Talkin’ Dirty Pool

280

Hutch felt the heat in his face and the ache in his groin war with one another. “That was a miscue!” he shouted. “That was a foul!”

“That,” Starsky insisted, “was the eight ball in the side pocket. That’s the loss of the game, pal.”

“How the hell am I supposed to make a decent shot with you-you-you—grabbing my nuts! That was a foul, Starsky, and you know it!”

Starsky, ever the picture of calm, held up his palms as if to placate his outraged friend. “Okay. Okay. This once, we’ll call it a foul. I don’t want any hard feelings. In fact, I’ll even let you take the shot over ’cause I feel bad about you havin’ to pay for a new felt.”

Hutch felt his blood pressure climbing and knew he was close to committing an act of violence. He knew without a doubt he would have to pay for that felt. Huggy would have a fit when he saw his beautiful customized table violated, an absolute fit. His hand was clutching the cue stick so tightly he could feel the wood complaining. He eyed up the table for another shot as Starsky put the eight ball back in the proximity of where it was.

Suddenly, Hutch paused. “If you allow that shot as a foul,” he said with more calm than he really felt, “then it’s only right that you take the next shot.”

Starsky shrugged. “If you say so. And, uh, I don’t wanna belabor the obvious, but,” he licked his lower lip, “shouldn’t you be droppin’ your pants or somethin’?”

Hutch narrowed his eyes. “Something,” he said flatly. Pulling off his shoe, he stripped off a sock, tossed it over a chair and redonned his shoe. “Something. Your turn.”

Starsky looked disappointed, but lined up his next shot. And it looked good, too. A clear combination that should net him three balls at once in an easy straight-in shot with the cue ball fairly close to the rail. He was grinning already as he chalked his cue.

Hutch started to smile as well. There was really only one place Starsky could stand, and by the time he got over there, Hutch was already positioned.

Starsky hesitated. “What the hell are you doing?” He looked down at his partner poised nearly under the table on his knees.

“Not for you to worry about. I’m not in your way, I’m not interfering with your shot. I’m not even touching you.”

The word yet hung in the air like an unfired gun brandished by an outlaw.

“Hutch…” Starsky growled in warning.

Hutch just smiled beatifically from the floor. “You’ve got all the room you need, Starsk. Line up your shot.”

With a wicked glee, Hutch watched Starsky try to figure out just how far away he could get from his crouching partner and still hit the ball, and predictably, he finally decided to just take his chances. He positioned himself, started taking aim and–

“What the hell–?” Starsky tried to jump back, but he couldn’t because Hutch had just popped the next two buttons on his fly, and had hold of his semi-erect cock. “HUUUUTCH!!!”

“Take your best shot, lover,” Hutch told him, just as he pocketed the head of Starsky’s cock in his mouth.

“Oh, shit!” the darker man swore, and Hutch had the satisfying sensation of seeing Starsky’s knees sag as the blond slid his tongue slowly over his lover’s crown. “You sonuva–You think I can’t do it…” The last word in that sentence dissolved into a half groan as Hutch, carefully keeping his hands to himself, swallowed more of Starsky’s growing erection. “You think I can’t make this shot just becaus’a…because…” One long-fingered hand slid into Hutch’s hair, gripping it, urging him on. “Oh, damn, Hutch, that’s–”

Good. Damn good, isn’t it, boy? Do I know you, or what? It was hard to smile while you were giving head, but Hutch wanted to grin.

Suddenly Starsky seemed to pull himself together. He straightened his legs, gathered himself to make his shot, and released Hutch’s hair. Hutch swallowed Starsky’s manhood deeper, playing him with lips and tongue just the way he knew Starsky could barely stand it. He saw the tremor in the calves and knew no matter how much concentration Starsky used, there was only so much left over for the table.

From where Hutch knelt, he saw Starsky tighten for the shot, saw his arm draw back and–

At just the precise moment of the hit, Hutch let Starsky feel teeth. Not to hurt his lover, Hutch would never do that. No, he did it just the way he knew Starsky loved it, just the gentlest, most tantalizing, hint of a threat, the most careful touching of teeth. For Starsky, it would be like a lightening bolt running up the backs of his legs, into his spine, then into his arms. Every single neuron that ever knew a single thing about the game of pool would be fried to a cinder by that one special zap that Starsky adored. How could he complain?

Hutch used his teeth, and Starsky shouted, “Oh, fuck, you bastard!”

The blond couldn’t see the action on the table, but all of a sudden balls began raining down all over the floor—two, three, four, bounce, bounce, bounce—followed immediately by the pool cue as it clattered to his level.

“You sonuva bitch,” Starsky muttered, his upper body lying sprawled across the table in abject defeat. “You bastard.” The words, Hutch knew, were the endearments of a man lost in the throes of his pleasure. “You mutha…I’m gonna get you for this, Hutchinson…”

I sure hope so, Hutch thought, bemused, as he released his oral grip, tucked his lover back in and buttoned at least one button up to restrain him, then slid out from under the table.

“I guess this means I gotta give up a coupla socks,” Starsky said wearily, still stretched across the table. He didn’t even sound sorry about it.

“With the mess you made,” Hutch chastised, as he checked the table’s pockets, “maybe more than that.” Grinning, he found what he was looking for, and pulled it out. The eight ball was the only ball to actually make it into a pocket. He held it up for Starsky’s inspection, then dropped it back in just to make his point.

One glazed indigo eye peeked over Starsky’s shoulder, then winced.

“Let’s call it a foul,” Hutch suggested, leaning one arm on the table. “I’m feeling generous.” It was easy to be generous when your lover looked as delicious as Starsky did right now, sprawled across the red felt, bare-chested, his dusky skin tones contrasting beautifully against the striking scarlet of the felt. Talk about good enough to eat–

Starsky looked like he half-considered forfeiting the game, but then he pulled himself together and stood back up, if shakily. Slowly, he removed two socks, then slipped his Adidas back on. “I’m scared to take my next shot,” he grumbled. “Scared the next balls on this table are gonna be mine.”

Hutch helped him retrieve the battered game balls and set them back on the abused felt. Starsky pulled out the uncooperative eight ball and put it back in place.

“You still have one sock on, don’t’cha?” Starsky asked disgustedly.

Hutch just grinned as he walked around the table, lining up the next shot. He felt in control again, felt his lust for his lover, that overwhelming need always just bubbling under his calm exterior, reined in, in check, put back in its place. Of course, that last remark of Starsky’s teased at him, tormented him, but he tried to ignore it. How was it Starsky’s mouth could get him in so much trouble? If he knew that, he really would be a man of his own destiny.

“Did it feel good, doin’ that t’me?” Starsky asked quietly. His eyes had gone sly again.

But Hutch was too much in control to worry about it. Besides, Starsky wasn’t immune to his talk either. “Doesn’t it always? Havin’ you in my mouth…making you crazy for me…feeling you lose it because of what I’m doing with my tongue–”

 “And your teeth,” Starsky reminded him. “That was particularly wicked, Hutch. Real dirty pool.”

Hutch chuckled as he lined up a particularly nice shot. He remained focused even when Starsky came to stand behind him. He was going to sink this ball, then the next, then the next…then win this game…

Starsky’s mouth started trailing a gentle path of kisses down Hutch’s spine. He felt goosebumps erupt over every inch of his fair skin. He closed his eyes in bliss, but only for a second. He couldn’t let himself be distracted. Not now.

“It’s gonna be pretty damned hard for me to make a shot with you lying on my back!” he protested.

“You’re right,” Starsky said, giving in way too easy. “Can’t interfere with your shot.” The lips moved lower down the knobs of his spine, down to his waistband.

Hutch could feel the tip of Starsky’s tongue tickling him delightfully. He sighed, lining up his shot. It was nice. Not too distracting. Just nice.

Then Starsky’s hands slipped around his partner’s front and deftly flipped open his waistband button, sliding Hutch’s zipper open.

The blond stiffened, expecting Starsky to try grabbing his quietly complaining hard-on, but then realized that wasn’t Starsky’s objective. No.

Instead, his licentious partner knelt as he slipped Hutch’s jeans low over his hips so his tongue could continue its downward journey. Lips gently kissed and teeth tenderly nipped their way over the upper portion of Hutch’s left buttock, then his right, then that tongue-tip, that evil, liquid tongue tip traced its wicked way down the crevice of Hutch’s ass.

It was everything the tall cop could do to hang onto his cue stick. He gripped a side rail of the table and swayed in place. “Starsky!” His protest was strangled, barely understandable. “What do you think you’re– That’s not fair!”

But apparently, Starsky’s tongue wasn’t listening, and with his tongue teasing its way lower and lower down Hutch’s ass, there was no way Starsky could reply. He didn’t need to. All he needed to do to render this man completely helpless was just continue what he’d started. Finally, the talented tongue zeroed in on its goal, and tenderly tormented Hutch’s tightly clenched ass, rendering the blond functionally useless.

Hutch shivered uncontrollably as he was subjected to one of his singularly favorite intimacies, and quickly forgot where they were, what they were doing, everything but the sweet pleasure of Starsky’s gentle wet rimming. “Oh, goddamn you, goddamn you…” Hutch was gasping, helpless, unable to do anything that required physical coordination. “Too far. Now you’ve gone too far.”

Starsky paused in his sublime torture. “I’m not interfering with your shot, babe. Go on and take it. Bend over the table. It’ll make what I’m doin’ so much easier.” And he went right back to it.

Hutch groaned, and leaned over obligingly, grasping his cue stick in a death grip. Hands shaking, arms trembling, legs weak with a pleasure that seemed endless, Hutch desperately tried to line up his shot. He aimed, shot, and watched balls ricochet around everywhere to no avail. Starsky’s tongue was making him insane, totally crazed, and Hutch knew he had to end this farce of a game. His hand slipped on the rail, and he fell to his elbow, his forearm sliding across the table and knocking balls left and right. There was all kinds of activity on the felt as balls rolled around randomly, but the only one that actually ended up in a pocket was–

Starsky was on his feet in a flash, abandoning his seduction, leaving Hutch gasping over the table with his pants around his thighs. “Eight ball in the corner pocket!” Starsky crowed. “Can’t call that a foul this time, partner.” He moved toward the pocket the eight ball had dropped in and groped for it.

“I didn’t hit that with my cue! I hit it with my arm when you–when you–you–” Hutch was struggling to yank his jeans back over his ass and regain some shred of dignity when he realized that was impossible. He stared at this maniac he lived with, this incubus who could render him totally helpless with his hands and his mouth, and felt himself slipping over the edge.

Starsky was still groping for the eight ball, not paying much attention to what he was doing as he grinned at Hutch. “You think I believe that? You know I couldn’t see a thing with all’a that big, pretty ass in my line of vision. You’re tryin’ to pull a fast one, Hutch, but I’m on to ya. Eight ball in the corner pocket. You lose, pal. It’s sink city for you!” Starsky was positively jubilant.

Oh, no! Hutch thought, feeling a murderous, sexual haze completely obliterating his good sense. Oh, no, not this time, my love. He reached into his back pocket as Starsky grinned triumphantly while still groping for the eight ball. In a low, deadly rumble, he murmured, “Can’t find your ball, buddy?”

Too late, Starsky heard the tone and recognized the expression on Hutch’s face. He hesitated. “Uh–now wait a minute, Hutch. I mean, we’re gonna share dishwashing duties, remember? It’s not like you’re gonna be doin’ it all alone…” Starsky started to pull his hand from the corner pocket, but Hutch moved too fast for him.

Grabbing Starsky’s wrist as it left the pocket, Hutch slapped a handcuff on it and tightened it down. Before Starsky had a chance to react, Hutch dragged the other cuff down into the pool table pocket, latching it through the open metal-work grill at the bottom.

Starsky blinked dazedly, staring at his cuffed wrist, as if unable to comprehend his partner’s plan. “What the hell–? You’re losin’ it, Hutchinson. What are you–?”

“You were right the first time, Starsky,” Hutch told him, sliding his hand into Starsky’s tight back pocket and retrieving his partner’s handcuffs as well. “It is gonna be your balls on the table next.”

“Hutch, now wait a minute,” Starsky babbled, finally recognizing the danger he was in. “We still got all that work to do in the kitchen. You don’t wanna do this here–”

“Oh, don’t I? Don’t I wanna see you bent over the sink? You bet I do, but first, I wanna see your ass up on that table…” Hutch was grinning like a maniac, and Starsky’s face had that panicked expression that just turned him on all the more. Yes, this game was his.

As he cuffed Starsky’s right wrist, the smaller man tried to scramble away from him, but his only escape route was literally across the table. He clambered up on the corner of the table, attempting to come back down on the other side, maneuvering as well as he could with his left hand captive. But Hutch moved quickly, grabbing the shackled right wrist while Starsky was still kneeling on the table, and yanking it over to the other pocket where he secured it firmly just as he’d done to the left. Starsky’s arms were now spread wide across the foot of the table as his chin slipped flat against the felt. As he struggled to get back up on his knees, Hutch removed his partner’s shoes with a chuckle. “We don’t wanna get mud on Huggy’s pretty crimson felt, now do we?”

“Huuuuuutch!” Starsky wailed. “This is assault! Assault against a police officer! Not here! Not in Huggy’s place! On the pool table?”

“You should’ve thought of that before you waved the red flag in front of the horniest bull you know,” Hutch chided, as he kicked off his own shoes and climbed up on the table behind Starsky. “But you never do think before you pull my chain, do you?” It amused Hutch to hear the balls, roughly shoved aside by his and Starsky’s legs, clunk into pockets all over the table, while some of them were shoved over the rails onto the floor where they bounced away merrily.

Starsky knew better than to fight the cuffs, and just flailed around the table on his knees, trying to escape his partner, which, of course, was impossible at this point.

Hutch helpfully unbuttoned the last button of the world’s tightest jeans and peeled them off Starsky’s voluptuous ass, even as he dug in his pocket for the tube of Vaseline lip therapy he’d been using on his chapped lips earlier this week. It would do.

“Hutch, come on! We just needta get this place squared away, and then we can go home and ball to our hearts’ content. You don’t wanna do this here!”

“Oh, yes, I do,” Hutch said, sounding so much calmer than he actually felt. His blood was pounding as the stared at the luscious rump elevated on Starsky’s knees that was just waiting for him. “You look perfect against this red felt, lover, positively delicious. After all, it’s your color. Oh, yeah, Starsky. I do believe the all-night bun factory has just opened its door.”

“Huuuuuutch!” What started out as a disconcerted protest quickly evolved into a lusty moan as Hutch filled each hand with one of the bouncing orbs and spread them wide, thrusting his tongue deep into his partner. Hutch was merciless, his tongue thrusting and laving without pause until he could feel Starsky trembling uncontrollably beneath him.

Bucking up into Hutch’s eager mouth, Starsky began to groan. The blond knew his partner’s defenses against this particular touch were even more limited than his own, and he reveled in the satisfaction of payback as he felt his lover’s control completely shatter in a matter of minutes.

Hutch propped himself higher on his knees, without missing a beat with his mouth, and opened his eyes to study his feast. Starsky’s arms were stretched taut, straining against the cuffs as he struggled to feed himself further against the velvet tongue and hungry mouth that were fast becoming his undoing. His forehead was pressed flat on the ruby felt, beads of sweat trailing into his closed eyes. The delicious sounds emitting from his parted lips were reminiscent of an animal in heat. As for Hutch, the musky scent and unique taste of his lover were driving him wild, just as they always did. He knew that scent as well as he knew this man, and it fed his hunger for him like little else could. The sexy image Starsky presented against the odd-colored felt only enhanced the entire experience. Hutch pulled the meaty globes he was holding wider apart as he tried to drive his tongue straight through to Starsky’s brain.

Starsky howled, shifting to draw his knees up tighter under his chest, his ass lifting higher to meet Hutch’s thrusts. His fingers fumbled to clutch the rim of the table pockets, holding on tightly against the shudders coursing through him. His body English said one thing to Hutch—more. I need more. More from you.

Hutch reached beneath his quivering partner, determined to fracture any last remaining hold he may have still had on his sanity. Wrapping his long fingers around his lover’s rock hard shaft, he began to stroke slowly—too slowly. Enough to incite, but not nearly enough to satisfy.

The bellowing howl that reverberated through the room nearly shook a collection of glasses on the bar and made the big mirror tremble.

“Awwwwww jeez…Hutch! Please–”

“Please what?” Hutch asked innocently before bringing his mouth back down to suck at the tight puckered opening while his fingers continued their slow torture.

“Do somethin’…anything,” Starsky pleaded. “I can’t…can’t take this anymore…please!”

“Do something?” Hutch murmured, sliding his tongue up and down the slick, wet crease beneath him. “I thought I was doing quite a bit, judging by your reaction.”

“Dammit, Hutch, please!” Starsky cursed between gritted teeth as he tried to get his knees steady enough beneath him to thrust against Hutch’s hand.

Starsky was never patient when it came to his gratification—which was why Hutch drew all the more pleasure from taunting him, forcing him to wait beyond any level of endurance that the curly-haired cop believed he possessed. Evading the thrusting cock, Hutch slid his palm under the warm fluid leaking from it. Rubbing Starsky’s moisture into his fingertips, Hutch slid the damp digits along the fur-covered balls. This elicited a tortured moan from somewhere deep in Starsky’s hoarse throat.

“Ohhhhhhhhhhhhhhh–”

Hutch felt his own balls tighten in response to the sound that nearly drove him over the edge. As much as he was enjoying making his lover mad for him, he wasn’t sure he had much endurance left himself. He wanted Starsky—wanted him so bad the need was nearly blinding.

“Please…please Hutch, come on…can’t…please…”

“Need it bad, don’t you?” Hutch growled seductively, unsure whether he was talking more to Starsky or himself. It was Starsky, however, who eagerly responded.

“Yes!…please…”

Hutch manipulated the moist, hard balls with the fingertips of his left hand as he trailed his right forefinger around the outside of his lover’s waiting portal.

“Want it bad enough to admit you cheated? To admit that whole game was a sham and that you deserve to do all those dishes yourself?”

“Wha’?” Beneath him, Starsky stirred slightly out of his lust-crazed fog. “…Why you lousy, sore-losing, son-of-a…”

Starsky tried to pull away then, but he didn’t get far. Hutch moved his hand from the bulging sacs and placed it flat in the small of Starsky’s back, holding his lover still as he thrust his forefinger hard up the slippery channel inside of him. With the precision born of years of loving this man, Hutch found his target in seconds, tickling the engorged prostate with just the right amount of pressure to send his lover flying. Starsky’s head came up off the table, neck stretched back as he emitted a piercing wail. His skin burned hot to the touch. He was Hutch’s now, pure and simple.

Before his lover could even catch a breath, Hutch repeated the move, finger-fucking his partner until he was writhing helplessly beneath him. Starsky was screaming, moaning, swearing…Hutch couldn’t even make out most of the words. He found himself lost in the feel of his lover’s hunger, the delicate sucking of his nether mouth. Though every limb was shaking, Starsky blindly managed to find the strength to thrust up to meet Hutch’s every stroke, his hot channel forcefully swallowing Hutch’s finger, threatening to sever it at the knuckle. Hutch’s own angry cocked flared jealously, demanding its turn to drown in that vortex.

Face falling flat against the table, Starsky groaned, his voice taking on that husky tone that always signaled the urgency of his need.

“Fine. You win, I cheated. Whatever! I’ll do all the damn dishes. Just…fuck me. Damn you, Hutchinson—fuck me…now!”

Every nerve ending in his own body was screaming the same command as Hutch groped blindly beside him on the table for the Vaseline, his eyes locked on the beautiful ass offering itself up to him for the taking.

His hands shook as he squeezed some of the lip balm into his hand and smoothed it along his rigid shaft. The feel of the gel against his already inflamed arousal nearly sent him overboard. Clamping down on whatever shreds of self-control he still had remaining, he reached for his partner’s hips. His fingers dug so deeply into the smooth skin that he feared angry bruises would be evident tomorrow as a souvenir of their wild encounter.

Roughly, he positioned his lover at just the right angle, pulling Starsky’s hips up towards his waiting cock while pushing his prisoner’s back and chest down into the table. As he pressed himself against the entrance of his desire, wanting nothing more in life than to plunge home with a fierce rush, some still-rational voice in his brain reminded him to take it easy. But the crazed demon screaming beneath him was contradicting his cautious intentions.

“Do it! Do it hard, Hutch! Oh god, babe, give it to me good! Hurry!”

All thought left Hutch then. What remained was pure instinct—one body knowing exactly what the other needed to make it right. It was always like that between them, this innate understanding of how much, how hard, how long. Their bodies communicated on a plane far removed from their minds, and both had learned a long time ago that it was best to just go along and enjoy the ride.

Plunging into his lover with a heedless grunt, Hutch’s vision clouded as his head spun from the power of the sensation. Hot, tight muscles constricted in futile resistance, providing the most searing friction against Hutch’s throbbing shaft, before the hot, bottomless body finally yielded to welcome the visitor into the far reaches of his lover’s most intimate channel.

His balls slapping hard against his partner’s firm ass, Hutch sank home with relish. Starsky let out a long groan as he strained against the cuffs, pushing back to make the connection even deeper. Hutch held his position as long as he could, savoring. But his cock was in control now and being static was not what it had in mind. His hips reared back of their own accord and then he was plunging in again…and again…and again.

As always happened, Hutch became lost in the whirlwind that was loving this man. He needed to fill Starsky with everything he had, everything he was. He needed to take him…to own him…to keep him there beneath himself until he made certain that Starsky would never want to leave.

And beneath him, he was. Starsky could go nowhere, do nothing other than accept the love Hutch had to offer. Bound to the table, hips a prisoner of Hutch’s relentless grasp, Starsky could do nothing but submit. He had to take the love Hutch offered. More importantly though, Starsky wanted it…wanted it bad. The curly head was thrashing from side to side as he demanded more while straining whatever muscles he still had control of to meet each of Hutch’s pounding thrusts.

Neither one of them was going to be able to hold out much longer, Hutch recognized foggily. His own balls were so tight now it felt possible that the semen would just shatter them and burst forth through his skin rather than taking the time to travel the regular route. Wanting to make sure they made this trip together, Hutch released his vise-grip on one hip and brought that hand under his partner to encase Starsky’s furious erection. At the same time, he shifted his position slightly. Focusing his single shred of coherency, he timed his moves with experienced precision, diving deep to nail his lover’s prostate at the same moment he stropped Starsky’s heavy, leaking penis.

Starsky let out a wail that rocked the entire table as he fell forward, shaking limbs unable to balance him. Hutch moved with him, keeping his target within reach as he repeated the strokes, driving his lover over the edge from within and without simultaneously.

They fell into a rhythm that would fast become their undoing. He could almost feel the semen traveling into Starsky’s cock as the walls that surrounded him tightened maddeningly. The howl he heard this time was his own as his cock took over completely, pumping and thrusting as his seed rushed forth from his body to anoint his lover and seal them in the most intimate of bonds. Starsky’s erection was thrusting too, hard into Hutch’s hand with a force that nearly unbalanced the blond. His lover’s body convulsed around him and beneath him and for a few glorious moments they rode out the storm completely together.

When the storm clouds finally dissipated, Hutch found himself laying flat against his partner’s back where he had fallen when his knees gave out. He didn’t move for a while…couldn’t move. All he could do was lie there and listen to the mingled sounds of their fractured breathing. It took a while for him to even remember where they were. In fact, he was a bit startled to feel the hard red felt beneath his legs.

Oh shit…! Huggy’s customized pool table.

Raising himself, he slid gently off his prone partner who hadn’t exhibited any signs of movement. He attempted to assess the area beneath Starsky’s body, fool-heartedly hoping that somehow he had had the wherewithal to remember to catch the evidence of their illicit tryst with his hand—but of course he hadn’t. He’d been too far gone for that. As a matter of fact, he didn’t even have a clear recollection of how they had ended up in this position. The last thing he remembered clearly was how he’d missed his last shot—and why. After that, a Starsky-induced haze had fallen over him, clouding all reason and common sense. Everything that was practical and level-headed had deserted him in those moments, leaving him at the mercy of the primal fervor that his lover could incite in a matter of seconds. It embarrassed him at times that Starsky had that power over him, but there never seemed to be anything he could do about it. And besides—he wasn’t sure he wanted to.