The Mother Lode

This story is a ‘crack fic.’ You have been warned.

Author’s note: This “crack” piece is the result of a very silly online chat session. It is intended as satire, not to offend, with deliberately confusing POVs. Beta read by Audrey G, my fellow Cabrillo State escapee—I mean, chat buddy—whose sense of humor is similarly as demented as my own.

Originally published in SHareCon 2010 zine.

Nearly silent, the two partners planned their operation before taking their positions on the rear balcony of the wooden house. This would be a difficult assignment for them both, bringing to the fore their newfound silent communication skills.

As they settled into place, they suddenly heard loud footsteps and jovial voices from the front porch of the house. It was time. Their hearts beat faster as the moment of reckoning approached.

The partners settled into position. The taller one, with straight, flaxen—almost platinum—hair, went high; the shorter, stockier partner, with dark, curly hair, went low. From their vantage point on the rear balcony of the hillside home, they could see through the double glass doors into most of the house. The perfect surveillance location.

The excited voices of the home’s residents soon gave way to impatient “hurry ups” as the two men entering the house worked the key in the lock, and two giggling bodies fell through the doorway. Drunk.

David and Kenneth were as drunk as skunks.

Sylvia Starsky and Honey Hutchinson exchanged a brief disapproving look from their positions on the rear balcony before shrugging in resignation and settling in for the evening. They had, after all, come to Bay City to observe their sons working as a team, warts and all, on the streets and at home. Figuring a little noise would go unnoticed in their boys’ inebriated state, they moved to make themselves comfortable, clipboards and pencils at the ready.

They watched as Starsky found a selection on a Jerry Lee Lewis album he liked.

He then took Hutch into a classic slow dance position, and got busy kissing his neck, which was a surprise to both mommas. They knew their boys were close, but didn’t realize they were this close.

It was tempting to put down their clipboards, but Mrs. H was intrigued to see how much her son, Ken, had learned since the days when she sent him out to earn extra money at the Tennis Club. After all, when a mother has a son that is hung like a horse, what choice does she have but to put him out to stud? He had paid his own way through college and part of medical school through the favors of her rich friends. They paid handsomely and he learned the importance of social graces—until that damned Vanessa came along and blew it all out of the water with her lofty values and ideals—just where did she think all that money and “class” came from, anyway? As soon as Kenneth got engaged to that evil wench, he had to give up his side earnings, and then, of course, she lost interest in him. Your classic Catch 22.

Mrs. H smiled at the irony, glancing over at Mrs. S, whose eyes had gone dark like deep blue ponds. Her left hand was no longer on her clipboard. Mrs. H cleared her throat, and the pencil and appendage reappeared from below her waistline.

Starsky now had Hutch bent forward on the sofa, lightly skimming his hands over the tanned skin of his lover’s back as he pulled off Hutch’s shirt. Hutch’s golden locks were moist, sticking to his scalp, with a few stray bangs falling into his sky blue eyes. He held onto the sofa with one hand, while dropping his pants with the other, freeing his enormous erection.

Mrs. S broke her pencil.

Mrs. H threw her a spare from her Gucci purse. They could hear little from the house aside from the raucous music from the record player, so they inched closer hoping for more detail. It seemed intrusive; wrong somehow, but oh so right.

Hutch pushed back and ground against Starsky’s crotch; Starsky’s painted-on jeans were off in a second, revealing that Starsky had gone commando. His swollen, throbbing member stood purple and blotchy like a Roman column (or how someone with synesthesia might see Starsky naked). He positioned it at Hutch’s center.

Mrs. S nodded her approval. Mrs. H fainted.

Hutch spread his legs further apart and bent forward as Starsky pressed his way in.

“Ow! You always were pushy, Starsky.” Hutch groaned and Starsky withdrew slightly, apologetically, and rubbed soothing circles on Hutch’s back. Hutch reached under the cushion for the lube, handing it back to his lover. Starsky slicked up, then pushed back in to their mutual pleasure.

They soon reached their natural rhythm, the slapping of thighs, crotches, and buttocks a pleasing adjunct to the beat of the music on the player. They reached their orgasms simultaneously, shouting out as Jerry Lee sang, “Goodness gracious, great balls of fire!” and slumped onto the sofa, boneless.

The mommas straightened their skirts, pushed back their hair, and wiped their hands on their blouses. They didn’t make eye contact; instead, they retrieved their clipboards and made notes.

The Jerry Lee Lewis album skipped on the last few notes of the last song: scratch, scratch, scratch. Mrs. S was sure she could get that out using the old family recipe, if she could just sneak the record away from her boy.

Starsky eased out of Hutch with a satisfying pop, turned the player off, the television on, and moved to the kitchen. “Want a beer?” he asked.

At Hutch’s affirmative, he grabbed a six-pack, and, juggling a packet of Doritos, a bowl of pretzels, a jar of peanut butter, and two spoons between his teeth and hands, he sauntered back toward the couch.

“Did you leave anything behind, Starsk?” Hutch asked. “Like, maybe the kitchen sink?”

“Hardy ha ha, Hutchinson. What you may have failed to notice, Blondie, is the great energy replenishment I have provided for you here. You’re gonna need it. Eat up, boy.”

Hutch eyed the half-naked form before him: chocolate brown curls on his head and a heavy groin that already stirred again under his scrutiny atop muscled thighs and the butt Hutch couldn’t seem to keep his hands off. The butt that held the gluts that did the work to thrust the cock into his ass to rub his sweet spot to bring him pleasure.

Hutch looked back up at his lover again. “Starsky, why are you still wearing your shirt, while I’m buck naked?”

“Because, dummy. Here, eat.” Starsky grabbed a pretzel and sat it on the end of his tongue, for Hutch to retrieve with his teeth.

As Starsky attempted to sit astride Hutch’s lap, Hutch pushed him back a little with a protest. “Wait, let me get this off you first. I want to play, too.” Hutch undid the buttons on Starsky’s shirt slowly, seductively, slipping it over the broad shoulders and letting it fall to the side. He licked one nipple and an old scar reverently, before biting the other nipple. That prompted Starsky to scoot away and take control. He reached back for the peanut butter.

Mrs. H saw how much hair David had on his chest and looked aghast at his mother. “I’ve never seen so much hair on a man. Is it real? Where I come from, they’re all smooth and clean.”

Mrs. S smiled, undid the top two buttons of her blouse, pulled her hefty breast from its D cup, and nodded to several large, dark curly hairs of her own. Yes, indeed, chest hair did run in the Starsky family. The mommas returned to watching their sons.

As Starsky moved in closer, Hutch held him back, nodding toward his once-again eager member. “Ah, Starsk, hadn’t you better, you know, clean up first? I know where that thing’s been, and no offence, but… ”

“Right. Back in a New York minute.” Starsky returned moments later, scooped a large portion of the nutty spread out of the jar with his fingers, and smeared it on Hutch’s bottom lip, chin, and chest. Taking up his previous seated position on Hutch’s lap, he dipped his fingers again in the peanut butter, and while licking at Hutch’s nutty chin, started pasting the underside of Hutch’s hardening cock. He moved his hand up and down, up and down, while his partner’s eyes started to glaze over and his mouth grew slack with pleasure.

When Starsky was sure he had Hutch’s undivided attention, he nipped Hutch’s salty bottom lip, handed over the jar, and said, “Your turn.”

“Wh-what? Oh. Oh. Right.” Hutch mirrored his lover’s act, although with less peanut butter through Starsky’s chest (peanut butter is a bitch to get out of all that hair).

Starsky’s groin stirred in response to Hutch’s meaty fingers and the tender whispers in his ear. Like two seasoned professionals, they turned in perfect synchronization into a sixty-nine position, and proceeded to lick the peanut butter from each other’s bodies, slowly and sensuously.

Mrs. S moved a potted plant aside to reveal her overnight bag, and poured soup from her thermos flask. Then she removed a fresh tomato, salted it, and enjoyed it’s succulent juices as she bit into its center. As she watched her son lave Hutch’s mossy balls, Mrs. S mentally reminded him to eat all his vegetables, paying particular attention to his Brussels sprouts.

Starsky and Hutch were nearing their pinnacle, each as hard as a marble pillar. It was a wonder to them that their orgasms with each other were stronger than they ever had with women, and that each was the most mind-blowing ever. At some point, they would surely explode. Again, they climaxed simultaneously, filling each other with their seed, and they settled into a comfortable post-coital doze.

A stray dark curl wound its way around Hutch’s pinkie. He fell asleep knowing this was all he ever needed.

When all was quiet, the two women opened the glass doors and entered from the rear porch. They tippy-toed over to the sofa, smiling tenderly at their softly snoring sons. Both men seemed to be talking in their sleep, one about “throbbing brown locks” and the other “curly man meat.” They could make no sense of it.

Mrs. S helped herself to some pretzels from the bowl. She looked at the tangle of arms, legs and cocks before her, then at the snacks with their remarkable likeness, back at the sons, then at her flaxen-haired friend, and winked. She shook her head and put the snacks in her pocket.

The mommas snuck out the front door, down to the roadway, and climbed into a midnight blue Studebaker. Mrs. S had chosen it to match the color of her eldest son’s eyes.

“Did you find some new business ideas, tonight?” Mrs. S asked her partner.

“Oh yes,” Mrs. H assured her. “I can confidently restore my porn empire, Honey’s Hot N Heavy Hairy Nest, after this evening, thank you. This was a wonderful Time and Motion Study. Thank Heavens for little boys, wouldn’t you say? How about you? What will you take back to the bakery?”

Sylvia emptied her pocket; looked at her booty with it’s tangle of crusty arms and legs and… “I have a new line in mind for giant pretzels: ‘Momma’s Pride and Joy.’ And now I know why my boy has such a taste for hot dogs with all the condiments!”

They laughed heartily and drove into the night, comparing observations, in eager anticipation of tomorrow’s clandestine surveillance of their sons hitting the streets.

EPILOGUE

Starsky rolled his tongue around his mouth, found the offending pubic hair, and spat it out. Thoroughly sated, he barely had the energy to open his eyes. “Have they gone?”

Hutch nuzzled sleepily into Starsky’s thigh. “Hm? Oh, I think so.”

“Good. Let’s take this into the bedroom. I’m gettin’ squished.”

The end. Both ends.