Muffin Tops

146

Starsky’s dinner plans take a turn.

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“Ah…fuckmuffins!”

Hutch turned his head toward the sound of his partner’s sudden angry outburst and quickly hid the smirk on his face, lest his red-faced partner direct his ire toward him.

“What’s the matter, Starsk? Did you forget to add seasonings to the sauce?” It took a concerted effort to make the expression on his face look as serious as possible.

“No, dummy, I did not forget to add seasonings. I forgot to turn down the heat, and now the sauce has turned into a dried up glop of tomato carcasses.”

“Somewhere in there is a striped tomato joke, but damn if I can come up with one right now. I think the hunger might be getting to me. You’ve been slaving over that sauce for hours.”

“You think you’re hungry? How do ya think I feel? I’m starved! I was really lookin’ forward to having spaghetti and meatballs for dinner.”

“Is that the recipe you got from your friend Dimitry at the bowling league?”

“No, a guy at my uncle’s car dealership gave it to me. He swears by it.”

Hutch watched as Starsky looked longingly around the kitchen. “Now what are we gonna eat for dinner?”

“Where did you come up with fuckmuffin as an expletive, anyway? I’ve never heard it used in that context before.”

“Don’t know. I musta heard someone say it in a past life. But whaddya mean, ‘in that context’? What other context is there?”

“The word has, um, shall we say…sexual connotations. Usually involving pastry dough, a kitchen table, and at least one orifice.”

As Hutch suspected, Starsky’s interest seemed to pique at this revelation.

“Of course…” Hutch continued, “it’s also used as a term of endearment for the person you want to fuck. But you can’t use it with just any person,” he added mischievously, enjoying himself as he teased his partner.

“Why not?”

“Because you have to be in love with the person to use it. Which is why I’ve never used it with you.” Hutch accompanied this proclamation with his best deadpan expression.

“Haha, very funny. All this talk of muffins is makin’ me even hungrier.” Starsky looked around the room again. “The kitchen table? Maybe I’ll have you for dinner, my beautiful blond fuckmuffin.”

“I think I can arrange that.” Hutch sidled up beside Starsky and pushed him gently toward the table, haphazardly pushing the chairs out of the way. “Which do you prefer? The muffin top? Or the bottom?” He punctuated the question by pressing his mouth against Starsky’s mouth and his hand against the groin of Starsky’s jeans, sliding his hand underneath his partner’s crotch until it found Starsky’s lush ass.

“Mmm, they’re both delicious,” Starsky murmured in between kisses and moans, “but I think I’ll choose the top tonight. Why don’t you bend over the table so I can take you from behind?” As he started to turn Hutch around, Hutch suddenly got cold feet.

“Wait a minute, partner, maybe we should think this through. Fucking my muffin on the kitchen table isn’t exactly sanitary, ya know? We should probably move to the bed.”

“No way. We have our chosen orifice, and although we don’t have any pastry dough, we have a perfectly good kitchen table right here. We can just cover it with a towel or something. Besides, only the front of you will be touchin’ the table.”

Hutch considered this for a moment. “Okay, cowboy, we’ll do it your way.” He waltzed across the room to the bathroom and returned with a towel, which he carefully spread over the table.

“But first,” Starsky cooed, kneeling down in front of Hutch and sliding the zipper down on Hutch’s jeans, “is the appetizer course.” He pushed Hutch’s underwear down to his thighs and took the semi-erect cock in his mouth, slowly savoring it with his tongue as Hutch moaned appreciatively.

Not wanting to blow his wad before the entrée course was served, Hutch reluctantly eased Starsky off him. “Ready when you are, partner.” He reached a hand down and pulled Starsky up. After a long, passionate kiss, Hutch dutifully turned away, leaning his chest on the top of the table.

“Stay right there,” Starsky commanded. “Just gotta get the lube.”

Hutch heard Starsky’s footsteps moving towards the bedroom and called after him. “Hey, Starsk? You don’t need to get the Vaseline.”

“Are you crazy, Hutch? I’m not gonna do this without lube.”

“No, I meant since we’re in the kitchen, you can just use Crisco. That will complete the setup – pastry, kitchen table, orifice.”

“I must have missed somethin’, because I don’t see any pastry.”

“It’s a metaphor, Starsk. I’m the pastry.”

“Then what’s the Crisco?”

“The Crisco keeps the pastry from sticking to the pan.”

“Hutch, you need to shut up now and let me fuck you.”

“I was just pointing out—“

“Shut it, blondie!”

Hutch stopped talking.

“You ready, babe? I’m all slathered up and ready to go.”

“Ready. I want you inside me right now, lover.”

Starsky pressed his groin against Hutch’s backside as Hutch took a deep breath, and soon Hutch could feel hard muscle, slick from the shortening, thrusting itself deep inside him.

As Starsky filled him from behind, Hutch closed his eyes and let himself imagine his partner behind him…the blissful expression on Starsky’s face, the muscles in Starsky’s torso contracting with every thrust, his ass clenching as he pushed himself back and forth inside Hutch’s rectum.

After a few minutes, Hutch could hear the cadence of Starsky’s breathing change, and he knew it meant that Starsky was close to climax. And as Starsky’s moans became louder as he pitched over the edge, Hutch let himself go, joining his partner in sublime ecstasy.

###

As Hutch lay contentedly sprawled across the table, Starsky leaned over him and pressed a series of light kisses against the back of Hutch’s neck, seemingly not minding the sweat that glistened there.

“You taste terrific,” Starsky murmured into Hutch’s ear, “but is there anything in the fridge we can eat? You got any salami?”

“You just ate my salami.” Hutch snickered.

“Oh right.”

“But I have an idea. There’s another meaning of fuckmuffin I forgot to mention earlier.”

“Which is?”

“It’s a pastry that’s made right after sex.”

“I thought you were the pastry?”

“I was, but that was before. We still need to make some actual pastry.”

Starsky eyed his partner dubiously. “You expectin’ us to use the Crisco when we make this pastry?”

“Yeah, if we don’t want it to stick to the pan. I assume you didn’t dip your wick directly into it.”

“Whaddya think I am, some kind of cretin? So what are we makin’? Besides love, that is.”

“Well first, I need you to get off me. Lying on this table is giving me a crick in my neck.”

“Oh, sorry.” Starsky rolled off Hutch and helped him up. After they cleaned up the table and themselves, Hutch perused the fridge as he pulled out some butter, eggs, and milk. Reaching for the shelf above the stove, he grabbed the canisters of flour and sugar, spreading out the ingredients on the kitchen counter along with some baking powder, the salt shaker and the Crisco.

There was just one more ingredient he needed, but the fridge was devoid of the objects of his desire. Then he got an idea.

“Be back in a minute…don’t go anywhere!” Hutch strode confidently toward the door and was down the stairs in a flash before Starsky had time to wonder where he was going. He returned momentarily, triumphantly holding a pint of luscious fresh-picked blueberries. “You know, it’s really convenient having a French restaurant downstairs. You can always count on them serving blueberry galette.”

He plopped the pint of berries down on the counter and, whistling merrily, proceeded to rummage in the cabinets and drawers as he gathered up the mixing supplies.

“I don’t see any blueberry galette.”

“Why would you? I didn’t get any.”

“But you said you did.”

“I didn’t say that. I merely said they were serving blueberry galette.”

“You tryin’ to jerk my chain, Hutch?”

“I think we already took care of that, partner, remember?”

“So whaddya doing?”

“I’m making blueberry muffins, what’s it look like?”

“It looks like breakfast. What happened to dinner?”

“Starsk, need I remind you that you burned our dinner down to an unrecognizable mass? We’re lucky to have anything to eat at all.”

“I remember. But you coulda brought back some real food from Chez Helene, ya know. Like maybe some Chatoo Brianna.”

“Your Spanish is improving.”

“Thank you.”

“Here, taste this.” Hutch picked out a plump, luscious blueberry and pushed it into Starsky’s mouth, letting his fingers roll on the tip of Starsky’s tongue before he withdrew them.

“Mmm. Can I have another?”

Hutch smiled and fed his partner another blueberry.

“You know somethin’?”

“What?” Hutch picked up another berry.

“Next time I wanna have spaghetti and meatballs, you should talk me out of it, so we can have fuckmuffins and blueberries instead.”

-The End-