The Sultan Of Swat

We’ve all seen him do it. Why does he get away with it?

Originally published in the Starsky and Hutch slash zine, Dangerous Lives, Dangerous Visions 5 in 2010.

“I just don’t see why we gotta be the ones pushing the paper,” Starsky said, squeaking the pesky “B” drawer in the homicide file cabinet back and forth while he hunted, hopefully, for the Broughman file. “Dobey has other detectives.”

Hutch closed his eyes and tried to count to fifteen, slowly, over at the shorter “open cases” black cabinet that doubled as a counter for the coffee pot and cups. Their captain was diabolical. He knew his two detectives could “punish” each other better over the course of an eight-hour paperwork shuffle than he could ever manage by assigning them extra stakeout hours. If Starsky squeaked that file drawer one more time….

Squeeeaak!

“Damn it, Starsky! How long does it take to find one lousy file? Do you need help with your ABCs? It’s B-r-o-u-g-h-m-a-n. That’s B-r- which comes after B-q-, and I doubt there are many of those!” He found his own elusive file and grabbed it, slamming the drawer shut. He heard the other drawer shut across the room and gave silent thanks to the gods.

Then he felt it. Before he had a chance to pick up on Starsky’s stealthy, rubber-soled footfalls, before he had a chance to straighten up so that he didn’t present such an easy target, he felt a slight breeze behind him… and… swat! He got a folder to the backside as Starsky swatted his ass on the way to the side of their desks he’d claimed for the day.

That made six times in as many hours, and for the sixth time, Hutch got a volt of electricity straight to the ass through his khaki utility pants and cotton undershorts. This time the jolt was so arousing he almost forgot to put on his annoyed watch-it-Starsky frown before he went over to his side of the desks.

He didn’t understand what had come over him. He should be ready to rip Starsky a new asshole, but he just wanted to survive the last two hours of their shift without suffering some kind of injury from frustrated blood flow to the dick, and get Starsky alone.

At his desk, shuffling through the Clarkston file, he couldn’t see a damn thing on the typewritten reports and carbons. His traitorous mind wanted to replay every instance that day when Starsky had made contact with his khaki-clad buns.

On the way into the squad room that morning, he got a swat to the butt from Starsky with his partner’s rolled up morning newspaper. He got the side of Starsky’s coffee cup upside the ass while they waited in a small line at the coffee maker. Starsky left shortly afterward for his morning candy bar while Hutch began digging through the drawer housing the recent parolee files. Hutch’s return to his desk coincided with Starsky’s return, meaning a swat to Hutch’s ass with the unopened candy bar. Heading out of the squad room door to hit the cafeteria for lunch, Starsky had gone to bat yet again, with his newspaper for a bat and Hutch’s ass for the ball. In the cafeteria even Starsky’s plastic tray saw action while they selected napkins and utensils. And just now Hutch had gotten the file-folder special.

More arousing than all that, Starsky’s Sultan-of-Swat impersonation hadn’t gone unnoticed by some of the other officers in and out of the squad room during the day. Hutch didn’t fear for their jobs or their safety: those same detectives had seen similar out of Starsky for years now, years before there was real fire with the smoke. Only he and Starsky knew the teasing in the squad room now pulled duty as cover for more intimate closeness off the job.

Two months. Roughly sixty days since that candlelit dinner Hutch had intended solely for comfort. Who would’ve believed what it could lead to? When Starsky’s mother filled him in on her son’s favorite dish, she’d neglected to mention that pot roast with potatoes and carrots and red wine made for a potent Starsky aphrodisiac.

Hutch didn’t mind some surprises.

But this? This was more than a surprise; this was a revelation! Suddenly after two months of discovering how years of partnership on the job enhanced a partnership between the sheets, Hutch wanted Starsky to do something to him he would never, never in a million years, dream of asking from anyone else. All because Dobey had confined them to the squad room for a day, and Starsky had to work off excess energy using Hutch’s butt for batting practice.

“Huh, Hutch?”

“What?”

“I asked you, what’s got Dobey riled this time?”

“Starsky, you know what. Last week he warned us not to go back and interview that storeowner about the break-ins on the block.”

“Yeah.”

“And we went and pinned the guy down anyway.”

“Yeah, and got the information we needed to make the bust.”

“And also netted a complaint for police harassment!”

“Which was dropped.” Starsky shrugged.

“Yes, it was dropped, or we wouldn’t be in here working down Dobey’s paperwork backlog; we’d be out on litter patrol in the station parking lot. My point is, Dobey’s trying to curb our independent streak with this stint of pencil pushing.” Hutch patted around on his desk in search of that exact writing instrument. “Speaking of… where’s my pencil?”

“Don’t ask me questions like that on duty, Hutch.”

Hutch whipped his head up for a look around the room. He sighed in relief as he saw that they temporarily had the room to themselves. He should have known Starsky wouldn’t risk something that blatant if anyone could overhear. Just for a little “negative” reinforcement, though, he lifted his finger and gave Starsky a wide-eyed warning glare.

Starsky grinned and gave him that tomcat pr-r-r-growl out of the corner of his mouth for good measure. Hutch rolled his eyes. His finger-wag-glare combo would be so much more effective if Starsky didn’t know Hutch was a pushover for him, especially in those tight-ass faded jeans and that tight-chested red jersey with the cut V-neckline that merely hinted at chest hair.

Now Starsky was pointing at him.

“What?”

“Over your ear, dummy. Your pencil.”

“Oh!”

Hutch reached up and drew the pencil from its perch over his left ear. Could two hours drag any slower? He heard the squad room door open and turned his head just for any distraction from the case file in front of him. Bulky, drab-suited Detective Rayburn came in and commandeered the desk by the two tall file cabinets for use of the phone.

Dobey came in next, glared at both of them, cleared his throat in that you’re-still-in-trouble way of his, and shut himself in his office. Starsky muttered and bent over his Broughman file. The next hour and fifty minutes passed faster than Hutch thought, he and Starsky buckling down and using their mental and verbal shorthand to knock out enough paperwork even Dobey would take notice. In the background, Rayburn’s hunting-and-pecking on the room’s loudest typewriter provided a back-beat rhythm to their work.

Finally, Dobey emerged from his office to inspect their progress. He grunted and huffed his way through the files in the outbox, griped a little over this and that, more for show than anything, but granted them full pardon with a jerk of his thumb at the door.

Starsky pushed his chair back so fast, so hard, Hutch was sure people on the floor below theirs heard it through the ceiling. “All right! Regular duty Monday, Cap’n?”

“Yes, Starsky, unless you find some way between now and then to show me you haven’t learned this lesson,” Dobey growled. “And I have full confidence in your ability to do it!”

With a sheepish grin that fooled no one, Starsky gave their captain a salute that sent him shaking his head back to his office. At the halfhearted slam of the captain’s door, Starsky started waving both hands at Hutch. “Come on, come on, before he digs up something else for us to do.”

“I’m coming, I’m coming.”

Up out of his seat, Hutch made the “mistake” of grabbing his plaid over-shirt and leading the way to the door. Halfway there, he got the seventh swat of the day, this time from Starsky’s bare hand, and he used every ounce of self-control he possessed not to gasp.

“Why don’t you just take him home and spank him, Starsky?” taunted Rayburn.

Hutch stiffened in place. Rayburn wasn’t a hard ass, but there was just enough scorn in that teasing to be dangerous. He and Starsky had to play this just right, or locker room jokes over the next few days might get nastier than veiled innuendo. For his part, he gave Rayburn a bland very-funny-asshole grimace.

Starsky hit the perfect note of macho bravado in his laughter. “Ah, Rayburn, I’m just gettin’ in a few practice licks before my date tonight. With your wife. She’s been complaining that you’re no good for slap-and-tickle since you got that mutt’a yours.”

It was a running squad room joke that Rayburn was in love with the Great Dane puppy he’d named Dynamo. Rayburn flipped Starsky off with a chuckle. “Hey, man, that dog treats me better than my wife, and smells better too!”

Hutch hid a smile. Well played, Starsk. Very well played.

Meanwhile, he had to concentrate on every step he took… to the elevator, down the first-floor corridor, to the outer doors, out into the parking lot, over to the Torino. He had the erection of a lifetime and a long way to go before he could give it breathing room. Settled in the passenger seat with no outward groan of discomfort, he was proud of himself.

Apparently, someone else had mistaken his silence of concentration for a different emotion. “You’re mad. No, you’re pissed. Come on, Hutch, Rayburn’s no big deal. Don’t let him get to you.”

Hutch thought if Starsky didn’t crank the car and get them on the road in the next minute, he would either strangle…or strangle Starsky.

“Hey, I know you’re sore, but it’s your own fault, too. Stuck in that squad room all day with you lookin’ like that, wearing that yellow turtleneck you were wearing, you know, that night, and, damn it, Hutch, I had to do something to keep from going bonkers. What was I s’posed to do, swat old Detective Grover on the butt? It’d be criminal abuse of an innocent file folder, and—”

“Starsky.”

“Yeah?”

Hutch hoped he could get the tone right. Level voice, calm, no tip off to how fucking out-of-control horny he was. “Why don’t you take me home and spank me?”

He heard nothing but silence at first. He didn’t dare look in Starsky’s direction. Then he heard, “You serious? You…are…you’re serious. Oh, God.” With a gurgle, Starsky cranked the car.

Hutch had never loved that sound more.

***

They made it over the threshold of Hutch’s house before they started yanking off holsters, stripping off clothes, tripping, stumbling into the bathroom to grab a couple of necessities on the way to the brass bed in the corner nook. Too fired up to slow down for a kiss, they fell naked onto the bed together in a tangle of limbs and then pulled apart to lie face to face and catch their breath.

“Hey.” Starsky stroked his hand through Hutch’s hair. “How you want this?”

“I…I don’t know. I never thought I—”

“Hutch. It’s okay. Wanting this, I mean. Doesn’t hafta be a reason, or something you gotta figure out. You just want it. I want it. Let’s do it.”

“Okay.” He looked into Starsky’s eyes and saw nothing but affection, desire, and trust staring back at him. “Why don’t you give me what you think I want, and we’ll see how close you hit the nail on the head?”

“Ah, man. Okay.” With a quick kiss on the tip of Hutch’s nose, Starsky twirled his finger in a gesture for Hutch to roll over on his belly. “Yeah, now go up on hands and knees.”

Oh, God.

Hutch did as he was told. He made himself not look over his shoulder for a glimpse at Starsky’s activities. He didn’t feel the light smack of Starsky’s hand on his ass; he felt warm, wet fingers probing him. “Starsk?”

“Gettin’ you stretched ahead of time, babe. When I get through doin’ what I’m gonna be doin’ I’ll be too outta my mind to do right by ya. Wanna be able to slip right in.”

Starsky was halfway out of his mind already, Hutch could tell, that street slang accent heavy the way it always got when Starsky burned with sexual excitement. Hutch closed his eyes and counted backwards to keep his own burning hard-on from shooting off before the party got started. A soft, soothing rub of Starsky’s hand in circles on his lower back told Hutch when the time had come. He cried out at the stroking glide of Starsky’s other lube-moistened hand up and down his cock. What started off like any other hand job suddenly had a vital difference: a faint whoosh of air behind him and…swat! Starsky’s hand smacked down on his ass, his other hand jerking Hutch harder, faster.

“Oh, oh…fuck!” Hutch swore.

Trapped between Starsky’s warm, wet gun hand and the heat generated by his other, Hutch barely clung to sanity. One swat, two, three, quick jerks of his cock followed by slow, hard strokes up and down, four swats, five, six, Starsky panting and making thoroughly obscene noises behind him, and Hutch went off like a cannon.

“Starsky, Starsk, fuck, fuck, oh, God oh God oh God oh fuck!”

“Ah, Hu-u-u-tch.”

With his ass slightly hot and stinging, Hutch waited for that intensely beautiful feeling of Starsky’s cock pushing into him, demanding its due. He felt the grip of Starsky’s hands on his hips and then pressure, stretching, those sensitive ass nerves zinging. Once inside him, Starsky held oddly still behind him, holding him fast by the hips.

Hutch decided to give his lover a surprise of his own. He began rocking forward, pushing back, giving that cock wedged between his cheeks the friction it needed without Starsky having to move a muscle.

Starsky groaned deep in his throat. “Hutch, oh, yeah, fuck yeah, rock f’me, rock f’me.”

Hutch rocked. Slow, then faster, and faster still, until he felt Starsky give in and begin fierce little thrusts forward when Hutch rocked back.

“So good, s’good, s’s’s’fuckinggood, Hutch, gonna, gonna—ah-h-oh-Oh!”

The sudden hard press of Starsky’s groin to Hutch’s hand-warmed ass made him yell again, set adrift in pleasure he’d never imagined. He thought this might just be the one perfect moment of his life thus far. He breathed rapidly through Starsky’s orgasm, hoping his arms and legs could hold him up long enough for Starsky to get every drop out, every burst of satisfaction in. With a grunt-sigh, Starsky pushed him forward in one last jerky thrust and then draped over Hutch’s back, gasping.

Moments later, they separated and collapsed side by side on their bellies. In tandem they turned their heads for a look at each other. Starsky gave him a small victory smile.

“Nail on the head?”

“Bull’s eye,” Hutch said.

“Um.” Starsky licked his lips. He drew a light fingertip down Hutch’s back. “You know, uh, it’s, man, it’s a big deal to me, you lettin’ me do that, Hutch.”

Hutch inched over and laid his arm across Starsky’s back, tilting his head and taking the kiss they hadn’t gotten to yet. Starsky opened his mouth with obvious eagerness, drawing Hutch’s tongue in, sucking it, their lips moving slowly together. Afterward they lay still, no words needed, but Hutch had a few he wanted to say anyway.

“Starsk?”

“Yeah, babe?”

“With both hands on the wheel like that, you drive me better than that Tomato outside.”

Starsky laughed through a yawn, but his eyes flashed love at Hutch. Love Hutch could feel wrapping around him, lulling him to sleep. “You always this nice after a spanking?”

Hutch smiled, eyes closing. “Try it again sometime. Find out.”

THE END