Darkside

The years on the street have changed Hutch, and not for the better. How much can Starsky take?

Originally published in Dangerous Lives, Dangerous Visions 4.

(Warning, strong BDSM theme.)

“Hutch… pleeeease…”

He shivered. The edge of pain in that breathy, tortured whimper was truly exciting, but the freedom he’d had to deliberately cause it and openly enjoy it was unexpectedly, deliciously, disturbingly hot.

Disturbing? He frowned, then punished the man beneath him for not distracting him enough. It couldn’t possibly be wrong to feel so fucking good. It happened so seldom and he worked so hard and played by the rules so much of the time.

But he needed—no, deserved—darker pleasures. Raw. Dangerous. Totally selfish. No games. No safe words. No apologies in the morning. It had taken forever to find another to indulge him, even longer to find the courage to ask.

Tonight he’d risked everything to satisfy the darkness he usually kept so carefully hidden. It had started slow and gotten rough, the intensity building the way he preferred. But something changed and somehow things had gotten out of hand. He’d enjoyed damaging his lover-turned-victim, only this time he’d gone way too far. The welts and bruises he’d inflicted were exquisite. He’d never been so hard in his life.

But he couldn’t get off. It wasn’t enough. He wanted to break the man he fucked. Absolute possession. Total control. He slammed deeper into the prostrate figure and was rewarded with resistance and another breathy moan.

Good. The darkness in him didn’t want this to be easy. He owned the body. But he wanted the soul. Yeah… oh yeah… but slow it down…. The lust that blinded him wanted this to last.

He fucked brutally for a time, more in warning than for pleasure and then reached around and fisted the other’s swollen cock.

“See?” It was impossible to keep the elation from his voice. “You’re so turned on, so fucking hard. You wanted me to do this to you, didn’t you? Didn’t you?” The cock he held spasmed and spilled into his hand.

“Huu—uutch!”

It wasn’t the scream he thought he wanted. It was a low, lush, despairing sob rich with surrender he craved like a drug. Something inside him howled in triumph as he surged toward a high he’d never known….

* * *

“Hutch?”

Soft concern in a sleepy voice short-circuited his pleasure. He found himself panting in smothering darkness, uncertain where he was, what was real, what was dream. He was hard and hurting and the room was stifling, but he shivered, feeling cheated and unaccountably sad.

Knowing hands touched him, offering comfort he didn’t want, burrowing deep into the darkness he harbored, churning up inexplicable rage. He went rigid and turned inward, fighting to suppress it, snarling a warning through tightly clenched teeth. “Don’t!”

The hands froze, then abruptly withdrew, leaving him to struggle with the darkness alone. He usually controlled it. Seldom acted on it. But when things went horribly wrong for him…. He shuddered, unable to push the memories away. Life was particularly bad right now. And more and more, he just didn’t care.

White Fucking Knight… what a goddamn joke. Nobody really believed that shit. Nobody but—

NO!

He didn’t ask to be anyone’s hero. He just wanted to be left alone. For an instant, rage escaped and totally consumed him. He fought it even as he craved the relief. This version of the darkness was especially dangerous. It would ruin him if it ever got free. He had to contain it. Had to. Had to. With sick determination, he choked it back down.

But he wanted… oh god, the things he wanted…. He exhaled heavily, shaking with need.

And the darkness smoldered… not cold, never cold… but malevolent and secretive, alluring and alive. The very air he breathed was thick with it. He drew a deep, unholy breath—and succumbed. Who the hell needed comfort? He wanted release. Not that lovey-dovey crap he’d had earlier tonight. He wanted the release the dream had promised. That chilling, macabre, amazing dream.

A faint snuffle sounded from the other side of the bed. I could have it. All of it. He knew, suddenly, that it was true. A secret smile stole unseen across his face, sinister and edgy. His fingers flexed involuntarily on strong, powerful hands. And it would take so very little…

…a punch to stun; bindings over-tight; maybe a flogging to damage the skin….

He shuddered, already flush with excitement, as the dream stole over him again. The effort behind steady repetitions, the beauty of the marks, the breathless sobbing—all his to control and they never failed to arouse…

…but he already was and release wouldn’t wait and if he could take the edge off, this could be a night of nights….

He jabbed the supine body beside him. “Turn over.”

“Wha—?”

He rolled out of bed, hurting and impatient. “I said turn over. I want your ass. Get up on your hands and knees.”

The sleeper slowly, silently, deliberately obeyed. He didn’t waste his time on foreplay. No tender words or soft caresses. Hutch was way beyond ready and wouldn’t be stopped. He positioned himself behind the accommodating body, exposed the anus and rammed himself in.

The body went rigid in a parody of orgasm—arched to him, gasping, unable to fight. He closed his eyes in creamy satisfaction. God, this felt so fucking good!

He used his fingers like talons, clawing up and down the torso. Somebody moaned. He wasn’t sure who. Reality and dream were one and the same. He could do what he wanted. Be as cruel as he wanted. And this one wouldn’t tell him ‘no’. Exhilaration ripped through him. He moved, slowly at first, then fast and hard and deep and rough.

The body he fucked worked hard to please. “You like this, dontcha, bitch? All loose and ready… tonight I’m really gonna work this hole.”

The body froze, then scrambled to escape, but he’d expected it and he was ready. He tightened his grip hard enough to leave bruises and slammed the body back onto his cock. “Whoa! Where the hell do you think you’re going?” He grabbed a fistful of sweat-drenched curls and forced the body upright, skewered in place.

It excited him unbearably as it struggled to get free, at the same time trying hard not to hurt. Hutch laughed outright. When would it learn? There was no game. There were no rules. This was all about pleasure. About his pleasure. He bared the overheated throat and bit, enchanted by the tang of warm copper in his mouth.

“Hutch… pleeeease…”

The begging cinched it. He roared with delight as orgasm punished him, leaving him trembling and barely able to stand. He sagged against the body, but didn’t let go. It shuddered violently and tried to pull away. Oh no you don’t. Can’t have that. He groped the still-hard cock of his victim and gave a particularly vicious squeeze. The body jerked, groaning in pain. It energized him, resonating with a promise of more. Fucking fantastic! And hours to kill….

He liked the sound of that and hardened quickly, trying to decide where he wanted to start. He absently raked a pebbled nipple; it responded enthusiastically, though the body flinched. Ahhh….

Fingernails attacked and brutalized the nub and he worked himself in and out of the ass.

“Hutch… please… don’t do this…” There were unshed tears in the hoarse sob, but the traitorous body arched for more.

“That’s right. Move! C’mon, beg!”

“No. I won’t. I can’t. Not again.”

The whisper was like an electric shock. He gasped and became fully aware of his surroundings. “Starsk?”

Silence. Then reluctantly, “Yeah.”

“God…” He froze in the contorted body and the wraith-like surrender collapsed with the dream. “Huu—uutch…”

Hutch let go. Starsky pulled away and settled out of reach. Watching. Waiting in quiet distress. “Aw, Hutch.” There was soul-deep pain in the whisper. “Who did this? Who taught you to get off on this shit?”

He shook his head, unable to speak. It didn’t matter. He no longer knew. The memories were like the people involved—lost to him, dead, long-buried and forgotten. He trembled, bewildered and alone with his pain.

“Hutch?” Now Starsky moved. A lamp snapped on, the dim light a puddle on Starsky’s side of the bed. He could see the damage he’d done tonight—bruises where a nipple had been savaged, blood from a wound on the curl-covered throat. They were messy and raw. Beautiful and exciting. He closed his eyes and swallowed. He could still taste copper—and he wondered how much of the dream was true….

The darkness flickered, hot and hungry, taunting him, daring him to go further this time. This time? Suddenly, it hurt to breathe.

“Turn around.”

He had to know. He waited, feeling Starsky’s objection, knowing this time, he would eventually obey. Hutch heard the reluctant shifting on the bed and only when it was quiet again did he open his eyes to see.

The scars that crisscrossed Starsky’s back took his breath away. They were vivid. Damning. The color of blood. It would be years before they aged to silver.

He’d see to it that they never got the chance.

The thought conjured visions of a trussed up Starsky screaming for mercy behind a gag. Screaming for him. Because of him.

His cock filled as the image unraveled. Memory or fantasy? He honestly didn’t know.

But it didn’t really matter. The scars were real. He reached for himself, moaning, stroking with a calloused hand, inflaming, rather than soothing the ache. The darkness in him flared, hungry and demanding.

I could do it again. I could have it all this time… The anticipation was excruciating. And the slump in the proud shoulders told him Starsky knew it, too.

“Hutch?”

The whisper pleased him. He didn’t want to have to ask. Not like last time, when he had to be careful. Starsky willing meant not asking permission, not having to be careful ever again.

Not ever.

“Face down, lover, spread-eagle on the bed.”

He’d expected instant compliance, not a careful, penetrating stare. Not blankness, bolstered by steely resolve. It annoyed him no end and he frowned uneasily. Why the hell should he be annoyed?

He studied the man who was studying him. He saw no censure or disgust, but there was no warmth or eager welcome either. There was only silence, unbearable between them, ominously getting in the way.

The wait was beginning to piss him off. He growled. Starsky stared intently—then yielded unexpectedly, docilely arranging himself face down. Finally! Everything was his for the taking, but— Something about the surrender was wrong. He was surprised to find himself holding back, sparing the time to puzzle it out.

It was the way Starsky’s body just laid there. Uncaring about whatever he did. As if there would be no begging, no resistance whatsoever. He had it, suddenly, the reason for it. Starsky’s submission came with a price.

“One night, Hutch. It’s all you get. If you ask again, I’m gone for good.”

He didn’t really know what made him ask in the first place. And he didn’t want to know why Starsky had agreed. It was supposed to be bondage and a little rough sex, what had happened was a sadistic meltdown and the most intense orgasms he’d ever had.

Tangled images overwhelmed him then, memories, fantasies scrambled together. Tortured flesh. Brutal ecstasy. Sweet oblivion on the big brass bed.

“One night, Hutch…”

It was over and in the past. The dreamscape evaporated. Hutch could focus and reality was painful. There’d been no discussions about that night—and no repeats either. Starsky had been very emphatic about it. That night of excess had hurt him badly. He wasn’t about to risk it again.

Hutch stared at the body displayed on the bed, wishing it would moan or gasp a welcome. But it waited in silence for him to decide.

It?

This was Starsky. Best friend. Lover. Partner in life. The other half of his damaged soul. He broke into a sweat, hungry for action but—

“If you ask again, I’m gone for good.”

There’d been no question about that once. And it had curbed his impulse when nothing else would. Me and Thee was everything. Everything. He trusted Starsky. Needed him. Wanted him. Loved him.

But life on the streets of L.A. had ruined him. There was no going back—and he didn’t really want to. More and more, he stopped pretending. He was meaner, angrier, and he no longer cared. They all knew it—the street people who once looked to him for protection, the lowlifes, the hookers, the hustlers and the drunks, the kids running wild to avoid getting stepped on—they scattered like vermin before the partners now, avoiding him especially whenever they could.

Starsky knew, too. But he was desperately in love with Hutch, so he stayed. And protected the streets from what Hutch had become.

The thought should have bothered him, but it didn’t.

“If it happens again, I’m gone for good.”

There were times now when Starsky really believed it. Hutch let him. But he had no intention of letting Starsky go.

If it happened again—when it happened again—they’d both be dead when it was over: Starsky from an overdose of sadistic bliss and a .357 mouthful for him. Death by excess. That was the plan. He would leave on his terms and he was taking Starsky with him. And he wasn’t leaving a fucking note. Let ’em wonder.

Starsky shifted ever so slightly, drawing his attention back to the bed. His branded lover was sweating now; the scars on his back glistened wetly in the light. Intensely excited, Hutch gave himself another squeeze.

Now. Why wait? Let’s finish it. Yeah…. His cock became a living weapon, hot and sticky in his hand.

“Hutch.”

The word shifted his attention from Starsky’s back to his mouth, the only part of Starsky’s face he could see in the dim light. He watched, entranced, as Starsky bit his lower lip, but nothing more was said. It was enough, though. The cool, accepting, too-resigned tone had pierced his madness and spoiled his mood.

How did that happen? He didn’t want it. And he didn’t want resigned or passive submission. He wanted a fight, with all the passion and ecstasy he could wring from Starsky when Hutch finally chose to fuck him to death.

“Hutch?” A faint uncertainty crept into the whisper, calling gently to what was left of his soul.

“Yeah.” He took a deep breath as sanity returned.

Starsky dared to move now, rolling carefully to his side, deliberately turning his back away. “Come back to bed. Please?”

He gave his cock a painful squeeze, a last caress before letting go. There’ll be other nights. Other chances. For once, the darkness in him agreed and let him crawl into bed and the arms of his lover.

“I’m sorry, Starsk.” He caught Starsky’s hand as it headed for the lamp. “No. Leave it on. I’ve had enough of the dark tonight.” He looked down into cloudy blue eyes struggling to trust him yet again.

“Okay, Hutch. Whatever you want.”

“Yeah. Whatever I want.” Hutch forced himself to relax in Starsky’s embrace.

I want to take us away from this. I want an end to all the pain. He closed his eyes, vaguely resentful that he’d dodged the bullet yet again. Not tonight, maybe not tomorrow. Soon….

But not soon enough.

He wasn’t able to go back to sleep.

~end~