Talkin’ Dirty Pool

280

“Still lyin’!” Starsky criticized. “You don’t learn. You think after all this time I don’t know you, know everything about you?”

Hutch was quivering from sensation overload as Starsky continued to finger-fuck his ass, torturing his prostate with his expert touch, even as his other hand rested dangerously on the hot mark his slap had left.

“Answer me!” He slapped his ass again, and the sudden pain jolted through Hutch, tingling through his nerves. He would kill him for this. Someday. His knees shook.

“Okay! Okay! You know everything! Everything! Damn it, Starsky! You’re making me crazy and you know it!”

“And you deserve it! Lyin’! Cheatin’! Pretendin’ you ain’t dancin’ on the edge. I can’t trust you, Hutch. You gotta pay for that.”

He tensed all over, waiting for another slap on the ass, and swearing he would kill the little bastard if he did it. But instead, he only felt his partner fumble with something, then heard the dull clink of Starsky’s Chinese coins, the ones he kept tied on the leather thong around his–

Hutch looked back over his shoulder, realizing that Starsky had deftly untied the thong with one hand, and had dumped the coins unceremoniously onto the floor. Hutch blinked. What the hell did the little trouble-maker think he was going to do with–?

That quickly, Starsky pulled the thong underneath Hutch and looped it around the base of his cock, pulling it up under his balls. Realizing what his lover was attempting, Hutch reared up, trying, too late, to dislodge his rider. Starsky just chuckled, having all the leverage he needed to use against the sprawled, spread-legged, weakened-with-lust victim beneath him. In seconds, the leather thong had been wrapped snugly around Hutch’s hard-on and balls making a perfect cock ring. The pressure of the leather tying him was impossible to deny, impossible to resist. It felt wicked and decadent, erotic and dangerous. His cock surged against its bonds, his balls drawing up tighter. He’d never be able to come with that thing entrapping his blood this way. He’d kill Starsky, he swore. He’d kill him.

“Now, I don’t have to trust you,” Starsky said smugly. “The only dancin’ you’ll do now is at my tune, big boy. You wanna come—you’ll have to ask for it.”

“Starsky!” It was a strangled sound, emitted between tightly clenched teeth.

His answer was that terrible hand, teasing him, tormenting him, torturing his prostate with more pleasure than he could imagine enduring.

“Talk nice,” Starsky taunted. “Say sweet things. Maybe if you’re good, I’ll fuck you. Maybe if you’re even better, I’ll let you come.”

Hutch shook with outrage and excitement. But the fingers quickly tamed him, and in seconds they ruled him, ordered his world, demanded his obedience, his worship. The pleasure they gave him couldn’t be denied as they stroked, and probed, plunged and pummeled him with his own desire.

“Starsky…” The word now nothing more than the whisper of a plea. “…Love you…Starsk…oh, god…!”

“Better. Much better.” The incubus riding him toyed with his aching, hungry cock. “Man, you’re hard. I really needa piece’a you, Hutch.”

Hearing the tension in his master’s voice, the pet offered the only thing he could. “I’m yours. Take it then.”

Starsky groaned and Hutch shut his eyes at the pleasure that gave him. The hand was wonderful, but there was so much more this man could give him.

He nearly panicked when the hand abandoned him. He was wide open, as wet as a woman…he needed his lover–

He must’ve whimpered in protest because Starsky quickly soothed him. “I’m here. I’m here. Don’t tense up. It’s comin’.”

That very word made Hutch shiver. And then he felt the blunt probe, the warm sword nestling against the hungriest part of him. Please, his mind begged, but he bit his lip in fear of revealing too much.

Starsky stroked his anus with his crown and Hutch could feel Starsky’s warm fluid leaking onto him. He shuddered and willed himself to relax. Surely, there wasn’t a tense muscle left in his body.

Until Starsky murmured, “Come on, Hutch, ask for it.”

You…miserable…tormenting…son-of-a… A choked protest was all he could manage.

“Ask nice,” Starsky taunted, and pushed gently against Hutch’s hungry port. The sensation of that soft, hard flesh entering him just slightly, just enough to tantalize, nearly made Hutch faint. Starsky withdrew, taking the pleasure with him, then rocked forward just enough to give Hutch another taste.

“You can’t keep me on this table forever,” Hutch warned through his teeth. But even he could hear the quaver in his voice.

“Maybe not, but I’m willing to worry about that later. All you gotta worry about is now. Ask nice, Hutch. I could keep this up all night.” He pulled back, rocked forward, but not nearly enough.

Hutch thought he’d have a breakdown. It was too good, it was too evil. How could his lover treat him this way? How could he get him to do it all night? He was clawing at the table now, the thong around his privates making his cock pulse in time with his heart. It was enough.

“Please! Oh, god, please! Starsk, do it. Fuck me. Please.”

His partner moaned above him and nearly collapsed on his back. “Oh, yeah, that’s nice, baby blue, so nice. It’s yours. It’s all yours now.” And slowly, yet solidly, Starsky shoved into Hutch’s body.

If he hadn’t been bound, Hutch would’ve exploded on the spot. He moaned low and long, taking in the wonderful spear, opening up for the incredible pleasure of it. Starsky. Taking him. Making him his. He couldn’t breathe, couldn’t move, until he felt that sweat-damp groin press tight against his ass.

“I wish I was bigger so I could get deeper in you,” Starsky whispered in his ear.

Hutch tightened convulsively around the man inside him, his words driving him wild. “Too big now! Too deep!” Hutch insisted.

Starsky slapped his ass, not as hard this time, just reminding him who was boss. “Still a liar. Lie some more. I like smacking you.”

“I know you do,” Hutch grunted.

Starsky started moving then, pulling out carefully, thrusting back in. The tempo was slow, the fucking sublime. Hutch wanted to melt into the table. The front of Starsky’s thighs rubbed against the backs of his. “Damn, that’s good, so good, Hutch, you’re so tight around me.”

Hutch tried to tighten down more just to please him, and the sensation rocked them both, and made Hutch see stars.

“You’re so bad,” Starsky warned, sliding both hands beneath his love. “So good to me.” He encased Hutch’s agonized member in both hands and tortured it terribly, stroking, rubbing, rolling the over-sensitized testicles until Hutch wanted to chew a piece of wood out of the table, all the while Starsky in him, pumping, fucking, making him want to scream. Finally, he did.

“Goddammit! I can’t take it. Oh, god, Starsky, untie me, let me come. You son-of-a-bitch! Do it!”

“Need it bad, don’t’cha?” Starsky whispered, and the familiar words bounced around Hutch’s brain, desperately trying to make a connection. Where had he heard them before? “Need it bad enough to agree to anything, do anything, just for the release, right?”

Too late, Hutch remembered his own tormenting words to Starsky on the pool table. Too late, he remembered Starsky telling him how he’d been coerced, and how Hutch was destined to learn all about coercion. He closed his eyes.

“Y’know,” Starsky reminded him, panting against his ear, his hips still driving his cock wickedly, wonderfully, in and out of Hutch’s all-too-willing body, “I could just keep doin’ what I’m doin’, and Hutch, I gotta tell ya, I could have me one spectacular orgasm—while you just get to lie there helpless, tied up like a turkey waitin’ for roastin’. Right now, your cock’s so hard, it feels like a snakeskin gettin’ ready to split. Must hurt like hell. You ever have blue balls, Hutch? It’s a real bitch. Goes on for days–”

He couldn’t take it. He cracked. “ALL RIGHT! All right! I’ll do it. I’ll do anything, anything, just please—oh, god, Starsky, you’re killing me, please do it, let me come.”

“What’ll you do, Hutch? Gotta spell it out. ‘Anything’ covers too much ground.”

The blond pressed his forehead against the table and tried to figure out how he could hate something that felt this wonderful. Or want so much to murder the man he loved with all his heart. “The bar. I’ll help you clean the bar.”

“Not good enough.”

Hutch bellowed like a bull in rut, but it didn’t matter. His cock was still bound tight like a genie in a bottle with a permanent cork. “I’ll-I’ll clean it myself, you miserable fuck. I’ll do it. I’ll clean the bar myself, you bastard. Oh, you wait, you wait…”

“No, you’re the one who’s waiting, lover,” he pumped in especially hard to make his point and that special pleasure made Hutch gasp. “Now, say please. ‘Please let me clean the bar, Starsky, all by myself because I’m a lyin’, cheatin’, sneaky, goin’-back-on-my-word turkey.’ Say please, Hutch.”

He would die before this was over. He would never get to kill Starsky, because he would die first. The first man on the planet to die from imploding testicles. He wouldn’t have to clean the bar because there wouldn’t be a bar anymore, just a little blond mushroom cloud —

Starsky slapped his ass, rocking Hutch’s world, making him come all undone. “You like that,” his inquisitor realized.

Oh, god, don’t let him know that. Not that!

Starsky slapped him again, the sensation making him roar until finally his voice burst forth against his will, “Please! Oh, god, Starsky, please, please, please–” He’d already lost all his dignity, what the hell was he fighting for?

“Mmmmmm,” Starsky rumbled, “oh, yeah, oh, yeah, that sounds sweet to me.” He nipped Hutch’s shoulder blade, then kissed the bite. “You ready for this?”

No, Hutch thought trembling, knowing it was going to be bad. Starsky’s hands moved deftly over his abused erection, finding the ends of the thong, slowly, carefully unwrapping it, never pulling a single hair.

“Easy now, Hutch, hold still. Go easy,” Starsky warned, meaning it, as he unwrapped the last of the leather.

Hutch cried out as the flood of trapped blood surged forth, feeling like nothing he’d ever experienced. It was like a white hot burst of pleasure, like the purest rush of desire. And still Starsky was inside him. So, Hutch knew he was feeling it, too, feeling Hutch ripple around him. Absently, Starsky was stroking his red slap spot and that was making Hutch crazy, too. There was no holding back anymore. The floodgates had been opened.

“Ready, boy?” Starsky whispered, and for the first time, Hutch could hear the need in his voice.

He needs me, Hutch realized joyfully. He needs me!

“Give it up, boy. Give it to me.” Starsky was begging, Hutch realized. Starsky needed him just as badly as he was needed. It was a wonderful realization.

As Starsky’s deft, magical hands stroked Hutch’s swollen flesh, Hutch felt everything suddenly burst inside him, like an abrupt supernova of pleasure. His body convulsed and he shouted out loud, as his essence burst forth, spraying like a fire hose, baptizing the underside of the table and the floor. As he did, Starsky released a keening cry and tried to climb up Hutch’s back, his feet leaving the ground. He gripped Hutch’s cock so tight that Hutch came again, spurting wildly, and the two of them convulsed like an animal in seizure, coming and crying out and coming some more. Their voices mingled and subsided until they were left murmuring each other’s names, even as they clutched each other’s hands, needing to connect in every way they could.

Starsky collapsed over him like a dead man, and Hutch realized his lover’s feet were still not touching the ground, that he was supporting them both on the shakiest legs in the universe. He patted the loyal table that held them. Sure don’t make tables like this anymore, he thought. He would’ve giggled, but he was just too tired. He couldn’t remember ever feeling this good in his life. He was almost middle-aged by some standards, but when Starsky and he got to fucking—they were teenagers again. He grinned, loving his life, and loving his lover–

Who finally managed to stir above him. Starsky made no attempt to move, but did manage to ask in a slurred voice, “You gonna kill me?”

Hutch tried to nod his head, but couldn’t do it. “Oh, yeah,” he assured his partner.

“When?” Starsky wondered, as if he needed to know so he could start packing.

Hutch couldn’t come up with an answer. “In my next life, I guess,” he finally admitted.

“Oh,” Starsky said. “It can wait.” Then he held perfectly still as if he could sleep like this, nude, in a bar, blanketing Hutch who was only half lying on a table for support.

“That was the best ever,” Hutch said conversationally. “Wasn’t it?”

“Oh, yeah,” Starsky confirmed, weakly patting the buttock he’d spanked. “The best ever.”

Hutch closed his eyes. It was the best, the very best. Loving Starsky was the very best thing that had ever happened to him.

Which was why he was so unprepared when the very worst thing that could happen suddenly did.

“WHAT THE HELL HAVE YOU TWO DONE TO MY BAR?”

At the outraged sound of Huggy’s shocked voice, Starsky jumped so bad he nearly leapfrogged over Hutch’s trapped body. Then Hutch remembered—Starsky was completely nude—Hutch was merely completely exposed!

“AND WHAT THE HELL ARE YOU DOIN’ ON THAT TABLE?”

At the moment the answer was, scrambling for cover. Starsky lurched off of Hutch like a jackrabbit on speed, but it didn’t help, because his pants were completely at the other end of the bar on the pool table. He must’ve realized that because he was frantically yanking Hutch to his feet, tugging at his pants, and for a moment Hutch feared Starsky was trying to steal his jeans to hide his own nudity. Hutch knew there was no chance in hell that he’d ever get Starsky’s jeans up his long legs, so he tried to force his body to cooperate just so he could keep his own pants. But his legs were numb, and he had that miserable feeling of total discombobulation that he always had after sex as he and Starsky tugged frantically at his jeans as though the one pair could cover them both.

“It’s not what it seems, Huggy,” Starsky was babbling, never releasing Hutch’s waistband.

Hutch had to stare at his lover in wide-eyed shock—what did he mean, it’s not what it seems? It was worse than it seemed! Did he think he could con his way out of this around Huggy? Hutch glanced at the bar owner’s furious expression and suddenly began wishing that they could. That was just about the time Hutch realized that Starsky wasn’t trying to steal his pants, he was trying to help Hutch pull them up so he could then hide behind the big blond who would at least be semi-dressed. Hutch kept tucking his sticky, half-flaccid cock down inside his jeans, but the damned thing was worse than a drunken snake and kept falling back out every time Starsky tugged at his back belt loops to pull the pants higher.

“Will you stop that?” Hutch snapped at Starsky impatiently.

Slipping behind him to hide his nudity, Starsky released the jeans, but only for a minute, as if he had to have something to handle in an attempt to hide himself. Hutch managed to get his organ inside finally and zipped up his jeans—as if his dignity could be that easily restored.

“I can’t believe you two were doin’ what you were obviously doin’! In my bar? On one’a my tables?” Huggy was outraged, his face dark with anger. He wasn’t teasing this time. “Have you two gone outta your minds? When I drove past and saw the lights on, I just figured you forgot to shut’em off. The blinds were drawn. The closed sign up. Everything else looked just fine. I thought, ‘Let me just stop and shut off the lights.’ That’s all. Just shut off the lights! And then I step into hell.” He stalked toward the pool table to fetch Starsky’s jeans, grabbing them up without glancing at the felt that was his particular point of pride. He pointed a finger at the sturdy, faithful table that had served him and Starsky so wonderfully, but right now, Huggy didn’t seem to appreciate its qualities. “I’m’a hafta throw that table out! You think I could serve food and drink on somethin’ you been–been–copulatin’ on?” He flung the jeans at Hutch.

The blond felt his heart turn to ice as Huggy leaned a hand on one of the table’s side rails. Please, god, don’t let him notice the felt. Not yet. Not right now. He caught the jeans handily.

Behind him, Starsky only pressed his forehead between Hutch’s shoulder blades and groaned.

“Put these on,” Hutch hissed at him, irritably.

“Damn straight ‘put these on,’” Huggy demanded, jabbing a finger now in Starsky’s direction. The cop jumped to comply, wrestling the tight pants on in record time, even getting them buttoned straight. Hutch was impressed. Starsky wasn’t often this rattled.

“If you think I wanna spend any time lookin’ at your hairy, colorless asses you’re mistaken. I know the two of you think there ain’t no booty in all the world as pretty as yours, but–” He was glancing around the bar as he ranted, and finally noticed a few cue balls in various locations on the floor. “–you’re sadly mistaken! I might even have to sell this whole bar now. God knows I ain’t never gonna be able to walk in that front door again–” his eyes trailed finally over the crimson pool table.

Hutch couldn’t help it. He took a step back. Starsky moved with him in perfect sync. They took another step back. Then another. Maybe if they moved slow…?

“–without seein’ the Nightmare On Sixth Street–your two big shinin’ butts starin’ me right in my face as I opened my own front door…” His gaze suddenly took in the immensity of the offenses to the brilliantly colored pool table felt. His words trailed off into a quiet stutter. First he spied the handcuffs still attached to the pockets. His large, expressive mouth moved and twisted, but nothing came out. Then he saw the Rorschach blotch of white against the red, and the torn place.

The two cops took a few more steps back, thinking they just might make it to the back room before—

“WHAT. HAPPENED. TO MY TABLE?“

Hutch actually flinched and felt an echoing tremble from behind him.

“Oh, shit,” Starsky muttered.

Huggy must’ve somehow heard him. Who knew the Pits had such good acoustics when it was empty? “That’s about the only thing that ain’t been done to this table!”

 “We’ll pay for a new felt, Huggy,” Hutch said quickly.

“You mean you will,” Starsky mumbled behind him. “Felt’s on you, bro’.”

Hutch shut his eyes for a second and regretted bitterly that you could only kill someone once. “In fact, Starsky was so upset over what he did to your table,” Hutch said quickly, moving sidewise to avoid the painful butt pinch he knew was about to be delivered—and to that spot, “that he said he’d pay whatever it cost to get the guy in here first thing in the morning to do the repairs.”

“You’re payin’ for the felt,” Starsky insisted softly behind him.

“Oh, you’re both payin’ for the felt all right,” Huggy assured them. “And you’re payin’ for the disinfecting, too. You think I don’t know what that is?” He pointed one long, imperious finger at a telltale white stain. “You think I got to be this age on these streets without recognizing the obvious? On my pool table! My pool table? You two are sick. Sick, twisted, and demented.”

By this time, he was stalking them around the bar. They were hampered by having to watch where they put their bare feet. Once Starsky nearly stepped on a broken glass and Hutch did step on a billiard ball and nearly crashed to the ground except for Starsky’s quick save.

“That table will have to be sterilized, purified, and probably deloused. And to think that all I had to worry about when I left here was the phone!” Huggy was on a roll, now. “I want you to know that I’ve gotta buy those beer glasses by the case—that’s thirty-six,” he informed them as he backed them into the kitchen. “That’s goin’ on your tab, too. An’ you think them billiard balls are gonna play right after bein’ bounced around the floor and encrusted with—don’t make me say it!—well, they won’t. A new set’a balls—not that you two need any, you got more than anyone could handle now—but that’s goin’ on your tab. Then there’s the pool cue, and a new table, and Hutchinson, you’d better hope your effluvia didn’t travel too far, ‘cause anything it touched is goin’ out with the trash, and you’ll be payin’ for that, too!”

By this time, they had gotten fully into the kitchen, and Huggy finally got an eyeful of the sink. For a moment he actually went pale, and Hutch thought he might possibly faint.

“What the hell happened–? No, don’t tell me. You let my bozo kitchen staff out the door before they finished. You let them out early.” He shook his head in wonderment. “The two smartest street cops in L.A. How could you be so easily conned?”

Hutch smiled and stepped away so Starsky could take center stage. If he was going to have to pay for pool table, Starsky could damned well take the heat for the kitchen. The blond looked at his lover and said, “Explain it to the man.”

This time, he did get pinched, and hard. He quickly moved out of reach.

Starsky attempted to bat his eyelashes and look endearing, but one look at the glower on Huggy’s face squashed that. “Well, uh, I’m not sure exactly,” Starsky prevaricated, “but it had, I dunno, somethin’ to do with the all-night bun factory–”

Hutch never did get to watch Starsky bend over the sink. While Starsky was bent over the sink, scrubbing encrusted grease and baked-on grime from the mounds of dishes and cookware that had accumulated—who knew you had to use all this stuff just to serve food in a bar?—Hutch was busy sweeping up shattered glasses, righting overturned tables and chairs, picking up scattered clothing, loading one ejaculate-laden table into the Torino’s trunk, and taking the pool table apart to remove the felt. Huggy wasn’t about to let his cousin see what had happened to the felt. Hutch put that in the Torino, too. Someday, he knew they would laugh about this—maybe even tomorrow—and they might want a piece of that felt for a souvenir. And Starsky wouldn’t let him throw the table out. He was convinced he could find just the right place for it in their house. That worried Hutch considerably.

But Starsky had already warned him. No pool tables. Never. Not ever. He couldn’t trust Hutch around them and they couldn’t afford to have it re-felted every week. And it would be silly to own a pool table, yet have to go to a bar to actually play a game. Hutch had agreed as they separated to their individual tasks.

As Huggy sat grumbling in a corner, checking the day’s receipts, and the sun began to rise over the L.A. smog, Hutch wondered how long it would be before Starsky figured out whose turn it would next be to bend over the new table in their home. He could hear Starsky’s off-key singing just as he caught himself humming the same tune—”I’m Not In Love…” Even a dire look from Huggy couldn’t wipe the evening’s glory from his memories.

Hutch thought about the table jammed into the trunk of the Torino—he couldn’t help but wonder how soon it would be before the all-night bun factory was back in business.

So love, just a crazy feeling
& Deep and hidden meaning, it’s true
And love takes some understanding
So don’t you go on breaking the rules
We’re counting 1-2-3
I’m writing “U 4 Me”
I’ll teach you endlessly
Games of love
Games Of Love — Boyzone

Born in the sunshine
Dyin’ in the rain
Raised on laughter
Lost in a game
Love you
Love you
Games — Crosby, Stills, Nash and Young