Hutch’s Dirty Little Secret – Part 2: Scratch That Itch

Male on Male BDSM. Not slash, no sex. Slightly graphic.

Adult content, do not continue if this will offend.

Sequel to Hutch’s Dirty Little Secret

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Hutch slammed his front door, turned on his heel and ran to the corner of his block. He was later than usual this morning. He hadn’t been able to summon the motivation to get out of bed when his alarm shrilled at 6:15 am.

Veering left, he jogged up the street. His pace rapidly increased to a full speed marathon run. His feet pummeled the sidewalk like pistons in an engine. Hutch struggled to breathe, but couldn’t slow down. Every morning, for the past few weeks, his run had turned into a race.

With him as the only competitor.

Finally, he had to stop. Bending double, he gasped, rubbing the pain in his side. With deep steady breaths, he rode out the pain.

Leaning against the wall of an apartment building, he sighed. Frustration washed over him. He needed to relax. He remembered the stack of files on the desk he shared with Starsky, and grimaced. Details of the cases flitted around inside his head, but nothing made sense. His usually logical mind had deserted him. It was difficult keeping focused on his work.

Hutch resumed his daily exercise. He completed his normal circuit, and sprinted the last few yards to his door. Taking the stairs two at once, he unlocked his apartment and walked inside.

Stripping off his sweaty clothes, he climbed into a cold shower and flinched as the icy cold water hit his cock. Punishment, that’s what he needed. He forced himself to stand, shivering, in the freezing jet. Goosebumps appeared, and his genitals shriveled in protest. It helped, a little, but it still wasn’t enough.

Turning off the water, he sat down in the tub. With his head in his hands, he screamed. Exercise wasn’t helping. His ritual run every morning had turned into a chore that no longer gave him an energy boost to face the day ahead. Vinnie’s gym, the punching bag, sparring, skipping. Nothing gave him the release he craved.

TAMARA. That’s what he needed, wanted.

But he had promised Starsky. No Tamara, no more dominatrix. Relaxation through exercise, nothing else. But it wasn’t satisfying his urge. He had to have the domination, the loss of control, the removal of free will. But how?

STARSKY. No, definitely not. But Starsky had offered.

Clenching his hand into a fist, he hit the bathroom wall in blind rage. His knuckles shredded on the rough surface. Red spotted the pine paneling of the bathroom.

Hutch dragged himself out of the tub. The sudden upright position made his head spin. Staggering over to the sink, he ran cold water over his bleeding knuckles, clenching his teeth from the pain. After patting his hand dry with a towel, he reached into the medicine cabinet, and got out some antiseptic cream and a bandage. He covered the raw skin with a thick layer, and tightly bandaged the damaged hand.

Banishing all thoughts of bondage from his brain, Hutch shrugged into his favorite orange bathrobe. With one quick look at the blood on the wall, he shook his head and left the bathroom, closing the door behind him.

The living room was a mess, there were empty beer bottles on the coffee table, and papers on the floor. Scooping up the remnants of last night’s drinking session with Starsky, Hutch walked into the kitchen and threw the bottles noisily into the trash can. Cold, congealed, left-over pizza stared at him from the counter top. He wrinkled his nose in disgust, his stomach churning. Instead of dealing with the offending food, he washed the cup he had used earlier, and poured in some lukewarm coffee.

Leaning against the sink, he took a big sip from the cup. He was mid-gulp when a loud knock on the door startled him. His arm jerked, and he choked as liquid flooded into his mouth and up his nose.

The door crashed open, and Starsky stood grinning in the doorway. “Morning, partner. And how are we on this beautiful day?”

Hutch spluttered and grunted. Shit. Starsky was happy, too happy. That meant he got laid last night. That was all Hutch needed today. A sexually satisfied partner.

Before Hutch had a chance to say anything, Starsky dashed over. He whacked Hutch hard on the back. “Hey, you okay? Don’t drink so fast, you could have choked.”

Regaining his ability to breathe and speak, Hutch said sarcastically. “You think so? I was doing fine until you arrived.” He batted Starsky’s hand away. “Do you have to be so noisy?” His head was pounding and he felt nauseous. Hutch pointed at the stove. “Get yourself a coffee, while I go get dressed.”

“No, I’m good. Had two cups already this morning.” Starsky wandered over to the couch and sat down. “I’ll wait here for you.” He leaned his head back and closed his eyes.

Hutch plodded into the bedroom. His feet felt like lumps of lead. He could have quite happily tunneled under the blankets and stayed there all day, maybe forever. Come on, Hutchinson. Snap out of it. Focus.

“Hey, Hutch,” shouted Starsky from the living room. “I was thinking about the Griffiths case on the way over.”

The Griffiths case. Griffiths case. Shit, what the hell was that case about? Hutch pinched the bridge of his nose between the thumb and index finger of his right hand. This was ridiculous. He was so wound up that he couldn’t even remember the names of the cases they were working on. Details, yes, names, no. “Yeah, what about it?” he asked. Hopefully, Starsky would give him a clue without realizing that Hutch had no idea what he was talking about.

“Before Shelley left this morning, she mentioned that a hooker they’d pulled in yesterday asked for a deal,” Starsky continued. “But it turned out she was a teenage runaway, so they called her parents and let her go.”

Shelley and Starsky, since when? Hutch pulled his cargo pants over his hips and zipped them up. “And I need to know this because?”

Starsky appeared in the bedroom doorway. “She said one of the other girls had told her that Leroy Brown killed Karen Griffiths. Karen was her friend, and she wants the killer to pay. Of course, once her parents turned up, she changed her story.”

Hutch grabbed his t-shirt. “Leroy Brown, the pimp?” He pulled it over his head. The chaos in his head suddenly snapped into order. How could he forget the vicious death of a nineteen year old girl? “Karen was one of his girls? If so, why would he kill her?”

“She wanted out.” Starsky rested his left forearm on the door frame. “She was one of his best girls, he wouldn’t let her go. Word is that she tried to run, he stopped her. Nothing unusual in that. Happens all the time.”

Hutch grimaced. “Too many times. Where’s Leroy now?”

“That’s for us to find out, partner. First stop, Huggy’s. He probably knows where Leroy hangs out during the day.” Starsky grabbed Hutch’s arm. If he noticed Hutch’s bandaged hand, he didn’t acknowledge it. “It’s past nine, hurry up. I’ll wait in the car. Log us in as rolling.”

Starsky left Hutch searching for the tan Hush Puppies he had kicked off somewhere in the living room last night. He found them under the coffee table. Pushing his feet into the shoes, he struggled to buckle the straps of his holster. After getting the holster in place, Hutch snagged his jacket out of the closet, and walked out of the apartment.

Starsky was drumming his fingers impatiently on the dash when Hutch climbed into the passenger seat. “You took your time. It’s not like you to keep me waiting.”

“Let’s just get moving, huh?” snapped Hutch. Glancing at Starsky, he saw a look of confusion spread across his face.

“Okay. I was just saying…” Starsky stopped mid-sentence. He started the engine and headed in the direction of The Pits.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Starsky pulled up in the alley behind Huggy’s as usual.

Hutch turned in his seat. “Starsk, you do know that Huggy’s not going to be here this early.”

Starsky just laughed, and gave Hutch his ‘I know something you don’t know’ look. “Ah, but I know he will be. He said last night that he had a late night meeting with a foxy mama, and he was going to use the apartment upstairs. You know he doesn’t take girls to his crib. That’s for Huggy’s special ladies only.”

“Last night? You brought Shelley here last night? Not very classy for a first date.”

“Who said it was our first date?” Starsky climbed out of the car.

“You and Shelley, before last night? Not your first date?” Hutch spluttered. He knew he was rambling. When had he stopped noticing what Starsky was up to? He realized he had been so intent on relieving his own stress that he had abandoned Starsky every night lately. He had been rushing over to Vinnie’s at the end of every shift, and throwing himself headlong into his newly developed exercise regime. He’d go home exhausted, but unsatisfied, without a thought of how Starsky was filling his evenings. It was clear that Starsky had been filling Shelley, at least some of the time. Hutch clambered out of the car and followed Starsky to the back entrance of Huggy’s.

Starsky pounded on the door with his fist. “Huggy, open up. It’s the police.” He grinned at Hutch. “Hope we’re not disturbing something.”

Hutch laughed. “You can be so mean sometimes, Starsk.”

The door jerked open and Huggy poked his head out through the gap. “Hey, man. What time do you call this? Getting folks up at this hour, it’s not right.”

Starsky pushed through the door. “It’s nearly ten o’clock, Hug,” he said in a jovial tone.

“And some of us didn’t get to bed til past four in the am,” Huggy growled. “Come in, why don’t you?”

Hutch smiled apologetically. “Sorry, Hug. Starsky’s full of the joys of spring this morning. Hope we didn’t interrupt anything.”

“Nothing that can’t be gotten back to. What can I do for you guys at this early hour?” he asked, looking at Starsky.

“Leroy Brown. We need to speak to him,” Starsky circled around behind Huggy.

“He’s a pimp, he ain’t gonna be up at this hour either. Nor his girls. You know that, Starsky.” Huggy appealed to Hutch. “Hutch, you know I don’t give a brother up without a reason.”

“I know, Hug. We think he may have killed one of his girls. Have you heard anything on the street?” Hutch walked over to the bar and perched on a stool.

Huggy screwed his face up in thought. “Killing’s not Leroy’s style. He sells his girls on when he’s done with them.”

“What does he do when they want to leave him?” Starsky sat on the bottom step of the staircase.

Huggy looked surprised. “Girls don’t leave Leroy.”

“This one did,” Hutch said quietly. “She wanted out, and now she’s dead. She was found in a room in the Hotel Garvey, severely beaten with her throat slashed.” Jumping from the stool, he hit the wall by Huggy’s head. “Damn it, Huggy. I feel sick every time we get one of these calls. Don’t hold out on us, I’m not in the mood.” He was so close to Huggy that their noses touched.

Huggy stared back at him warily. “If I knew where to find him, I’d tell you, Hutch, honest.”

Starsky jumped up and grabbed Hutch’s wrist. “Huggy doesn’t know anything. Let’s go.” He turned to Huggy. “Sorry, Hug. Hutch’s not himself today.” He dragged Hutch out of the back door, and pushed him up against the wall outside. “For God’s sake, Hutch. What the hell was all that about? Huggy’s not the bad guy.”

Hutch’s head slammed into the brickwork. Dizziness and nausea fought for attention. He shook his head carefully to clear out the cobwebs. “I don’t know. I’m sorry, guess I kinda lost it.”

“Kinda lost it,” Starsky said incredulously. “I’ll say. You should be apologizing to Huggy, not me.”

Hutch looked at the closed door. “I will.” He turned the knob and pushed. The door stayed closed. “It’s locked from the inside.”

“I’m not surprised. Huggy obviously didn’t feel like round two. You have a lot of groveling to do next time you see him, buddy,” Starsky said.

“Yeah.” Hutch walked dejectedly to the Torino, and slumped into his seat.

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For the next few hours, they cruised the streets of Bay City, hitting all the usual haunts that the daytime hookers and their usual snitches frequented. Nobody knew where Leroy could be found, but they didn’t speak to any of Leroy’s stable. His girls were ladies of the night. He targeted the wealthy businessmen who prowled the streets looking to fill the lonely nights that plagued the men from out of town.

“Don’t know.” Termite Tim shrugged, nearly salivating at the Andrew Jackson Hutch held out. “Leroy’s good at going to ground.”

“Thanks, Tim,” Starsky said, plucking the twenty from Hutch’s fingers and shoving it in his own pocket. “Call us if you hear anything.”

“Why’d you take my money?” Hutch grumped.

“You were gonna give it to Tim, I was the one told you what Shelly said.” Starsky smirked, adjusting his sunglasses.

Starsky and Hutch left the Torino parked in front of the St. Francis Hotel and walked a few blocks. Hutch spotted a familiar figure scrabbling in a trash can a short way down the alley to his left. He turned into the alley, grabbing Starsky’s arm to let his partner know he was changing direction.

The bedraggled black man saw them approaching, and frantically looked around him.

“It’s a dead end, Freddy. There’s nowhere to go. We just want to talk, that’s all.” Hutch held his hand up to Starsky.

Starsky stood still.

Hutch inched forward. “It’s all right. There’s no need to run. I know you haven’t done anything wrong,” Hutch said quietly. Freddy was a good snitch, if you caught him on the right day. He had been on the streets too long, been beaten too many times. His brain was damaged. On a good day, he was lucid. On a bad day, he fought like a cornered rat.

Freddy watched Starsky and Hutch warily. “Talk, k, what talk?” He tucked a half eaten sandwich into his vest pocket.

Hutch grimaced. He hated that people had to live like this, eating what they found in trash cans. “Leroy Brown. We want to talk to him.” Ten years ago, Freddy had been a pimp, had his own stable. Story had it that Freddy had had the best girls in town. Until one of his girls had been murdered by a john. Freddy had blamed himself, and taken to living on the streets. “You know any of Leroy’s girls, Freddy? One of them has turned up dead. We’ve been told it was Leroy who killed her.”

“No, no.” Freddy walked toward Hutch, his fists clenched. “Leroy treats his girls well. No way he would kill one of them.”

Hutch stepped quickly to one side and Freddy punched the air by his head.

“Hey, Freddy. That’s not nice,” Starsky said, walking toward the big man.

Freddy roared and ran up the alleyway.

Starsky turned to give chase.

“Leave him, Starsk,” Hutch said.

By early afternoon, Hutch had had a bellyful of sleazy daytime joints and the praise being heaped on Leroy. The man was a pimp, not a saint. He stretched his arm over the back of the seat. “Starsk, let’s head back to Metro and go over those files again. This isn’t the only case we need to solve.”

“Okay. I guess we might have missed something. We don’t seem to be getting anywhere lately, do we?” Starsky looked at Hutch, then quickly back to the road. “Do you want to go to Huggy’s on the way back to HQ?”

“No. I’ll catch up with Huggy later.” The last thing Hutch wanted to do was face Huggy. He’d never tried to bully information out of his friend before. The anger had flashed into him so quickly that he had forgotten the punk in front of him was actually Huggy and not some scum informant who needed to be leaned on. He peeked at Starsky.

Starsky raised his eyebrows. “You sure?”

“I said no, didn’t I?” snarled Hutch. “Why are you questioning everything I do, everything I say? You undermined me in front of Huggy. He’d have cracked if you hadn’t dragged me away.” Hutch balled his fists, and ground the knuckles into his thighs.

Starsky pulled the car over to the curb, and parked. “Hutch, are you listening to yourself? Huggy’s not a suspect who needs to be cracked. He’s a good friend who helps us a lot. What’s gotten into you today?”

Hutch looked down at his legs. The skin was smarting where he’d forced his knuckles into the flesh. Slowly, he uncurled his fingers and rubbed his palms along the length of his upper legs. “I’m just wound up about the workload. You said yourself, we’re no closer to solving any of these cases than when we started. Dobey just keeps piling on more. We’re not Superman, there are other detectives in the department.”

“Yes, and their desks are just as full as ours are. The criminals are getting wiser. They are managing to keep one step ahead. Alienating Huggy ain’t going to help. He’s our link to the underground.” Starsky turned in his seat and squeezed Hutch’s shoulder. “Are you telling me everything, Hutch? Your shoulder feels tight.”

Hutch reached up and covered Starsky’s hand with his. “Yes, mom. Let’s hit those files, see if we can’t catch some of these mothers.”

Starsky pulled his hand away, and turned on the ignition. The engine fired into life. Traffic was surprising light and they reached headquarters in record time.

Starsky parked the car in front of the building and Hutch jumped out immediately. He made it inside and was almost at the squad room by the time Starsky managed to catch up. Bursting through the third set of double doors, Hutch stopped at the candy machine. He pulled a handful of coins from his pants pocket and fed fifty cents into the machine. He smacked the button for a Baby Ruth peanut bar, waited for the bar to fall, and then fed more coins into the machine. A Snickers bar joined the peanut bar. “You want anything, Starsk?”

“Huh? You got two bars of candy already,” Starsky said slowly.

“I know. They’re mine. What do you want?” Hutch pushed the flap and extracted the candy bars. He put them in his jacket pocket. Maybe the sugar will help me. Starsky eats a lot of candy, and life doesn’t seem to bother him like it does me. Worth a try. Anything’s worth a try, isn’t it? “My treat. What do you want?”

Starsky looked confused. “Anything. You know what I like.”

Hutch span back to the machine and bought two Hershey bars. He slapped them into Starsky’s hand. “Last one to the squad room makes the coffee.” He was already three strides ahead of Starsky by the time he finished his sentence.

Hutch easily beat Starsky to the squad room door. “Come on, Starsk,” he shouted down the hallway to his partner. He pushed open the door just as Dobey’s voice hollered in his ear.

“Hutchinson, what in the blazes you doing rushing around like a child?” The door missed the Captain by a few inches.

Hutch whipped around to find Captain Dobey blocking his path. Hutch just stood there, his mouth opening and closing like a fish.

Starsky came up behind him. “Sorry, Captain. We thought we’d take another look at the case reports before we log out. It’s quiet out on the streets. Might as well catch up on some paperwork.”

Captain Dobey snorted. “Well, get on with it. And stop acting like a pair of teenagers.” He glared at Starsky and Hutch, then slammed his office door.

“Yes, Captain,” Starsky said to the closed door. He poked Hutch into movement, and walked over to the coffee cart.

Ted Grimes, one of the four detectives occupying the other desks, made a comment under his breath.

“What was that, Grimes?” barked Starsky. He stopped pouring the coffee and scowled at the red haired detective.

“Leave it, Starsk. He’s not worth it,” said Hutch. He circled around Starsky and sat at his desk, pulling the Baby Ruth bar from his pocket and shucking the wrapper. “We’ve got two hours before the end of our shift, let’s get our heads down.”

Starsky shot a dagger look at Grimes and filled his cup with coffee. He put the full cup on Hutch’s desk, and poured another one for himself.

“Thanks.” Hutch munched and grunted through witness reports, autopsy reports, attending officer’s statements, backgrounds, and potential suspect statements. He had seven files in front of him, and he had failed to find any lead they hadn’t already chased down. “Damn,” he mumbled. Leroy was their only outstanding lead. Hutch knew that Starsky had spent much of the time staring at him, but he didn’t acknowledge his awareness of Starsky’s scrutiny. Or the fact that Starsky’s candy bars lay, unopened, on the desk between them.

Starsky stretched, rubbing his stomach with his hands. “Hutch, let’s call it a day. Start fresh tomorrow.”

“I thought we could see if we can run Leroy down. His girls will be out and about soon.” Hutch shifted through his files and pulled Karen’s on the top.

“You heard what everybody said. Leroy’s a good pimp. Even if he did kill her, nobody’s going to testify against him.” Starsky stood up and grabbed his jacket from the back of his chair. “You not going to Vinnie’s tonight?”

“No, thought I’d take a day off. Are you taking the delectable Shelley out again?” Hutch was annoyed that he’d missed a chance with Shelley. After Kira, he and Starsky had made a pact. They would never again go after the same girl, not at the same time, anyway. He snatched his jacket from his chair and walked behind Starsky, resting his hand on Starsky’s shoulder.

“Nope, not tonight. I’m all yours. What do you want to do? Huggy’s, bowling?” Starsky gathered the used cups from their desks and put them on the coffee cart. He followed Hutch out of the room.

“I just want to go home. Don’t feel much like socializing.” Whatever Hutch did, he wouldn’t feel fulfilled. He hadn’t relaxed in weeks. Nothing eased his mood. The pressure inside his head was mounting, and he felt like he was going to explode very soon. He tried his best to hide it from Starsky, but he had struggled today. Starsky was suspicious, and Hutch would have justify his angry tirade with Huggy at some point.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Starsky parked behind Hutch’s old beater, and turned the engine off.

Hutch opened the car door. “See you tomorrow, Starsk.” He climbed out and walked to the carved entrance door of his building. Suddenly aware of someone standing behind him, Hutch turned around.

Starsky.

“What you doing, buddy?”

“I’m coming inside. We need to talk, Hutch. You’ve been acting odd for the past few weeks, but today you’ve been downright weird. Bullying Huggy, eating candy bars, racing to the squad room. I want to know what’s going on.” Starsky opened the door and pushed Hutch inside. Manhandling him up the stairs, Starsky said, “I ain’t leaving until you tell me what’s happening with you. No more secrets, Hutch, remember?”

Yes, Hutch remembered all right. The promise Starsky made that day had been foremost in his mind. But he wouldn’t, couldn’t, bring himself to take Starsky up on his offer. Hutch unlocked his apartment door, and walked into the living room. With his back to his partner, he said, “Starsky, I’m fine. It’s been a rough few weeks, that’s all. Something to eat and an early night, I’ll be right as rain.” Lying was slightly easier if he didn’t have to look Starsky in the eye.

Starsky grabbed his shoulders from behind. “Hutch, I’m not stupid,” he roared. “I know you. You’ve been distant, preoccupied, unfocused, unfriendly. You’re wound up tighter than my grandma’s old clock. Do you want me to go on?” He spun Hutch around to face him. “You’ve been to see HER again, haven’t you?”

“I told you before, her name is Tamara,” Hutch snapped. Pulling away from Starsky, he strode angrily into the greenhouse. “I made you a promise, Starsk, and I kept it,” he shouted when Starsky followed him. “I haven’t been to see her or any other Dom.”

Starsky stood in the doorway between the two rooms. “But you want to?” he asked quietly. “That’s what all the mood swings, the distance, the lack of concentration are all about.” When Hutch didn’t answer, Starsky yelled, “Isn’t it? The truth, Hutch. You lie to me, and I swear it’s the last time you will ever keep a secret from me.” Starsky’s face was red with anger, and his jaw twitched.

Hutch knew Starsky was serious. “Yes, I want to,” he whispered. “Happy now?” He sat on one of the two iron chairs. Resting his head back against the wooden trellis surrounding the small room, he sighed.

Starsky sat in the other chair and put his hand on Hutch’s arm. “Buddy, why didn’t you tell me. I said I would be there for you, and I meant it.”

“I know you did, and that’s the problem.” Hutch couldn’t even wrap his mind around the image of Starsky in leather with a flogger in his hand. “I can’t ask you to do that. It’s not natural. You are my partner, my best friend, not my Mistress. We are heterosexual males, Starsk. We don’t do that sort of thing.” Hutch rubbed his right hand over his face.

“What sort of thing? All I’ll be doing is helping you relax.” Starsky gave his arm a little shake. “Nothing else. You’re going to self destruct if you keep going this way. And I, for one, don’t want either of us getting hurt.” He reached over and turned Hutch’s head to face him. “How is this any different to what we’ve done in the past? We’ve showered together, shared a bed. Hell, we even took each other to the john when we were too ill or injured to do it alone.”

Hutch swallowed. “This is bondage, sexual.” He jumped up and ran to the bathroom. Turning on the cold tap, he splashed his face with water.

“Hutch, will you just stay in one place?” Starsky stalked into the bathroom doorway and blocked Hutch’s exit. “You said it wasn’t sexual, just release.” He pushed Hutch back when he tried to leave. “Are you saying different now? That it was sexual after all?”

Hutch sat on the tub side. “No. We never had sex.” He looked down at the tiled floor. “But I do get aroused,” he mumbled.

Starsky laughed. “Hutch, I’ve seen you aroused before. We’ve had a few foursomes in our time. Stop being silly. Have a shower, relax. I’ll be back in about one hour.” He disappeared from view.

“Where you going, Starsk?” Hutch shouted. The only reply was the slamming of a door. “Shit, shit, shit.” The one thing Hutch had wanted to avoid was about to happen. He knew that there was no way Starsky would let this go. The gauntlet had been thrown down and both of them would have to see this through.

He stripped naked, and stepped under the shower for the second time that day. This time, he made sure it was a warm one. Wrapping a towel around his waist, he sauntered into the bedroom and found a pair of clean black shorts in the top drawer of the bureau. After drying himself thoroughly, he slid his feet into the leg holes and yanked the underwear over his hips. Not knowing what else to wear, he shrugged into his bathrobe.

He walked into the kitchen and grabbed a notebook and pen from a shelf. He doubted that he’d be able to tell Starsky what he needed him to do, to say, so he decided to write it down. Bullet-pointing each stage of Tamara’s ritual took about ten minutes. Hutch desperately needed a beer, but alcohol combined with bondage was a no-no. It was too dangerous for one or both participants to be intoxicated. He placed the finished list in the middle of the kitchen table. Hutch took a deep cleansing breath, very aware of the list lying ominously a few feet away, and waited for Starsky’s return.

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When he couldn’t bear the wait any longer, Hutch paced the room. He grew more agitated as the time ticked slowly by. What the hell was Starsky doing? Just when Hutch thought he couldn’t stay cooped up inside the apartment for another minute, the door burst open.

Starsky swaggered in, a gym bag in each hand. Kicking the door closed with his foot, he put the bags down in the corner by the piano. “Honey, I’m home,” he joked.

“Starsk, please, stop messing around. This is difficult enough for me as it is,” Hutch pleaded. He knew he sounded a little pathetic, but he felt it. He didn’t know which was the worst. The fact he had gone to a Dominatrix, or that his partner was going to take her place.

“Sorry.” Starsky smiled. “Do you have any specific instructions, or do I make it up as I go along?” He reached for the nearest bag.

Hutch walked over to the table, and snatched up the piece of paper. Retracing his steps, he handed it to Starsky.

Starsky parked his butt on the back of the couch, and read the list in silence. Looking at Hutch, he said, “seriously? This is what you want me to do, to say?” He flicked the flimsy sheet in his hand.

Hutch’s stomach lurched. “Yes. No. This stops now, Starsky. I can’t let you do this.” He ripped the paper from Starsky’s hand, and turned his back on him, taking a big step away from his partner.

Standing up, Starsky grabbed Hutch’s wrist and pulled him backward. Quickly, he latched onto the other wrist and snapped them roughly together behind Hutch’s back. “You will do as I say. I am your Master now,” he growled into Hutch’s right ear. “Kneel before me.” He released the captured wrists.

Taken by surprise at Starsky’s force, Hutch complied. His heart pounded faster, and his muscles turned to jelly. Excitement, fear, something, started the familiar fluttering in his stomach. God, oh God. “Yes, Master.” He kept his back to Starsky, and closed his eyes. Sitting back on his heels, back ramrod straight, Hutch could feel the relaxation of submission wash over him.

Hutch heard a zipper open. Seconds later, Starsky wound a silk scarf twice around Hutch’s eyes, fastening it tightly at the back of his head. “Can you see anything?”

Hutch opened his eyes. “Nothing, just blackness, Master.”

“Good. From this point on, you have no say in what happens to you. I have complete control. Who do you belong to?” Hutch could hear the hesitation in Starsky’s voice as he spoke the words.

“I belong to you, Master. Mind and body,” Hutch replied.

“Your safe word is the only way to end my control over you. What is your safe word?” Starsky’s hand squeezed Hutch’s shoulder.

“Lavender.” Hutch had decided to keep the word he had used with his Mistress. It was a familiar friend. Everything about this felt so wrong. He needed a constant to focus on.

Starsky’s voice cut into Hutch’s thoughts. “Do not use your way out without serious thought. Once used, the session will end. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.” Hutch’s knees were beginning to hurt, but he didn’t move. He wouldn’t, not until his Master bade him to do so.

“Take off your robe,” Starsky commanded.

Hutch let the bathrobe slip down his arms onto the floor behind him. The tassels on the silk scarf blindfold tickled his bare back. Hutch wondered what Starsky was thinking. How he was feeling? Did he resent Hutch for making him do this? Hutch had given him a way out. Starsky had been the one who insisted they continue.

“Leave your shorts on. Arms straight out in front of you.” Starsky’s instructions were becoming more confident, his tone assertive and assured.

Hutch followed Starsky’s bidding. He felt material being pulled up his arms. Rough cloth hit his chest. At first Hutch thought Starsky was dressing him in a back to front jacket. His hands were covered, the sleeves too long. Then it hit him. “A strait jacket! Where did you get this from, Starsk?”

“You do not ask questions,” barked Starsky. “That’s one black mark against you. But since you ask, I got it from Huggy. Stand up.”

Hutch groaned. “Please say you didn’t tell Huggy about this.” He cautiously uncurled from his kneeling position, pins and needles stabbing at his feet when he stood up. He tensed as Starsky tugged the jacket against his body and buckled up the back. The snugness of the canvas restricted his breathing slightly. He took shallower breaths to compensate.

“I told Huggy that after your mad performance this morning, I wasn’t going to let you out in public without a strait jacket,” Starsky laughed. “No, seriously, I bought this from Huggy ages ago.” Starsky sounded hurt. “You always make fun of my bargains, but they come in useful, eventually.” His voice became harsher. “That’s two black marks for speaking out of turn.”

Hutch was startlingly aware of movement between his legs. He flinched, then realized that Starsky was applying the crotch piece. The pressure increased on his genitals as Starsky pulled the fabric further up his back. His cock and balls were squashed up against his pelvic bone. The leather belt invaded his butt crack and pressed against his anus. He heard the soft sound of leather against metal. “Tighter, Starsk, tighter,” he begged.

“Are you sure?” Starsky sounded surprised. “It’s already on the third hole.”

“Yes. I’ll tell you when it’s enough.” The pain was intense, but Hutch needed more. He clenched his teeth together as Starsky yanked harder. Agonizing bolts shot through Hutch’s groin and torso. “That’s enough, no more.” The tautness slackened slightly as Starsky secured the buckle.

Holding Hutch’s shoulders, Starsky propelled him forward. Where are we going? Walking heightened the sensational ache between Hutch’s legs, but he said nothing and embraced the torture. Starsky halted Hutch’s forward movement and rotated him a quarter turn. He was nudged backward until his back touched a thin, long, solid object. His bare heel hit wood. He recognized the roughness of the roof supports. Which one he couldn’t tell.

“Cross your arms in front of you,” said Starsky gruffly. “Heels and back right up against the post.”

Hutch obeyed. His right arm was jerked tightly around his left side and his left arm pulled over the right, pinning both arms firmly against his abdomen. The wood dug into his spine as Starsky secured him to the upright by buckling the sleeves of the strait jacket around both his body and the strut. He could feel every buckle furrowing into his skin through the thick fabric. A strap looped numerous times around his ankles secured him to the bottom of the column.

Testing his bonds, Hutch found himself totally immobilized. He was amazed, and shocked, at the speed that Starsky had managed the task. And at his inventiveness when it came to restraint. Was Starsky really the bondage virgin Hutch had assumed he was? He rested his head against the support, the knotted blindfold serving as a pillow.

“Don’t move,” directed Starsky. “Stay in that position for one hour. Every movement will earn you one black mark toward your final punishment. Do you understand?”

“Yes, Master.” Hutch allowed himself one final deep breath, before slipping silently into his submissive head space. He imagined a raven sitting on a gatepost to his special place and glided out into the wide blue sky of his imagination.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Starsky stood back to survey his handiwork. He grinned when Hutch attempted movement. After one deep breath, Hutch visibly relaxed and he smiled serenely.

Starsky sat down on the couch and set the alarm on his watch for one hour.

Starsky was shocked by what he had just done. When he made the offer to restrain Hutch, he had immediately regretted his rash decision and prayed that Hutch wouldn’t hold him to his promise. However, seeing the strain on Hutch’s face, and his reckless behavior today, he had been compelled to help his partner in whatever way he desired. Even though gathering together the items had taken very little time, he had driven around for most of the hour that he had left Hutch alone. Starsky had needed time to prepare himself for the task.

He was also astonished at how easily he had slipped into the role of dominating another man. He had quickly gone from feeling unsure about how to play the part, to knowing exactly what to say and how to behave. His cop persona had definitely helped in that transition. Hutch’s detailed instructions had just been the icing on the cake. What he couldn’t quite explain was the swift change to his original idea. He had intended to strap Hutch into the strait jacket, lay him on his bed and tie his feet, ensuring that he was comfortable, but sufficiently restrained to scratch his bondage itch. Starsky remembered how vulnerable he had felt at Cabrillo, and he had been sure that a blindfold would enhance that feeling of helplessness.

Turning Hutch into a human roof prop had not been part of the plan. He was so tightly trussed to the post that the wood seemed to mold into his body. But Hutch hadn’t complained, he had simply let Starsky do whatever he wanted, except for the crotch request.

Sprawling full length, with his feet at the end closest to Hutch so that he could see his buddy at all times, Starsky studied the still figure. For the first time, he noticed how long and athletic Hutch’s legs really were. The forced straightness of Hutch’s stance emphasised the lean line of his body. Hutch rarely stood tall, and Starsky marveled at the slender elegance of the stretched neck. The crotch piece was pulled so tight that the usual masculine bulge was non-existent. Starsky’s eyes watered as he tried to visualize the pain Hutch must be experiencing. The thing was literally cutting into Hutch’s groin and ass. Starsky had been horrified when Hutch had insisted he tighten it further.

Although Starsky couldn’t see Hutch’s torso, he recalled the bulging biceps when Hutch shed his robe and the defined muscles as he tensed against Starsky’s grip on his wrists. Hutch’s recent visits to the gym had clearly enhanced his body shape for the better. Starsky appreciated his best friend’s physique the way he would have admired an exceptional piece of sculpture.

What was more frightening was that Starsky was enjoying every minute. He’d been pleased when Hutch obeyed his every command. The pleasure of having complete control over his partner was intoxicating. Starsky had glowed with pride watching Hutch bend to his will by totally abandoning his own freedom. The stirring in Starsky’s groin and the pit of his stomach wasn’t the sexual arousal he enjoyed with his girlfriends, it was a whole new animal – the primeval urge to conquer. However, he was disturbed to find that he had a partial erection.

This adrenaline buzz was like nothing Starsky had ever encountered before. The euphoria must be what Hutch meant when he said that something kept him going back for more. They faced danger every day, but this wasn’t at all like the rush of fear. There was no danger, just joyful abandon and nobody judging the personal preferences of the individual.

Suddenly Starsky sat up. He wasn’t certain that Hutch was still breathing. He couldn’t see any sign of life. Hutch must be breathing because his head was still held high. But Starsky had to be sure.

Scrambling from the couch, he stumbled to his partner’s side, and raised his hand trying to feel the air from Hutch’s mouth when he exhaled. Relief flooded through Starsky when he felt Hutch’s warm breath on his palm.

Slowly, he walked around the statuesque form. Hutch showed no indication that he was aware of Starsky’s presence or his close proximity. Starsky was astounded that his buddy could remain motionless for so long. He had expected Hutch to be fidgeting by now. Starsky knew that he definitely would have been.

Glancing at his watch, Starsky realized that the end of the hour was fast approaching. He hadn’t expected time to pass so quickly. Now for the next step. He wasn’t relishing this phase of the domination. Punishing Hutch felt alien, and not something he wanted to do. But it was in Hutch’s instructions, and so it had to be. Hutch had clearly outlined the punishment criteria. He had explained in detail how Starsky had to give him black marks for talking out of turn or not obeying commands, and that the punishment had to be administered before Starsky untied him. Starsky had to figure out what form of discipline to use. He looked around, hoping for inspiration to hit. He saw a tea towel draped over the front of the sink.

Starsky grinned, he was really good at flicking the cloth so it delivered a stinging blow to the recipient. But that wouldn’t be sufficient here because Hutch had been the victim of the cloth so many times that it no longer bothered him.

Starsky fingered his leather belt. That would create a very nasty sting if he could master the correct technique. He didn’t want to whip Hutch and leave long lasting wheals, just red marks. They were on duty tomorrow, and Hutch needed to be able to do his job.

Removing his belt, Starsky grasped the metal buckle in his hand. He practiced smacking the side of the couch with the belt until his watch alarm shrilled the appointed hour was over. He was fairly confident that he had got the hang of his choice of weapon.

Striding over to his captive, Starsky stood squarely at Hutch’s right side. With a quick flick of his left wrist, he administered the first blow. The tip of the belt caught Hutch just under the buttock, leaving a short, red, swollen line. Hutch flinched with a gasp.

Perfect, just what Starsky had wanted.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Gasping, Hutch felt a stripe of fire across his butt. He’d been imagining that he was flying through the sky with the raven, but then the bird suddenly turned and attacked him in mid-flight.

“What the…?”

“Silence. Do not move,” bellowed a deep voice in Hutch’s ear. “That’s another mark to be added to your punishment. Three marks, two lashes a mark. What is the total? Have you been keeping track?”

Still caught in his headspace, Hutch’s fuddled brain labored over the puzzle. “Huh? Th-three t-times two, ahh, equals six,” he finally managed to answer.

“Haven’t you forgotten something?” boomed the same voice.

Hutch tried to shake his head. “Don’t think so, definitely six.” The harsh fabric chafed his skin when he tried to move away from the post.

“What do you say when you speak to me. Who am I?” Starsky demanded. His hair brushed Hutch’s cheek.

Hutch breathed in the familiar scent. Starsky. He shivered at the sensation on his face. “M-master. Sorry, Master. I won’t forget again.” He didn’t move even though the tickling was annoying. His Master had said not to.

“You’d better not. That’s another two lashes, the total is eight.” Starsky’s tone was low and menacing.

“Thank you, Master,” said Hutch. Eight lashes? With what? That was more than Hutch had expected from Starsky.

Another three stinging blows overrode his questions. Each blow left behind a little pocket of intense pain. Hutch mentally gasped, determined not to make a sound. He inhaled slowly, exhaled even slower, absorbing every ounce of pain. He still didn’t know what Starsky was using, but his right leg burned from the first four strokes.

Hutch tried to figure out where Starsky was, straining his ears for any sound that would give away Starsky’s position. He jerked as pain snapped the back of his left thigh. The blow took Hutch up to the threshold where the torture became more pleasurable. He was tingling with anticipation. Hutch tensed, waiting for the next strike. It didn’t come immediately. More, more. Please, Master. I beg you, more. Just when Hutch thought he couldn’t wait any longer, and would surely anger his Master by begging aloud, three more strokes struck the front of his thighs. With each strike, Hutch rose further up in to the pleasure dome, higher and higher, until he finally spiraled into a whirlpool of orgasmic release, balancing on the precipice between heaven and earth. His nerve endings were so sensitive that he was sure a myriad of tiny needles were puncturing his skin. This was pain but pleasure, too–all the more blissful because Hutch trusted Starsky implicitly. Hutch arched into his bonds, riding the rainbow all the way to the pot of gold. He felt the overbearing tension disappear from his body.

Yes, yes, oh God, yes. The turmoil that had plagued him for weeks lessened with every second, and the threatened implosion of his world melting away to nothingness. He was ready to face reality head on. Starsky, oh, Starsky. I am lucky to have a best friend who is willing to do something this huge to help me.

Starsky massaged Hutch’s tender skin, causing Hutch to grit his teeth and hiss, his legs stinging in a dozen places. His cock swelled against the belt holding it tight. Hutch felt his cheeks flame–he didn’t want Starsky to get the wrong idea. It was a good thing that his genitals were confined and his excitement remained hidden. It was the situation that aroused him, not his partner.

“Come on, buddy. I’m going to free you. Are you okay?” Starsky asked softly.

“I’m fine, just a little uncomfortable. Legs are tingling. Need to sit down. My arms have gone dead.” Hutch didn’t want to upset Starsky by telling him just how tender his body was now that the initial euphoria was wearing off. He heard something move close by.

“Drop your head forward, let me take the blindfold off.” Starsky tugged at the knot holding the scarf in place, and it slipped away.

Hutch blinked as the brightness stabbed his eyes. The only light in the room came from the small lamp by the couch, but it might well have been a spotlight trained on his face. To his left, he saw the source of the earlier sound, one of his kitchen chairs had been placed next to him.

“Hutch, brace yourself. I’m going to unstrap your ankles.” Starsky knelt down and quickly unbuckled the luggage strap he had used to secure Hutch. He rubbed the circulation back into Hutch’s red, dented skin.

Hutch cautiously moved his feet, testing the strength of his legs. They supported him, just. He felt giddy, unsure if this was because of the blood starting to flow around parts of his body again, or the half flying feeling from the endorphins still raging around his body.

Starsky stood up, and he locked eyes with Hutch. Hutch stared at his partner for a few seconds. What are you thinking, Starsk? Hutch suddenly felt nervous in front of Starsky, and he looked down at the floor. This shouldn’t have happened. What was I thinking?

Starsky walked behind him. “I’ll undo the buckle on the sleeves slowly. Lean back against the post,” he instructed.

“Okay.” Hutch pushed his back up against the strut. Hurry up, just untie me. This is the worst part. The release of cramped muscles, the crash back to reality. I’m sorry, Starsky. I won’t let this happen again. His arms uncrossed and fell to his sides when Starsky released them. Hutch managed a half turn and slumped onto the chair. He gasped as the crotch piece dug further into his body.

Starsky shuddered at Hutch’s obvious pain. Walking behind the chair, he reached through the open back and swiftly undid the buckle. Putting his hands under Hutch’s armpits, he lifted him a few inches off the chair. “Pull that thing from between your legs before it gives you a permanent injury.”

Before Hutch had a chance to grab the material, Starsky snaked his left arm round Hutch’s chest and took his full weight. With his right hand, Starsky grabbed at the offending fabric, unintentionally brushing his fingers against Hutch’s hardness.

Hutch gasped as a thousand volts of electricity shot through his body. “Starsky!” he protested. A familiar stirring south of his belly button proved that, despite his rising feeling of shame, his erection was increasing, fighting to get free of the constricting garment. Unsteadily, he wriggled out of Starsky’s grasp and staggered to the bathroom. Slamming the door, he leaned up against it and wrestled with the oversized sleeves of the strait jacket.

“Hutch, are you all right? Let me in,” Starsky shouted through the closed door. “You can’t get that thing off by yourself.”

“Go away, Starsk. I’m fine. Just need to go.” He looked down at the sealed ends of the sleeves and realized that Starsky was right, he couldn’t get the jacket off by himself. His shorts were so tight he was afraid that his cock might strangulate. He moved away from the door. “Okay, Starsk. Open up.” Hutch stood just far enough away for Starsky to reach in and unfasten the buckles. “I can take it from here. Thanks, buddy.” He slammed the door shut.

“Oww. Hutch, you damn near slammed my fingers in the fucking door!” Starsky yowled.

Ignoring him, Hutch quickly peeled the strait jacket off. When his hands were free, he yanked his shorts down to his ankles and scurried over to the toilet. With great difficulty, he stood in front of the bowl, curling his fingers around his thick, throbbing shaft. A few quick strokes was all it took for him to reach a shuddering climax. His head resting on the wall, Hutch trembled from the sheer force of his orgasm.

It was a while before he felt able to clean himself up and wrap a towel around his waist. Taking a deep breath, he opened the door. “Just going to put on some clothes, Starsk. Be with you in a few minutes.”

Starsky was sitting on the couch, nursing a bottle of beer and sucking the middle finger of his left hand.

Hutch ran into the bedroom, dropped the towel to the floor, and pulled on clean shorts. Lying on the bed, he closed his eyes. Oh, God, what now? All he wanted to do was sleep. He felt incredibly relaxed. There was no doubt that the session had met his needs and more, but now the euphoria was wearing off and he had to face Starsky. How could he have subjected his partner to this indignity, just to satisfy his own selfish needs?

Damn, damn, damn. The inclination to stay where he was grew, and he succumbed to sleep.

%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%%

Waiting for Hutch to reappear, Starsky chugged his beer. He drank the whole bottle, and still no Hutch. “Hutch, how long does it take to pull on a pair of sweats?”

Getting no reply, Starsky climbed over the back of the couch and walked to the bedroom. He peeked around the doorway, and saw Hutch spread-eagled in the middle of the bed, wearing only a pair of white boxer shorts. Starsky heard the unmistakable sound of soft snoring. “Well, thanks a lot, partner,” he said quietly.

He sauntered in to the kitchen. Taking the coffee pot off of the stove, Starsky emptied the old sludge in the trash and washed out the pot. Plucking the can of coffee off of the shelf, he spooned in fresh grounds and filled the pot with water. After lighting the back burner on the stove, he gently placed the pot on to boil. Starsky didn’t really want the coffee, he just wanted something to do while he decided whether to stay or leave. Turning around, he pulled a chair out from the table and sat down.

He had hoped for a few beers and a chat once Hutch had time to recover. Starsky wanted to be sure that he hadn’t hurt his buddy in any way. He must not have overstepped the boundaries with the strait jacket or whacks because Hutch hadn’t stopped him. –The question was–when Hutch was really submissive, would Hutch have stopped the action? He needed to know what Hutch was thinking, and feeling now it was over.

If Starsky was weary to the bone, Hutch must be exhausted. The aftermath of adrenaline always drained Starsky when it disappeared. He wanted some kind of reassurance–and had the overwhelming need to pull Hutch into his arms. But he couldn’t do that with Hutch. This was simply therapy for his stressed partner.

Starsky sighed. He knew exactly what Hutch had been doing in the bathroom. Starsky wasn’t about to judge him for jacking off. His own cock had been semi-hard most of the time. Hutch had claimed the whole thing wasn’t sexual, but it obviously had turned him on.

And Starsky too. He rubbed his groin absently. What was he going to do about this?

Would Hutch need more another day? More to the point, was Starsky willing to do it again? His heart thudded against his ribs, because he wanted to. He would do whatever Hutch needed.

There was something amazingly, astonishingly addictive about bondage. He had never, ever considered controlling his partner in any aspect of their every day life. Now he yearned for that power again.

Sick, Starsky, really sick.

Hearing a sound coming from the bedroom, he pushed himself to a stand and went to investigate, taking the pot off of the stove on the way. Hutch wasn’t awake, as Starsky had hoped, he had merely shifted his sleeping position.

Starsky leaned against the wall separating the bedroom and bathroom to watch Hutch sleep. He had turned onto his left side, facing the living room. A small smile played across his lips, and this made Starsky smile too. All the worry lines on Hutch’s brow that had been evident for weeks had softened, leaving a tranquility that Starsky hadn’t seen for a very long time.

Examining the still form on the bed, Starsky could see faint red lines where the strap had dug into Hutch’s ankles. And the darker, raised wheals on his thighs where the belt had whipped the soft skin. Starsky loathed that he was the perpetrator of those marks, but at the same time, there was certain pride knowing that the marks bound the two of them together in a special ritual that no other person shared.

Looking at his partner’s practically naked body caused no arousal at all, but thinking about the bound body and the results of his discipline clenched Starsky’s gut with pleasure. He was confused. Surely the two were the same thing? If the bondage aroused him, then he must be attracted to Hutch.

He had to get out of here, he needed to think. Turning, he grabbed his jacket from the chair and ran to the door. Just as he reached for the knob, he heard a voice.

“Starsk, where are you going?

Hutch stood behind him, wearing nothing but his underwear.

“You were asleep, thought I’d go home.” He stared anywhere but at Hutch and finally settled on the door, feeling very uncomfortable. “I made some coffee, it should still be hot.” Lame, Starsky. As if Hutch was going to want coffee.

“I will get us both a cup. I think we need to talk, don’t you?” Hutch smiled and walked to the stove. He took two cups off of the shelf and poured black coffee into each one. He quickly put two spoons of sugar in one of the cups before handing it to Starsky.

Starsky put his cup on the coffee table. He spotted Hutch’s robe on the floor by the door, where it had fallen earlier in the evening. “Here, put this on before you get cold.” Not that it was cold.

Hutch didn’t point this out to him though. He just quietly took the robe and pulled it on. “Thanks.” He sat on the soft chair and Starsky dropped heavily on to the couch. He sat silently for a while, unsure as to who was going to start the conversation.

Hutch stared back at him, a look of uncertainty on his face. “I’m sorry, Starsk,” he mumbled. “You shouldn’t have had to do that.” Tears glazed his eyes.

“Hey, Hutch, don’t. I did it to help you, because I wanted to. I promised, and I always keep my promises.” He put his hand on Hutch’s knee. “I have to admit, I enjoyed it. Don’t ask me what that means, I’m still trying to work it out myself. I don’t think I’m attracted to you.” Realizing that he was probably making things sound worse, Starsky stopped talking.

“I know what you mean. I got aroused, too,” Hutch said quickly. “But not by you, by the bondage, the discipline. It could have been anyone dominating, I would have reacted the same.” He looked at Starsky for reassurance. “Has this caused a problem between us? I really hope not. It has helped me. I don’t feel so trapped by the job, or by my own frustration.” He moved over on to the couch.

“No, no problem.” Starsky hoped he sounded more sincere than he felt. He still had the urge to dominate Hutch again. What if Hutch didn’t want him to? How would he feel then? Used, rejected?

“Starsk, you don’t have to do it again. Not if you don’t want to,” Hutch assured. “It’s something that seems to be a part of me now. There’s a yearning deep inside.” Hutch stood up and walked over to the window. He ran his fingers through his hair, shoulders stooped. “God, this is such a mess.”

Starsky followed him across the room. Spinning Hutch to face him, he said forcefully, “I am your Master. This will happen again. It can be initiated by either one of us. No regrets, no recriminations. Just an itch that needs scratching occasionally. Do you understand?”

Hutch nodded. “Yes, Master.”