the thought of those locked tightly around his wrists. Unyielding metal against his tender skin instead of the snug fit of the stiff leather cuffs he’d removed only a short time ago.

Once, being cuffed would have not have been such a turn-on. He’d never allowed himself to drop his standards all those years. No rough stuff. No force. No drugs. But this was totally different. This was Hutch.

Yanking up his slacks, Hutch came off the couch as fast as a cat, zipping up quickly. In one swift move, a hand wrapped around Starsky’s wrist, a knee jabbed into his abdomen, and then he was flat against the wall with Hutch looming over him, pinning his shoulders back. Starsky could have kicked out, probably fought, but he resisted, panting. He wanted this. No Phenine to fuck with his brain. No law claiming he had to submit to his master.

This was Hutch and Starsky, alone and free.

Starsky saw what he wanted to see in Hutch’s luminous blue eyes. Nodding once, he jerked violently, shoving Hutch. He scrambled away, arousal ratcheting up the tension. He never expected to make it to the sanctuary of the door and wasn’t surprised by his capture. Hutch took him down to the floor in a classic police academy-approved move that would have earned him a good grade.

“You have the right,” Hutch whispered in his ear, holding him down with a knee in his back, “to remain silent. If you do not — ”

Starsky struggled as he heard the crisp snick of the metal cuffs closing around his wrists. Incredibly sexy and intensely arousing. He wished he had the leather harness and cock cage on, restraining every part of him.

” — Want me to ravage you,” Hutch continued, “tell me now, or hold your tongue.”

“I’ll never talk, copper!” Starsky growled in his best Cagney impression.

Hutch was obviously not swayed by gangster impersonations. He laughed, low and sensual, dry humping against Starsky’s hip. “These jeans are coming off!”

“No!” Starsky protested, lurching and managing to rise to his knees.

Hutch held him close, his breath warm against Starsky’s cheek, puffing his hair.

“Listen, ossiffer,” Starsky mispronounced, using an old joke from their early days when being called officer meant something special. “I’ll bargain with you. I can tell you stuff…”

“There’s nothing about you I don’t already know just from looking at you.” Hutch ran his hand down Starsky’s taut body and wrenched his jeans down without unbuttoning the fly.

Starsky howled, his pierced cock trapped by the tight fabric for an instant too long before unbending with the recoil of a spring. That hurt and brought him perilously close to orgasm at the same time.

Hutch yanked once on the cuffs, reminding him of who was boss, and wrapped his big hand around Starsky’s cock. “Not wearing any underwear. Who taught you that trick, tiger?”

“Easier that way.” Starsky arched into the grasp, but Hutch reeled him back, almost stretching his penis in the process. Starsky panted, sweat slicking his body and plastering his shirt to his skin. Damn, this is hot. “Nothing to get in the way.” Starsky closed his eyes, reveling in the sensations pouring over him. His skin was tingling, his fingers twitching with the need to touch, to hold onto Hutch and never let go.

“Nothing at all,” Hutch agreed. He fisted Starsky twice, quick strokes that left Starsky on the edge of an abyss, hanging by his toenails.

“Huuutch!” Starsky cried out when he was granted no release, no climax. This was far, far worse than those times when he’d bring Hutch off and then get only a quickie hand-job in return during some interminable stake-out. This was bloody torture.

“We are marching upstairs to the bedroom,” Hutch said in his ear as if crooning love poems. He pulled the handcuff chain up, hauling Starsky roughly to his feet.

“Without my pants?” Starsky squeaked. His erection bobbed below his shirt.

“Mmm,” said Hutch. “You’re the one who didn’t wear underwear. No pants, no badge, no dignity!”

Without his hands to balance him, Starsky staggered back against Hutch and felt that big, steel hard cock dig into the small of his back, just above his ass. He almost lost it. “Give it to me!”

“Begging for it won’t earn you any privileges.” Hutch marched him out of the office and down the hall.

Alice waved, smiling sweetly when they passed the front room. She looked like she was glancing through the appointment book, but she didn’t say a word. Starsky wondered if anyone else had seen them, but he was being forced up the stairs before he could look.

Hutch pushed Starsky ahead of him, forcing him to take the steps two at a time. When they arrived at their bedroom, Hutch opened the door and shoved Starsky into the room without turning on the lights. The bed was a large dark shadow, the heavy foot and headboard deeper black shapes silhouetted in the dim illumination of a streetlight.

“Assume the position,” Hutch growled sternly. The cowboy had returned to reclaim his slave.

Starsky gasped when he landed face first on the bed with his feet on the floor and his bound arms bouncing uselessly behind him. He had no leverage and the stretch on the back of his legs was excruciating. Carefully turning toward his lover, Starsky bent his knees to relieve the strain. Anticipation was a live thing in his body, skittering around his chest. What was taking so long? This was still new and, while no longer terrifying, could bring back memories he didn’t want. Starsky concentrated on how good Hutch could make him feel. How alive — and adored.

The sound of a drawer opening and then a squoosh of something proved that Hutch’s hesitation had more to do with preparing himself than nerves. When he nudged between Starsky’s butt cheeks, the tensile strength of his erection was like an iron bar opening Starsky up.

“Oh, G-god…” Starsky stuttered, already flying.

Hutch entered him fast, far more quickly and forcefully than before. One moment Starsky was just Starsky, and the next he had sucked Hutch into his body, accepted him as part of his soul, filled to overflowing with love.

“So good, Starsk, so good.” The proof of Hutch’s devotion, tied up in one single utterance — Starsk. The ultimate evidence.

Starsky hadn’t heard wrong when he’d picked up the phone weeks ago. “Starsk, Dunfey just went into the warehouse on the corner of Ninety-first, where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there.”

Hutch had sent him a code only the two of them would ever understand. I love you. Despite everything that had happened, that remained a truism Starsky could never deny.

“Don’t stop, don’t stop!” Starsky chanted, stropping his cock against the bedspread in the hopes of coming. It wasn’t working — the fullness stretching his anus was too much of a distraction; he could barely get his brain working enough to concentrate.

Hutch thrust hard and rough. The force slid Starsky up the bed until the backs of his knees were screaming with pain again, but under no circumstances would he ask Hutch to stop. The metal cuffs dug into his wrists and his back, knocking against his spine as Hutch moved.

Keeping up a shuddering rhythm of rock forward and pull halfway out, Hutch took Starsky on the ride of his life. Just like being on a roller coaster, they climbed up and then spiraled downwards, never quite hitting the wall.

It wasn’t until Hutch shoved his hand under Starsky’s hips to grasp his cock that Starsky came, explosions caroming through his body, transporting him out of himself and into Hutch. He could feel the quake and clench of Hutch climaxing straight through him, finishing him off.

This passion, this utter bliss, this amazing experience of shared love would forever replace the memory of Dunfey’s rape.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked, rolling them over and spooning close.

“Babe,” Starsky said, shifting his shoulders to alleviate the strain from the cuffs. His wrists already ached, the skin slightly raw from scraping against the unyielding metal. He was surprised how little that mattered, and how much he wanted to stay just like this. “Master.” He turned into Hutch’s embrace. “Lover. All of the above.”

“All I need to know, love,” Hutch murmured, sleepily. “The key to the cuffs is in the office. I should run down and — ”

“No, don’t go. I’m terrific,” Starsky whispered into his neck. “Take ’em off in the morning.”

***

The knock on the door pulled Starsky out of sleep. For a moment, he wasn’t sure how long he’d been out. Didn’t seem like any time had passed and yet he was cold and stiff. The room was dark and still. Forgetting about the cuffs, he started to put a hand on the mattress to sit up and toppled sideways onto Hutch.

“Watch it!” Hutch hissed, pushing Starsky gently to one side.

The knock sounded more urgently.

“Coming!” Hutch called loudly, glancing at Starsky. “Who…?”

“It’s Alice,” she answered.

“Give us a second!” Starsky blinked when Hutch switched on the light. The clock on the nightstand showed only half an hour had passed. He rotated his neck and then his shoulders, the ache from the cuffs intensifying.

Hutch finally had his trousers snapped and was finger-combing his hair into some semblance of neatness when Alice peeked in. “Y’all decent yet?”

“Hardly ever decent, Alice,” Starsky chuckled from the bed, still a prisoner. He was handcuffed and bare-assed, but there hadn’t been any part of him Alice hadn’t seen earlier today. But maybe not as well used.

“What needs my attention?” Hutch asked, sounding resigned. He started in on the buttons of his shirt, missed a hole, and had to rebutton them from midchest to the bottom again.

Alice dropped a tiny key into his hand. “Thought you might need this,” she said straight-faced.

Starsky didn’t know whether he was embarrassed or amused. “It’s tomorrow already?” he joked feebly.

Hutch gave her a quick kiss on the cheek, then went to the bed and uncuffed his lover. As Starsky rubbed his wrists and moved his arms, Hutch covered his ass with a blanket. “What would we do without you, Alice?”

“Starsky’d still be locked in cuffs, that’s all Ah’m gonna say.” She leveled a finger at him, a glint in her eye.

“Any broken skin?” Hutch asked quietly, touching the marks on the inside of Starsky’s wrist.

“Just bruised. What else is new?” His wrists were red, but there was no blood.

Hutch glanced up at the clock. “This has been a long day and it starts all over again very soon.” He ran a finger lightly over his chest right above the open V of his shirt.

Starsky watched from under his lashes, amazed at how such a small but alluringly intimate gesture, could get his heart racing. He glanced at the red abrasions around both wrists, still surprised at what a powerful aphrodisiac the cuffs had turned out to be.

Starsky reached over, lifting the long hair at Hutch’s neck up to get to the warm skin underneath. “Babe, you’re dead on your feet. Come to bed.”

“Good advice, Handsome Hutch,” Alice said softly in the voice she reserved for only him, and slipped out the door, leaving them alone.

“I’m coming,” Hutch said, starting to shuck his clothes, letting them drop where they fell.

“Hurry up,” Starsky whined, stripping off his last piece of clothing, the red Henley. “It’s chilly and I’m naked. I need you to warm up the blankets.”

“So you can put your cold feet on me?” Hutch protested good-naturedly. “You should wear socks to bed.”

***

Starsky stared down at the gleaming black leather banding his wrists. Similar black straps were wrapped around his biceps, his thighs and ankles. He started to raise his left hand to his throat, because he could feel the constriction of a heavy, thick collar, but couldn’t lift his arm. He jerked a second time, ineffectually. Dark links of a sturdy metal connected all the leather bonds to the wall. Am I in the VIP room?

Starsky tried to turn his head to examine the room, but the curved sides of the posture collar limited the rotation of his head. He could only look straight ahead or downward.

Fear crept up his spine, his heart pounding against his breastbone. Where the hell am I?

“Did you think you could escape, Davey?” Neville crooned, his British-accented voice like a vile snake slithering around the edges of Starsky’s subconscious.

“I’m a free man,” Starsky insisted, straining to see the limey bastard in the dark, but shifting shadows and opaque waves of overlapping ink and obsidian made it impossible to see beyond where he was chained.

“Really?” Neville gave a high-pitched giggle. “Doesn’t look like it to moi.”

Starsky used all his strength against his bindings, but that only exhausted him. “Where’s the key?” he shouted. “What have you done to me?”

“Go back to where you came from, copslave,” Neville whispered in his ear, his breath warm as a Santa Ana wind.

Starsky shivered. “Where was that?” He tried to see the man behind him, but couldn’t turn his head more than an inch. The brick wall behind him scraped his naked, abraded butt, and the chains were cemented into the wall. How could Neville be back there?

“Ninety-first where it crosses Mission,” Neville whispered in Hutch’s voice. “Hurry. I’ll…”

Starsky gasped, desperate for air, something closing off his airway, and surfaced violently, rising out of the waves…Hutch’s arm fell away from where it was draped heavily over Starsky’s neck.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked sleepily, the sheets rustling when he turned.

Gulping in panicked breaths, Starsky felt his racing heart slow. Just a dream, that’s all it was.

“You all right?” Hutch touched Starsky’s face with his fingertips.

It was dark enough in the room that Starsky could only make out the pale whites of Hutch’s eyes. Neville was nowhere around. “I’m t’rrific.” Starsky turned toward the warmth that was Hutch and pulled the twisted blankets up to his chest. “‘M cold.”

“Told you to wear socks,” Hutch whispered into his ear.

***

In an establishment open until the wee hours, breakfast came around noon. Starsky woke with the certainty that he’d dreamed something disturbing, but wasn’t able to remember what it had been. He listened to Hutch singing Somewhere from West Side Story in the shower and the noises of others waking throughout the house. He lay in the sleep-warmed sheets to sort through what needed to be done in the short term. Long term was too far away right now.

Getting out of bed, Starsky padded over to the TV table, hoping Hutch wouldn’t use up all the hot water. He switched on the small TV and found a station with local news. Most of it was not very good. Although Ariadne Underhill’s rise to power had been accepted by a majority of Bay Citizens, protesters were still in the streets, some pushing for quicker social reforms, jobs, and economic rebound, to factions opposing Ariadne’s government. There was — luckily to Starsky’s way of thinking — no mention of the arrests of Ben Forest, Clyde Dyson, or Harlan Marlow.

“Anything we need to know?” Hutch came out of the steamy bathroom towel drying his hair.

“Straw polls put Ariadne’s ratings high among those who had been slaves and low income families struggling under the CEC’s fucking laws, but much lower for those who once worked for the Corporation or owned slaves.” Starsky rolled his eyes at the unsurprising results, appreciating the splendor of a half-dressed Hutch. His smooth chest gleamed, a stray drop of water adorning his right nipple like a gem.

“They’d better get used to it,” Hutch said, sounding grouchy. “Babe — ?” He caught Starsky’s eye and finally smiled, slow and erotic. He could read Starsky’s thoughts like a first grade primer. “We don’t have time, Starsk.” He pulled a green ribbed t-shirt over his head.

“When?” Starsky pretended to pout. He was well aware they couldn’t constantly indulge. He’d gotten more than he expected the day before. His wrists were still sore with patches of roughened red skin, but he relished the memories of Hutch restraining him.

Hutch chuckled, a weariness peeking through. “Tonight?” he suggested, “Late, after…”

After Starsky had spent the night on his knees, bait for Dunfey’s confederates. If ever there was a mood killer.

“I need to communicate with some Abbey members, set up meetings before I go downstairs.” Hutch bumped Starsky with his hip. “You all right? You were restless.”

Starsky grinned ruefully. “Made some decisions.”

“Oh?” Hutch waited a beat, obviously expecting to be filled in. When Starsky didn’t answer, he picked up the phone and started dialing.

Starsky wasn’t really sure of all the answers himself. He’d only come to one conclusion. He would slip away to Yee’s Jewelry store very soon.

Hutch was watching television when Starsky came out of the shower. He dressed and went downstairs, the tantalizing aromas of sizzling bacon and toast leading his nose.

Candy was at the stove, giggling about something Jasmine must have said. Both young women looked like they could have been college roommates, dressed in nearly identical blue jeans and clingy t-shirts. “Good morning!” Candy said brightly. “Can I get you something?”

“We made plenty.” Jasmine caught bread coming out of the four-slice toaster and slid it onto a plate.

“How are the new kids?” Starsky asked, pouring himself a cup of coffee to get his brain started.

“Marlow’s place should be condemned!” Candy said hotly. “It’s nothing like our house, nothing. That poor pregnant girl was practically starving.”

“With Patricia over there and your help, she won’t starve now.” Starsky gave her a gentle kiss on the cheek as he ate four slices of bacon on toast plus a banana. Hutch arrived in time to get the last three pieces of bacon. He ate standing up, leaning against Starsky’s shoulder. Feeling very loved and a little owned, which was unsettling and arousing at the same time, Starsky dug his elbow into Hutch’s side.

Hutch snickered, reaching over to take a drink from Starsky’s coffee cup.

“I can make more,” Candy offered with a twinkle in her eye.

“We’re good,” Starsky said.

“Mail’s here.” Alice came in and dropped a pile of envelopes on the table.

“Looks like bills.” Starsky poked through the stack. “I never thought about a brothel having to pay bills.”

“Takes a lot to keep a place like this runnin’,” Alice said, sifting out the grocery circulars and junk mail.

“With Marlow in jail, he’ll have to sell his place to pay his legal costs,” Hutch said. “We may be able to get the courts to pay his slaves severance pay or restitution, but it’ll take time.”

“Maybe you should buy the place,” Starsky suggested. “Fix it up. Turn it into a half-way house where kids like those can get education, social skills, therapy…”

Hutch looked at him pensively, smiling slightly, then finally settled into a chair to examine the mail. He put aside phone and electric bills and then stopped. Picking up an envelope of expensive heavy stock, he ran a finger under the flap and took out a gilt-edged note.

Starsky felt his partner’s tension from two feet away while he was pouring more coffee. Hutch had gone very still. “Hutch?” he asked softly.

Alice stopped what she was doing, too.

Hutch took a deep breath the way he did when he was meditating, then pinched his nose, inhaling slowly. “This is from Harriet Roget.” He looked directly at Starsky, anger and guilt coloring his words. “She’s proposing a merger, like she had with Dunfey. And wants to buy you — and all the other livestock I have on hand, as she puts it.”

“A merger?” Starsky asked, his balls retracting at the thought of having to deal with her.

“I didn’t — I didn’t think this would be so difficult,” Hutch started, his eyes haunted. He stood up stiffly, jerked open the freezer door and took out a bottle of vodka. Splashing some into a glass of orange juice, he drank it like taking medicine. Clutching the glass so tight it should have shattered, he shook his head.

Candy, Jasmine, and Alice stopped smiling and sat unmoving, as if understanding something menacing had appeared at the table.

When Starsky opened his mouth to comment, Hutch cut him off with a sharp jerk of his hand. “And don’t say ‘you started this,'” Hutch ground out, raspy as a rusted gate. “I know where it began, and I need to stop this damned insanity before it empties us both out.”

“So do I,” Starsky whispered, plucking the glass from Hutch and swallowing the rest of the alcohol. The vodka burned, opening his sinuses and loosening the tightness in his chest with wonderful warmth. “Hutch, this is how we can cut the supply lines back to Nevada.”

“She’s Harry, right?” Alice asked quietly. Candy and Jasmine remained still, deer in the headlights of an onrushing train.

Starsky had almost forgotten the women were there. From Hutch’s startled expression, so had he.

“She probably ain’t gonna come here again,” Alice said logically.

“No.” Hutch frowned, his shock subsiding as he thought about what Starsky said. He massaged the back of his neck. “She wants a business transaction and contracts. Then she’ll retreat to Nevada, unreachable.”

“So we have to get her while she’s in BC,” Starsky stated.

Hutch dropped his hand over Starsky’s left one, rubbing gently. “We have to work through official channels, so she doesn’t have a prayer of getting out on a technicality.”

“With Manetti and Dobey in on all details,” Starsky said after a long moment, cherishing their connection.

“And bring her down along with the rest of Dunfey’s organization,” Hutch finished. “Then this place officially closes as a slave house.”

“Hallelujah,” Alice said.

“My final act as master of Lincoln House Seven will be to sign the deed over to you, Alice.” Hutch looked directly at her.

Alice rocked back in surprise. “Ah didn’t expect that, Hutch!”

Starsky grinned. At least that was something good to look forward to as they prepared to deal with Roget.

“I know you didn’t, and it’s not half what you deserve.” Hutch stood up as if suddenly instilled with nervous energy. “And it won’t happen tomorrow, but just know that it will.”

***

Hutch spent the early afternoon making phone calls to Dobey and Underhill-Blaylock in between dealing with some pressing issues regarding Dunfey’s territory. He wiped all emotion off his face with a smooth, tough mask when listening to the complaints of some of Dunfey’s thugs and bookmakers. He’d record details regarding their latest illegal transactions, and then relay the information to Dobey’s office. Dobey would set up surveillance and wait for the right time to take action to prevent anyone from connecting Hutch with the bust, but with a little planning, they would shut down a lot of criminal activity in a short time.

Starsky dealt with any fears he had about Harriet’s whereabouts with good old-fashioned investigating. He made a few calls of his own, and ferreted out some of his old snitches. It took surprisingly little to convince them he was no longer a cop. Word of his enslavement had spread along with Hutch’s new role.

Itchy Pete might not know a thing about high-end dealers like Harriet Roget, but he knew the pulse of the street. He could identify a couple of middlemen who’d deal in slaves. Starsky and Hutch needed to pinpoint the dealers Marlow had contacted for more slaves. Which is why Starsky ended up across the street from the old Pits at Steve’s Sandwich Fixin’s, a tiny hole in the wall, buying a ham on rye for Itchy Pete.

“Matt Ball,” Itchy said between mouthfuls. “He’s still around. A buncha guys bugged out for Nevada. Ain’t the best atmosphere for slavers around here, if ya get my drift.” Itchy glanced in the direction of Starsky’s groin.

“Yeah,” Starsky agreed dryly, feeling like his ringed cock was on display instead of tucked neatly behind denim. He’d gotten sidelong glances from a couple of hoods on the street already. “Which is why my master…” He pretended to stumble and remember that “master” wasn’t an appropriate term any longer. “Hutch needs suppliers soon, before they’re all gone. We heard about a couple of guys, but nobody’s come out of the woodwork.”

“Try Cox over in Chinatown.” Itchy poked at a bit of meat stuck in his teeth with a dirty fingernail. “He gets merchandise from out of the country and knows what hands to grease to slide his imports through the docks.”

Starsky raised his eyes casually as if reading the hand-printed menu above the counter. Seated at the next table, Minnie Kaplan, in plain clothes, munched on tuna on whole wheat with a dill pickle on the side. She chewed absently, meeting Starsky’s eyes briefly before going back to her newspaper. The headline said, “Underhill Takes Charge,” with a picture of Ariadne signing some official document.

He refocused on Itchy. “Thanks, man. Righteous information.” Starsky slid a twenty across the table and took Itchy’s unopened bag of potato chips.

Itchy made the Jackson disappear and left just as quickly.

Starsky ate the potato chips slowly, waiting for Minnie to collect her purse and newspaper and walk out. He joined her as she was crossing the street. “Nice to see you out and about, Sergeant Kaplan. Snazzy threads.” He wasn’t used to seeing her trim figure in a slim red skirt and tailored rayon blouse. Without looking at her, he handed a small package of audio and video tapes.

She slid them into her bag surreptitiously. “Dirty boy,” Minnie said out of the side of her mouth. “You would want to meet in one of the skuzziest dives on this block.”

“But they make such a fine sandwich!” Starsky walked past the Pits with a pang of longing and wondered how Huggy was making out in Arizona.

“If I come down with salmonella, it’s on your head.” She wrinkled her nose. “I got your whole conversation on tape. We’re stretched pretty thin, but somehow we’ll set up surveillance so we can round up those bastions of society when their ‘deliveries’ come in.” She tucked her BC Herald under Starsky’s arm. “The article on page six has everything you wanted to know. I got to run!” She dashed down the street as a city bus pulled up to the stop.

Starsky sauntered more slowly to the convertible parked around the corner, flipping to page six. Minnie had hidden copies of investigation reports on several of Dunfey’s ex-cohorts as well as some background on Harriet Roget — including the address of Roget’s rented house. It had not been on the note she’d sent to Hutch.

Four-sixty Rio Caballo. Only five miles away. The thought of her being that close made his skin crawl.

Starsky navigated out of the downtown area to Hillcrest where the hoi polloi resided. The roads were steep and twisted, with large stretches of open space between homes. Some places even had stables or tennis courts. Starsky took a right onto Rio Caballo and cruised past 460, a large white colonial style mansion with columns flanking the front door. It stood elegant and old-worldly, without a hint of what dark things might be going on inside. None of the vandalism that had damaged his hillside neighborhood was evident. The people here lived privileged lives.

It took seconds to drive pass the house; he couldn’t see any activity. No cars parked in the circular driveway. Starsky continued to the top of the winding road, passing other expensive homes, before he turned around in the cul de sac. Driving downhill again, he kept his eyes peeled for Harriet or Anton.

He was approaching four-sixty’s entrance when, without warning, a heavy white horse trailer pulled out of Roget’s blind driveway and lumbered onto the roadway in front of him.

Starsky hit the brake, shuddering. At the sight of the horse trailer sweat instantly beaded his forehead and down his spine. Images of being captured and shoved into the back of a similar vehicle swamped his brain, taking over all coherent thought. A sharp stabbing pain in his cock locked him in place, unable to do anything but ride the terrifying waves to the finish.

His mouth as dry as dust, Starsky came back to himself with the memory of Neville’s lips against his ear. “Did you think you could escape, Davey?”

Starsky heard those words over and over in his head, even while he and Hutch were going over Minnie’s reports in the office. Dobey called to tell them that a team had put wire taps on the phones in the Lincoln house so that he could monitor conversations and get useful information directly. They simply didn’t have enough trustworthy cops to cover all the jobs, but Starsky suspected that Dobey was getting a kick out of being on active duty. He could hear it in Dobey’s voice when he and Hutch did their daily check-ins.

Aware that Dobey was listening in and taking notes, Hutch went fishing to reel in some of the slave dealers that had quickly gone underground after emancipation.

“You want my money for your livestock, Ball?” Hutch said harshly into the phone. “You play by Hutchinson’s rules. You want slaves to buy or sell, I’m the most lucrative game in town. I’ll tell Cox the same. Yeah, I’ll meet your price if you’ve got the merchandise.”

Starsky smiled, the familiar adrenaline sizzling in his brain more of an aphrodisiac than Phenine had ever been. He wanted to jump this aggressive, sexy Hutch right in his office.

Starsky thought about what they’d managed to accomplish in only a few days. Seeing Pony free to eat as much lunch as he could — shoveling food like any preteen, was wonderful. He wondered if the hollow-bellied kid would ever feel full. Alice and Hutch were working on a practical schedule on how to manage the clientele, as long as they still had some. With Eli, Malcolm, and Seely gone, they were having trouble covering shifts.

“I can work to pick up the slack,” Pony said casually around a mouthful of potato salad. “Ain’t like I — ”

“No,” Hutch and Starsky had said instantly at the same time. Hutch had smiled at Starsky, the first real connection they’d had since breakfast. There had been so much to do, so many details to juggle that they’d barely spoken. But the link that kept them forever forged together was back again.

After Hutch finished giving Cox the same spiel, he talked strategy with Dobey. Starsky perched on a corner of the desk beside him, listening in. “I think Cox is the one with the line on the ‘shipment’ of underage slaves Harlan Marlow had been waiting for. He’s greedy. You can hear it on the phone.”

“I did hear it,” Dobey said. “I can’t tell you how much I’m looking forward to nailing these two and rescuing those kids. By the way, Edith sends her love. She’s working with Minnie in the squadroom, taking over some of the paperwork, not to mention filing, that Minnie doesn’t have time for right now. She’s part of our new civilian volunteers, until we can get a new class of Academy graduates and start expanding the force with honest cops.”

Hutch laughed. “Better be careful, Cap. She’ll be taking over your office next.”

“She can have it. I haven’t enjoyed police work this much in thirty years. And you should see Edith. She’s got Babcock and Simmons jumping. The squadroom’s reorganized, and no one would dare hand in a messy report.”

Starsky chuckled. He was glad he and Hutch were still on the street. Two Dobeys in the squadroom was a frightening thought.

“Listen, you two,” Dobey said, “Manetti wants to meet with us so we’re all on the same page on this sting to take down Harriet Roget.”

Just her name was enough to chill Starsky’s good humor. “When and where?”

“Manetti’s old office at the Bay City Buccaneers, after you’re done there tonight,” Dobey said. “Can you make it at one a.m.?”

“Yeah,” Hutch agreed. “Traffic will be slow here and Alice can handle the clients that do show up. We’ll be there.”

“See you then.” Dobey hung up.

“What do you think?” Hutch asked, running a hand down Starsky’s back in a comforting gesture as old as their friendship.

Starsky wanted to unknot Hutch’s gold tie, toss it aside and unbutton the paler gold shirt beneath to stroke Hutch’s chest. “About the meeting or taking down the wicked witch of the west?”

“Both, either?” Hutch’s eyes were fastened on Starsky’s; each of them needed the touch.

“She’s that brass ring Alice was talking about,” Starsky said honestly.

“I’m scared for you, Starsk.” Hutch’s voice was husky with tightly held emotion. “She’ll want you alone.”

“Yeah.” Starsky clasped his hand. “You better not let that happen.”

***

“Gentlemen,” Manetti greeted them, standing in front of a huge picture of the team’s current line-up in the lobby of the building.

Starsky was dismayed to realize that he couldn’t remember when he’d last watched football on TV. Many cities, states, and territories had their own teams, but travel in the former United States was so fraught with restrictions and paperwork that most teams limited play to rivals within their own borders. While the Buccaneers were a first ranked team within Southern California, the game suffered from the lack of competition.

Glancing at Hutch, Starsky wondered what was going on in his head. His partner had been in a dark place since getting the note from Roget. Neither of them liked the idea of confronting that formidable woman. But taking down Dunfey had opened a door to her empire. They would never have known about her had they not followed the trail through Roschenzky and Dunfey. Had Starsky’s enslavement been a key that fit into this particular lock?

“I didn’t know you knew Gary Manetti personally, Hutch,” Dobey said, with that slightly goofy voice he got when meeting celebrities.

“We met through the Abbey League,” Hutch said, relaxing slightly. “Never been to the big man’s offices, though.”

“You were the Buccaneer’s legal council after you stopped playing, right?” Dobey asked, shaking Manetti’s hand a little too long. “My son Cal is a huge fan.”

“Nice to hear I still have fans, Captain Dobey,” Manetti said graciously, releasing the captain’s hand.

“Harold,” Dobey insisted.

“How old is your son?” Manetti asked.

“He’s at Bay City University,” Dobey said with pride. “Playing on the varsity team.”

“I’m primarily at Underhill-Blaylock now,” Manetti said, running a hand over his bald head. He was dressed down for the night in a casual open necked golf shirt and brown slacks almost the exact shade of his skin. “Ariadne has me and my staff going through every single law the CEC enforced. We can’t ditch them without knowing the extent of what each one entailed. It’s an immense job.”

“And you’re the immense man for the job.” Starsky punched his thick bicep. He didn’t use his whole strength, but most men would have flinched.

Manetti swatted him away as if he were a fly. “Watch it, little guy,” he said cheerfully. “We’ll use the conference room in the back. If I need to call Ariadne, that phone’s secure, but I don’t think she needs to be included at this stage. Though, believe me, she wants to know every detail of our plans.”

The four men gathered around a polished oval table in a large room; Starsky and Hutch on one side with Dobey and Manetti on the other. It was a typical conference room, well appointed with pitchers of water and a phone, but no windows, only enormous posters of Buccaneer players. The logo, a jaunty pirate with a black tricorn hat and a gold tooth, appeared in every picture.

Starsky dumped the Roget file Minnie had given him next to another manila folder Dobey brought. Starsky felt safer here in a room without windows; no one could look in on them or take aim with a long-range rifle. Harriet’s note had given him the eerie sensation that he was being watched. It was bad enough he had to appear nude every night in front of others. Now, even dressed, he felt vulnerable.

“We received this note this morning,” Hutch said, handing the gilt-edged card to Dobey. He waited until both the captain and Manetti read the short message.

“Livestock.” Manetti grunted with a twist of his mouth. “Harriet sent a carefully worded congratulations to Ariadne after the press conference, but Ari wants to distance herself from this woman.”

“She wasn’t even on our radar,” Dobey said, frowning, steepling his fingers. “But because of our recent access to the CEC’s computers, we were able to trace her rise in their inner structure. She has an extensive background in law and business, but the downfall of the CEC and Dunfey’s death has interrupted her plans. I suspect that’s why she’s reaching out to you, Hutch. And I think she wants Starsky because Dunfey did. She’s a prime manipulator.”

“She’s a first-class bitch,” Starsky snarled.

Hutch glanced at him, half a reminder to watch his language in front of Dobey, half a question. How much did they admit to in front of their captain? Dobey would never learn everything that went on after Starsky left the squadroom that Tuesday under Roschenzky’s eye — and it was better for all of them that he didn’t.

“Ariadne has known Harriet for a while. She’s type A, all aggressive ambition and forward momentum.” Manetti considered his next words. “With Dunfey gone, she plans to step into that gap. Bay City’s emancipation has seriously impacted her business. It’s no secret other states and territories want to do the same. Ariadne’s made it clear she’ll only do business and encourage trade with slave-free areas. Quite a few territories are discussing mergers. They like her tough stance, and the way Bay City is rebounding under her rule. All of this negatively effects Harriet. On top of that, she’s not happy that Hutchinson stole her thunder in Dunfey’s organization. She won’t be happy until Hutch is under her thumb. And yes, she also — ”

“Wants Starsky on a rack.” Hutch flicked the card Dobey held in his meaty fist.

“It could be more than that. This could be a set up for her to enslave both Starsky and Hutch.” Dobey glanced between them, his brown eyes solemn. “What Mr. Manetti says collaborates what we’ve learned. Roget is scrambling to grab every scrap of Dunfey’s organization she can. Authorities in Nevada who are interested in democratic rule tell us she’s paying top dollar for drugs, weapons, and slaves. The people working to end the slave trade in that state and restore democracy are concerned that she wants to isolate Nevada and make it her personal fiefdom.”

“I’ve heard from people formerly in Dunfey’s pocket.” Hutch nodded, clearly troubled. “They’re interested in her money and prestige. Dunfey named me his successor, which bore weight with many of his constituents, but not all of them. Once I step out of the middle — ” He looked over at Starsky as if unable to tear his eyes off him.

A wave of love slammed into Starsky, Hutch’s fears and desperation filling him up. They were both scared. Hutch did not want to do this.

But they had to — didn’t they?

Would it be possible just to run? Take off like Malcolm, Seely, and Eli, and abandon Bay City? Starsky wanted to quit, but never would. People depended on them to right what went wrong, to change things for the betterment of others. He inhaled past the lump in his throat.

“Minnie located the house — and Starsky checked out the neighborhood,” Hutch told them.

He nodded. “Her place looks quiet enough. It’s tough to get in close. It’s in one of those canyons with houses on both sides, but far apart, and nothing but wilderness behind. Didn’t see any personal vehicles parked in the driveway. She’ll have her slave, Anton, with her, but whether she brought a party is anybody’s guess. She only took the slave to Dunfey’s.”

“She usually travels alone except for Anton and sometimes a business assistant,” Manetti said. “She’s the ultimate control freak. Manages her own dealings, writes her own iron-clad contracts, and handles every aspect of the deal. I’ve never seen her use a go-between or travel with body guards or security. She lives alone except for slaves, never been married, never even had what could pass for a normal human relationship, unless you consider her liaison with Dunfey, though that was more like a power merger. She likes her privacy…” he trailed off as if letting them consider what life alone with Harriet must be like for her slaves.

Hutch pulled out a map, poking a finger at the location. Hutch broke the silence suddenly, as if he couldn’t keep the thought any longer. “Captain, there has to be some way to bring her into custody without involving Starsky.”

Manetti drummed his fingers on the tabletop. “I’ve looked at all the paperwork, Hutch, everything that’s public. She’s careful. We don’t have enough to bring charges against her with what we currently have.”

“What about a deeper investigation — going through her business dealings, finances,” Hutch said desperately. His shoulders were rigid, his hands clenched in tight fists. “Bring in the FBI. Agent Dolesky knows her.”

“They’re already involved,” Dobey said gently, patting the file folders. “They’re following her money trail, but that will take time. If she leaves Bay City and gets ensconced in Nevada, it could take years to stop her. How many people will fall prey to her in the meantime? How many will she ship to Nevada destined for her training facilities? If we can catch her in the act right now, dealing slaves in Bay City, it will be a solid arrest, with charges that will stick. We can keep her here while Dolesky builds a case that covers multiple states and territories.”

“Yeah,” Starsky said.

“As much as I hate to suggest this,” Manetti said to them, “realistically, the same set up that worked in Phoenix would be best here. Respond to her advances with Starsky on a leash — ”

Dobey winced, his face stormy. “I have reservations about putting Starsky in a subservient position — ”

“It’s what she’ll expect,” Starsky ground out.

Manetti nodded in agreement. “Hutch should meet with her purely to discuss business. She’s already asked to buy your ‘stock.’ You know she’d pay top dollar for Starsky. Play it out. Suggest that for the right incentive, you might agree to a merger. If you can get her to sign papers and transfer money, we can nail her on human trafficking, illegal commerce, smuggling, conspiracy to participate in organized crime, and maybe, with Dolesky’s help, even conspiracy to overthrow a legitimate government — Nevada’s. But I think our best shot is to appeal to her basest desires for power. Offer the one thing she wants that only you have. Tell her you’ll consider selling Starsky to her — and be prepared to deal with a ruthless woman who knows all the angles.”

“That’s what I’m afraid of.” Hutch grimaced. “She knows more about not just the slavery business but how to capture people, enslave them, how to move them, and train them.”

“And we embarrassed her,” Starsky admitted. “She escaped Dunfey’s before the police moved in, but at a cost to her — ”

“Self-esteem.” Hutch bared his teeth. “We made her look vulnerable. She hasn’t forgotten that. And she wants what she considers hers — Dunfey’s territory and Dunfey’s prize — Starsky.” Hutch traced his finger along the map to her home. “If this goes bad, Starsky could end up enslaved for real — ” There was naked pain in Hutch’s voice.

“And she wouldn’t keep Hutch around any longer than she had to,” Starsky finished. “She knows he’s dangerous. I don’t think she’d pierce him. He’d be — ” The thought gripped his heart.

“Dead,” Hutch said woodenly.

“It’s a considerable risk.” Dobey grunted, folding his hands over his rotund belly. “Is it worth…?”

“She has so much power and influence.” Manetti opened up a folder and brought out a page listing her holdings. “She’s not just involved with Luna, which is lucrative on its own, but she runs companies, import/export operations she uses as a cover for smuggling — ”

“Reminds me of James Gunther,” Starsky muttered.

Hutch moved closer so that their arms touched from elbow to wrist. It felt good, grounding. Hutch stroked the reddened place on Starsky’s left wrist with his right pinkie, sending a silent apology for the injury.

“Stopping her could negatively affect the whole slave business. Fracture it into parts that will be easier to bring down,” Manetti continued. “Other traffickers and trainers watch her. If we could shut down her slave training facilities, that alone would halt multiple criminal activities. Nevada’s economy, which is largely based on these illegitimate enterprises, could be seriously damaged. They may share a border with us, but their current official government’s philosophy diverges with Ariadne’s on every issue.”

“Cutting off the flow of slaves directly impacts the trainers, the sales, the whole infrastructure,” Hutch agreed. “You don’t have to sell this to me. But I’m deeply concerned about Starsky going in as a slave.”

Naked, Starsky thought.

“No place to put a wire on him, no way to plant bugs in the house she’s renting.” Hutch ticked off on his fingers. “We need assurances that there will be back-up in place, surveillance.”

He’s talking himself into the assignment. Starsky expected as much. It was frightening, nonetheless.

“How do you propose to set this up, Hutchinson?” Dobey asked formally. “I can’t move forward without knowing what manpower and equipment we’ll need. Your current operation is already stretching us pretty thin.”

“I’ve seen the house.” Starsky picked up an architectural drawing of the interior of 460 Rio Caballo. “Minnie included blueprints of the place. It’s a simple lay out. Colonial style, it’s difficult to see in with a long range scope because of the narrow windows in front. Space all around; nowhere to hide a surveillance team.

“But apparently no fence, either?” Manetti mused, examining the photo of the house stapled to the plans.

“Right,” Starsky said, remembering the horse trailer. “There could be an internal alarm system, or something more sophisticated like electric fields in the boundaries. I didn’t go in close.”

“I’ll get on that,” Dobey said, starting a list. “The power company will have records of extra wattage pulled at that house. Hutchinson, I don’t think you can get away with wearing your gun, but you can go in wired.”

“Because, obviously, I can’t,” Starsky said calmly, feeling like the thick leather harness was already buckled in place.

“I want a car phone,” Hutch said decisively. “Since they’re basically walkie-talkies, they’re easy to monitor.”

Dobey scratched out a note.

“What are you thinking?” Starsky turned to his partner, completely tuning out Dobey and Manetti. His heart sped up, whether from adrenaline-laced fear or just from being close to Hutch, he wasn’t sure.

“You won’t like it,” Hutch said grimly.

“Depends on whether I get to stop for donuts when this is over,” Starsky quipped, and listened to his partner’s plan.

Starsky carried two cups of coffee into Hutch’s office, and kicked the door shut behind him. “You ready?” he asked, setting Hutch’s mug in front of him.

“As I’ll ever be.” Hutch ran his fingertips over the gilt-edged card, but he was looking straight at Starsky. “How about you?” Hutch’s blue eyes held him, never wavering.

“Put her on speaker phone.”

Hutch nodded, dialing swiftly. He pressed the speaker button. Harriet Roget’s phone rang four times.

With every jangle, Starsky’s nerves ratcheted up a notch.

“Ms Roget’s residence,” a deep voice answered.

Starsky recognized Harriet’s huge slave, Anton.

“This is Ken Hutchinson,” Hutch said with authority. “I received a card from your mistress.”

“She’s been waiting for your response, sir. I’ll bring her the phone.”

“Mr. Hutchinson!” Harriet’s melodic timbre slid through the wire like notes to a Bach concerto.

How could such an evil bitch have such a beautiful voice?

“I was intrigued by your note,” Hutch said, emotions flitting past his eyes that discounted his words. “I’m open to discussing your idea of a partnership,” Hutch continued, speaking too quickly for her to get in a word. “It’s getting harder to work around Underhill’s new regulations. I think I’d like the — shall we say, protection — of a committed group of owners, trainers, and dealers that you’ve organized. And of course, I’d like assurances that we have the same goals and plans for growth.”

“I’m pleased to hear that. I expected to have to coax you into a deal. You know, of course, I want to buy all your stock — and that house.”

“Directly managing this…business is taking up too much of my time. Like Jack Dunfey, I’m looking for more opportunities than just dealing in slaves. I want to diversify. But I’d prefer to talk about this in person, perhaps discuss a partnership that would be mutually beneficial.” Hutch’s expression grew grim. “Could we meet? I’d suggest Lincoln house, but it’s not the best atmosphere for discrete negotiations. Could we meet at your location, at your convenience, of course?”

“I think that’s a fine idea.”

“This afternoon?” Hutch persisted.

“That’s too soon. I’ll need time to prepare. Tonight at seven would be better for me. I’m at 460 Rio Caballo. I’m sure you can find it. I look forward to discussing our new business venture, Ken. I’ll expect to see your Davey — exactly as he was at Jack’s, wrapped in leather. A little incentive, let’s say.”

“Until seven,” Hutch said in closing. The click on her end signaled the end of the conversation.

“Until seven,” Starsky echoed, looking at the hand he’d clenched around the handle of the coffee cup. He was trembling. He clamped his right hand over his wrist to hold it steady, grateful to feel skin instead of leather bonds.

A rap on the door startled them both. Starsky sloshed coffee on his jeans. Luckily, it wasn’t hot. Hutch dropped the receiver and fumbled it back onto the base as if he’d never hung up a phone before.

“Come!” Hutch called, standing to grab the knob, but Alice shoved the door open at the same time and smacked him in the forehead. “Damn!” He rocked back, rubbing his head.

“Hutch!” Alice reached out to catch him before he stumbled over the trash can by the desk. “What happened?”

“Nimble-McHutchinson strikes again.” Starsky smirked, glad of the distraction. “Hutch versus the door.”

“Never mind,” Hutch said irritably. “You need the office, Alice?”

“No, but we’ll be having one less mouth to feed soon.” Alice beamed. “Actually, one and a half.”

“What’d you mean by that?” Starsky asked, his voice squeaking quite unmanly-like. He cleared his throat when Hutch threw him an amused glance.

“I talked to Minnie,” Alice said. “She was able to track down the father of the young pregnant girl Marlow was keepin’. Minnie said it wasn’t really hard to do. She’s tryin’ to find families of some of those other kids.” Alice crossed her arms over her t-shirt that said, Underhill for Queen — or president. “The girl’s father desperately wants her back. He’s been searching for her. The slavers kidnapped her right outta his home. Minnie checked him out. The family’s fine. He knows about the pregnancy. He’s ready to give her and her baby a good life.”

“That’s terrific,” Starsky said. “Alice, you should take her shopping. Get some new clothes, stuff for the baby? Hutch’ll be glad to fork out the dough.”

“I will, huh?” Hutch chuckled. The haunted expression he’d had while talking to Harriet Roget was gone. “It would be my pleasure.”

“Oh, Hutch,” Alice breathed, grinning, “that’d be so nice. She don’t own a thing herself.”

“Makes having to deal with Marlow worthwhile,” Hutch said with a satisfied smile. “Getting them back into their normal lives.”

“Talking about Marlow’s place, that’s a service it could provide,” Starsky mused. He preferred thinking about reuniting families than walking into Harriet Roget’s den.

“Hmm?” Hutch walked to the wall safe and dialed a combination.

“Locatin’ loved ones!” Alice jumped in with the answer. “It’s exactly what many ex-slaves need, Hutch.”

“Good idea.” Hutch brought out a stack of greenbacks from the cache and peeled off several large bills. He handed those to Alice and kept the bulk of the money for himself. “And while this — ” he pocketed the cash, “will go far, if we’re going to run a foundation like that, we’ll need funds from the city or wealthy donors.”

“Article in today’s paper says the city’s in the red,” Alice said, tucking the shopping money in her bra with a teasing smirk at Starsky. “There isn’t enough to pay the debts Cosgrove accrued, much less rebuild the city, or feed the poor and ex-slaves who have nothin’.”

“Sounds like the CEC,” Starsky said cynically, dropping down onto the couch. “Pay out bribes, buy lotsa caviar and whisky, and neglect the basics like paving the streets.”

“Manetti told me,” Hutch said, “that Ariadne’s spending the bulk of her time negotiating with other free states and territories. The CEC wanted to monopolize all trade strictly for their benefit. She’s opening the doors for free trade again, and since the city’s broke, she’s even using the barter system to try to get us in the black, get trade flowing, which will help the whole economy.” Hutch sat at his desk, propping his chin on one hand. “If we want Lincoln Street to segue from a bunch of brothels to a respected center where citizens can find shelter, aid, therapy, and assistance, you’ll have to learn to fundraise, Alice.”

“You mean shakin’ my tush on the corner of Main ain’t goin’ to cut it any longer?” She rolled her eyes, dismissing her past life in a single moment. “What do we have to do?”

“Write proposals — persuasively. Show the government and people with cash to invest in a worthy cause that you can manage what they shell out,” Hutch answered, leaning forward with enthusiasm.

“Honey, I didn’t have much schooling,” Alice said skeptically, twisting a lock of her pale hair.

“Alice, you are one of the smartest people I know,” Starsky said, grabbing her hand. “I bet we could get Victor Sinclair or John Smith to come down here and give you a crash course on this. You could do it. Get the other girls involved — ” He broke off when the phone rang.

“Hello?” Hutch answered gruffly, but his eyebrows lifted with interest after a few seconds. “Yes, exactly! Good to hear from you, Ball.” He paused, listening intently. “With Marlow out of touch, I’m reeling in all his lines. I’m definitely interested in that shipment. When and where?” He nodded, touching a pencil to his lips.

Starsky got up to edge in closer, straining to hear the person on the other end, but Hutch hadn’t turned on the speaker this time. Sounded like one of the contacts he’d gotten out of Itchy Pete had paid off. Matt Ball had apparently been the one brokering new slaves to Marlow. Bringing him in would cut that supply line and free those people.

“Sounds promising. What had Marlow committed to?” Hutch nodded again, doodling $50,000 on a legal pad. “Tomorrow it is. Talk to you at dock twelve.”

Alice pressed her hands together, her pretty face scrunched. “More slaves comin’ in?”

“Marlow had an order out for eight new people, all underage,” Hutch said, his voice rough with anger. “I’ll set up a sting with Dobey, go down and accept the ‘shipment,’ collect the kids, and get out of there so Dobey’s people can nail Ball to the wall as soon as I’m out of sight.”

“Ah’d better make sure Jasmine and Candy have clean sheets on the beds for the clients t’night, and tell Patricia to set up more beds over at Marlow’s so we have someplace to put our new brothers and sisters tomorrow,” Alice said with a wave of her hand.

“Wait,” Hutch called before she’d closed the door. He glanced enigmatically at Starsky, all emotion tucked away so that even Starsky wasn’t sure what Hutch was about. “I just wanted to tell you — ” Hutch began, flexing his fingers restlessly against his thigh.

He looked at Starsky again, and it was like dynamite had demolished the walls Hutch had erected. Starsky could easily see how Hutch’s concerns about their meet with Harriet Roget coincided with his own.

“Starsky and I will be leaving shortly. We may be gone all night.” Hutch rubbed the top of his knuckles against his pants leg. “I’ll relay the information about Ball to Dobey. We’ve already arranged for Lizzie Thorpe, one of the detectives you’ve met, to come in as a client to keep an eye on the place while we’re gone. And Linda Baylor will be here in the same capacity she was the other day.”

“Is this about Harry?” Alice asked quietly, hand clenched around the doorframe.

“Yeah,” Starsky said. He caught Hutch’s eye and they held the connection, strengthening their bond. They would get through this together, just as they had at Dunfey’s.

“If this all blows up in our faces,” Hutch said to him softly, planting his hand on Starsky’s leg, fingers just grazing where the brand was hidden under denim.

“It won’t,” Starsky insisted, leaning in to Hutch’s palm. “There’s a lot we can’t really say right now, Alice, but with any luck, we’ll come out on top — and Harriet Roget will be in the slammer.”

“Amen to that.” Alice bowed her head slightly. She walked out into the hall and looked over her shoulder. “You come back to us. D’you hear me?”

There was such fierceness in her voice that Starsky rocked back on his heels, Hutch’s hand falling away from his leg. “Yes, ma’am, Mz. Sweet,” he muttered, but she had already gone.

Hutch enveloped Starsky in both arms, pulling him close to his chest. Starsky buried his face in the softness of Hutch’s flannel shirt. He closed his eyes, soaking in the essence and strength of his partner.

“This isn’t the first time I wondered if running away might be a good idea.” Hutch kissed the top of Starsky’s ear. “And then I convince myself that…”

“What started as a reaction was really a catalyst that altered everything?” Starsky said against Hutch’s neck.

Hutch pulled back enough to peer at him. “Where’s the man who likes to pretend he isn’t well educated?”

“Not pretending anymore?” Starsky asked wryly. He’d barely graduated high school in his chaotic teens, but a couple of courses at the local junior college before the police academy had bolstered a long abiding love of learning. Yet another thing he’d let slip in the last year. He couldn’t remember when he’d last read a book. “I wanted to run, too, Hutch. You were singing that song the other morning — Somewhere — but I’m not sure there’s anywhere we could go that isn’t — ”

“Tainted.” Hutch nodded, brushing his thumb across the planes of Starsky’s face as if memorizing every cell. “And if we turn our backs, we’re no better than everyone who let Cosgrove and his ilk drain the citystate dry for their own pleasures. We have to take a stand.”

“Yeah.” Starsky consoled himself by kissing Hutch on the mouth, taking the initiative because he could. Hutch responded, accepting Starsky’s tongue against his hard palate, sucking softly, his lips against Starsky’s. Starsky felt like he was being filled up, that Hutch’s kisses were water pouring onto a parched land.

“So what now?” he asked after a long time.

Hutch opened his eyes, a welter of emotions flickering across his face. “To Venice Place.”

Starsky wanted to ask why but didn’t. Something bigger than just going back to Hutch’s abandoned apartment was involved. Instead, he nodded, gathering up the coffee cups. “Are we coming back here later or do we need to get everything for — ?”

“I’ll pack what we need upstairs,” Hutch said tightly, his dominant personae already dropping into place.

There was a noisy crowd of women in the hall preparing to leave for the mall. Candy, Dinah, and Alice were trying to herd the troops out to the bus stop. Pony looked sulky and long suffering.

“Do I have to go?” he whined, like any average fourteen-year-old forced to go shopping with his mother.

“Pony.” Starsky elbowed him good-naturedly in the ribs. The boy was dressed in a ratty “Bay City Buccaneers” t-shirt that should have been tossed in the trash years ago and a pair of denim shorts so threadbare that the ring in his penis was plainly visible. These were the only clothes anyone had been able to find at Marlow’s place that fit him better than the cast-offs Alice had given him before. “Suffer through a new pair of jeans, a couple of shirts for school, and then hold out for a some X-men comics and a baseball glove.”

“I have to go to school?” Pony echoed, the rewards of comic books and baseball flying right over his head.

“Of course you do!” Alice said firmly. “And do chores, mow grass, and clean your room. There’s no such thing as a free lunch, or dinner, either.”

“What?” Pony regarded her with righteous indignation, blue eyes wide with alarm. “We never had to before!”

“That’s the point, little man,” Alice soothed, putting an arm around him. “You had some awful years no child should go through. Now we have to try to find normal.”

Just the idea of Pony servicing Dunfey repeatedly made Starsky want to wash his brain out with bleach.

As they all hustled out the front door, Starsky realized that in just a few days, he and Hutch and Alice had formed an impromptu family with the girls and Marlow’s kids. He hadn’t spent much time at Marlow’s where Patricia was riding herd, but he suspected the stability, regular food and hygiene, and the end of enforced sexual slavery were already establishing similar relationships over there. Where did he and Hutch fit in? Uncles? Or dads? It was a sobering responsibility, especially for two men who would likely never have biological children of their own.

Watching Pony trail after the women took him back to being fifteen. He’d lived on the edge of Aunt Rose’s household for a few years after being tossed out by his mother. His mother’s anger and resentment after her husband’s death had been hard to bear, but Rose’s rigid rules coupled with nightly boozing had been where Starsky lost all respect for authority. He’d wanted no part of family for a long while. It had been so easy to give up and let forces wash over him, to lose himself in sex and drugs. Maybe if he’d had a stable male role model, things would have been different for him. Being there for Pony and the other kids sounded good.

He was startled out of his reverie when Hutch came downstairs with a carryall and garment bag.

“Which comic books did you read?” Starsky asked, flashing to a fantasy of him and Hutch as Batman and Robin, like the other detectives used to call them in the squadroom, surrounding Harriet Roget. It eased some of his tension.

“Wasn’t allowed.” Hutch regarded him curiously, a what-brought-this-on expression on his face. “But I did like to listen to the Shadow on the radio when I was at my grandfather’s.”

“Did you spend a lot of time with him?” Thinking back to those long stakeouts in the car, Starsky could remember Hutch talking far more often about his grandfather than his parents. Mrs. Hutchinson must have been busy with her political life, and Hutch’s father had probably been holed up in the office counting his ill-gotten gains.

“Yeah.” Hutch smiled slightly, leading the way out to the car. He stowed the luggage in the trunk. “He was my father’s father. My dad was a controlling bastard, but grandfather was far more subtle. He knew how to get me to do things — not just chores and homework, but things like striving to get ahead, achieve goals. Both dad and grandfather were dominant men. A trait I apparently inherited.”

“You said it; I didn’t.” Starsky winked at him, putting on his jacket. They went out to the car.

“Trying to understand what makes me tick, Starsk?” Hutch asked wryly, raising one eyebrow. “Didn’t you spend time with your grandparents?”

“Grandmother lived — ”

“Over an Italian restaurant,” Hutch flashed a smile, getting in the convertible. “I heard that one.”

Starsky pulled onto Lincoln, driving past the Marlow place. A group of citizens with signs proclaiming “No More Slaves” were crossing the street under the jaundiced eye of an older beat cop. Starsky had to stop to let the group go by. “I always thought you had it made as a kid — a rich family, both parents, all the trimmings, while I was getting shuttled between relatives after my dad died, nobody caring for me, nobody there — ”

“And you wonder if those experiences set you up for what came after?” Hutch said softly, almost as if he were talking to himself. “I’ve thought about my own life, too.”

“That’s about it.” Starsky nodded, finally able to turn left toward the ocean and Venice. “I never felt like I had much of a family. Not really.” He cruised past a billboard with Ariadne’s picture rising above the rooftops. Underhill Made It Happen! was written along the bottom. “And then there was you.”

“Instant connection.” Hutch breathed out. “Karma, fate, whatever brought us together?”

“No matter what, through it all, I knew I wasn’t completely alone.” Starsky shuddered at those seemingly endless hours strapped to the welcoming frame, seeing Hutch over and over in his mind’s eye, and not sure what was real. His faith in what he and Hutch were to each other had been sorely tested, only to reemerge altered but stronger. “What I went through — what we did, was that what brought us to where we are now? To these kids, all the people at Lincoln house? Some kind of patched-together family?”

Hutch looked down at his long fingers, silent and pensive. The groove between his brows cut deeply into his face. “Here I thought I was the one who looked for deeper truths. But instead, I dove in without a logical plan, following my emotions instead of my head. Are we turning into each other?”

“Two sides of a whole.” Starsky stopped at a red light and reached out to take Hutch’s hand. “Can’t have one without the other.”

“Starsk, you have the most remarkable ability to put an optimistic spin on anything.” Hutch squeezed his fingers. “I don’t say I love you often enough.”

“Right back atcha.” Starsky grinned, catching Hutch’s achingly sweet smile out of the corner of his eye as he turned onto Hutch’s street.

Venice had always been a weird mix of bohemian, gentrification, and the disenfranchised co-existing in harmony. A yoga studio might be next door to a specialty butcher specializing in veal and truffles. A free clinic for addicts might be in the same building as an upscale law firm. Hutch’s flat sat over the ritzy Chez Helene French bistro.

But now, after the street war, the area resembled London after the blitz. It was as if someone had detonated a bomb in the neighborhood. Sidewalks were smashed to gravel in places, small trees and window boxes uprooted, and shards from broken windows littered the sidewalks. Graffiti covered the lovely building where Hutch had lived, red streaks of paint spelling out “Bring down the CEC!” directly over plywood covering Helene’s plate glass windows. The ornately carved door that led to Hutch’s upstairs apartment was cracked down the middle, black X’s spray-painted the length of the wood. There was muffled chanting from a block or two away, the Builders of a Free Tomorrow keeping the flame of revolution alive until Underhill straightened out the tangled knot of policies.

“My God,” Hutch said softly, getting out of the car to survey the damage. He took out the garment bag but left the carryall in the trunk. “I wonder where Helene went?”

“From what I read in the paper, the CEC militia and guerrilla bands fought in this area.” Starsky bent down to pick up a fractured sculpture, what was left of two cupids kissing. It had once graced Hutch’s coffee table. Wordlessly, he held it out to Hutch.

“Maybe I was avoiding this place because…I didn’t want to face my past.” Hutch cradled the statue for a moment before dropping it to the pavement. The remaining wings and chubby feet broke into pieces. He shaded his eyes, looking up at the building without moving.

“So why are we here?” Starsky asked.

“I wanted to pick up a few things, and then let the rest go.” Hutch spread his arms, encompassing the destruction. “It’s not as hard as I thought it would be. So much has already been destroyed.” He ran a hesitant hand along Starsky’s back and up to his shoulder and neck. “I got back what I feared I’d lost for good.”

“I’m here,” Starsky whispered, turning to him. “And I’m not going anywhere.” He had the momentary urge to drop to his knees, but didn’t. He wasn’t falling back on old habits. He could choose when he wanted to do that — and now wasn’t the right time. Not on the street where anyone could watch.

“I know, and I’m so grateful.” Hutch fished out his key but didn’t need it to open the cracked door.

Inside, the stairwell smelled of urine. A bearded man dressed in the vestiges of green fatigues rose up from the stairs in startled surprise. “I’m not — ”

“Don’t worry,” Hutch said quietly, folding the garment bag over his arm. “We’re only going to be here a little while. Is there anyone squatting upstairs?”

Shaking his head, the man plowed past Starsky, the aroma of unwashed sweat wafting behind him.

“Whew.” Starsky wrinkled his nose. “What exactly do you need up there?”

“Memories?” Hutch said. “A few mementos and a suit.”

“A suit?” Starsky echoed, curiosity getting the best of him. “Why? We could have gone to my place and gotten a suit.”

Hutch went through the unlocked door to his apartment first. Starsky followed, standing just inside to shake his head in dismay. Although the homeless man claimed no one was squatting, it was obvious that people had been there. Food wrappers and left-over protest signs were scattered across the living room and kitchen. All the plants Hutch had once cultivated lovingly were brown leaves.

“Damn.” Hutch frowned. He wandered over to a dead dieffenbachia, touching the withered plant sadly.

“Unless you hid something really well, vandals probably stole anything that wasn’t nailed down.

“I guess I came to say goodbye. This isn’t my life anymore.” Hutch turned his back on the destruction and walked into his old bedroom to poke in the closet. “Besides, you need to wear something decent. Something of mine, because you’re my possession.”

“Your pants never fit me,” Starsky protested, but he could see where this was going. And even if the pants were too large, he’d have them on for only a minute once inside Harriet’s place.

Hutch’s bedroom was far less trashed than the rest of the house, although the sheets and blankets were twisted and shoved to one side. A single unfamiliar woman’s shoe with the heel torn off lay on the floor among a scattering of Hutch’s towels and one curtain from the window.

“Hey!” Hutch pulled out a creamy brown suit in a plastic dry-cleaning bag. “I hoped this would still be here. It was way in the back.” He hooked the hanger over the closet door and inclined his head, gazing steadily at Starsky, heat rising in his eyes. Crooking a finger, Hutch exhaled and beckoned Starsky closer.

Starsky’s heart accelerated abruptly, fluttering like a wild thing. His cock went hard so rapidly his head swam. Planting his weight on both feet, he wanted to refuse, staring at Hutch.

The transformation defied imagination. Hutch didn’t do a thing, didn’t move, but somehow became more. He became Starsky’s master. The way he held out his hand, palm up, fingers curled, had power, as if he could summon Starsky telepathically.

Starsky didn’t remember walking forward. He had been ten feet away, and was now close enough for Hutch to wrap his hand around the base of Starsky’s skull, fingers pressed against the back of his neck. “H-hutch?” Starsky whispered.

Hutch’s expression held the slightest suggestion of censure, his blue eyes heavy lidded.

“Master,” Starsky amended, surprising himself. Lowering his eyes, he ducked his head, still watching Hutch.

“Yes,” Hutch breathed, caressing the sensitive skin at Starsky’s hairline. “You’re part of me, Starsk.”

So exactly right, the way he said my nickname. As if bestowing a gift, a loving token.

“And you’re part of me,” Starsky vowed, a thrill running down his spine.

“No matter what, remember that I love you more than I can say,” Hutch whispered, his lips taking possession of Starsky’s, his tongue forcing its way in to plunder Starsky’s mouth.

Starsky surrendered, distancing himself from the squalor of the place. Hutch was his home and his center.

“Feel this connection?” Hutch whispered, placing his palm flat on Starsky’s chest. “I’m right here. Take this with you all day.”

“Yes,” Starsky said dazedly.

“Kneel and center yourself; focus on who you have to be when you meet Harriet.”

“A slave.”

“My slave,” Hutch repeated with such tenderness that Starsky had to look up into his face. “Never hers, ever. But she cannot believe that you will fight back, or oppose her or — ”

“Everything is lost.” Starsky lowered himself, his pulse pounding in his ears. He’d rarely felt so submissive so quickly or completely. How had that happened? Simply because Hutch had asked, or because Starsky now wanted this? “I’ve learned to — ”

“Starsk, one wrong move and your life is forfeit,” Hutch said, desperation eclipsing his authority for just a second. “I can’t lose you.”

Which is why this whole thing started in the first place, Starsky realized. He understood Hutch’s fears — he had them himself. Harriet could so easily take everything away from them. The erection he’d had wilted inside his jeans. Taking Hutch’s instructions to heart, Starsky went inward, accepting his place in the undercover. On his knees, observing and reacting. Not acting as he once would have — charging in, caution to the winds, to defeat the foe. He had to wait, docile and meek, until the right moment.

Hutch walked back and forth, as if saying good-bye to his old place. He obviously wanted to leave quickly.

It was ten-thirty in the morning. Eight and a half hours until the meet at Harriet’s.

Hutch placed the brown suit into the garment bag and removed the suit he’d brought, an elegant silk worsted, dark gray with a subtle dove-colored pinstripe. He changed clothes while Starsky watched, shucking his khakis and knit shirt for a pristine white shirt and navy tie to go with the dark gray suit. No tie tack, no French cuffs. Understated but expensive, rich and prosperous.

Hutch ushered Starsky back to the car and drove them over to the Tintagel Hotel on the opposite side of the city.

“My parents used to come here when they wanted to get away — especially when mother was governor. It was far from Minnesota,” Hutch said when the valet had driven the car away to park, “very small, extremely discrete, and only serves a limited clientele.”

“The family name gets you in,” Starsky said, wondering why he was still surprised when he heard more about Hutch’s contacts with the wealthier side of life. “Are we…?”

Hutch silenced Starsky’s question with an authoritative shake of his head and walked inside, registering for both of them. The well-appointed lobby was not the place to linger; there was only a single chair that Starsky knew not to sit in. He waited, at relaxed parade rest, trying to maintain his submission. It was hard — he was too aware of a tangible sense of danger around them. He’d imagined a sniper sighting them when they went to the Buccaneer’s offices. Now he felt like the barrel of a gun was aimed directly at him through the picturesque bay windows.

Hutch glanced back at him with a grim smile, playing the part of the wealthy executive to the hilt. Next to Hutch’s sartorial splendor, Starsky felt very underdressed in jeans and a leather jacket. He generally didn’t give a fuck about stuff like that — but hell, it was far better than trailing after his master nude.

“Room 123. The elevator is to the right,” the desk clerk said with a nod, handing over the keys.

Hutch gathered Starsky with a slight cant of his head and marched across the lobby.

“Is Dobey coming himself, or is he having the wire delivered?” Starsky asked when they were alone in the elevator. It wasn’t the only question he had, just the first that bubbled to the top. He shouldn’t ask at all — they’d discussed the details every which way the night before. Still, he felt raw and vulnerable.

“I think he’s having the stuff delivered.” Hutch pushed his hand up under Starsky’s t-shirt as if needing the connection.

Their room was directly across from the elevator. Starsky was just fitting the key in the lock when a bellman brought up the garment bag and carryall.

The room was furnished simply but tastefully with a cream colored duvet on the bed, and excellent reproductions of Renoir and Degas on the walls. Once the door was closed behind him, Hutch took Starsky in his arms as if they hadn’t embraced less than an hour before. “This is the beginning.” He hooked his thumbs around the collar of the leather jacket and slid it off Starsky’s arms. “For now — it’s just us.”

“I need — I feel like you’re retreating from me. Keep me in the loop,” Starsky said, his tongue seemed heavy and constrained. Hutch’s mastery was ever-present, a fearful erotic force that caught at Starsky’s breath and filled him with longing. “Or it’s Luna all over again.”

“In a way, it is Luna.” Hutch’s voice was the rumble of a cat, intoxicating. He flipped Starsky’s t-shirt over his head, rubbing his palms down Starsky’s bare arms to coax them into parade rest again. “I can’t be Hutch your lover and go into her place to discuss a partnership that she thinks includes selling you.” He placed a chaste kiss on Starsky’s prominent collarbone, tonguing his Adam’s apple.

Starsky hitched a breath. Should they be doing this now? Would submitting to Hutch here reinforce what he had to be, or distract him from focusing on the night’s events? He wanted the bond to his lover, no matter what. “Hutch…” Starsky whispered.

“You’ll go in first, bringing gifts, champagne — ” Hutch said against the heat of Starsky’s skin. He fit his teeth over the right nipple and bit down.

“H-hey!” Starsky started, raising his hands to push Hutch away. Slow down, let me get acclimated.

Staring him in the eye, Hutch clamped his hands around Starsky’s biceps and then transferred his grip to Starsky’s wrists. “You don’t resist. You don’t refuse. You observe, you abide, you take what I alone give you.”

His whole being primed for sex, Starsky gulped air and yanked free of Hutch’s hold. “I will, but I get to lead some of the time.” His nipple throbbed, aching for more of the same.

Hutch raised one eyebrow, obviously thrown but interested. His dawning smile, both delighted and devious, erased the cares that had burdened him for too long. “What did you have in mind?”

“What you’re doing,” Starsky admitted, his erection back and straining against his jeans. As his cock swelled, he was aware of the hard metal ring at the tip. “Don’t hold back, but — you’re not the only pitcher in the game.” He inserted a finger into the knot of Hutch’s tie, the fabric sliding free.

“Can’t play with that tie; it cost more than you’d ever pay for anything,” Hutch said straight-faced, putting the strip of silk to one side.

“More than you paid for me?” Starsky took Hutch’s jacket off, folding it neatly before placing it over a chair. They were almost equal now — Hutch only had one more piece of clothing than Starsky.

“You’re worth the world.” Hutch unbuttoned his shirt himself, but left it on, the edges of the crisp white cotton framing his muscular chest to advantage. “More than your weight in gold.”

Starsky once again felt the intense need to kneel in front of his master and forestalled the urge. Not yet, too soon. He wasn’t a one-trick pony. They had to find a way to make this dominance and submission work for both of them — outside prescribed definitions. They’d always forged their own trails; this was no different. “Is the harness in the bag?” he asked, spiraling runes on Hutch’s bared chest with the tip of his finger. Circling one nipple, he finger walked to the other one.

Hutch panted without stopping Starsky’s erotic pictograms. He raised both arms to Starsky’s shoulders and pulled him closer. “Yes.”

He gasped when Starsky dipped a finger into the waistband of his slacks. His cock was pointing straight up, a rocket outlined in dark cloth. When Starsky pawed at the bulge in his pants, Hutch canted his hips into Starsky’s palm. “I-I’d planned to put the harness on you…yessss,” Hutch stammered.

Starsky unbuckled his belt and released his master’s cock from captivity. Hutch keened, low and needy, without moving his hands from Starsky’s shoulders. Grinning, Starsky was overjoyed at reducing Hutch to blithering. “What do you want next, Master?” he asked, sweet and arch at the same time.

Hutch cleared his throat as if he couldn’t think when Starsky simply closed his fist around Hutch’s throbbing length. “Your mouth,” he said finally.

“Where do you want to be?” Starsky persisted, luxuriating in the feel of Hutch’s cock, warm and pulsing, in his palm. Like he was holding the essence of life. “Sitting or standing?”

Opening his eyes wide, Hutch considered both, glancing around the room. “I’ll sit there.” He pointed to a small chair in the far corner, comfortable but not reclining.

Starsky approved. It was far from any windows, tucked into the shadows. Hutch stepped carefully to the left so that Starsky could maintain his grasp on Hutch’s member. They sidled across the room for five steps. Hutch snagged the carryall along the way and dropped it beside the blue and white wingbacked chair.

Starsky sank to his knees. This is the right time. This brought him to his place beside Hutch. Not under or below — supporting, as Hutch supported him in other ways.

“May I wear your collar?” Starsky released his hold on the cock to place his hands on his master’s thighs.

“Only because you asked.” Hutch fished the collar out of the bag and held it out. “Place it around your own neck.”

Feeling himself go deep and serene, Starsky accepted the leather circlet with the S charm on the front and fitted the collar to his neck. It felt right. Not good, because it would always be tight and restraining, but this is where the collar belonged. The leather curved precisely around him. Hutch inserted the strap into the buckle, snicking the small lock into place.

“Wrists,” Hutch said evenly, his eyes riveted on Starsky, drinking him in with obvious adoration.

Starsky held up his arms, waiting while each was adorned with a leather cuff. Without saying anything else, Hutch added the same short length of chain between them he’d used at Lincoln house, attaching it to the D rings in each band. Having his range of movement restricted made his belly quiver with nerves, but this was what he had agreed to accept. Strangely, it held Harriet’s demons at bay for a little longer, too.

“I’m ready,” Hutch said softly. He traced a delicate line down Starsky’s jaw to his bottom lip and swooped in for a long kiss. “Thank you, Starsk. You’re beautiful.”

“I’ve always been yours,” Starsky whispered, feeling lightheaded at the sight of his lover spreading his legs for him. “I love you.” Hutch’s tumescent cock rested against his flat belly. All Starsky had to do was bow his head to grasp the warmth in his mouth. Hutch placed his hand lightly against Starsky’s cheek, stroking gently as Starsky carefully engulfed his penis.

Swirling his tongue, Starsky sucked, relying on long experience to know exactly what it took to bring Hutch pleasure, to bring him to the edge. Hutch caressed the underside of Starsky’s throat, coaxing and encouraging. He liked a steady, slow build. Starsky raised his right hand, already forgetting that his wrists were linked together, and was momentarily startled when the chain rattled. He had to bring both hands together to cradle Hutch’s sac and fondle the sensitive testicles inside.

“That’s it!” Hutch encouraged breathlessly, his hands falling away to grip the edges of the chair.

He thrust mindlessly into Starsky’s mouth, the tip of his cock hitting the back of Starsky’s throat. Starsky pulled back enough to avoid gagging or blacking out. “Sssh, ssh,” he murmured, pulling off his mouthful and looking up at Hutch.

His master was heavy-lidded, sprawled in the chair with his head thrown back in ecstasy while rocking his pelvis rhythmically — a compelling image. Starsky took a quick breath, then went down on Hutch’s length again, scraping his teeth gently along it. Squeezing Hutch’s balls quieted his thrusting enough for Starsky to apply a quick burst of suction to Hutch’s penis with tongue and lips.

That did it.

His cock swelling larger, Hutch pulled in air like a drowning man and stiffened, climaxing, shooting his semen. Starsky swallowed, milking his lover dry, his mouth filled to overflowing with salty fluid. He was careful to avoid getting any stain on his master’s good slacks. Hutch exhaled languidly when he was done.

Curling into the V of Hutch’s legs, Starsky let himself forget what was hanging over their heads. They both needed this — something to forge their link even more strongly. He had to defeat Harriet, because he never wanted to lose Hutch — ever.

Hutch’s cock slipped free, his chest heaving. “God, you’re amazing.”

Wiping his mouth with the back of his hand, Starsky intentionally made the wrist chain rattle. “You’re insatiable, that’s all.” He felt slack limbed and slow, even though he hadn’t orgasmed. That would come soon; he would insist because his groin ached with need. And he wanted a drink of water. No matter how many times he gave head, the aftertaste was not pleasant. But Hutch’s thigh was a mighty fine pillow, and he didn’t want to move yet. “What time is it?”

“Can you see this?” Hutch had a watch on his left wrist.

Starsky peered at the small numbers. “Five to twelve. Seven hours.”

“Clock watcher,” Hutch taunted, amusement tainted with fear in his voice. “You’re heavy.” He pushed gently against Starsky’s shoulder. “The harness, then lunch.”

“In that order?” Starsky grumbled, standing. The slave training kicked in — he knew how to behave, even with his hard-on reminding him that it wanted service, and soon.

Hutch stood with him, touching him lightly over the brand as he did. “Challenging me?” he asked in his master voice.

“No.” Starsky straightened his shoulders, his eyes on Hutch’s Italian leather shoes. Hutch had always been a shoe man. Starsky had never thought about giving him an erotic foot massage. “Take me down, Master,” he said, meaning it. “I need…”

“I know.” Hutch gathered him in, surrounding him, holding him almost too tightly as if he couldn’t let go. He shuddered, the vibrations transmitting between them as if their nerve cells were joined.

Starsky could feel Hutch’s heart pounding in perfect sync with his own — both too rapid, horses galloping to a finish line they didn’t want to reach. He squeezed his eyes shut, memorizing the feeling of Hutch’s arms, the smell of him, the solidity of his chest pressing against Starsky’s. He wished he could put his arms around Hutch, but the chain linking his wrists precluded that. “What’s the chain for?” he asked against the white cotton of Hutch’s shirt.

“After that night with Marlow,” Hutch murmured, moving back enough to gather the links in one hand. “I’ve wanted to try it again… But you’ll need to put clothes on over the harness, so that won’t be of much use.” He unhooked the chains and tossed them into the bag. “I want you safe. The little blades will be in the sheath in the back and the front, like before.”

Starsky nodded. “I’ve got to have some water before we start this.”

“Go ahead. You set the pace.” Hutch smiled, small laugh lines congregating around his blue eyes.

Sapphires didn’t shine as brightly.

“What do you want to do after this?” Starsky asked, pouring a glass for both of them to share. He knew Hutch would drink some, even if he didn’t ask for any. He sipped and sloshed the water in his mouth to wash away the taste.

“Tomorrow?” Hutch asked, holding out his hand for the water. He drank deeply, his Adam’s apple moving along the column of his neck.

Mesmerizing. Starsky gulped, a coherent part of his brain wondering how such a little thing could cause such arousal.

Hutch zipped his fly with an indulgent smile. He sat on the duvet to sort through the lengths of leather from the bag, lining each section of the harness out on the bed, adjusting buckles and smoothing out bent leather. “There’s the meet on the pier at noon for the new imports, remember.”

Starsky had forgotten about the shipment Marlow had arranged for. He drank down the rest of the water, praying there would be a tomorrow for both of them. “Then the day after that?”

“Maybe we could rest, you mean?” Hutch turned his head, watching Starsky. “I think we need to keep moving forward while we can. There’s only so long the Lincoln house will be a viable sting operation. We’ll be done by next week, I expect, and then the debriefings. We could start to get back to regular police work.” He slumped with obvious weariness. “I’m tired too, Starsk.”

“Maybe we are switching places,” Starsky mused. He had this mental image of being alone with Hutch — no demands, no prescribed ways to behave — so they could be themselves. “I want to go out in the country. Big sky overhead, the moon pouring silver down on your hair, a couple beers…” His cock twitched in empathic response.

“Wine, red like your lips,” Hutch said, transfixed. “A blanket, some French bread, cheese. That’s all we need.”

“Yeah.” The fantasy was shrouded in fog, almost hard to see.

“That will happen,” Hutch said confidently. “You want to make a date?”

“One month from today,” Starsky declared before fate could erase their future. “May fifteenth.”

The date hung between them, frozen. The same date Gunther shot him years ago.

“That’s good,” Hutch rasped, slightly paler than he had been moments earlier.

“A good day to be alive.” Starsky nodded emphatically, glancing down at the faint scars on his torso the lasers hadn’t erased. All were partially concealed by his abundant chest hair, but he knew the location of every one.

“A good day to be alive,” Hutch echoed, touching his chest. “It’s on my heart.”

But first things first. Starsky hissed, nearly in pain when he undid his fly. His cock was primed to blow. The ring in the end felt hot as a poker. Steeling himself, Starsky folded his jeans into a compact square. He stepped in front of Hutch, already carrying a ghost imprint of the harness on his skin. “I’m ready.”

Hutch went to his knees, affixing the ankle cuffs in place. He rose slightly and Starsky’s cock strained upward, swelling even more with Hutch’s proximity. Hutch licked delicately, as if testing his flavor.

Starsky groaned, the single swipe of warm, wet tongue a potent aphrodisiac. Who needed Phenine? “Both hands and tongue,” Starsky demanded roughly, bracing his grip on Hutch’s shoulders.

Hutch licked again, lapping his crown and poking his tongue through the middle of the ring, while tugging at Starsky’s balls with playful pinches. When he’d gotten Starsky good and wet, he wrapped all ten fingers around his length and pumped.

Damn! Starsky’s knees buckled. He had to dig his fingertips into Hutch’s flesh to keep from falling as Hutch slid his palms up and down Starsky’s cock with increasing friction. It felt like the top of Starsky’s head blew off at the same time he orgasmed. “Thank you!” Starsky said weakly, kissing the top of Hutch’s head.

“Remember that tonight.” Hutch used a washrag to carefully wipe away all traces of semen from Starsky’s groin, washing the raised crescent moon brand with particular care.

It no longer twinged and burned when touched. The tilted moon had become part of him. Starsky didn’t know how he felt about that. Could it ever retreat into the background of his memories, like the long ago scars from being shot in the Italian restaurant, or would the moon always be a painful reminder of torture?

Hutch selected the long chest straps from the bed. The redolent aroma of leather scented the air. Hutch sniffed the leather with a wistful expression. “Smells like you,” he said. He kissed Starsky’s shoulder and wound one strap around and over to the opposite shoulder, criss-crossing the leather across his sternum. Hutch bestowed a kiss to each patch of skin to be covered with leather, taking his time to adjust each piece with loving care.

“Feel like I’m a big present.” Starsky tried the joke, needing some solace. His nerves ratcheted up a notch each time Hutch buckled and padlocked another section into place. The kissing ameliorated the restraint, but he almost wished Hutch would go faster to get it over with.

“I had it made to very precise specifications,” Hutch said, buckling the long thick band that covered his spine. He kissed the small of Starsky’s back. “Exactly what I wanted to see on you. The dark leather enhancing your body — ” Hutch slotted the heavy pelvis guard around Starsky’s hips, yanking on the strap before threading the end into the clasp.

Starsky grunted, exhaling. It seemed tighter than before. “Hutch, loosen the buckle,” he begged, panting.

“You’ve gained weight.” Hutch tongued Starsky’s bellybutton.

For a moment, Starsky didn’t care that the harness dug into his skin because that wasn’t what had stopped his breath. “Again,” he begged. It hadn’t been as tight the first time, but it also hadn’t been as damned erotic. What the hell was Hutch doing?

“I don’t want you to come,” Hutch whispered against the skin of his abdomen. “I just want you to feel my touch, know that you are loved and wanted — when that woman puts her hands on you.” He slid the series of concentric bands up Starsky’s penis, forcing his balls through the largest one.

Starsky grit his teeth. It wasn’t quite painful, but it wasn’t pleasant either — but it had to be endured for his master.

More buckles, more straps — between his legs to bracket his anus, and around his upper thighs like shiny black ribbons against his skin. The Luna brand was framed above and below by dark leather, a perfect complement. The harness confined him, but it also protected him and made him think of Hutch every moment.

“Piece de resistance.” Hutch stood and presented Starsky with the tiny blade with the flat leather hilt.

Starsky traced a finger over the ornate H worked into the leather and slid it into the nearly hidden sheath in the pelvis guard. Hutch inserted the back one into place, brushing Starsky’s buttocks with the lightest of caresses.

“I’ll call room service,” Hutch said evenly.

“And I’ll call Dobey,” Starsky added.

The early evening sun cast long golden rays across the road, throwing the colonial style house into shadow. As the cab pulled up in front of 460 Rio Caballo, Starsky glanced only once at the driver, Detective Babcock. He didn’t want anyone watching from the house to think he knew the cabbie. Still, having Babcock there — and Hutch only a mile away on the other end of the walkie-talkie in Babcock’s pocket — helped calm the fears crowding his belly.

Starsky got out of the cab, cradling a magnum of Dom Perignon, and stood for a moment to smooth out his slacks. Normally, Hutch’s suit would be roomy on him, but worn over the leather harness, the fit was perfect. The creamy brown jacket looked good, as did the tan and cream striped shirt and chocolate brown tie. It had been a long time since he’d worn such nice threads.

When Babcock drove away in the taxi, Starsky had to remind himself that he had not been abandoned — people knew where he was.

This is not Luna.

Nonetheless, walking up the front path past red and white rose bushes was unnerving. He couldn’t shake the feeling that someone had a rifle trained right at his chest with every step he took. The leather band running up his spine held him in check. Despite his anxiety, he walked with his head up, trying to look as confident as he had been when he’d graduated the police academy.

Starsky rang the bell. The discordant chime vibrated through him, jarring his nerves. He felt like he’d never worked undercover before in his life. There was no sign of a horse trailer in the driveway, which alleviated his worry that he’d be whisked away the moment the door closed behind him.

Harriet’s big handsome slave, Anton, answered the door. He wore only a series of chains, one around his neck, a second like a belt slung low on his hips, and a third connecting his ankle cuffs together. His hairless chest gleamed with oil. His eyes were like a snake’s, unemotional yet malevolent at the same time.

“Ms. Roget is expecting me,” Starsky said, letting a menacing rumble creep into his voice to bleed off some of the stress. He was icy to the core, so cold that the cashmere suit did nothing to warm him. He really did not want to face this woman. But, like any other undercover, he sublimated his anxiety and pulled his persona around him like a shield. He was Davey, a slave with a chip on his shoulder, submissive but unbowed.

“You were expected,” Anton, said in greeting. His stolid face was so bland, he appeared to be sleepwalking. Drugged? Or simply drained of all humanity after serving Harriet for such a long time?

“May I come in?”

“Mistress Harriet does not allow slaves to wear clothes inside her chambers,” Anton intoned, stepping aside to let Starsky into a wide foyer with black and white marble floor tiles. A small black Japanese cabinet stood to the left, and a gold and crystal chandelier hung from the two story cathedral ceiling. The early evening sunlight poured through tall, narrow windows bracketing the front door, fracturing the crystals and creating rainbows across the walls. “Disrobe and leave your belongings on the cabinet.”

“Because you tell me to? What if I refuse?” Starsky challenged, staring up at Anton. This guy was no better than he was for all his supercilious ways. Even so, Starsky’s heart pounded in his throat.

“Then,” Harriet said as she entered through an archway that separated the foyer from the rest of the house, “as a slave entering my home without your master, I will thoroughly enjoy the right to punish you until you understand the duty of a slave is to obey any master’s command to the letter.” Harriet stopped directly in front of him, formidable in a slate blue gown that accentuated every inch of her power and tensile strength.

Starsky barely managed to stand his ground. Harriet, more than anyone else, could strip him to the bone with a single look. Even dressed in the suit and harness, he felt naked, vulnerable. Hutch was less than a mile away — waiting in an elegant vehicle with the car phone Dobey had supplied. Whether or not Harriet called him, Hutch planned to arrive twenty minutes after Starsky did.

Starsky prayed that wasn’t too long to be alone with Roget.

“I’m looking forward to a long, eventful evening with you, Davey.” The melodic timbre of her voice underscored her words with a frightening beauty. She was so easy on the ears and so fearsome to his spirit. “The evening I didn’t get to enjoy at Jack’s. Remember that one? Now, remove that suit, which does not belong on a slave.” She smiled, sharp and angular.

Starsky knew when to capitulate. “Mistress.” Dropping to his knees, he bowed his head, feeling the tight leather girding him dig into his flesh. He held up the bottle of champagne. “My master sent me with a gift and this card with his phone number. If you are willing to negotiate, he is waiting for your call. He can be here in minutes.”

“Very respectable of him.” She came closer now that she had him where she wanted. Taking the champagne, Harriet passed it to Anton. She plucked the card from Starsky’s fingers, tapping it against the flat of her left palm. “I admire that in a man. I’m beginning to think that he and I can work out a mutually beneficial relationship.”

On his knees, Starsky loosened his tie, revealing his slave collar with the small S charm hanging against his collarbone. He stripped off the jacket, shirt, and tie and, folding them neatly, placed them on the black lacquer cabinet beside him. But after unzipping and dropping his pants, he found it was impossible to remove them in this position. He wasn’t sure what to do, and froze in place for fear of earning a reprimand. Every piece of clothing he took off stripped away a hard-won piece of freedom and brought him closer to being once again Davey, a true slave.

The leather bands that Hutch had locked in place anchored him to his master. The silver ownership chit dangled from the leather crossed over his chest, winking in the overhead light. Starsky wore the trappings of a slave, but he was a free man, free to choose — and he chose Hutch. Feeling foolish with his pants pooled around his knees, Starsky shivered as Harriet’s gray eyes assessed his worth. Was a slave’s price appraised per square inch? By the pound? Or by some mysterious merit quantified by training and deportment, like a prize-winning dog?

“Anton,” Harriet said casually, “call 555-1763 and tell Mr. Hutchinson to come. We’ll be waiting.”

Come quickly, Starsky implored silently.

“As you wish, Mistress.” Anton went into a small alcove off the foyer to make the call.

Harriet walked slowly around Starsky. “Kenneth understands the merits of good presentation. A fine bottle of champagne, a beautiful slave framed in leather…”

Starsky stared at her alligator shoes. He hated being unable to see his opponent’s face. Her gardenia perfume clogged his nostrils, making him want to sneeze.

“Mr. Hutchinson is on his way,” Anton announced when he returned from making the call. The chains hobbling Anton’s ankles clinked loudly against the marble floor.

“Anton!” she chastised, irritated. “Too much noise. Maintain position until told to move.”

“My pardon, Mistress,” Anton murmured, bowing his head. He held his muscled arms behind his back submissively, glaring down at Starsky. The chain slung around his waist moved sensually against his flat abdomen.

Starsky had a quick moment of gratification that Anton got the scolding, resolving not to make a sound that would bring on Harriet’s ire. He had to keep his wits about him as he had at Dunfey’s.

“We’ll save the Dom Perignon to seal the partnership,” Harriet said evenly. “Anton, take the champagne to the bar and put it on ice. Pour me the Merlot we bought in Napa at Christmas.”

“Yes, Mistress.” Anton picked up the bottle and shuffled away carefully, the clink of his chains quieter now, but still underscoring every step.

“Stand, Davey, and remove those slacks,” Harriet said, crossing her arms. “Such a waste to cover up a body like yours. You were made to serve, a beautiful thing any woman and many men would want at their command.”

Before he could stop himself, he blurted, “I’m not a thi — ”

Harriet backhanded him hard. The diamonds on her right hand raked his cheek and knocked his teeth together. He bit the inside of his cheek, tasting blood. Her handprint stung.

“Silence, slave!” Harriet loomed over him as he remained on his knees, a high flush on her elegant cheeks. There wasn’t a lock of hair out of place, but she was obviously aroused. His outburst had pleased her.

Stupid, he thought. He’d played right into her hands. The freedoms Hutch gave him had made him sloppy.

“Pity to have to draw blood so early in our acquaintance, Davey, but it just makes me anticipate our first session even more.”

Pain blossoming in his cheek, Starsky panted as he stood slowly. Keeping Harriet in sight, he submissively removed his loafers, socks, and pants, grateful for the minimal covering of Hutch’s harness. He placed those things on the pile of his other clothes, and swallowed to rinse the tang of blood out his mouth.

He flashed back to Luna, when Hutch hit him shortly after he’d arrived. Pushing those distracting thoughts away, Starsky grit his teeth, and glanced around the foyer.

“Walk ahead of me.” Harriet smiled slyly. “I want to enjoy the view. The living room is through the French doors.”

Having her behind him raised the hair on the back of his neck. Through the French doors, he caught a glimpse of pale, embossed wall paper, green drapes framing a large window, and in the corner, a matching loveseat.

Once he stepped into the main room, all intelligent thought left his brain. A huge chrome welcoming frame bristling with black leather, exactly like the one at Luna, contrasted violently with the beautiful furniture. Starsky was paralyzed, bathed in sweat.

“Spectacular, isn’t it?” Harriet asked. “I wanted to welcome you in the manner you’d come to expect.” She trailed a proprietary hand over his shoulders, her fingers shockingly cold. “Oh, you’re wringing wet. Men’s fear is such a potent aphrodisiac.” Leaning in close, Harriet sniffed appreciatively.

Starsky tried to stifle a shudder, but he couldn’t. He sucked in a breath, bowing his head as he’d been taught. He was back in hell with no way out. Just as Neville had said in his dream, there was no escape.

Forcing himself to think like a cop instead of a terrified slave, Starsky scanned the room through his lashes. Spectator couches and chairs ringed the empty rack, as if waiting for entertainment. Which would be him.

“Kneel!” Harriet commanded, giving his shoulder a firm push. “You didn’t spend nearly long enough on the frame at Luna. I intend to address the gaps in your training personally.”

He could only obey, and dropped to his knees. It gave him time to adjust, to reorient his brain. He was undercover. He’d be out of here by midnight — right? Where the hell was Hutch? He felt like he’d been here a lifetime already.

A man suddenly rose from one of the couches facing the window with a view of the hillside. Starsky hadn’t realized anyone else was in the room. “Did I hear the lovely sound of someone striking slave flesh?”

Neville.

Starsky’s stomach dropped even lower. They had not expected him — they’d had no reason to. He should be at Luna. Starsky’s jaw went slack. He shut it firmly, aware that he was shaking. Straightening his spine, he placed his sweaty palms flat over the leather bands circling his thighs, staring at his cock wrapped in the black straps. Hutch had put him in this harness — he could still feel Hutch’s hands on his skin. Starsky focused on the ring piercing his penis.

I’m a slave. Oh, God.

The danger that Harriet and Neville could kidnap him and take him back to Luna had never seemed more real.

Starsky peered at the Brit through his lashes. Neville was dressed in velvet hip-huggers and a satiny paisley shirt with a gold scarf wrapped around his thin neck.

“Davey reacted exactly as you anticipated, Neville,” Harriet said. “I had to discipline him. You understand him very well.”

“I pride myself on getting into the mind of a slave,” Neville said, sliding his long fingers under the straps crossing Starsky’s chest to rub his chest hair, “finding out what makes him respond, then training him to respond the way I want. But his cowboy wouldn’t let me. I knew he’d still be raw.”

Starsky held himself still — he’d finally gotten some control of his rampant fear and tried to let it feed a simmering anger instead. He couldn’t let himself fall apart in front these two, but he couldn’t lash out either. Sucking in a deep breath, Starsky knelt in the best presentation position he’d ever managed.

“Beautiful workmanship.” Neville caressed Starsky’s piercing, exploring the black leather that bound his cock.

Starsky had a hard time not reacting in revulsion. When Neville released his cock, it flopped limply against his leg, the ring like a lead weight.

“Well, you’ve learned something, lammy-boy,” Neville said. “That cowboy was better than I imagined. Tsk. Just look at your face. Did you know it was bleeding?” He unfurled a white hanky and dabbed it against Starsky’s cheek. “You always did look better with bruises — like some ancient slave in a Roman coliseum.”

Starsky winced when Neville leaned in close to wipe the wound. I can’t keep this up. Where’s Hutch?

“It’s a crime that Ariadne Underhill is freeing the slaves,” Neville whined, standing. “And I loved her books!”

“Mistress,” Anton intoned from behind them.

By slightly tipping his head until the back of his skull caught against the edge of his collar, Starsky could see enough of what was going on without appearing to be watching.

Harriet took a wine glass off a tray that Anton held out. She sipped. “Anton, pour some for Neville.”

When Neville took the glass, he gave an appreciative sniff. “Wonderful bouquet.”

“Jack wanted to buy the winery,” Harriet said. “He had such good taste. Business, wine, slaves. He told me Davey was a pleasure worth waiting for.”

Starsky swallowed as she brought up Dunfey’s name. He felt the restriction of the collar against his Adam’s apple. Where the hell is Hutch?

Looking at the welcoming frame, he remembered the hours he’d spent on it, wondering where Hutch was and what might have happened to him.

“Starsk, Dunfey just went into the warehouse on the corner of Ninety-first, where it crosses Mission. Hurry. I’ll meet you there.”

But when Hutch finally arrived, it wasn’t to free him —

Neville leaned against an antique bar and tapped a silver bucket where the champagne sat cooling. “Dom Perignon! Harriet, were you holding out on me?”

“It’s from Hutchinson,” she said, waving her hand. “For later, to celebrate our deal.” She pushed Starsky’s knees farther apart with foot, and rubbed her toe against his groin.

He held back a groan.

“Stand, Davey,” Harriet ordered sharply. “Let’s see the basics.”

His eyes downcast, he stood in submission. Dread mounted in his belly as Harriet examined his posture.

“That cowboy was very resistant to alterations in his plans,” Neville said with a sigh. He lounged on the nearest loveseat, crossing his legs. “I didn’t know he’d been a cop when I met him. What makes you so sure he’ll sell?”

“He may have been a cop, but he’s not one any longer. Murdering a superior, enslaving his partner, taking over Jack’s territory…He’s formidable. He even tricked me at Dunfey’s, I’m sure of it.”

Starsky wasn’t surprised she had figured Hutch dosed her, but it sounded as if she admired him for it.

Harriet tweaked Starsky’s nipple just to cause pain. Ice slicked his skin as if her touch could freeze. He clenched his jaw to stop from reacting, but goose-bumps erupted down both arms.

“Davey, I didn’t know you cared.” Harriet fisted his hair, forcing his head back to meet her eyes. She dug her sharp nails into his scalp, and licked her lower lip. “Hurts, doesn’t it?”

Starsky tried to relax in her grasp, but the front door bell chimed, interrupting whatever she’d planned to do.

She released his hair suddenly, smiling thinly. “You made such an impression on Neville, he can’t wait for a second chance with you.”

Neville grinned with hungry eyes.

Starsky struggled to stay in character, praying it was Hutch at the door.

“Presentation, Davey,” Harriet said dismissively, and sat in a wingback chair.

Starsky sank to his knees, grateful for the respite.

“Where’s your mistress?” Starsky heard Hutch’s voice and felt like he could breathe for the first time since he’d arrived.

“This way, Master,” Anton said respectfully.

Starsky, facing the welcoming frame, could not see Hutch enter the room.

“Mr. Hutchinson.” Harriet rose gracefully as Hutch approached her and came into Starsky’s line of sight. She was in her element, composed, the perfect hostess. “Thank you for accepting my invitation. The manner of your reply,” she waved at Starsky, “was delightful. He’s rough around the edges, but that makes every encounter exciting.”

“Exactly why I collared him,” Hutch said without looking at Starsky.

Starsky held himself still as another flashback threatened his resolve. He was suddenly at Luna with his ringed cock chained to the floor when Hutch’s voice’s voice cut through Neville’s simpering. This was Hutch, his master, the man with the power to buy and sell him. Starsky’s balls tightened and his mouth went dry. Even though he knew Hutch loved him, Hutch had forcibly enslaved him.

Hutch, what did you do to me?

He had to get a grip on his emotions. He was a cop, there to do a job and not cringe in the corner. He missed seeing Hutch’s silver-tipped cowboy boots. The dark gray suit and stylish Italian shoes showed Hutch’s sophisticated side, but Starsky preferred the predatory cowboy. Hutch the executive looked like someone who had worked in the CEC, brokering underhanded deals and fucking over competitors. Dunfey’s successor.

Starsky remembered Hutch’s words at Luna. “Five strokes to remind you. Not punishment. Just for us, because I want to.” He’d have welcomed Hutch’s belt right then if it could get him in the mindset of a cop. He was failing. Was this truly his nature — to be on his knees, waiting to service his masters?

“Hutchinson!” Neville drawled languidly, offering a limp hand. “It’s amazing to see you so — ” Neville looked Hutch up and down, “well dressed.”

“What are you doing here?” Hutch asked abruptly, no humor in his voice as he ignored the proffered hand. He stepped directly in front of Starsky as if barricading him from the other two.

“With Jack gone,” Harriet said, “I needed Neville’s talents. May I offer you some Merlot?”

“Yes, thank you.” Hutch didn’t smile, but gave a gracious nod. “Did you find traveling here difficult?”

Anton served Hutch without being asked and refreshed the other two.

“Jack had connections, so we sailed through,” Harriet said.

Hutch took a sip, then really looked at Starsky. “He’s bleeding. Did he offend you, Harriet?” Hutch frowned.

“Slavery hasn’t dulled his fire.”

Hutch stared him down. “Davey, we discussed your deportment before I sent you.” Without taking his eyes off Starsky, Hutch asked, “Do I need to punish him?”

“Only if you want to, cowboy,” Neville chimed in. “I’d be happy to supervise.”

So, the cut on his cheek was still fresh after Neville’s unwanted first aid. Was this the first wound of the evening, or could he make it through the night without new stripes from Hutch? Or anyone else, for that matter. Still, Starsky felt more balanced now that Hutch was there.

“He’s been a challenge,” Hutch admitted, sounding annoyed. “I’ve been too busy with Jack’s business to spend the time on him I should have. Or my other slaves, for that matter.” As if wanting to change the topic, Hutch turned back to Harriet. “Are you having trouble acquiring livestock since Underhill came into power? I’ve had to replace more than half my inventory — at great expense.”

“Times are changing.” She ushered Hutch to one of the couches near where Starsky knelt.

Neville patted the cushion beside him, but Hutch ignored him. He sat in a wingback chair, close enough to be polite, but far enough that their legs didn’t touch.

“Is there a reason a slave trainer is privy to your business deals?” Hutch asked Harriet coldly.

“Oh, cowboy!” Neville laughed. “I’ve never been just Harriet’s trainer. She doesn’t have time to set up training facilities, find appropriate staff, acquire equipment — I’m the one who does that dirty work. So Harriet can work on bigger things.”

Hutch looked at Harriet skeptically.

“He’s the reason my training facilities are so highly regarded,” she confirmed, as if running a slave operation were no different than a factory.

Starsky flexed his fingers on his thighs, sublimating his nervousness.

“Is Luna is doing well?” Hutch asked, with disinterested politeness. “So many other slave-related businesses have shut down because of emancipation.”

“Underhill says she’ll have elections soon.” Harriet sat next to Neville, tapping a fingernail on the arm of the couch. “If she repeals every CEC reform, as she says, it’ll bring about economic collapse. It simply isn’t a sound business model. People hate living in a difficult economy. With the right candidate and enough money, we can bring the situation around to our benefit.”

“Slavery is good for the economy; free labor always is,” Neville said, leaning toward Hutch.

“Importing slaves from other countries is expensive,” Hutch said as if he agreed. “I just took over Harlan Marlow’s establishment, integrating his property with mine, and had to intercept a shipment he’d paid too much money for. I suspect he could have obtained it cheaper locally.”

“Harlan was not a business man. He was too addicted to his needs.” Harriet crooked a finger at Anton. “Serve the hors d’oeuvres.”

“Yes, Mistress.” He walked stiffly down a hall, chains jingling faintly. Starsky knew from seeing the blueprints that the hall led to a kitchen, butler’s pantry, den, office, and several bedrooms. Some of the rooms opened up to the same garden the large window did.

“Jack had plans, which I’ve been forced to adapt,” Harriet said to Hutch.

“Because you have to deal with me?” Hutch asked, leaning back in his chair.

“That’s one of the many…benefits, Ken,” she said smoothly.

A big man with a thick neck and the muscle-bound shoulders of a wrestler came out from the same hall Anton had gone down and approached Neville. He wore a plain t-shirt and jeans. “Anton said you needed me?”

Hutch looked sideways at the big man, and Starsky recognized the subtle change in his posture. He was surprised, and didn’t like it. “And who the hell is this?” he asked bluntly. “Your accountant?”

Harriet’s smile was smug. She knew she’d surprised him and liked having that advantage.

Neville laughed as if Hutch had said something funny. “You didn’t get to meet Fortun at Luna. He’s not an accountant.” He regarded his employee with cruel amusement. “I’m not even sure he can add. But then again, he doesn’t have to. Let’s just say he’s here for security. Harriet and I thought he could keep an eye on Davey while we talk business.”

Seeing Fortun again, Starsky had to clamp down his terror. Damn it, I can’t be a slave to these memories.He glanced at Hutch through his lashes. If Fortun were here, was Donato there, too? Donato was nearly as big, but he had no way of warning Hutch.

Fortun stood beside the frame passively, showing no reaction to Hutch.

Hutch got out of the chair and came closer to Starsky, as if needing a better look at Fortun. “You need this muscle-bound heavyweight wrestler to protect you from a slave you trained while we talk business?” His voice was thick with sarcasm. “Davey knows who his master is. He’s used to being present during negotiations. Sometimes he’s part of the negotiation, if you’ll remember, Harriet. He’ll do as I say, whatever I say. You can dismiss…Godzilla.”

“Fortun stays,” Harriet said quietly. “Let’s face it, Ken. You make Neville nervous.”

Starsky suspected that was part truth and part flattery. Nice try, Hutch.

Before Harriet finished speaking, a handsome man with hair nearly the color of Hutch’s followed Fortun from the same hallway. Harriet barely glanced at him, and before Hutch could ask, introduced him. “Kenneth, this is Sebastian, my assistant,”

Starsky remembered Harriet talking to Sebastian when she’d inspected him so roughly at Luna.

The young man wore a well-cut beige suit and carried a thick folder. Harriet told Sebastian to place it on a desk sitting against the wall next to the French doors. The desk was austere, but in keeping with the rest of the furniture. Starsky could see a stack of papers neatly arranged, some file folders, a computer monitor with a blank screen, the monochrome curser blinking, a keyboard, a stack of pens in a cup, and stapler and tape dispenser. A large printer sat off to the side. Sebastian put the folder on the desk and tapped some keys, bringing the computer to life.

“Sebastian will act as a witness to any dealings we agree to,” Harriet continued, “and can prepare any necessary paperwork. I took the initiative to have some things ready, since I’m confident we can work out a partnership that benefits us both.”

Starsky watched surreptitiously, swallowing against the rigid leather of his collar.

Harriet inclined her head at the young man. “Sebastian, we still have some matters to discuss with Mr. Hutchinson. We’ll require your services shortly.”

“Yes, Harriet,” he said, and waited.

“I’m interested in your proposition.” Hutch walked over to the welcoming frame, touching the leather straps and knocking his knuckles against the gleaming metal. “Did you have a new one built or is it imported from Luna?”

He was stalling, Starsky realized, because he wouldn’t want to seem too eager or too reluctant. Hutch was probably also trying to assess the threat of the additional personnel. While examining the frame, he kept glancing at Fortun.

“An exact replica.” Neville sprang up to point out details. “See how the straps can bind the slave firmly, applying just the right pressure? A little soupçon of pain from the restraints is so necessary for their instruction.” He held a strap for Hutch’s inspection. “We could use Davey to demonstrate how bondage can hone his skills.”

Hutch regarded him coldly, one blond eyebrow raised superciliously. “Business before pleasure.”

Neville pouted with disappointment.

Hutch eyed Fortun and turned his back on the torture rack. “Harriet, right now, I’m working to reorganize Dunfey’s territories, connect with his allies, and set up alliances.”

Anton entered the room with a large platter.

“Poor man,” Neville sighed, taking an hors d’oeuvres from Anton’s tray, “to be murdered by a slave. Shocking.”

Neither Hutch nor Harriet paid any attention to him. Harriet focused intently on Hutch, the diamonds in her ring glinting when she tapped the arm of the couch again. “Alliances have no commitment. No teeth. I proposed a partnership, and I meant it. You had the balls to take Jack’s place in every other aspect, why not this as well? Having you on board would add to my business the strength of character — the menace — I lost when Jack died. It would leave you free to concentrate on other matters, as Jack did. Maybe even politics. It could be a win-win for both of us.”

“A persuasive argument,” Hutch mused as if this weren’t both his and Harriet’s main agendas.

“If we merge and work together, we could capitalize on the change in…the political climate.” She barely moved her hand, and Anton was there, offering the platter. She took a morsel and ate it in one bite. “We can afford to buy while stock is cheap. A sound investment for both our futures. Neville can manage the stock once we acquire it.”

“I like the way you think,” Hutch said, absently touching his tie. He sat down again in the wingback chair. Anton offered him the platter and he took something with a cucumber slice on top. Behind him, the window framed the last of the setting sun, twilight casting shadows into the corners of the room.

“With Underhill’s government steamrolling all the CEC regulations that were so favorable to business,” Hutch said, steepling his fingers, “it’s not the best time to be a sole proprietor. I am interested in what we could do together.”

“Are you ready to discuss details?” Harriet stood and approached the desk. “Sebastian, will you record the minutes so we can have everything in writing.”

“I’m ready,” the young man said quietly, and made some quick notes on the keyboard.

Harriet walked around a coffee table to where Starsky knelt in presentation. “But first, Ken, I do have a trifling bone to pick with you — ” Despite her playful words, her voice was steel. She bent, touching Starsky’s damaged cheek.

He found it difficult not to shrink from her touch. Starsky didn’t like being the object of her attention while Hutch sat across the room in the wingback chair.

Harriet slid her alligator shoe against Starsky’s naked thigh.

Hutch was unflappable. “About what?”

“That last night at Jack’s.” Harriet deliberately dug her toe into Starsky’s butt cheek.

He sucked in air but maintained his rigid position, aware that she wanted him to break discipline. Staring straight ahead, Starsky focused on Hutch’s big hand on the arm of the chair — feeling that hand on his neck, taking his collar off, stroking the warm skin of his throat. Those memories countered his fear when Harriet pinched his earlobe.

“Davey’s been perfect since you arrived,” she said conversationally. “It’s plain he craves your attention.”

“We have an understanding.” Hutch’s expression was tight and unreadable .

She released Starsky’s ear just before he thought he’d have to break.

“That night at Jack’s is best forgotten,” Hutch said. “It was chaos.”

“And yet you and Davey escaped alive,” Harriet said without inflection.

Sebastian stopped typing. Clearly, this was personal. They weren’t negotiating business.

“Barely. And not without repercussions. I was arrested.” There was a hint of ire in Hutch’s tone.

“How lucky!” Harriet said with that same smooth timbre.

“I had to part with a lot of cash,” Hutch said testily, “to get back my property. To grease the palms of the Phoenix police and get both of us out of there.” He glanced at Starsky, holding his palm flat. Be calm, wait it out, we haven’t got them hooked yet.

Starsky understood completely.

“At least I got out of that hell hole alive,” Hutch finished.

“And so did I,” Harriet said. “But I can’t help but wonder how Phenine got in the daiquiri you mixed.”

“It was in mine, too,” Hutch said straight-faced. “And I know exactly how it got in there. I used Jack’s strawberries and mixer, but took over the job, if you’ll remember, from Kuyt. He’d bragged about stealing Dunfey’s Phenine when he’d dosed Davey. He knew where Jack kept it in the Gold Room, and put it in the blender. You’d already agreed to pierce him and send him to Luna to train him as my slave. He must have wanted to poison both of us. I hadn’t drunk as much as you when you left the room…”

A muscle twitch in her cheek betrayed Harriet’s emotions, but she listened quietly to Hutch’s version of events.

“I started feeling symptoms as soon as you were gone,” Hutch continued. “But I had an allergic reaction, which only made me nauseous, so I never drank enough to lose control. After you left, I told Jack that the drinks had been tampered with, and he ordered Kuyt to report to you for the piercing. Kuyt went haywire, killing Dunfey and Patello. It took both us,” he glanced at Starsky, “to stop him — permanently.”

Starsky raised his head up as much as he dared, fascinated by the expression on Harriet’s face. She was caught between her own jumbled memories and Hutch’s convincing tale.

“When I got to the airfield and Jack wasn’t there,” Harriet mused, taking a pensive sip of wine. “I had the pilot call the house… He told me Jack had been killed, and the police were raiding the place. He didn’t have any details, and the police aren’t talking. I took the plane to Nevada — ” Her teeth touched her bottom lip. “I still regret missing the evening’s entertainment I’d been promised.”

Starsky felt any hope that he would stay off the welcoming frame evaporate like water in the desert.

“I didn’t come for playtime, Harriet,” Hutch said archly. Anton offered another appetizer but Hutch waved him away, getting up to walk over to Starsky. “We haven’t even worked out the details of our merger. If I leave here without a contract in my hand and an exchange of capital, it’s unlikely I’ll return. Entertainment can wait until we have something to celebrate.”

“All right. Let’s start negotiating.” Harriet took a step away from Starsky when Hutch came nearer. “First, livestock. If you remember, I want to buy all your stock… including Davey.”

“I’ll sell my other slaves…if the price is right,” Hutch said decisively, planting a hand on Starsky’s shoulder and digging his fingers into the leather strap. Starsky recognized it as a sign of nerves. “But Star…Davey’s — not for sale.”

Harriet stroked the welcoming frame. “For me — ” she paused, “it’s a deal breaker, Ken. No Davey, no deal. Of any kind.”

“You’d forego a profitable business partnership over the sale of a single slave!” Hutch said caustically.

Starsky felt like the collar was strangling him. He couldn’t say or do anything to help Hutch. Any move he made would undermine Hutch’s standing.

“I offered to buy Davey in my note,” Harriet reminded him. “And the more I see how special he is to you, the more I want him.” She patted Starsky’s head. “Stand, Davey, so we can all see your wares.”

A hot flush of angry embarrassment swept over Starsky’s cheeks and he broke protocol to stare into Hutch’s eyes as he rose. After being in presentation so long, he could barely feel his feet.

Hutch breathed in, clearly seeing his distress, but just as clearly unable to do anything about it.

Harriet flicked the ownership chit hanging in the middle of the straps crossed over Starsky’s chest. “He’s a fine specimen, worthy of being on display, like a statue by Rodin in my house.”

Hutch’s jaw muscles twitched. He wasn’t happy and it showed. He wrapped one hand around Starsky’s wrist, just above the cuff. “Davey’s worth a lot, Harriet. Maybe more than you can afford.”

“Half a mil, Starsk. I paid top dollar so they wouldn’t hurt you worse than they had to.”

The words echoed in Starsky’s ears. Half a million. Five hundred thousand dollars. He’d seen large amounts of cash, usually stacked neatly in a suitcase awaiting some illegal buy, but rarely half a million dollars. Hutch had spent enough money to buy a house, a car, and live comfortably for years just for the opportunity to possess Starsky’s body.

“Haggling?” Harriet suggested, lifting an eyebrow. “I know what he cost. I can go higher than that. You know I have the money. Perhaps a preliminary bid will help me judge how interested you are in keeping your…partner. A relationship like that speaks of years together. Fond memories.”

Starsky kept his eyes on Hutch. The bitch had hit close to home, but Hutch was cool, almost glacier.

“As you said, times change,” Hutch said with a sneer. “But I don’t appreciate having this one — small — ” he looked past Starsky to Harriet as if discounting any part of his oldest and dearest friend, “provision be the issue that will make or break a money-making merger between us.”

“Nothing about Davey is small,” Neville drawled, leaving the loveseat and prowling around Starsky. Stopping beside him, he threaded his fingers through Starsky’s hair.

Starsky planted his feet. He felt unsteady, but maintained his position. He was undercover. He was a cop.

“Okay, first, I’ll offer to buy fifty percent of your business’s net worth — leaving you controlling interest,” Harriet said. Starsky heard Sebastian start typing. “In addition, I’m willing to give you sixty thousand dollars for the slaves in your house and — ” Harriet paused to peruse Starsky’s assets. She walked up to him as she’d done at Luna. Inserting her thumb between his lips, her steely eyes dared him to make a move.

Starsky held firm, breathing fast and shallow. The pressure of her thumb made him want to swallow so badly that he had to force down the need to retch.

Hutch moved aggressively between them. “You want to check his teeth, get a dentist.”

Neville backed away fretfully, but Harriet held her ground. She flicked a glance at Hutch, pulling her finger from Starsky’s mouth and wiped the saliva on his belly. “You paid five hundred thousand dollars for him; I’ll offer seven hundred fifty thousand for him alone.”

“For Starsky?” Hutch drew himself up tall, towering over her.

Harriet looked intrigued at Hutch’s slip of the tongue. Starsky realized it was the second time he’d done it. She wouldn’t miss that. “For Davey. Sebastian has my standard contract on the computer. All we have to do is change some boilerplate language, fill in the figures, print it out, and sign it. You’ll be a rich man.”

“I’m already a rich man,” Hutch countered, so close beside him that Starsky could feel Hutch’s breath when he spoke.

As good as a kiss.

“Sebastian,” Harriet ordered, flicking the ownership chit so that it swung widely, rapping Starsky on the nipple. “Let Mr. Hutchinson read the draft contract we wrote up earlier.”

“That’s a lot of money you’re offering,” Hutch said, concerned. “And we’re still negotiating. I’m used to dealing in cash, Harriet. Just like Jack. I hope you won’t be opening the champagne the moment I sign the contract. I’m not interested in waiting for a bank transfer tomorrow.”

“Don’t concern yourself, Ken. You won’t leave here empty handed.”

Sebastian nodded, going to the folder he’d brought in with him and pulling out a thick legal document.

“And if I don’t agree?” Hutch asked sharply, moving away from Starsky as if realizing he was forgetting his role in the assignment. He and Harriet were standing only a foot apart, both of them close enough to pet or stroke Starsky as though he were a thoroughbred horse they wanted to purchase.

“Ken, without Davey, there’s no deal of any kind.” Harriet said firmly. Slipping her hand under Starsky’s caged cock as if calculating its weight, she glanced at Sebastian. “Take a few minutes to read the contract, Ken. All we need to do is agree on the details. What more do you want? Money, property, partnership in the training facilities? I’m willing to negotiate. Every man has his price.” She released Starsky’s goods with a quick brush of her hands.

Repelled by her callous treatment, Starsky would have closed his eyes, but needed to watch Hutch. He tried not to yield to the fear tearing him up inside. Why wouldn’t Hutch look at him?

Hutch flipped through the contract, scanning the legalese. “Perhaps other men do…but Davey remains the one constant in my life even though other things have changed.” Hutch kept reading the contract as he sat in his chair. “I’ll have to take some time — ”

With Hutch distracted by the contract, Neville sidled back up to where Starsky stood in submission. “Take all the time in the world, cowboy!” Neville whispered so only Starsky could hear him. “When I get you on the rack, the things I can do. A nice big dose of Phenine to put you in a pliant mood…”

Starsky’s skin crawled when Neville rubbed his slender finger directly across the brand on his inner thigh. It no longer hurt, but there was a skittery sensation of damaged nerves on the raised crescent moon.

“I do such good work.” The Brit chuckled.

Hutch sat back in the chair, still engrossed in the contract. Neville’s unwanted intimacies were making it impossible for Starsky to concentrate. His nightmares were crowding in on him; all his worst fears about to come true. Rationally, he tried to deny it, but Neville was too close, and Harriet was watching him as if he were a raw steak. If Hutch had to agree to the partnership and sale, but unless money changed hands, he and Hutch would still have nothing on them. What if Harriet convinced Hutch to leave Starsky here if she had to go elsewhere to obtain the money? If Hutch were to leave him, Starsky would be on the frame with Neville’s dick in his mouth before the doors closed. Terror swamped him, making it almost impossible to think clearly.

Hutch loves me. He wasn’t going to let that happen.

“He’s not your toy yet, Neville,” Hutch snapped, motioning the Brit away like a lion defending his turf. “My property, my rules,” Hutch said sternly. “Do you have a pen?” he asked Sebastian. When the assistant handed one over, Hutch made some notations on the contract.

Starsky inhaled, relief nearly buckling his legs. Hutch was still with him. They could get through this.

“What’s your answer, Ken?” Harriet said as if she knew he was stalling. She sounded bored. She walked over next to Sebastian as Hutch continued to read the contract. “If you agree to a partnership, you’ll be on the board of directors for Luna and my other slave farms. I’ll pay for your inventory and the house on Lincoln Street, plus you can benefit from other deals you’ve engaged in such as imports, pharmaceuticals, tobacco, and so on. We can merge all of our businesses together to the financial gain of both of us.”

“If I sell you Davey?” Hutch said through clenched teeth, still perusing various clauses and making notes.

Hutch looked over at Starsky and Starsky felt the full weight of his lover’s despair. Things weren’t going well. Hutch was pale, and from the look of his tightly clenched fists, was having trouble maintaining his cover. Starsky read his partner easily. Hutch was balking at the idea of sending Starsky back into slavery because this time he had no illusions about what would happen to him. The scenario was too real. If Hutch didn’t go through with the sale, the deal would be off, and Roget would get away, possibly for good. If she escaped, Starsky would spend the rest of his life looking over his shoulder.

“I’d prefer to go over this with my lawyer tomorrow and get back to you,” Hutch said after a long moment.

“Time sensitive.” Harriet said. “Sebastian can type in your changes, we can print the new contract and sign it. Or you can back away from the whole deal. Davey’s the lynchpin.”

The room grew very quiet. Even Neville seemed to know this was not the time to make provocative innuendos.

With evident reluctance, Hutch took a deep breath and handed over the paperwork. “Nine hundred thousand for Davey and I want…unlimited access to him.”

Starsky’s mouth went dry. No one would agree to that much money for a single slave. Would they?

“I’ll give you one million,” Harriet said without flinching. She gave Sebastian the contract, pointing out Hutch’s changes. “But no access. Take it or leave it.”

One million? Starsky was astounded. No slave had ever cost what Hutch had paid, and this was twice that. Hutch was out of excuses.

The welcoming frame seemed to grow larger. He looked down, but couldn’t move his eyes anywhere that it didn’t loom in his peripheral vision.

Starsky told himself Hutch would fight for him, any time, anywhere. Despite his draconian methods, everything that Hutch had done in the last few months had been to keep Starsky alive.

Harriet had Hutch where she wanted him, with little room to maneuver. Hutch couldn’t risk breaking cover, which meant Starsky had to be prepared to face slavery again, at least until he could be rescued. His worst fear.

But he would do it to save Hutch.

Hutch stood abruptly, grabbed the contract from Sebastian’s hands, and waved it at Harriet, the sheaf of papers flapping loudly. “I see lots of paper here…but none of it is green. Where’s the money?”

She took a step back, tilting her head with satisfaction. “You want to see the money?”

“Of course, I do. You said $60,000 for all my slaves, plus one million for Davey. Fifty percent interest in my business dealings would come to an additional two million, and that’s a conservative estimate.”

She raised her eyebrows. “I’m supposed to take your word for that?”

He smiled. “Now you’re going to tell me you didn’t investigate my businesses thoroughly before coming here? You know damned well that’s a conservative estimate. I’m not signing anything until the money’s on the table. Do you have the actual cash, or do you just have…” he flapped the contract again, “paper promises?”

Starsky had to bite his lip to keep from smirking. Looks like Hutch got some kind of education from his dad whether he wanted to admit it or not.

“Sebastian,” Harriet said coolly, sitting casually on the loveseat. “Show Mr. Hutchinson the money.”

Sebastian got up from the desk and went down the hall to the back of the house, returning a few moments later pushing a small cart with three aluminum suitcases on top. Wheeling it in front of Hutch, Sebastian opened each case. They were filled to bursting with cash. Starsky had a hard time not staring at the bundles of green.

Harriet pointed to the biggest one. “Two million for your business interests.” She tapped the middle one. “We’ll have to subtract some money from this one to give you the $60,000 for your slaves. I thought you’d hold out for more.” And finally, she leveled a finger at the last one. “And this is the one million just for Davey.”

Starsky felt Hutch’s dismay in his heart and gut as if they’d been twinned. He’d actually thought she’d been bluffing. As Hutch stood unmoving in front of the cash, Starsky could see him working through his next move.

“Well, Ken,” Harriet said. “Do we have a deal?”

Hutch opened his mouth, but hesitated.

“You’re in love with him,” Harriet said softly, as if divining his secret.

“That’s — ” Hutch started, sweat beading his forehead. He clamped his mouth shut abruptly.

Starsky’s stomach sank. Even Neville was totally focused on Hutch’s reaction.

Harriet laughed, sharp and wicked, and got up, standing directly in front of Hutch. “That’s why you paid so much for him! That’s why you don’t want to sell him. I can’t believe I didn’t see it before! Good God, Ken, you don’t fall in love with slaves. They’re chattel.”

Anton had been holding the appetizer platter throughout the negotiations, silent and unmoving. Abruptly, the platter tilted, tidbits starting to slide off, but he righted it in seconds. However, Starsky saw the fumble out of the corner of his eye and turned his head slightly for a better view of Anton’s face. As his mistress spewed her vitriol, his bland expression shifted for just an instant before he gained control. Anton was obviously devastated. He loved Harriet. No wonder the fool had served her with such devotion for so long.

Starsky didn’t dwell on Anton. He needed to concentrate on his partner, keep the plan moving forward. Hutch had to agree to sell him to Harriet, or this whole exercise in horror was pointless. It was obvious, as least to Starsky, that Hutch couldn’t make himself say the words.

“Will you sell him to me or not?” Harriet pressured him, as if knowing she had Hutch on the emotional ropes.

“No,” Hutch said very quietly.

“Yes,” Starsky said, his heart pounding so loudly in his ears he could barely hear himself speak. He had to act now to change the dynamics or they would lose everything.

He saw Hutch’s eyes widen, the blue sapphires entirely surrounded by white. “Starsky — I — ”

“Please, Master!” Starsky lunged toward Hutch, desperate. Fortun grabbed for him, but Starsky was too fast. He slid to his knees in front of Hutch, both hands on Hutch’s upper legs, forcing Hutch to look straight at him. “You promised…you said you’d never sell me!” Starsky cut his eyes toward the front door, trying to remind Hutch that they were there to do a job. That he had to agree to the sale.

Hutch blinked in shock. Because Starsky’s reaction was so completely opposite of everything they’d discussed, it seemed to slap him back to reality. “Davey! Have you forgotten all your training! Obeisance, now!” Hutch said fiercely, his masterful voice back in place.

Starsky flattened himself in obeisance, hoping Hutch the Master was in charge again.

“Such a pretty sight,” Harriet said, curling her lip. “Looks like this is quite a reciprocal relationship. I’m still waiting for your answer, Ken.”

Starsky, prostrate, with his cheek on Hutch’s foot, felt Hutch draw himself up to his full height. He could see Harriet out of the corner of his eye.

“Now that I see you actually have the cash,” Hutch said clearly, “I agree.” Starsky heard scratching sounds, and assumed Hutch was signing Harriet’s contract. “I’ve agreed to the transfer of my slaves, my properties, and fifty percent interest in my businesses.”

“And…?” Harriet prodded.

“And I agree to the sale of my slave, Davey, for one million dollars.” Hutch took a step back slowly enough for Starsky to move his cheek to the floor. “I’ll take the money now.”

Listening to Hutch closing and snapping the suitcases, Starsky’s heart thudded in his throat. Just the idea of belonging to Harriet Roget terrified him.

“Davey…presentation position,” Hutch commanded, never looking directly at Starsky. “You belong to Ms. Roget now. Obey her. Don’t embarrass me.”

Starsky sat up and put himself into presentation. It was done. He waited for what had to happen next.

Harriet smiled triumphantly. “He’s mine. Ken, you won’t regret our business arrangement. By all means, come visit Davey at Luna. When you do, I assure you, he’ll be a very changed slave. You’ll never be troubled by an outburst like that again. If you’d like to stay, we’ll be happy to show you some our most reliable training techniques. Neville, have Fortun put Davey on the frame.”

Fortun grabbed Starsky by the arms, his meaty hands preventing any movement. Forcing himself to stay in the here and now, Starsky kept his eyes open, watching Hutch. Please, Hutch…

Neville tittered, leaning into Starsky. “Did you think you could escape?” the Brit said so close to Starsky’s ear, he could feel Neville’s breath ruffle his curls. “Are you ready?”

No.

Starsky forced a calming breath, his heart pounding.

“Harriet!” Hutch said, with formidable authority. Fortun and Neville stopped abruptly, looking back at him. “I won’t be visiting Starsky at Luna. And neither will you. Because you and everyone here are under arrest,” Hutch pulled his badge out of his slacks, “for trafficking in human beings and conspiring to participate in illegal commerce in violation of the laws of Bay City — ”

“What the hell are you talking about — ?” she protested, taking a step toward the suitcases as if she intended to grab the cash.

Just then, the front door of the house crashed open as police swarmed into the foyer.

Anton dropped his tray and bolted for his mistress, shielding her with his big body.

Officers poured in through the French doors to cut off all escape routes with Simmons and Babcock, the lead detectives, right behind. “This is the police!” Simmons yelled. “Put down any weapons!”

Holding Starsky in a tight grip, Fortun couldn’t seem to decide what to do as officers barricaded the room. Starsky kicked Fortun hard in the shin, but without shoes it hurt him more than the big wrestler.

With one smooth movement, Hutch scooped up the heavy silver serving tray and slammed Fortun over the head. It bent in half. Fortun’s eyes rolled back and he dropped heavily, slamming his temple against the metal welcoming frame.

Starsky swung away from his captor at the last moment, catching his breath to survey the room.

Neville screeched in panic, and ran right into two blue uniformed officers. They grappled him and he fell backward onto a couch. His terrified screams were ear shattering.

“Everyone freeze! This is the police!” a voice yelled through a bullhorn. “Drop any weapons and put your hands in the air.”

“Hey,” Hutch gasped, keeping an eye out for stragglers in the chaos. “You good?”

Starsky nodded wordlessly. “You?”

“I…” Hutch was flushed, either by exertion or embarrassment. “Yeah. Where’s Harriet?”

Starsky glanced around, counting those arrested, filtering out Neville’s ceaseless wails. Fortun was down and Sebastian in custody.

“You have the right to remain silent — ” Simmons began as Babcock frisked Sebastian.

“I was just Ms. Roget’s assistant,” Sebastian insisted desperately.

“There!” Starsky pointed as Anton hustled Harriet down a hallway in the rear. The house undoubtedly had other exits — any number of doors out to the garden or garage. Despite the chains linking his ankles, Anton was moving pretty fast.

He and Hutch bolted after the big slave. Hutch grabbed Anton about halfway down the hallway, and hauled him away from his mistress. Anton swung hard, nearly connecting with Hutch’s jaw. Starsky feinted left abruptly, just out of his reach. Neither of them had been prepared for Anton’s defense. He was big. Hutch didn’t hesitate, and landed a powerful punch in the slave’s unprotected gut. It didn’t seem to faze him in the least.

“Run, Mistress!” Anton yelled, and swung at Hutch again, narrowly missing him as he bobbed and weaved.

Harriet didn’t wait for her slave. She dashed down the passage toward another set of French doors leading to the garden.

Leaving his partner to the fist fight, Starsky ran after Harriet. There was no way he was letting her escape. He caught at her skirt, his grasp slipping on the slick fabric of her dress. Taking a flying leap, he tackled her down onto the carpet. She grunted, but rolled under him and came up fighting. She shoved at him hard and Starsky made a grab for her arm. Behind them, he heard a heavy thud, and hoped to hell it was the slave and not his partner. Had any of the cops seen them run into the hall?

“Get off me, slave!” Harriet snarled, enraged. “Presentation position, now!”

For a second, her voice — the same voice he heard in his nightmares — nearly caused his training to kick in, but he snapped out of it. She swung her hand, ready to smack him across the face again, but this time, he was ready for her, and grabbed her wrist before she could connect. “Oh, no, you don’t! You get one shot, sister, and you’ve already had it!” Forcing the seething woman onto her stomach, Starsky twisted her arm behind her back and straddled her body even though she tried to kick him with her alligator shoes.

He needed cuffs, something to bind her. Where was Hutch? Was he all right? Starsky glanced down the hall, seeing Hutch and a crowd of cops fighting to restrain Anton.

Hutch broke free from the crowd, jogging down the hall to help Starsky. “Looks like you have your hands full.”

Starsky rolled off the furious Harriet, jerking her to her feet.

“Release me this minute!” she ordered.

“Here,” Hutch said. “I borrowed these.” He inclined his head at the cops leading Anton away and handed over a pair of regulation steel cuffs. His fingers brushed the inside of Starsky’s wrist when he grabbed the cuffs, cementing their unity.

Harriet tried to jerk away as Starsky slapped the first cuff on her. “These charges will never stick. I’ll be out before morning.” She swung around to glare at Hutch. “And you! When I’m finished reporting what I know about you, you’ll be behind bars for the rest of your life. Did you really think I couldn’t figure out who murdered Jack?”

“For your information,” Hutch said to Harriet when Starsky yanked her arms roughly behind her, “it wasn’t murder, it was self defense. And I didn’t kill him. The cop arresting you did.”

“You’re under arrest, Harriet, for human trafficking, conspiracy, and hyperactive meanness.” Starsky took tremendous satisfaction in closing the steel circlets around her wrists. “You don’t mind if I call you Harriet, do you?”

She glared at him, fighting her bonds.

“Tight, isn’t it?” Starsky taunted, contrasting his leather banded wrists to the steel handcuffs around hers. “You have the right to an attorney. Anything you say can and will be used against you — ” The Miranda rights, so long ignored under Cosgrove, popped into his memory unaided. He recited them fluidly.

They marched Harriet into the main room where the other cops were holding Anton. His arms were restrained at his back; someone had linked one of the chains from his waist through his wrist cuffs.

“She didn’t give you any choice, Anton, because you were a slave,” Hutch said softly. “As a result, you can’t be held accountable for your actions under her ownership. But you’re in Bay City now. That means you’re a free man. You could do yourself some good by testifying against her.”

“Don’t!” Harriet snapped at Anton. “Betrayal is the worst offense.”

Anton glanced at his mistress, biting his bottom lip. Gone was the impervious, strong man: his foundation had cracked. “I could never betray her!”

Hutch flinched and Starsky could feel his pain. They both had a lot of healing to do.

“Fine. You can visit her every Sunday for the rest of your life. Take him away,” Hutch said tightly, shoving Anton at a uniformed cop. “Find him some clothes. We’ll question him separately.”

“Mistress!” Anton cried as he was led off.

“What a waste,” Hutch muttered.

“My lawyers will have me out on bond immediately!” Harriet announced.

“Lady, you are what is known as a serious flight risk,” Hutch said savagely. “You’re not going anywhere. All the lawyers in the world can’t deny the grievous crimes you’ve committed against human beings.”

Babcock came up behind Starsky to personally take charge of Harriet Roget. “We’ve got things in hand,” he said quietly, nodding at Hutch. “Thought you might like these,” he told Starsky, placing his clothes on the desktop.

“Thanks,” Starsky said, suddenly aware of his nakedness in a room full of blue uniforms.

Police were rounding up the rest of the staff, bringing a cook and tearful maid out of the kitchen. They hadn’t found Donato. Starsky suspected he was still in Nevada, holding down the fort at Luna.

“Miss Roget?” Babcock smiled pleasantly. “Your chariot, care of the Bay City Police Department, awaits.”

Maintaining her dignity, Harriet squared her shoulders as if she weren’t cuffed, and walked toward the front door without assistance.

Simmons had a cuffed Sebastian by the arm, and started to follow when Hutch stopped them. “Simmons, this one knows all the secrets. Sebastian, if you play your cards right, you could bargain your way down to a reasonable sentence.”

“I’ll tell you whatever you want!” Sebastian blurted. “But please, don’t let her know!”

“Thanks, Hutch!” Simmons beamed, trotting the man through the French doors.

Starsky turned away from the clutch of police in the room, no longer caring about anyone but Hutch. He felt like he’d endured a thousand deaths in an hour. Adrenaline was still thrumming in his veins, bleeding off his terror.

“Need any help getting dressed?” Hutch whispered, draping Starsky’s suit jacket around his shoulders. “‘Cause the police photographers and crime lab team are here and I see Dobey coming this way, blue uniforms moving to let him by like Moses parting the Red Sea.”

“Now you tell me!” Starsky groused, pulling on his trousers quickly. The last thing he wanted was pictures of his bare ass plastered around the squadroom. And yet, the thought made him laugh because he had a future in the squadroom. He was still a cop. A free man, a cop, and Hutch’s lover. He had a shot at a great life.

“Starsky! Hutchinson!” Dobey called, stepping around a group of officers ogling the welcoming frame. He frowned at it before moving on.

Starsky had the distinct impression Dobey had waited until he was wearing pants and a jacket.

“Cap’n?” Starsky responded, elbowing Hutch. “You cut it close.”

Dobey cleared his throat. “We couldn’t move until Hutch actually took possession of the money.” Dobey wiped the back of his neck with a grimace of distaste. “Sounded dicey in here. Your reluctance to sell your partner was pretty convincing, Hutchinson. For a few moments, I thought you were going to renege on the deal and we would have made the neighbors angry by blocking off the street for no reason. It worked though. When you finally did agree, she grabbed the deal.”

Hutch couldn’t meet Dobey’s eyes, and looked like he was going to stammer out some lame explanation.

“We had it under control, didn’t we, Hutch?” Starsky said with some of his old bravado, his heart still beating so hard he felt lightheaded and giddy. The urge to laugh kept bubbling up inside, riding on top of the terror that would keep him awake for weeks.

“Sure,” Hutch agreed, his hand flat against Starsky’s side as if the single point of contact kept him whole.

“I expect your reports on my desk before you go home! It’s going to take hours to clear this place out.” Dobey turned. He scowled at the police milling around the welcoming frame and marched over to talk to them. “All right everyone! Find your stations. This isn’t a museum! Let’s let the crime lab get their work done!”

Before Starsky could say something funny to Hutch, they both heard a familiar voice.

“Certainly, Officer, we can come to some kind of agreement!” Neville squeaked as two cops yanked him to his feet from behind the couch. The Brit was doing everything he could to passively resist being taken in custody. “While there’s nothing more attractive than a strong man in uniform, I must say these cuffs are dreadfully tight. This could be construed as police brutality — ”

“Wait!” Starsky called, walking over to the arresting officers.

“Starsk — ” Hutch said worriedly, following him.

Neville took one look at Starsky and paled. “Davey, now wait! You wouldn’t hold a grudge…”

“Shut the hell up.” Starsky nodded to the two cops holding the simpering Brit. “I’ll deal with him,” he said, grabbing Neville’s cuffed wrists.

Hutch frowned, but Starsky just shook his head. His eyebrows raised in concern, Hutch waited, standing beside the loveseat, waiting to see what Starsky was going to do.

“Dav-ee,” Neville whined, his narrow face blanching.

Starsky’s grip tightened and he took a deep breath. Since he couldn’t pierce Neville with a ring through his cock and another through his nose, he only had one other option. Without saying a word, he uncuffed the Brit.

Neville tittered nervously and rubbed his wrists. “That’s so kind of you. They were dreadful…”

“Strip,” Starsky said savagely.

“What?” Neville took two steps back in surprise, but Starsky gripped his arm again, pulling him closer.

Startled, for a moment, Hutch stepped forward to bracket Neville on the other side. “You heard the man,” he said in a soft, menacing voice.

“You need help, slimy limey?” Starsky grabbed the collar of the Brit’s paisley shirt as if he was going to rip it open.

“Hold on!” Neville cried, pawing at the buttons with fluttering fingers. “I’ll cooperate! I didn’t realize how…” he laughed, his eyes watering, “powerful you could be, Davey, really!” He got the shirt off and quickly dropped his hip-hugging velvet slacks. The gold scarf hung limply over his skinny chest.

“Starsk.” Hutch said quietly, glancing at the cops and crime lab personnel meandering around the room.

Starsky scanned the living room. Every cop in the place had formed an impromptu line between the front of the building and where they were standing, and were pointedly keeping their backs to the current tableau — giving them privacy for Starsky’s revenge play. Grateful, Starsky caught Hutch’s eye and held it. Their brothers in uniform would witness nothing that happened here tonight. It was a sobering thought. Having Hutch there — and the back-up from the force — fortified his resolve.

“Up on the frame.” Starsky gestured at Neville. He felt a combination of too many emotions to name: rage, exhilaration, relief, and also a curious emptiness — but he had to do this. To end his nightmares and for his own self-preservation. He could easily read Hutch’s support in every line of his body. Hutch nodded soberly. “You heard me,” Starsky said to his prisoner. “Get up there. Now.”

Whimpering, Neville stared at him for a long moment and then clambered awkwardly onto the device.

Making no attempt to be gentle, Starsky strapped Neville’s limbs in place , his belly spasming the entire time. He kept hearing Neville say “…a soupçon of pain…is so necessary.” Just being this close to the damned frame made him tremble. He wadded up one end of Neville’s gold scarf and stuffed it into the man’s mouth before tucking Neville’s chin into the chin rest and wrapping a single strap around his head to keep it in place.

“How does that feel, lamb? Think real hard, Nev,” Starsky whispered, not caring when his spittle hit the man’s cheek. “You stay here for five whole minutes and think good and fucking hard about what you did and all the people you did it to. Then imagine spending the rest of your sorry life in prison. It’s a damned sight better then bein’ on this torture rack.”

Starsky surveyed what he had done. He took no pleasure in watching the Brit’s eyes roll in terror above the gold fabric spilling from his mouth. When Hutch put both hands on his shoulders, Starsky realized he was shaking.

“Are you finished?” Hutch asked quietly, letting him know he’d support anything else Starsky wanted to do.

“Yeah,” Starsky said, knowing it was true. He reached up and gripped one of Hutch’s hands. “My work here is done.” He looked over his shoulder at his partner, surprised that he could smile now.

“The uniforms can take him down…whenever they get around to it,” Hutch said.

Starsky nodded, already forgetting Neville, forgetting the frame, turning away from it forever. He and Hutch went out of the front door. He never once looked back.

Red, blue, and white lights from the tangle of cruisers and unmarked cars lit up the night, momentarily blinding Starsky. Pausing to put on his shoes, he stood on the front walk, his heart pounding under his sternum, trying to see past the rotating emergency lights.

Hutch hooked an arm around Starsky’s shoulder, and they walked through the throng of cops putting up crime scene tape to blockade the house.

Behind the relative privacy of two cruisers parked in the driveway, Hutch touched Starsky’s injured cheek with a grimace. “What Neville said at Luna is wrong. Bruises are never an improvement.”

Desperate to melt into Hutch’s caress, Starsky couldn’t let himself succumb. “We going downtown?”

Hutch smiled gently. “You wanted donuts after this was over. I figured we could stop at that all night place you like, buy a couple dozen for the squad.”

“That I could go for,” Starsky said, his anxiety, fear, and insecurities draining away. He was a cop. They’d busted a major player in the slave racket. After donuts, it was back to work, to make sure Roget — and Neville — never spent another day outside of a jail cell.

“There you are!” Dobey harrumphed, stumping over to them. “Uniforms have rounded up the last people in the house.” He pointed to a cop taking a subdued semi-dressed Neville to a waiting squad car. “Good work in there.”

“I think Sebastian may give us leads to more connections to Harriet’s slavery business,” Hutch said.

“Oh, before I forget.” Dobey smiled and pulled out the IDs he’d held for safekeeping. “Detective Hutchinson, Detective Starsky. You’ll be needing these.”

“Thanks, Cap.” Starsky closed his fingers around the gold shield, the raised detail of the emblem spelling out Bay City Detective into the palm of his hand. These were the old badges, not the one’s with “Special Police” embossed on them. Dobey must have pulled them out of storage. For the first time all evening, Starsky felt tears threaten. He wouldn’t be throwing this badge in the ocean, not ever.

“You two have come through an incredible trial,” Dobey said quietly for their ears alone. “I don’t know any other men who could’ve survived your ordeal with your partnership intact. You worked hard for these.”

“That’s high praise,” Hutch murmured, his voice cracking slightly as he tucked his badge into its place in his wallet. “We’ll get back to the station and start on the paperwork, Captain.”

Dobey nodded, tugging at the vest that pulled tightly across his belly. “See that you do.” He was a man in his element, jovial after a righteous bust.

“Starsk,” Hutch said quietly as they headed for his car. “I need your help with something.”

With each step they took away from the revolving lights, the static hiss of the police radios, and the curious looks from neighbors, Starsky’s tension dropped. He shouldn’t be jumpy any longer — they’d succeeded. But the hair on the back of his neck rose when a man behind them shouted something unintelligible.

“Hey.” Hutch rubbed his palms down Starsky’s arms. “You’re shivering.”

Starsky tried laughing it off, but Hutch’s hands felt really warm, their heat penetrating his skin even through the cashmere jacket.

Hutch had parked the BMW with the car phone at the bottom of the driveway. By the time they reached the car, they were alone.

Starsky put his arms around Hutch just to feel him breathe, to reassure himself that they’d both made it. Hutch’s heart throbbed overly fast against Starsky’s breastbone. Pressed against Hutch’s neck, Starsky took a deep breath, inhaling the scent that was all Hutch despite the spicy cologne he’d used.

“I got you back,” Hutch said in his hair. The dark closed around them, protecting them from prying eyes. “You scared me when you ran over to me. Everything was unraveling and — ”

“What was it you wanted me to do for you?” Starsky interrupted to forestall dissecting what had gone down. There would be enough of that later. Days of debriefings where each moment of the time in that hell hole would be scrutinized. Dobey had recorded every word. He’d have to listen to Harriet and Neville debasing him over and over. And so would every other person in the precinct.

“Pull off the wire,” Hutch said. “The tape is driving me crazy.” He unbuttoned his shirt and pushed his jacket off his shoulders, then looked around as if suddenly aware that they weren’t far from the crime scene. “Inside the car,” he amended, unlocking the BMW.

Starsky slid into the passenger’s seat, brushing his palm over the butter-smooth leather upholstery. “You should buy this car.”

“What for?” Hutch snorted inelegantly, his usual aversion to fancy cars rearing up again. “I have a car.” In the darkened interior of the BMW, only his blond hair, the whites of his eyes, and his white shirt were visible.

Starsky couldn’t even see the small mic Hutch had been wearing, but he knew where it was. He’d hidden it in Hutch’s left armpit, hours earlier, right before Babcock picked him up in the Metro Cab.

Hutch caught his breath when Starsky put his cold hand on Hutch’s warm chest. Time stood still for a moment, then Starsky kissed Hutch’s collarbone and surged up to catch Hutch’s mouth.

Hutch pressed hard against him, desperate and needy, then pulled back, focusing on the task at hand. “Do it fast,” he said roughly.

Starsky pushed his fingers into the nest of armpit hair, locating the miniature electronics by feel and scraped his nail over the edge of the adhesive. “On three?” Starsky asked.

Hutch’s eyes widened. “One, tw — ”

Starsky ripped the tape off, yanking hair out with the bug. “Three.”

Hutch yowled, clutching at his pit. “You didn’t wait ’til three!”

Holding the freed transmitter in his hand, Starsky grinned, laughter bubbling up. This was how it should be, him and Hutch in a car at night, squabbling over inconsequential things. It felt really good.

***

The judge Ariadne Underhill had recently appointed refused to release Roget out on bail with all the charges against her. She was a serious flight risk.

“She’ll fight everything we throw against her,” Starsky said, selecting the biggest chocolate-covered donut with sprinkles in the box. His second, with about a gallon of coffee, ought to keep him up for the marathon night of interrogations and report writing. He leaned back in his chair to bite down on the delicious treat, aware of the tight leather harness he still wore. If he kept eating like this, Hutch would have to put new holes in all the straps. He grinned at that idea. They’d have no time to unbuckle the harness at Metro. He’d be wearing it until they got back to Lincoln. At least it wasn’t obvious under Hutch’s old suit.

“No different than Gunther, and we brought him down.” Hutch sipped coffee, eyeing the pastry in Starsky’s hand. He had a plain cake donut on a napkin in front of him. It was his first, and he hadn’t even taken a bite.

“And this is a better political climate.” Gary Manetti walked in through the squadroom door in time to hear what Hutch said. “Ariadne and I have been glued to the police band. Bravo! You made quite an arrest.”

“With Harriet Roget and Neville Small in custody, we’ve ripped the center out of Luna,” Hutch said, smacking the edge of the desk. “A blow for human rights.”

“Dolesky’s crew has already staked out Luna. Once the charges are official, they can impound Luna and all her other assets, and we can get her on racketeering. Want a donut?” Starsky waved a hand at the box.

“Thanks.” Manetti took a maple bar and bit into it with a groan of pleasure. “Haven’t eaten one of these in a long time. Ariadne’s trying to keep her weight down — which means we’re both eating salads and fish with lemon.” He eyed the remaining pastries with a sigh, then patted his flat belly. “She wanted to come down to the station and congratulate everyone personally, but politically, that’s not a smart move.” Dressed in a knit shirt and khakis, he looked more like the ex-football star than a high-powered attorney. “However, I am ready to throw my weight against that witch, Roget, and my testimony, too.”

“Which we will undoubtedly need,” Hutch said.

“Where do we start?” Manetti asked, rubbing his hands together.

“Did you save any for me?” Minnie swung through the doors. She plucked a glazed old-fashioned from the box. “Your prisoners are all booked, photographed, and printed, and are ready for questioning. And I suggest you start with that pretty one, Sebastian Cuthbert. That boy nearly gave the booking sergeant a statement.”

***

The houses on Lincoln Street were shuttered and closed by the time Starsky and Hutch drove home. Streetlights made small cones of brightness in the damp fog every ten feet.

“Think other people — families — will move into this block once all the slave houses completely close down?” Starsky asked wearily, getting out of the car. He just wanted to curl up beside Hutch and sleep, but first, he had to get out of the damned leather harness. “It’s like the place is rotten.”

“All the more reason to make this a place ex-slaves can get shelter and counseling.” Hutch slung an arm around Starsky and locked the convertible. He rubbed his fingers along one of the straps under Starsky’s shirt. “Ready to get this off?”

“Feels like it’s carving out chunks of my flesh.” Starsky hunched his shoulders. He couldn’t stop thinking about all they had to do to really bury Harriet Roget in charges that would stick. Luckily, Manetti was digging into Harriet’s and Neville’s background. Minnie was going through the CEC’s files, looking for connections to Dunfey and Roget. Pursuing the case against them was daunting but invigorating. For the first time, Starsky felt like he had a chance to get back some of what had been stolen from him.

“I’m beat.” Hutch inserted a house key in the back door, pushing it open.

Light spilled out from the kitchen. Leaning against the stove, Alice looked up sleepily from a cup of steaming tea. “Oh, thank the Lord, you’re home.”

“You didn’t have to wait up!” Starsky said.

Her cinnamon tea smelled heavenly and made the house a warm refuge. “Can’t a girl worry?” Alice wrapped her arms around them both and kissed their cheeks. “That Harry had a nasty streak.”

Hutch kissed Alice’s forehead fondly. “That’s an understatement.”

Watching Hutch’s face, Starsky saw a wealth of unstated fears still lurking in the blue depths. Hutch would have nightmares, too. At least they could hold each other through the worst of them. “But it’s all behind us now. She’s in the slammer,” he said in an intentionally bad Bogey.

“Well, Ah’m glad,” Alice looked between them speculatively. “Ah suspect you’re not goin’ t’tell me the whole story any time soon, but safe is safe.”

“How was the evening?” Hutch asked, rubbing the back of his neck with a sigh.

“Your friend, Lizzie, was a doll, and between her and Linda, they escorted one not-so gentleman out to a cruiser so’s none of the other clients knew a thing. It was a bit quiet, all and all.”

Starsky yawned, just about ready to curl up on the dining room table.

Hutch laid the flat of his hand on Starsky’s belly. “We’d better get some rest; it all starts over again tomorrow with a meet on the docks at noon.”

Damn, Starsky did not want to have to deal with Matt Ball. Would he have to show up as a slave, or could he have his pride back and wear clothes and the leather jacket like a cop? He shoved his hands into his suit pockets, finding his detective badge.

“So many people whose lives were broken by those slavers,” Alice said angrily, sweeping her long hair off her face. “Ah am so proud of Ariadne Underhill for stopping the cycle.”

“You know what, Hutch?” Starsky grinned, flicking the last blond strand over Alice’s shoulder. “Those two ladies need to meet. Alice would be a real inspiration to Ariadne.”

“Me?” Alice giggled, waving her hand as if sweeping away the very thought. “She’s my inspiration!”

“Starsky, that’s a great idea, and it will happen, Alice.” Hutch pointed his finger at her with a smile. “Did you find yourself a nice dress today on that shopping expedition?”

Alice shrugged. “Ah didn’t need anything. Been a long time since I…”

She ducked her head, but Starsky had seen the tears gathering. “Alice, you’re due,” he whispered.

“Thank you.” Alice kissed Starsky’s cheek and lingered for a moment longer with Hutch as if reluctant to let either of them go. “You two evah think of adopting a sister?”

“We already have,” Hutch promised and kissed her with brotherly affection.

***

Starsky pulled a dark blue t-shirt over his head and stuffed his arms into the sleeves. Tugging the shirt into place, he caught sight of his face in the bathroom mirror. The steamy glass from the heat of the shower made it seem like peering through a frosty window. Using the flat of his palm, Starsky wiped a larger area clear, staring at himself.

How he’d changed in the last three months. Not just mentally, but physically.

His hair, shaggy when he’d been enslaved, was now brushing his shoulders, a riotous tangle of curls. Hutch liked it when he pulled it back into a ponytail during the day. Hutch also really liked to unwind the elastic at the end of the day, when they were alone, and run his long fingers through Starsky’s springy curls.

He could hear Hutch singing along with the radio. Tommyhawk on KBCK was playing the upbeat recovery tunes again. “It’s getting better all the time,” Hutch crooned to the Beatles song. “Bet-ter, better…”

“All you folks remember to come down to the rally in City center tonight at six p.m. to celebrate a month without the CEC!” Tommyhawk announced when the song ended. “Fruitfresh will be giving out free samples of their orange and cherry juices, and the local band, Equinox, will be playing. Gary Manetti, right hand man of President Underhill, is scheduled to speak, so be there or be a rhomboid!”

Starsky grinned. Things were better. He and Hutch had wound up their sting operation, signed the deed over to Alice, and moved out of the house on Lincoln and into his hillside flat. The vandalism had been repaired, and Hutch was already starting a garden on the slope out back. They needed a bigger place, but for now, this was home.

Bay City was better, gelling into a city with a future. For the last month, Starsky had been going full out since Roget’s arrest, and it felt good to be an investigative detective again. Felt like he was making a difference in the world. The BCPD had been able to round up the rest of A New Way and had them in custody. In fact, Peter Whitelaw’s name had become a rallying cry for a sane democratic process with checks and balances. He’d become a martyr for the Builders of a Free Tomorrow.

Ex-slaves had begun to receive ID papers and were trying to return to their former lives. The house on Lincoln was now a sanctuary, not only for former slaves who had nowhere to go, but for destitute families as well. Under Sweet Alice’s management, the place was a respected haven. Marlow’s old place was being renovated to provide temporary housing for ex-slaves who needed a place to stay.

Even some of her critics were admitting that Ariadne Underhill was a good leader. She’d removed the most corrupt city officials and was steadily working with her cabinet of lawyers, policymakers, and civil rights leaders to create a democratic society. The government from Northern California had already met with her and was prepared to announce the formation of a coalition. In fact, Starsky strongly suspected that was what Manetti planned to talk about at the rally tonight. Oregon and Washington were in talks with Underhill’s people, too. The Abbey League’s members had become ambassadors to some of the more liberal states, like Minnesota, to strengthen alliances.

There was still much to be done. Nevada had all but closed off its borders. However, with the help of Dolesky and the FBI, Starsky and Hutch had spearheaded a covert raid on Luna and brought the place down. All the slaves had been liberated, including Tink, the doctor who had helped Starsky after the branding, and Neela and her sister, Nasha. Seeing their elation after liberation made it all worthwhile. Starsky’d only had a small taste of what they’d endured, but it had been enough. He’d seen hell and resolved to bring out as many as he could.

He and Hutch were leading the operation to keep slavers behind bars. They never had time to cruise the city as they once did, ferreting out snitches and hunting down suspects. Babcock and Simmons were on that full time, and Dobey had already found some of the most experienced, honest, uniformed officers to promote to detective. Starsky and Hutch spent much of their time talking to lawyers, in and out of court, giving depositions against Dunfey’s former associates, and strategizing with the new District Attorney about Roget’s case. The D. A. had frozen all of Harriet Roget’s assets. As she awaited trial without bail, she was kept in solitary for her own safety since many of the other prisoners knew who she was and what she had done.

“Karen Carpenter’s up next with ‘I’m on the Top of the World!'” Tommyhawk announced as the beautifully blended sound of the Carpenters welled forth.

“Aren’t you dressed yet?” Hutch lounged in the bathroom doorway, looking at Starsky’s uncovered groin with a raunchy grin.

Just having Hutch’s eyes on him made Starsky hard. Heat like a Santa Ana wind blasted though his core. He wanted Hutch bad. Right then. Right there.

“Thought you were on the phone getting the latest from the Abbey League,” Starsky countered casually, widening his stance so that his erection had room to blossom.

Hutch raised an eyebrow, acting superior, but his khakis had tented enough to fit a three-ringed circus. “I was, but I’m finished now.” He purposely bumped Starsky’s hip to get to the sink and turned on the faucet. “I thought you wanted to go out since Huggy was in town, so we could convince him to stay.”

“Huggy’ll stay,” Starsky said confidently. “He’s got visions of a chain of Pits restaurants all across the Southwest, spreading détente one Huggy special and a beer at a time.” He caught Hutch’s eyes, projecting all his desires and wants. Their ability to read one another was stronger than ever, and he had no trouble deciphering Hutch’s silent agreement. Besides mutual yearning, they shared a need to be close, to touch, several times a day.

“Now there’s an idea,” Hutch agreed, shaking water droplets off his fingers. He reached out for a towel and grabbed Starsky’s shirt instead.

“Hey!” Starsky protested but without much force.

Hutch pulled the tee over Starsky’s head and brazenly wiped his hands on it. He balled up the blue shirt and tossed it in the corner.

Starsky faced Hutch squarely, fully comfortable being naked in front of his clothed partner. He’d prefer that Hutch shed his shirt and pants, too, but that was not up to him — yet.

Hutch leaned on the sink and threaded his forefinger through the curl hanging below Starsky’s jaw.

Starsky’s voice dropped an octave as Hutch toyed with his hair. “We can go see Huggy…later….” How he craved this freedom, time to do whatever they wanted. They’d earned the respite.

Hutch moved closer so that every part of his body was touching Starsky. The way his clothes brushed Starsky’s bare skin was incredibly erotic. “You’re not wearing my collar.”

“I took a shower,” Starsky said. “Thought you’d want to put it back on.”

“You were right.” Hutch gave one last tug on the curl and looked around for the discarded strip of leather.

“By the towel.” Starsky pointed, a flutter of anticipation growing in his belly. The kinky aspect of their relationship was a constant kaleidoscope of emotions and sensations, eliciting new surprises with each encounter. Everything he’d ever thought about himself had been turned on its ear, revealing fantasies and kinks he’d never expected to have. Bondage could be fun — since he’d be free at the end of the session.

However, on one point he remained firm. He refused to answer to the word “slave.”

“You look…unadorned,” Hutch whispered, tracing an invisible collar around Starsky’s bare neck, while showing Starsky the leather one in his other hand. His face shone with adoration and love. He reverently brought the collar to his lips and kissed the S charm. “This collar is yours. Will you wear it for me, Starsk?”

“Yes, Master,” Starsky breathed out, as Hutch buckled the leather snuggly around his neck. “Master” was a fine word, he thought, completely opposite to “slave” in more ways than one. It didn’t just connote a harsh authority figure, but one who had mastery over a skill — as in master craftsman. And Hutch had mastered the art of love.

With both hands bracketing Starsky’s neck, Hutch kissed him, taking his time. Starsky ran his tongue over Hutch’s lips, encountering his teeth and hard palate, then the soft sensuality of his moist, warm tongue. Going deeper whetted his appetite for probing other body parts. Stroking other body parts.

He reached down, undoing the buttons and zipper he found by feel until the thickness of Hutch’s erect penis bumped against his hand. Starsky smiled into Hutch’s mouth and gyrated his hips, centering his pierced cock on its unmarred counterpart.

Their cocks, pressed so closely together, proved that there is more than one way to start a fire from rubbing two sticks. Heat rose.

“Wait!” Starsky cried, panting. He had other plans, and climaxing too soon wasn’t one of them.

“Hmm?” Hutch drew back just enough that Starsky could see himself, infinitely tiny, reflecting in the pure blueness of Hutch’s eyes. Hutch rid himself of his khakis and unbuttoned his shirt one-handed, while maintaining contact with Starsky.

Starsky drew Hutch into the sanctity of the bedroom where it was more comfortable. His old double bed wasn’t as large as the king-sized one at Lincoln House, and it didn’t have any fancy drapes or silky coverlet. It also didn’t have any useful dowels to fasten a submissive to, but the blue sheets were clean and smooth, scented with lavender and mint. Hutch had lit the candles on the bedside table ahead of time. The flames reflected in the glass covering the old Picasso print of a hand clutching a bouquet.

“I want to take you.” Starsky knelt on the bed, making him slightly taller than his master.

Hutch hesitated for a moment, obviously interested but cautious. The candle flames seemed to leap and grow in his eyes. Starsky watched Hutch’s face alter slightly as a play of emotions flitted under his skin. The furrow between his eyebrows softened. How easily would he yield his role as master?

“How?” Hutch breathed, the rise and fall of his rib cage mesmerizing. Starsky wanted to latch onto one of those pink-brown nipples and crest the wave of Hutch’s breathing, feel that powerful heart pounding right through into his own body.

“Is it scary to let go?” Starsky asked, lightly brushing a finger over Hutch’s nipple. It stiffened under his touch. He kept remembering taking Hutch roughly in Phoenix, both of them exhausted and pissed off after the fistfight. His cock swelled, climbing up against his belly. This would not be a repeat performance. This was not force, but a reinforcement of their commitment to each other. A seduction, to balance out their parts in the dance of love.

“No,” Hutch said immediately, his shoulders relaxing. “Just takes some getting used to.”

“You will always be — ” Starsky considered whether to say the word right now. But it was true. “My master. Doesn’t mean that I can’t — ”

“Change the dynamics.”

“I adore everything about you.” Starsky poured out his heart. This all could have been snatched away from them so easily. Each and every time he and Hutch came together, he knew it was a precious gift. Even before his kidnapping, there were so many times when they could have been wrenched apart — Hutch’s forced addiction by Forest, Gunther’s bullets, followed by the threat that had been Dunfey and Roget. There were no guarantees in life. He had to hold onto the person who made him whole. “Always have. Nothing will ever change that.”

“You’re my reason for living,” Hutch whispered like a devotion. “Please, let me serve you.”

Starsky kissed him, sealing them together. Hutch’s lips were dry and soft, his tongue reaching out to twine with Starsky’s. Passion surged, binding Hutch to him in a way that would never be restrictive or cruel.

“Lie back,” Starsky ordered, his hands around Hutch’s wrists. “I want to look at you.” His fingers didn’t quite fit all the way around, the way cuffs would enclose his own wrists, but Hutch got the idea. He nodded once, and climbed on the bed.

Hutch was gorgeous. His long, long legs, and flat, well-muscled body was topped by an angel’s face and that flaxen hair. Starsky couldn’t help staring. Hutch was breathtaking. And all his.

“Gives me a chance to look at you, too,” Hutch said, propping himself up with a pillow behind his back. “You’ve been working out. Looks good.”

Starsky smiled as he knelt over Hutch, bracketing his thighs with his butt over Hutch’s knees. He palmed Hutch’s pectorals, rubbing spirals outward. Hutch’s chest was almost perfect, marred only by a small puckered bullet wound in the upper left shoulder. He buffed that imperfection with the heel of his hand, smoothing away the past, resolving and forgiving.

Starting new, all over again.

He was different. Hutch was different. Yet they were essentially the same two cops who’d met at the academy and melded so effortlessly into one.

Once, eons ago, before the CEC changed everything, Starsky had dated a girl who made silver jewelry. He’d watched, fascinated, as she tested the silver, using a hot blue flame to melt the impurities out. Like silver, the events of the last couple of months had tested him and Hutch. And like silver, they’d come through the fire and emerged stronger. They’d rid the city and themselves of contamination.

“You’re like silver.” Starsky kept up his lazy circles on Hutch’s chest with both hands, gazing at Hutch’s shining hair highlighted by the flickering candle light. “Like something priceless.”

“Only to you, babe.”

“Isn’t that the way it oughta be?” Starsky settled on Hutch’s thighs, their cocks perking up with the renewed proximity. Starsky laughed, pinching his at the base to bank his arousal, but that only served to increase his libido.

Hutch had been passive during Starsky’s leisurely exploration of his upper body, but now he reached out, capturing Starsky’s left thigh. Sliding his fingers down the curved slope, he rested them on the top of the brand.

Starsky held still. The brand had healed perfectly, a pink raised crescent moon indelibly carved out of his flesh, but the nerves underneath twinged and tingled as if miswired to poorly grounded electricity.

“You’re engraved silver,” Hutch said finally.

Starsky laughed, releasing the brittle tension that tethered his emotions. “It’s just one more scar.”

“Scars prove you’ve survived.” Hutch sat up to kiss him, holding onto both thighs as if he never wanted to let go. “Life leaves scars.”

“So does love.” Starsky pushed hard, shoving Hutch back into the pillow. “It hurts and it’s brutal and I…” He scrambled back, something relentless and wanton suddenly rearing. The sudden urge to take — now — was on him and he wanted to dive inside and find where he belonged right then, right there. “I want you.” Hutch had done more to him than anyone on earth, and yet he forgave him. With forgiveness had come acceptance of what Hutch meant to him, and what he wanted with Hutch. If he didn’t stay with Hutch, life would be too hard to endure.

“It’s time,” Starsky murmured, reaching out to locate the tube of lubricant on the bedside table.

Hutch nodded, consenting freely without reservation. He bent his knees to his chest, clasping his thighs, presenting himself to be plundered.

Starsky panted, sweat under the edge of his collar irritating and ticklish. He ignored the annoyance to focus on his prize. It gave him time to really examine the tiny opening that he would breach. It seemed so impossibly small, so very vulnerable. But vulnerability often hid surprising, indomitable strength.

“Starsk?” Hutch asked, peering between his legs, those keen blue eyes looking directly into his soul. “Are you all right?”

“Terrific,” he answered, even if he wasn’t completely sure that was true. But he was getting there. He coated his waiting length with lube, feeling the throb of his pulse under his slick fingers. How would Hutch feel when he pushed it past the constricting muscle? Transformed? Renewed?

Everything he’d discovered. Each time he was penetrated.

He’d taken Hutch before, but this felt special. Starsky pushed the ring at the end of his cock back against the shaft and thrust, impaling himself in his partner’s body.

Tight warmth penetrated Starsky just as he pierced Hutch. The ring twisted and pushed against its confinement, expanding Hutch exponentially from the inside out.

Hutch groaned, his eyes wide with amazement. Arching against Starsky, he clutched the sheets, panting audibly. “This is how it should be,” he murmured, joyfully.

Starsky submerged himself in a humid, tropical lagoon, feeling it invigorate his bones and sinews, zeroing in on all the dark places that were rarely lit. He recalled all his previous experiences only to come back to this one here in ravaged but recovering Bay City. This was the one he cherished, with Hutch. His one and only.

“Oh, Hu…” Starsky cried out, grabbing Hutch’s hands to keep from falling away. “Huuutch. Hutch, Hutch.” There was nothing more to say.

Hutch shuddered, crying out as his orgasm built. His big body was bowed and his buttocks was resting on Starsky’s knees. Hutch clenched his fingers reflexively, rocking back as if trying to pull Starsky inside him.

Starsky came when Hutch’s inner walls clenched around him, wrenching his climax out in a tremendous blast. Nothing could have been sweeter.

A long lazy time later, the ring of the phone roused them from a post-coital nap. Hutch managed to untangle his arms from Starsky enough to reach the bedside instrument. He tucked the phone against his ear without moving much more than that. Starsky was cheek and jowl against him and could hear Huggy’s voice, loud enough to sweep away the last of his sleepiness.

“Gentlemen!” Huggy announced. “An’ I use that term lightly. Where you be? Were we not supposed to meet for a repast and reminiscence of better times?”

“Hug!” Hutch started, sounding bemused. He turned more toward Starsky, sharing the pillow and the phone.

“Something came up, Huggy,” Starsky clarified, scratching at the drying semen on his belly.

“Literalist,” Hutch hissed at him.

Starsky bared his teeth in a leering grin. “But we’re definitely still interested in dinner. Where and when? We can be there in less than an hour.”

“Meet me on Mission,” Huggy said.

Without warning, Starsky felt something large and black come at him from far off.

Hutch snatched the phone and sat up quickly. “How about on neutral territory? What are you doing on Mission? Not a good neighborhood.”

Starsky concentrated on breathing, waiting for an interminable minute. Stupid, stupid to let something like that get to him. It was just a place. A single boulevard, with many, many cross streets. Huggy could be miles from Ninety-first. Hell, the old Pits was only a few streets away from that intersection.

He sat on the edge of the rumpled bed looking down at himself. The ring hung heavily at the end of his limp cock. When had he gotten used to that weight? It had become part of him, a symbol of what he’d gone through. For the next few years, people would still associate a pierced cock with slavery, but eventually that would be forgotten, and those on the kinky edge would go back to piercing their bodies, just as they had done before. It would become simply a decoration. Could he wait that long?

Starsky ran his hand down his shaft, holding the tip in the palm of his hand so that the ring dropped over his two middle fingers. It was part of him for now, his band of promise from Hutch.

“Huggy’s got news,” Hutch broke into his reverie and handed over the receiver.

“How’s it hangin’, my man?” Huggy greeted.

“Heavy, brother.” The irony dispelled his pensive mood.

“I located that chick you was asking on. Glory.”

“Hallelujah,” Starsky punned.

Hutch got up and disappeared into the bathroom for their clothes and a washrag. He came out, shamelessly washing himself off in full view of Starsky.

Starsky wished they both had better recovery, so there’d be time for Hutch to cuff him, hold him down, and take all that was his to take.

“Where’d you find her?” Starsky tore his attention away from Hutch. He swallowed, the collar pressing against his Adam’s apple.

“She was bussing tables in Phoenix, at a little dive with her dad.” Huggy paused, obviously proud of himself. “Her father’s one hell of a cook.”

“So I’ve heard,” Starsky said. He looked up, watching Hutch tuck his shirt back into his pants. Wanting to do that for him.

“He was working magic with the fare. The Bear knows when he sees a master of his art, and I hired him on the spot to help create the menu for my new chain.”

“That’s terrific.” Starsky clapped his hands together.

“I needed a couple good waitresses and a hostess, too. The entire Fiorenze family, working together.”

“Owe you big, Huggy,” Starsky said gratefully.

“Presidential portraits will do, all in green.” Huggy laughed. “I will conduct my business here on Mission and eighteenth, and reconnect with you two jive turkeys in an hour at the old Pits.”

“Still calling it the Pits, huh?”

“Still and always. Can’t change what ain’t broke. See you on the flip side.” Huggy hung up with a loud click.

“What ain’t broke,” Starsky echoed, replacing the phone on the cradle.

“What?”

“Do you think what we had broke?”

Hutch stopped brushing his hair and turned to face Starsky, uncertainty warring with unreadable emotions on his face. “I don’t know anymore.”

“We’re strong, Hutch. In the end, it’s always you and me, huh?”

“Me and thee,” Hutch said the motto that had pulled them through the first year when the brass wouldn’t let them partner together.

The year Hutch had beat up Roschenzky for spreading gossip about Starsky’s past.

Starsky ran his finger around the silver ring that hung from the end of his cock and stood, just as Hutch went to his knees. “What’re you doing?”

“Gotta clean you up if you want to go out to dinner, idiot,” Hutch chided gently. “You want everyone to know we just did it?”

“Maybe.” Starsky dropped his head back, enjoying the lovely warmth of the washrag on his genitals. Hutch cleaned his legs, butt and abdomen, placing a kiss over his bellybutton as a last benediction before standing.

“Wear the red shirt,” Hutch said over his shoulder, going back into the bathroom to wring out the washrag.

“You telling me what to do, Master?” Starsky threw after him, opening the dresser drawer. He had to lift up one of Hutch’s shirts to find the soft red shirt. Their clothes were mixed together until it was hard to tell who owned what. Except Hutch never wore the red Henley, just as Starsky never wore Hutch’s guitar shirt. Some things just defined the owner.

Hutch had always liked Starsky in red. It was evident in the way his eyes lingered, as they did now, when Starsky pulled it on over his head. Hutch looked down at the ring and then up again, thoughtfully. “Did you ever consider piercing — I mean before?”

“My cock? No.” Starsky grimaced. The rape was ever fresh in his memory, metal ripping into flesh to split him into pieces.

“I mean your earlobe,” Hutch said with a mixture of exasperation and tolerant affection.

“Never thought about it.” Starsky pulled up his jeans, adjusting himself after he’d buttoned the fly so that the ring didn’t mold a perfect circlet into the cloth.

“I did.” Hutch reached out and trained the curl hanging down below Starsky’s jaw around his forefinger. “I almost pierced my ear.”

“You did?” Starsky stared at him in surprise. How many more secrets did Hutch keep? If they lived a lifetime together, would he learn them all? “What stopped you?”

“You.” Hutch stroked the lock of hair curled around his finger. “The first couple of days at the academy were harder than I thought possible. I’d been in college, but I was an academic. Sure, I ran track and wrestled, but the rest — shooting a gun, crawling through an obstacle course, taking down a fugitive — I wasn’t prepared for the physical requirements.”

“You were so tense your neck creaked.” Starsky remembered that shining head in front of him in class, shoulders hunched in tight concentration. That perfect face above him, water from the shower head sluicing down his cheeks like tears, his hair plastered to his head as he came when Starsky went down on him.

“I thought that if I got my ear pierced — the police force would never have me,” Hutch whispered. “I could give myself an out.”

Starsky stepped away from his lover, to give him space and so that the nearness of that big body didn’t entice. The curl Hutch held elongated like a slinky and then slipped free of his fingers, bouncing against the leather collar. Starsky raked back his hair with impatience.

“But all I had to do was think of you and I knew there was no out, ever.” Hutch spread his hands, holding the true measure of their love. It was all-encompassing, for both of them. “That you’d hold me strong when I couldn’t do it any longer. And you did. You always have, Starsk.”

“Damn straight,” Starsky said, clasping their hands, holding them both together.

 

Epilogue

“I think I’ve been patient long enough.” Hutch tapped his fingers on the car window sill. “Because your choice of restaurants was excellent, and I’m never adverse to a drive in the mountains, but where are we going? Not Pine Lake or Big Bear…”

“Impatient?” Starsky chuckled. He’d managed to keep the details of their postponed date from Hutch, and he liked having control of the evening. He glanced out the windshield, with half an eye on the winding roadway. The moon hung over low hills, little more than a sliver of light in the blue-black night sky, eerily similar to the matching crescent on his thigh. He could just make out the outline of the darkened curve of the other side, all but hidden so much of the time.

“Not much farther from the map.” He drove around a switchback so sharp that the car seemed to hang out over a sheer cliff for a moment and then swung back onto the pavement. Tall trees rose on each side of the road, a hint of pine on the soft wind. There was peace here, a tranquility that Starsky hadn’t found in a long, long time. He grinned at Hutch, filled up with love for his partner.

“Starsk, just having time to spend alone with you on a glorious night like this is a special gift,” Hutch said, laying his hand on Starsky’s thigh. “You don’t often give in to my desire for nature.”

“Because there could be bears,” Starsky pointed out reasonably. “Or…” Catching a glimpse of startled, liquid eyes and sudden movement up ahead, he stepped on the brake just as a deer leapt effortlessly across the pavement and dashed into the shadowed trees. “Other animals.”

“Beautiful,” Hutch said reverently.

They’d been climbing steadily for about half an hour, but finally the landscape flattened out, the road far less steep. The moon seemed poised directly above a small drive designated by a circlet of reflective studs driven into an oak tree. The headlights from the convertible lit up the orange sphere like a beacon.

“Looks like this is the place,” Starsky said.

“You’re being very mysterious.”

Turning right into the dirt track, Starsky drove about the length of a football field and turned off the car engine and headlights. The cooling metal pinged in the sudden silence. Shifting in his seat to look at Hutch, Starsky took a deep breath. He’d practiced his spiel dozens of times in his head, but that wasn’t right here, now. “Hutch — ” Starsky swallowed, looking into his love’s face. How often had he gazed at Hutch since they met? From every angle, with every emotion coloring his vision. Hutch still dazzled him — that impossibly blond hair, those fjord blue eyes. Even in the dimness of the car, Starsky was sure he could drown in those baby blues.

For all his love of this man, Hutch had hurt him deeply. Had distanced himself without explanation and manipulated Starsky’s devotion, twisting it into a dagger that had cut them both. Starsky had forgiven him after much soul searching. In fact, forgiving Hutch had been far easier than understanding why and how he could do so. Starsky had had to look inward first, see his own psyche from a different angle, and recognize what he’d denied for so long. Hutch was the up to his down, the yin to his yang. His master. He needed Hutch the way he needed air.

What was even more amazing was that for all Hutch’s mercurial, frustrating, and sometimes infuriating ways, he needed Starsky to exist. In the past, when Starsky had refused Hutch’s kinkier demands, Hutch had gone off to the slave houses, using sex to bury his desire for his partner. Starsky had always assumed Hutch simply needed much more sex than he did — had accepted that as a fact and not thought about the underlying reasons. He’d been so reluctant to poke into Hutch’s darker side that he hadn’t even inquired about Hutch’s absences and activities.

Now he knew the truth. And embraced how the two of them had changed and grown, turned toward each other in mutual need. Hutch no longer strayed. Starsky no longer wondered where things had gone wrong. They had cleaved together, become one being with two hearts.

Which was why Starsky had brought them to this place. After the emancipation, Phoebe Cavendish had become a celebrity because of her patented technique for removing the chemically bonded piercings. She’d generously taught the process to anyone who had the skills and equipment to master the procedure. But when reporters and TV producers sought her for interviews, she had shunned publicity. She’d only agreed to meet with Starsky after several phone calls. Starsky wasn’t quite sure why he’d kept this part a secret from Hutch, except possibly because of his own fears that it wouldn’t work. That was the one small element of the evening that unnerved him a little. Would removing the old ring be painful? Stupid, to let something like that stand in the way. But he wanted this to be a joyous occasion, to completely obliterate what had happened in that cold, dirty horse trailer.

He peered down the lane to focus his thoughts. Lit by a single bulb over the front door, an old-fashioned doublewide trailer house was parked on a slab of cement, potted plants placed close up to the lower edge to hide the places where wheels had once been. A short stairway led up to a white door, but Starsky had parked too far back to read what was written on a small sign to the right of the knob. Several elaborate metal sculptures stood in the yard, including one that appeared to be made entirely out of bicycle wheels that rotated slowly with the eddies of the wind.

“I used to think having a ring forcibly pierced through my dick was the worst thing that could ever happen to me, bar none,” Starsky started slowly, reaching out blindly to take Hutch’s hand. Hutch’s palm was big and warm, a sanctuary. “It wasn’t — by a long shot, not when I compared it to losing you in the fall out.”

“Starsk,” Hutch began, as if protesting.

“Lemme finish.” Starsky bounced their joined hands against Hutch’s thigh. “At first, I thought I wanted to pierce the men who did this as punishment for what they did to me…” He put his left hand over his fly, felt the hard metal of the ring through the denim. “It was easy to hate them. They were anonymous, cruel — but then I found out one of them was you…” He trailed off, the memories crowding his throat, making it hard to breathe. “I wouldn’t wish piercing on you on my worst day…not the way it happened to me, and probably to most slaves.”

“I’ve said I’m so — ”

“No! That’s not what I mean,” Starsky blurted out. “I’m going at this all wrong, kind of ass-backwards, which is ironic in a way.” He half-grinned, looking straight into Hutch’s eyes.

Hutch leaned over and kissed him, gently, sweetly. “I’m listening.”

“It took me a long time to come to terms with this.” Starsky guided Hutch’s hand to his groin over the ring. “And you were a big, big part of that. When we…”

“Got married?” Hutch whispered softly.

“Yeah.” Starsky could still hear Hutch saying, Do you David, take me Kenneth… “That changed things. And I started realizing that the people I met who had been pierced were the strongest, most resilient people around.”

“That certainly describes you.”

“When Manetti showed us his ring,” Starsky continued. “I wanted one that was for us — for you and me, instead of this piece of crap.” He fished the jewelry box out of his pocket, along with the collar he had in the right hand pocket. “This is for us.”

Hutch took the box wordlessly, inhaling sharply. Opening the lid, he gazed at the brilliant sapphire with a goofy smile. “Starsky, I love you. I never expected…” Tears filmed his eyes before he blinked them away. “How?”

“Phoebe lives here. The woman who figured out how to take the rings out,” Starsky explained. “I’m — we’re gonna have this old one removed and that one put in its place.”

“Thank you!” Hutch breathed the words, clearly overwhelmed.

Their lips met and they kissed, long and passionately. Starsky never wanted it to end.

“Put the collar on me,” he said finally.

“You want this?” Hutch asked hesitantly, stroking Starsky’s bare neck down to his t-shirt.

“I wouldn’t ask you if I didn’t,” Starsky said, pressing the thick leather band into Hutch’s hand. Now that he was past his explanation, as garbled as it had been, he felt free and light, deliriously happy. “Goes around the neck, fits perfectly, and then you push that strap into the buckle and lock it.”

“I got that part,” Hutch smirked. “I’ve had some practice.” He raised up the little ponytail of Starsky’s hair and fitted the heavy band against Starsky’s neck.

Starsky had the familiar momentary sensation that it was too tight, that he’d choke, and then the collar settled into place. Just right. “She’s probably wondering what we’ve been doin’ out here for so long,” Starsky said once Hutch had snicked the lock and kissed the skin just above the buckle.

“Then let’s go meet her.” Hutch got out of the car holding the jewelry box close to his chest. “There are little clinics popping up all over Bay City with people advertising that they use the Cavendish method to remove slave rings. Why didn’t you just go to one of those?”

“I wanted it to be like…I dunno, a ceremony. Phoebe is one of the good people, like Alice — and you.” Starsky climbed out and shut the car door. He walked close to Hutch, bumping against his hip. Hutch was wearing jeans and the cowboy boots with the silver toe tips. Starsky approved. “Quietly helping out those who need it.”

They walked up the path past a small creation made of metal cogs, gears, and odd car parts to the trailer. Starsky raised a fist to knock.

The door was opened by a surprising-looking woman. She was short — about four feet tall — with a large head, thick, ungainly body, and stubby legs. She wore a gauzy Indian-style shirt and men’s boxers as shorts. “Come on in,” the woman said. “You must be Starsky.”

“Yeah,” Starsky leaned over slightly to shake her outstretched hand, warmed by the sweetness in her dark brown luminous eyes. “Uh — Phoebe, it’s a pleasure. This is my partner, Ken Hutchinson.”

“Good day,” she said formally, reaching up to shake Hutch’s hand.

“I’ve heard a lot about you,” Hutch said. “Even way back, but it wasn’t until a recent article in the paper about you teaching others your technique that I realized. You’re P.C., the artist.”

She nodded with a slight smile. “I wanted to leave that early version of myself in the past — because so much of me has changed since then.” Phoebe waved them over to a bench-style couch that curved against the living room wall. Nearby, a table was covered with metal rings, chains, ball bearings, and other assorted items. The walls were hung with amazing, twisty flights of fancy made of wire, and a free-form sculpture created out of hubcaps took up much of the floor space. “As you can see, I’ve always liked to play with metal.”

“Magnificent!” Hutch exclaimed, admiring the delicate wire creations hung with small pieces of mirrors. “I’ve seen your work in galleries.”

“Thank you.” She nodded graciously. “It’s called Cosmos.”

“You do all this with a blow torch and stuff left over in junk yards?” Starsky asked in awe, tilting his head to take in the hubcap sculpture. He’d never seen anything like it. “Looks a little like a woman from one side, and sort of like flying saucers taking off from the other.”

“I love to hear other people’s perceptions of my art,” Phoebe said, touching the hubcap that was perched above her head on the top of the pile. “Sometimes, it alters how I look at them.”

“What is it supposed to be?” Starsky asked. He didn’t know much about art, although he’d dabbled in collecting Mexican pottery. He knew what he liked. If he’d had extra money, he’d have paid for the hubcap whatever-it-was immediately.

“It’s a work in progress.” Phoebe winked with a laugh. “I’ll tell you when it’s done.”

Hutch pressed his hand against Starsky’s back. “She used to sell her work for thousands of dollars in fancy art galleries in Venice,” Hutch told him. “Remember that metal Madonna that was in front of the church near my old house on the canal?”

“Made of melted down bullets,” Starsky recalled. He was impressed. How did this tiny woman create something so massive? “So what brought you here? Into seclusion if you had so much money?”

“The simple answer is that there is none left,” Phoebe said with a matter-of-fact shrug. “And the more complicated one is the same reason that brought you two here.”

Starsky winced, realizing why she had no more money. How quickly he’d forgotten.

“The CEC and slavery,” Hutch said, his mouth twisting into a grimace of shame.

“After the Corporation took over, I was enslaved in one of the earliest round-ups. People like me, with obvious differences, were easy to locate.” Phoebe waved a hand at her short body. “They pierced my nipples, like they did with all the girls.” She shrugged again, but the sadness in her eyes betrayed her nonchalance. Walking over to a shelf with some odd looking mechanical devices, Phoebe selected a box studded with buttons and gauges and placed it on the already crowded table. “I was more angry at them for taking away my chance to create.”

Hutch shook his head wordlessly, looking at Starsky with something indefinable in his eyes.

“Eventually, a bunch of us escaped,” she continued, “and came out here into the hills. We set up our own little Freetown.” She flipped a few switches and dials on the box, powering up the device that seemed too unwieldy for her misshapen hands. “I started experimenting. Got into lasers.” Phoebe plugged a slim wand into the box with a black cord. “Very interesting, lasers. They cut through just about anything if you have the correct intensity. Including supposedly impenetrable metal.”

The reason he had come. Starsky’s cock twitched involuntarily, reminding him of all his unvoiced fears. He had to ask, had to make certain. “I read about the procedure — and talked to you on the phone — ”

“At length,” Phoebe said with a little laugh. “And you want to know if this hurts?”

“Yeah,” Starsky admitted, feeling his face heat up. He just needed it over with, fast. The thought of a laser that could melt steel scant millimeters from his flesh gave him the willies.

“Explain it to me,” Hutch said, his voice husky, his emotions lurking just below the surface. He pushed the jewelry box over to show Phoebe. “And once the old one is removed, can he insert this one easily?”

“Excellent workmanship.” She fingered the sapphire, nodding. “That’s a fine quality stone.”

“Got it for almost a steal,” Starsky admitted.

“If the track — the hole — in the penis is well established, then you can change out the jewelry,” Phoebe said dryly as if she weren’t talking about male genitalia. “The laser takes about two pulses, on average, to break through the CEC’s standard ring. Some people feel a brief warmth, not hot enough to burn, and then it’s done.” She patted Starsky’s hip reassuringly. “The laser never actually touches your flesh, just the ring.”

“Terrific,” Starsky said, memories of his branding welling up nonetheless. The searing heat and the pain. He closed his eyes and forced that away, opening them to see Hutch gazing at him.

Hutch smiled, that pure, loving one that he reserved only for his partner. “Starsk, you don’t have to — ”

The way he said those six letters, like a prayer and lust all in one, eased Starsky’s mind. “Where do you want me to sit?”

“Let me take a look at the — target, first.” Phoebe gestured at his fly.

“I don’t usually pull my pants down on the first date, ma’am,” he joked, unbuttoning himself, “but for you…”

“I always said the way to a man’s heart was through his dick.” She laughed. As his pierced cock emerged, she examined it clinically. “Yep, I think that’ll be no problem at all.” She reached into a cupboard and pulled out three pair of plastic goggles. “You both need to put on goggles because the laser can blind you. But I’ve got a steady hand; haven’t emasculated anyone yet.”

“That’s really reassuring, Phoebe.” Starsky rolled his eyes. He should have been used to standing around exposed, but he suddenly felt vulnerable and naked. It’d been weeks since he last played a compliant slave kneeling at his master’s side. He and Hutch would be going back to investigating major crimes very soon, not solely ones involving slavery. Starsky never wanted to squat on his haunches wearing nothing but leather straps in public again. He was only willing to wear the entire leather harness in private, and then just once in a while. The intimacy of Hutch buckling those leather straps over his body held a certain allure. His cock stiffened abruptly.

Hutch snorted. “Smooth, Starsky. I bet you never thought you’d get a chance to experience your bris all over again.” He handed over a pair of safety glasses with tinted lenses and sat down to put on his own.

“I’d recite a prayer, but I’ve forgotten all the Hebrew I ever learned.” Starsky donned the glasses. He stared at his cock and the silver-colored metal ring at the end. Would he feel different with the ring out? The true end of his enforced slavery. It should have been exciting, but he was incredibly apprehensive. How would the new one feel? Lighter? It was smaller and more delicately made, with the beautiful sapphire gracing the middle of the circlet. “Baruch Hashem usually works for just about anything.”

“Amen,” Hutch whispered.

“Sit so that I can position you on this,” Phoebe directed, pushing over a wheeled cart that was at her height. A heat resistant pad was set directly in the center.

His heart pounding, Starsky shuffled back to sit against Hutch, glad to have his partner behind him. Phoebe covered his exposed cock with a protective sheath, and positioned it on the cart where she could hold it still without hurting him.

“I love you,” Hutch said, gripping Starsky tightly in his arms. “Don’t move!” he ordered, his mouth against Starsky’s ear, his master-tone unmistakable.

Starsky calmed almost at once. Wearing Hutch’s collar, he truly was Hutch’s slave, and had to obey.

Phoebe switched on the laser, a deep, rumbling hum filling the room. “This is it.”

Starsky closed his eyes, leaning back into the security of his master’s strength. There was the briefest flare of heat that he could almost see through his eyelids, like the after flash of fireworks. He was surprised not to feel any warmth on his flesh. He heard a clatter of metal, and then his cock felt inordinately lighter.

“You’re free,” Hutch whispered against his temple and kissed him.

“No.” Starsky pulled off the goggles, staring down at the curve of metal that had the power to change men’s lives. It was so small and surprisingly meaningless lying on the cart beside Phoebe’s hand. He picked it up, heat from the laser giving the inanimate metal a strange sensation of life. “You’re mine and I’m yours. We’re linked, Hutch.”

It was as if Phoebe were not in the room. He could feel Hutch all around him, holding him. Hutch’s chin dug into his shoulder. “This was just the CEC’s way of reducing people to objects that they could buy and sell. You and me were already bound together long before a fucking ring was shoved into my cock.” He shook himself, blinking, thinking about all the people he’d known who had been pierced. Malcolm had written that he and Seely had gotten their rings removed in Portland. Alice had done it just recently, together with Candy, Patricia, Jasmine, and Pony. The significance of the rings would pass into history, but it would not be soon enough for him.

Starsky picked up the box with the sapphire and silver cock ring, and took it out. He knelt gracefully, his eyes on the shiny toe tips on Hutch’s cowboy boots. They centered him. “You pledged to be my master. I’m pledging to be your slave. I’m your Davey, and I love you. I am, and always will be, the property of Ken Hutchinson.”

“With this ring,” Hutch put his hand over the same one Starsky used to hold the sapphire, “I thee wed. I love you, too.” Hutch grazed his knuckles across Starsky’s brow, his eyes almost feverishly bright.

“I guess that makes me the maid of honor,” Phoebe said dryly, tucking her goggles under one arm.

Starsky rose so that his groin was level with Hutch’s face while he was still sitting down. He touched the empty, well-healed hole in the end of his cock. This was momentous, powerful.

This was love.

Opening the small loop in the sapphire ring, Starsky handed it to Hutch. “You do it, Master.” His heart was full to bursting. He wanted Hutch’s hands on him, wanted Hutch inside him.

When they got home.

It was only an hour drive down the mountain — and another forty-five minutes on the freeway. He wasn’t sure he could wait that long.

Hutch kissed the tip of Starsky’s cock, gingerly threading the new ring into place. “Perfect.”

Starsky traced the curve of the ring, making it swing, the jewel catching the light and throwing little fragmented rainbows onto the Cosmos sculpture. “I could get used to that,” Starsky said softly, surprised at how pleased he was. “Jewelry, with attachments.”

Hutch reached over to button Starsky up. “Thank you, Phoebe.”

“Any time.” The little woman pretended to tidy up her table of junk, an unlikely angel secure in her own place in the scheme of things.

Hutch placed a fold of greenbacks under the edge of the laser’s control box. “For your work, my dear.”

“I don’t work — ” She used a chamois to buff over the sensuous curves of her hubcap sculpture.

When she leaned against her art like a woman coming into her lover, Starsky saw the outline of the rings still piercing both her nipples through her thin cotton shirt. She helped free others, but had never bothered to free herself.

“I just create harmony,” Phoebe said with a little smile. “Come back any time.”

“We will,” Starsky vowed. He was going to buy that hubcap sculpture if it took every penny he had. And he never planned to ask about the million Hutch had promised him. That was a slave transaction, and he was a free man. To do what he wanted, when he wanted. Right now, he wanted to be with his master, bowing at his feet and loving every minute of it.

“This is a gorgeous place,” Hutch said, leaning back to stare up at the stars above the trees and the silver bright crescent moon riding high in the heavens. Small points of light, stars and distant planets, turned the night blue of the sky into a panoply of jewels. “Strange how something looks one way from a distance and completely different when you’re up close.”

“Like submission.” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s hand, swinging their linked arms happily. “Even before the trappings of slavery, I saw submission as failure, not strength.”

“You took submission and turned it on its ear.” Hutch drew him against him, kissing him firmly. “And we succeeded because of it.”

“Me and thee, Hutch. We’re invincible,” Starsky declared, smacking Hutch’s fine, jeans-clad butt. “Now, how fast d’you think we can get home? ‘Cause I got a feeling that if you tried spelunking, you could discover a sapphire mine all your own.”

“Spelunking?” Hutch chortled, dashing down the lane. “Where are these caves you speak of?”

“Crawl under the sheets with a flashlight and you’ll find your way.” Starsky yanked the keys out of his pocket, running for the car.

“You’re my guiding star, Starsk,” Hutch said. “You led me out of the dark side of the moon.”

The End