Buggy Wear and the Perky

113

Ever wonder how Starsky and Hutch decided on their undercover costumes?

 

Originally published in the SHareCon 2008 zine.

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This is really weird, Starsky thought, being pushed around, molded, shaped and pummeled by Hutch’s big hands as they rummaged around in his underwear. It wasn’t even sexy, that he could definitely get into. This was… it was… well, it was just plain weird.

Hutch wasn’t even looking at him, not at him, just at his body. Like it was something that belonged to him. Starsky had to admit, he did belong to Hutch, had done for years, but this was different. He didn’t think Hutch had ever treated him quite like this before. Not when he’d been hurt—then Hutch had focused on his body and his injuries, but he still treated him with the same courtesy, or lack of, that he always did. Now Starsky felt ignored, used, like he was just an object.

Hey—maybe now he knew what those women’s libbers were on about. He wouldn’t mind burning his own— “Ow, that hurt! Will you get your hands out of my bra?”

Hutch looked at him for the first time in ages and smirked. “No one’s ever complained before. I haven’t been told that since high school.” He continued to rearrange the new, very large, very rubbery breasts inside the undergarment.

“God, you’re persistent. Did you get slapped a lot in high school?”

Hutch sighed as though he were the one suffering. “Look if we’re doing this old folks’ undercover tonight, we’re doing it right. You can’t go out there lopsided.”

“Oh great, break it to me gently, why don’t you. You don’t do much to boost a person’s confidence. Next you’ll be telling me my butt looks big in this outfit.”

“Actually, it does.” Hutch stepped back admiring his bosom-shaping efforts. “There, that’s better.”

He moved in close again, fingers spread, hands cupping the DD-sized mounds through the blue cotton. “These suit you!”

“Thanks very much. I want you to know, I’m going to remember every single one of these indignities. So how are you going to wrinkle up your baby-face and blond locks for this occasion?”

“I have a beard, a neat grey wig, and little round glasses. With a bit of make-up that should cover it.” Hutch gestured towards the bedroom where Starsky could see a wig stand, draped in said beard, wig, and glasses.

“You’re weird—you’re really into this dressing up stuff aren’t you?”

Hutch drew himself up to his full six feet two inches. “I’m a perfectionist,” he announced proudly. “I like to do things well.”

“You do me well, that’s the truth.” Starsky held his breasts, cupping them from underneath, weighing them, surprised at how much he enjoyed the feel of them from this angle. He leaned forward, pressing them hard into Hutch’s chest.

Hutch rumbled deep in his throat. “My dear, your hair is lovely, by the way.” His hands slipped up Starsky’s neck, lightly stroking the edges of the grey wig he’d earlier fitted over Starsky’s curls.

“That your best seduction technique? You just wanna get into my pants.”

“You aren’t wearing any!”

“Just shows how good you are at seducing me.” Starsky initiated a luscious kiss, very turned on by their unusual outfits. “Wanna take this to the next level, Mr. Caplan?”

“What level would that be, Mrs. Caplan?”

“Horizontal.”

***

“Will you leave it alone!” Hutch squirmed under the onslaught of tugging and dragging at his hair.

“I have to practice,” Starsky said reasonably. “Just hold still.”

“How can I, with you yanking away at it like that?”

Starsky reached for a different comb from the array of hairdressing paraphernalia laid out on the coffee table. “I think this is the right technique now. I read up on it in that book Minnie lent me.”

Scowling harder, Hutch tried to look up at Starsky but the vigorous backcombing being applied to his hair prevented much movement. “Yeah, I need to have a serious talk with Minnie; you don’t need any encouragement for these ridiculous antics of yours.”

“Just be patient. Last week I let you fiddle with my breasts for ages, the least you can do is let me rehearse some styling techniques. And it’s not ‘antics’. When we’re undercover we have to be able to perform like professionals so I’m simply developing work-related skills appropriate to our next assignment.”

Hutch didn’t need to look to know there was a self-satisfied smirk on his partner’s face. “We’re only going to be shampooing and combing out—they won’t let us near any clients who want more than that. And a good thing too—you’re not mentally old enough to use scissors.”

“That’s what you think. I told Mrs. DeLaRue that Mr. Tyrone and Mr. Marlene were highly experienced stylists who could fit right into the salon without any problems. She’s already started taking bookings. I need to practice cutting next.”

Hutch leapt up from the sofa, hands raised as if to ward off the devil. “Uh-uh, no way, absolutely not. You are not getting anywhere near my hair with scissors. That’s it, we’re finished.”

Looking at him, head cocked on one side assessingly, Starsky’s expression did not inspire Hutch’s confidence. “What?” he asked, dreading the answer.

“Well, my backcombing is pretty good now, but, um, I don’t know how to get it out. We might need to cut off that bit that’s sticking up.”

Hutch scrambled to the bathroom to check in the mirror what had been done to him. It wasn’t pretty. His fine hair had been tangled into a sort of bird’s nest on its side, right on the top of his head. “Starsky…”

He had no need to yell, Starsky was right behind him, laughing. “I lied. We just put a little conditioner on it and it’ll all slide right out.”

“That’s exactly what I’m worried about!”

“No, not your hair, dummy, the backcombing.” Starsky took his arm and led him back to the sofa. “Just relax, I’ll fix it now.”

Hutch felt the cool lotion on his scalp, then gentle fingers combing out the tangles. He sighed, blowing out his cheeks in relief. “Promise?”

“Promise. Don’t I always look after you?”

“Okay.”

“We’ll try on your outfit next.”

“What outfit? I thought I’d just wear those white jeans and a shirt.”

The calm stroking of his hair paused for a moment, then resumed.

“Do you remember last week?” Starsky inquired sweetly.

“What about last week?”

“The undercover outfits that it was your turn to choose? Me—dressed up like an old lady with enormous hooters and nowhere to put my cuffs? Me—in black panty hose which meant it took ten minutes to use the john—and I had to go into a stall to do it?”

“Oh,” with a sinking feeling Hutch recalled Starsky’s almost-offhand comment that he would remember the ‘indignity’ of that costume.

“Yes, ‘Oh’.” Starsky wiped his hands on his jeans and went into the bedroom, returning with a hangerful of garments which he handed to Hutch.

“Noooo,” Hutch moaned, “Not pink.”

“It’s apricot,” Starsky corrected, helping Hutch lay the various items on the back of the sofa.

“Oh god, not overalls.”

“I think you’ll look great, although you shouldn’t wear underwear with them or the seams will show.”

Hutch wiped a hand down his face while he tried to gather some strength. He had to wear what Starsky provided, it was part of their deal about taking turns to choose undercover outfits, but this was the pits. He supposed he deserved it, but he would have to renegotiate that deal before the whole thing escalated and he ended up going out on the streets in just his skivvies. And he knew that he had to keep his reaction quiet to put a damper on Starsky’s excitement. So he tried a small smile and offered, “Okay I’ll see if they fit.”

With as much dignity as he could muster, he gathered up the pile of clothing and went to the bedroom, closing the door firmly behind him.

Five minutes later he emerged, resplendent in ‘apricot’ overalls, green and purple flouncy blouse, pink apple sunglasses and the pièce de résistance: a gold scent bottle on a chain around his neck. He did a model’s twirl to show off the gear from all angles.

Starsky stared at him in open admiration and nodded. It was almost worth wearing this stuff to see that look.

“There’s just one problem,” complained Hutch. “How do I get out of the pants when I need to use the john?”

“Oh that’s easy,” Starsky lightly dismissed his concerns.

“It’s easy for you to say, but the fly is sewn up so I’ll have to take the whole damn thing down!”

“I’ll help you.”

“Not in public you won’t.” They worked very hard to keep their relationship entirely private and Hutch wasn’t about to risk exposure like that.

Starsky smiled at him, gently, as though to a slightly backward pupil. “We’re not in public here.”

“Ah,” no one could say that Hutch didn’t catch on quickly. “Good point—wanna practice that now?”

The End