The Devil and Mr. Hutchinson

In honor of the beautiful illo “The Devil and Mr. Hutchinson.”

Hutch held a knife in his hand.

The knife was balanced carefully in his fist, its weight distributed perfectly in his hand. He smoothed his thumb over the wood handle, rubbing the grain easily, rhythmically, mindlessly. His thoughts were somewhere else, on something else; he wasn’t aware he was caressing the knife handle, only that something was calming the urgency in his gut.

Hutch stood in the kitchen, facing the living room.

Starsky lay flat on his back on the old brown sofa: mouth agape and snoring loudly, legs twisted in the old hand-knit afghan, arms flung up over his head. His hair was a mess, uncombed and tangled, curling about his face with wild abandon. The ratty plaid shirt he wore was–barely–buttoned once, just across his belly, completely exposing the red longjohns he insisted upon wearing day and night. Candy apple red longjohns. Flesh-skimming longjohns. Skintight longjohns. Put a white racing stripe on them and Starsky would be the fastest motor on the road.

Strip them off and Starsky would be the fastest motor in this cabin.

Hutch eased his grip on the knife unconsciously, took a deep breath, and reluctantly turned back toward his task. It was mindless work, but gave him something–else–to concentrate on.

Concentrate on nice round slices of carrot.

Concentrate on meaty squares of potato.

Concentrate on thick semi-circles of celery. Juicy wedges of real garden tomatoes. Generous slices of sweet onion. Home-grown fruits and vegetables to create a home-made taste. And for something a little different, a stick of cinnamon to confound and confuse the senses. Over on the stove, chunks of tender beef sat simmering. And if he’d learned nothing else from his grandmother, he’d learned how to make a roux that would put Julia Child to shame. Not to mention he’d taken a little flour and water and mixed up a batch of dumplings to seal the stew within its pot. Add a couple of dark beers, and nothing could top this meal.

Assuming they got to the meal.

And there went his concentration again.

Hutch ran a forearm across his brow, then wiped his hands on his workshirt. Cooking was hot business. He wished he hadn’t followed Starsky’s lead and put on his longjohns underneath his camping clothes. His longjohns were black. Much more refined and sedate than Starsky’s. Tasteful, not garish. Conservative, not extreme.

Not to mention they set off his hair like pearls on black velvet. But so hot!

Starsky roused on the couch, and Hutch turned eagerly to watch him return to the living. Without opening his eyes, Starsky yawned, snorted, then rubbed his face with his hands. His back arched languidly, cutting loose the button that held the shirt together, and Starsky’s hands moved down to rub his belly and scratch his inner right thigh. He squirmed under the afghan, then kicked his legs and sent the cover flying to the floor. Slitted lids hid two blue gemstones, then widened to reveal sparkling sapphires. Amusement skittered across the gems, and a crooked grin signaled complete wakefulness.

“You really whacked off a few there,” Hutch offered his review of Starsky’s nap. He held the paring knife tightly, the hardness of the slender handle somehow satisfying.

Starsky swung his legs off the couch and righted himself. Two hands dug into his hair and scratched at his scalp. “Disappointed I didn’t whack off a few for you?” The grin broadened and the sapphires took on a evil glint. He’d recognized he was being watched. Starsky leisurely finished his scalp massage, then stood erect. The red longjohns slid over every muscle, took on every curve, skimmed every extremity. Starsky posed for a moment, hands on his hips, his face remarkably expressionless.

Hutch reached backward blindly and dropped the knife on the counter. He was transfixed, but not immobilized. He took a step toward Starsky.

Starsky’s attention seemed to be somewhere off in the distance. He remained a statue, an object to be admired and appreciated.

Hutch took another step. Starsky nonchalantly brushed a hand across his groin, a small shiver running through his body. Hutch mirrored the gesture, sending sparks through his own limbs.

That seemed to be a signal to Starsky. With a wicked smile, he scratched his armpit and turned disinterestedly from Hutch.

Hutch froze. With great effort, he turned back to his stew.

Starsky padded off to the bathroom. Carefully, deliberately, consciously, Hutch rounded up the vegetables and began assembling his masterpiece. Steam rose from the stew pot, scenting the air with seasonings and spices. The steam was hot, but he let it cling to his hair and face and leave droplets of aromatic perspiration on his skin as he stirred and flavored and perfected. Tending to his stew gave him something to focus on, something to blank his mind with, something to turn his energy to.

Something to do with his hands.

Finally content with the progress of his meal, he made a brief show of cleaning up the small kitchen and moved to his next mindless task, tidying the cabin. Starsky was in the bathroom showering, and apparently yodeling. He had (one presumed absentmindedly) left the bathroom door open. His strapping shadow played behind the shower curtain until the steam obliterated it. An energetic black shape. A dark sculpted figure.

A muscular temptation.

When he could make out the figure amidst the steam no longer, Hutch picked up the discarded afghan and folded it lengthwise. Without thinking, he lifted it to his nose before laying it across the back of the couch . It smelled of wood and musk, of substantive and primeval things. Hutch smoothed the coverlet across the sofaback and picked up a few more discarded items from the floor. Starsky’s plaid shirt. Starsky’s jeans.

Starsky’s belt. Starsky’s shoes and socks. Starsky’s briefs. Starsky’s jacket. Starsky’s vest. Starsky’s hat. Starsky’s entire wardrobe.

Hutch manhandled them into a bulky ball and tossed them in the corner. Starsky could find them later.

He wouldn’t need them until later.

The cabin was filled with the steam from the dinner and the steam from the opened bathroom. Hutch unbuttoned his shirt, shrugged out of it, and tossed it over onto Starsky’s pile. That made him a little cooler. Hutch released the top three buttons of his longjohns and ran a hand over his chest. His skin was warm and damp, and it cooled his fever to spread the perspiration over his flesh. He let his fingers play over his skin, dipping down to circle a nipple, to caress its hard tip. A sudden chill enveloped his body. He took his hand away.

Time for more mindless tasks.

Hutch cleared off the small maple board that served as a dining table. He set out two huge bowls for their meal, exactly opposite one another to reduce temptation, with a pine cone centerpiece between them. He searched out two soup spoons, added two paper towels for napkins, and finished with a loaf of hard bread. Two bowls, two spoons, two beers and bread would be all they’d need.

For dinner.

Hutch returned to his stew pot to check on the progress of his creation. The shower shut off, as well as the yodeling, and Hutch turned expectantly.

Starsky emerged from the bathroom in a cloud of steam. The red longjohns clung to his wet skin, accentuating the hard muscle and sensual body. The tantalizing curve of Starsky’s Venus girdle drew attention to the semi-rigid cock. It hardened the desire in Hutch’s own groin.

Delicious pain. Agonizing pleasure.

He forced his attention up and focused on his partner’s face.

Dark splotches formed crazy patterns on Starsky’s shoulders from the drops that slipped from his hair. Starsky’s head was buried in a towel which rubbed and massaged and dried and burnished those barely tameable curls. It was almost a dance the way Starsky did it, drying his hair languidly, his hips moving in time to his hands.

Hutch was mesmerized. He couldn’t keep his eyes from locking on to those swaying hips.

Starsky peeked mischievously from under the terrycloth towel, giving Hutch the once-over. Seemingly unconcerned with what he saw, he pulled the towel off his head and rubbed it over his chest to dry the droplets that clung to his chest hair. He rubbed down to his belly, forcing the red material apart, for he had only buttoned the longjohns as far as his navel.

Hutch’s gaze remained locked on Starsky’s hips. Without looking up, Hutch waggled his cooking spoon at Starsky. “Why did you put those things back on after you got all cleaned up?” he asked, exasperated.

Starsky finished his gyrations and wadded the towel into a ball. He flipped it over his shoulder, managing to blindly toss it onto the pile Hutch had already started. “Dunno,” he shrugged, smiling. He looked down, fingering the opened edges of his top. “It’s comfortable.” His face rose to meet Hutch’s. “You don’t like it?” The smile disappeared into an expectant mouth and curious eyes.

Hutch scanned Starsky up and down. It was hard to find anything more interesting than those hips. He finally brought his eyes to Starsky’s face, folded his arms across his chest, and tapped the spoon against his lips. “I’ve seen better,” he appraised haughtily. He would have sounded disinterested if not for the husk to his voice. Ignoring that giveaway, Hutch leaned back against the counter and crossed his legs, hoping to put a damper on the throbbing below. He didn’t want to give Starsky the satisfaction.

Yet.

Starsky was doing much better with his disinterested demeanor. Even though his cock was barely restrained by the scarlet material, Starsky casually sauntered over to the couch.

“Better what?” Starsky was obviously enjoying the moment, quite willing to show Hutch where his physical thoughts were, if not his intentions. Starsky stood next to the arm of the sofa, feet apart, arms folded across his chest, cock bulging.

Hutch put his spoon down and moved closer to Starsky. Leisurely, deliberately, he inspected Starsky’s body. Delicate feet, finely formed. Sturdy legs with well-defined calves that flowed into muscular thighs. Narrow hips and waist that accentuated the musculature underneath. Powerful chest, chocolate nipples barely concealed by swirling chest hair. Strong, well-defined arms, ending in the most beautiful, graceful, gentle hands.

And an artistic, sculptured cock that could harden into a tumescent and tangible indication of Starsky’s desires.

Starsky pretended not to notice.

“Better longjohns,” Hutch finally pronounced. His mouth was dry. His own erection demanded attention.

Starsky abruptly dropped his stance and settled on the sofa arm. He straddled the arm, obviously using it to his advantage. His cock swelled within the confining material.

“Where?” Starsky demanded. He again folded his arms across his chest, lifting his head expectantly. A naughty glint skittered across his eyes.

Hutch took a few, careful steps back, painstakingly placing himself in the most prominent spot in the room. He snapped his jeans open with a flourish and slid the fly down in one fluid movement. Steadily, he pushed the denim down over his thighs and carefully stepped out of them. He balled them up and tossed them onto the ever growing pile of clothes in the corner. His cock lengthened in response to the freedom. A sudden spasm rippled along his thighs.

Starsky remained smiling but unimpressed. “Lose the socks.”

Conceding to the fashion faux pas, Hutch balanced precariously on one leg and tugged the sock from his left foot. The right gave him more trouble, and he nearly lost his balance.

Starsky snickered.

Loudly.

Hutch pulled himself to his full aristocratic height and straightened his shoulders, glaring at Starsky and daring him to comment.

Starsky continued to ignore him. It was his turn to examine.

Hutch knew what Starsky saw; he’d basked in Starsky’s descriptions many times. Always, Starsky began with the hair. Liquid gold, blond silk, fine spun and luminous, sensuous and irresistible. A satiny chest, smooth and bronzed. Incredible forearms, powerful and threatening, protective and compassionate. Slender waist and hips. Long, lean legs that proclaimed strength and stamina.

And an elegant, aristocratic cock that moved with a power often ungoverned by Hutch.

Starsky rose from his perch and lifted a bored eyebrow. A thoughtful expression crossed his face. He walked up to Hutch and gave him a second once-over. Hutch remained still, every ounce of concentration directed toward restraining his body. Starsky seemed to ponder something, then made a decision. He unbuttoned the next three buttons on Hutch’s shirt and smoothed the freed material over Hutch’s chest. Hutch’s nerve endings tingled unmercifully. Electricity seemed to flow from Starsky’s fingertips to his sensitive skin. It was a painful shock when Starsky removed his hand.

Starsky rubbed his fingertips with his thumb absentmindedly. He stepped back, assessed his work, then shook his head in dismay. He sighed disappointedly, and started to walk around Hutch.

The aristocratic statue came alive.

Hutch grabbed Starsky’s arm and swung him around. “Not so fast, you sanctimonious little prick,” he breathed into Starsky’s ear.

Starsky pulled free from his grasp and moved into the kitchen. Hutch remained in the middle of the room, slightly bewildered, arms raised and empty.

Starsky could barely contain his amusement. He looked around the kitchen expectantly. “I’m hungry. What’s for supper?” He found Hutch’s spoon and dipped into the stew. But before he could bring the spoon to his mouth, Hutch was suddenly next to him, immobilizing his wrist. Hutch squeezed tightly, forcing a tremor through Starsky’s arm. He forced Starsky to drop the spoon, then spun him ’round till they were facing each other.

“You.”

Starsky laughed wickedly. Hutch’s eyes blazed. He continued to grip Starsky’s wrist as he used his other hand to bring Starsky’s mouth to his. Electricity shot through his body as their lips met. Hutch sucked desperately at Starsky’s lips, capturing them between his teeth, lapping at their saltiness. He sucked and licked, searching for more. A throaty chuckle escaped from Starsky. He opened up to Hutch and their tongues met, warm and wet, each seeking to probe deeper inside one another.

Hutch bore down on Starsky, one hand gripping his wrist, the other entangled in Starsky’s hair, forcing him back against the refrigerator. He ground his hips against Starsky’s, and Starsky responded, meeting pressure with pressure, force with force. Hutch relaxed his grip and sought to cement his body to Starsky’s.

Starsky suddenly pushed back and disengaged from Hutch. He spun Hutch around and against the refrigerator, reversing their positions. Hutch looked startled, then greedily expectant.

Starsky laughed again. He reached down and massaged Hutch’s cock, sending a sharp shock through Hutch’s spine. Hutch threw his head back and waited. His skin literally ached for Starsky’s touch. His cock begged to be fondled. His body pleaded to be enfolded and entered. But Starsky suddenly released Hutch and moved to the middle of the room.

Hutch stood plastered against the refrigerator, dazed.

Starsky stood in the middle of the room, a smiling, arrogant bastard.

It took a few moments, but Hutch found his composure. He lifted off the refrigerator and moved toward Starsky, a bit unsteady but determined. He circled Starsky warily, then advanced. Starsky didn’t move. They smiled at one another, Hutch confident, Starsky cocksure.

“I don’t like being teased.” Hutch grabbed Starsky’s upper arms and held them tightly. He pulled Starsky to him roughly.

“I’m not a tease.” Starsky reached up and drew Hutch’s face to his, his upper arms still held by Hutch.

Hutch jerked his head away, refusing Starsky. “Oh, no?” He raised an eyebrow in mock surprise. “Then what are you?”

Starsky brought his hands down to Hutch’s chest. They ranged lightly over his skin, caressing his neck and shoulders. “A flirt?” Starsky proposed.

Hutch gave Starsky’s arms a hard squeeze. Starsky deepened his caresses in response. “A lecher?” He grinned up at Hutch.

Hutch gave Starsky a firm shake. Starsky fell forward a step, nearly leaning his whole weight on Hutch. “A devil,” Starsky finally chose a name for himself. Starsky’s balance was still controlled by Hutch, with most of his weight supported by the blond man.

“Wrong.” Hutch adjusted his grip on Starsky. He bore down, forcing Starsky to his knees.

Starsky pushed back, but was either no match for Hutch or didn’t want to be. They both sank to their knees.

“I’ll tell you what you are.” Hutch loosed one of Starsky’s arms. His hand roved over Starsky’s chest, palm flat against the hard muscle. Hutch slid his hand down to the slight curve of Starsky’s waist, over a narrow hip, then slipped inside the longjohns to find Starsky’s hot, erect organ. “You’re mine.” Hutch gave a firm squeeze to Starsky’s sensitive cock.

Starsky groaned and grabbed Hutch’s shoulders for balance. Hutch continued to squeeze, alternating a hard grip with an easy grip, maintaining an arythmic pumping to keep Starsky guessing. His other hand moved to crawl through Starsky’s dark, cool curls, forcing their lips together. Starsky came to him eagerly but not gently, meeting Hutch’s lip with sharp teeth. Starsky nipped and pulled at Hutch’s lip, sucking at them as if they were sustenance themselves. Hutch allowed the rough play for several moments, then tightened his grip in Starsky’s hair and forced him even closer. Starsky sought entry with his tongue, but Hutch forced it back and took possession of Starsky’s mouth instead. His tongue sparred with Starsky’s, exploring the warm, moist cavity, then he suddenly reversed his assault and sucked Starsky into his mouth, nipping and biting at the captive flesh.

A sharp shock shot through Hutch as cool fingers suddenly found their way through his trap door and traced patterns on his ass. He continued to stroke Starsky’s cock and suck at his tongue as Starsky’s fingers began rubbing his buttocks. Starsky grabbed at Hutch’s flesh, kneading hard and quick for a moment, then letting his fingernails dig in.

Hutch freed Starsky’s cock and reestablished his grip in Starsky’s hair, pulling his head back, forcing Starsky to drop all contact with Hutch. Starsky grinned back at Hutch ferally.

“You like this?” Hutch asked. He leaned forward, his fingers still entwined in Starsky’s curls, pulling Starsky down to the hardwood floor as he pushed his weight on top of him.

They struggled a moment to find their positions: Hutch on top, his hands pinning Starsky’s wrists above the shoulders, his ass resting on Starsky’s mid-section, his knees gripping Starsky’s thighs.

Starsky simply continued to grin wickedly.

Hutch brought his face down to Starsky’s. “You are temptation incarnate, and I’m going to have to punish you for that. I’m not one to be tempted and then denied.” He started to meld his lips to Starsky’s, but Starsky jerked his head to the side, laughing. Hutch hit hard jaw instead of soft lips.

Hutch rose up. His eyes were filled with blue fire. “Okay. If that’s how you want it, that’s how you’ll get it.” He matched Starsky’s smile tooth for tooth, intent for intent, desire for desire.

Starsky lifted an eyebrow. “More like how you want it, isn’t it?”

For a moment there was no sound from either man. Then Starsky arched and rolled, pulling up and to the side with his hands, pitching Hutch sideways and over onto the floor. Starsky controlled the roll, his leg hooked around Hutch’s. They ended up against the couch, struggling for leverage. Hutch landed on his left side, his back against the couch. Starsky landed on his right side, facing Hutch. They grappled a moment, grunts intermixed with exuberant chuckles. Starsky used the leg hooked around Hutch’s to pull Hutch on top of himself. Surprised at being maneuvered into the dominant position, Hutch relaxed his grip.

Which was apparently what Starsky wanted.

Starsky took advantage and wriggled out from under Hutch, deftly keeping Hutch on his stomach, forcing Hutch’s arm behind his back.

And now it was Starsky on top of Hutch.

“Okay, Blondie,” Starsky gasped for breath. He sat atop Hutch’s ass, struggling to bring Hutch’s other arm behind his back. Hutch tried to buck Starsky off, but a quick twist of Hutch’s captive arm stopped his attempts and allowed Starsky to finally pin both arms. “If this is how you want it, you got it.”

Hutch lay still and expectant, breathing heavily. The wood planks beneath his cheek felt cool and smooth. Starsky’s weight felt exciting.

Starsky captured both Hutch’s wrists in one hand, and used the other to run through Hutch’s hair. He played with the silky strands a minute, then moved down to massage Hutch’s neck. “Gonna give it to you good, boy,” he leaned forward and whispered into Hutch’s ear. His breath was warm and moist. “Is that how you want it?”

Hutch squeezed his eyes shut, the pleasure of the massage threatening to take over his thoughts. “Want it anyway you give it,” he managed to reply hoarsely. His body was quickly beginning to float.

But the weight was suddenly lifted from his body and his wrists were suddenly freed. Starsky gently urged him over onto his back, and Hutch rolled obligingly. He looked up into the face of his lover, shiny with perspiration, glowing with thoughts not yet acted on.

Starsky gripped Hutch’s thighs and pushed them apart, stroking the taut skin with his thumbs. Hutch’s leg spasmed under the rhythmic touch. Starsky knelt between his thighs, pulling Hutch’s knees upward till his feet were flat on the floor and his knees were fitted under Starsky’s armpits. Starsky hung there a moment, resting, grinning down at Hutch like some evil spirit about to devour its victim’s soul.

Hutch waited.

Starsky stood up and finished unbuttoning his longjohns. Obviously aware of his Hutch’s attentions, he eased his way out of the confining body suit slowly, exposing each limb for maximum ogling. Once free, he tossed the garment behind the couch, standing proud and erect over Hutch. Hutch reached up for Starsky, but Starsky batted away Hutch’s questing hands. Instead, he knelt back down and reached forward, taking hold of Hutch’s black garment. With a savage pull he opened Hutch’s shirt, sending buttons flying everywhere. He slid his hands up Hutch’s chest and forced the material off Hutch’s shoulders, pulling it down off his arms, then skimming it off Hutch’s hips and legs. It, too, ended up behind the couch.

For a moment they both gazed at each other’s erections, Starsky’s dark and demanding, Hutch’s golden and expectant.

Starsky broke the spell by changing his position, kneeling by Hutch’s side. Slowly he lowered his head, curling his body over Hutch’s cock. Hutch’s eyes locked onto Starsky’s burnished curls, the chestnut spirals a physical manifestations of Starsky’s actions. Starsky’s tongue began to lick slowly up the length of Hutch’s penis, inching up to the tip then lifting off to begin again at the bottom of the shaft. Hutch groaned with every stroke, feeling his member grow longer with every wet caress.

Starsky lifted his head momentarily, a pleased grin on his face. Hutch was hard and erect, his smooth shaft quivering within Starsky’s grip. Starsky went back down, this time gliding his tongue over the head of Hutch’s cock with the lightest circling motion Hutch had ever felt. It was such a soft touch in contrast to their earlier roughhousing. The tenderness nearly overwhelmed him. Hutch bit his lip and closed his eyes, turning his head to the side to cool the flush in his cheek with the cold of the wood floor.

For a time he existed on sensation only. First the slippery wetness of Starsky’s tongue. Then the heat of Starsky’s breath. Then the abrupt coolness forged from Starsky’s breath hitting Hutch’s wetness. Each lap, every swirl sent his stomach plummeting, made his head dizzy, increased the throbbing in his cock.

Hutch’s eyes suddenly blinked open and his breath was forced from his lungs. Starsky had rested the heel of his palm at Hutch’s anus, and was putting pressure on the tiny area between Hutch’s anus and his balls. The sensation was almost frightening in its intensity. Methodically, deliberately, easily, Starsky let the pressure build by slowly pressing the palm of his hand toward Hutch’s cock. At the same time, his lips encircled the head of Hutch’s cock and Starsky’s tongue continued to trace circles around the heated flesh. Hutch’s thighs began to tremble uncontrollably. Starsky’s firm touch was stretching Hutch’s anal opening and his gentle tongue was setting fire to Hutch’s cock, creating incredible tensions in his groin and making it seem as though his whole being was being squeezed into a tiny space that refused to expand and was threatening to explode.

And the space did explode. The air was sucked from Hutch’s lungs and stars burst in front of his eyes. It was like being rocketed to the top of the highest roller coaster rise and then thrown from the car into space; he was weightless and soaring totally unrestrained by earthly physics. His back arched, his ass lifted off the floor, and for a moment his body was caught by a rigor he couldn’t break out of.

And then he was limp on the floor, Starsky resting his head on Hutch’s thighs, still stroking his cock.

Hutch blinked as he focused on the man still so intent on his body. He raised his head groggily, noting the smirk still on Starsky’s face.

“Look at this,” Starsky brow furrowed in mock surprise, but unable to conceal the delight in his eyes. His index finger lightly swirled over the tip of Hutch’s cock. “This is all that came out,” he held up a finger slick with the small amount of fluid that Hutch had released. “Looks like we’re going to have to do it again.”

Hutch let his head fall back on the floor, stunned. His cock was still engorged, and while his erection had momentarily subsided, the desire for release was still alive. He brought a shaky hand to his forehead and pushed the hair back from his brow. His face was covered with sweat and his eyes stung from the salty droplets.

Starsky stroked the taut area of skin between his anus and cock with a delicate touch.

“Starsk,” Hutch managed to croak, trying to raise up on his elbows. Short, sharp electric shocks were spiraling up his spine. Hutch wasn’t sure whether they were pleasurable or painful. “Wait.”

Starsky replied by swallowing Hutch’s cock.

Hutch fell back onto the floor.

Starsky continued to tongue Hutch’s cock and stroke that sensitive area of his ass as Hutch lay captive under his ministrations. Hutch had not even enough strength to raise a hand to caress Starsky’s soft curls. He merely lay limp on the floor, an occasional spasm jerking through his limbs. Press and release. Press and release. Press and release. It was all he could do to gasp for an occasional, shallow lungfull of air. Hutch rode a roller coaster of Starsky’s construction. Every nerve ending, every sense organ, every part of his body was under Starsky’s control.

And he reveled in it.

Gradually he was aware that Starsky was probing at his anus. A warm, wet finger teased the opening, then slipped inside. Hutch tensed, control of his body abruptly returned to him. He sucked in his breath, then let it out slowly, relaxing his muscles and giving in to the questing finger.

Starsky explored the delicate membranes softly, slipping past the second sphincter. Hutch gasped again, his muscles closing in around Starsky’s finger. Starsky waited patiently, and once again Hutch relaxed and allowed the penetration. Starsky probed deeper toward Hutch’s cock until he encountered the enlarged, firm mass that would be the agent of Hutch’s pleasure.

Starsky began applying a soft circular touch to the sensitive gland. Hutch moaned softly in response, his head twisting involuntarily from side to side. His limbs alternated from a sensation of weightlessness to feeling that they weighed a ton. A chill would sweep his body, then a fever. He felt a desperate need for release, yet prayed each stroke would take him only closer to the edge and never over.

Starsky quickened his touch and added to it by taking Hutch’s cock in his mouth, sucking hungrily. Hutch stiffened and writhed with pleasure, his legs spreading further apart to expose more of his ass. His moans became more vocal, an audible indication of his ecstasy, and were joined by Starsky’s throaty groans.

Hutch’s hips began to rise off the floor in the final moments before oblivion. Starsky released Hutch’s cock, removed his finger, and seemed to abandon Hutch. An icy shiver shot up Hutch’s spine and he grabbed blindly for Starsky, finding only empty air. A guttural cry escaped from his lips.

And Starsky was suddenly there.

He knelt between Hutch’s legs, raising Hutch’s ass into the air with one arm while stimulating Hutch’s cock and anus with his free hand. Hutch curled back until only his shoulders were touching the floor, his legs falling over Starsky’s shoulders, Starsky lifting his ass ever higher.

Starsky eased into him, a slick, hot seduction, taking time to penetrate smoothly when there was no time. Hutch grabbed for Starsky’s arms and tried to pull him closer, but Starsky resisted and entered at a pace that was maddening. Hutch cried out in desperation, and when Starsky had completed his entry, clenched the hot flesh inside him convulsively, giving into primitive rhythms that rocked them both.

The cabin became a vacuum in space: There was no air to be breathed, no sound to be heard, no light to be seen, no heat to be felt. Hutch was lost in a great black cocoon, his only reality the spasms that racked his body and sent him spinning ever deeper into release and relief.

Then, gradually, the black cocoon expanded to included the sweat-drenched body that bucked atop his, the over-heated flesh that pumped pleasure into his being. And then the void dissipated and the vacuum became a safe and secure place, a cabin in the woods, a haven from prying eyes, a pleasure palace of their own making.

Starsky slid out of Hutch, pushed Hutch’s legs from his shoulders, and fell onto Hutch’s chest.

Hutch wrapped his arms around the still trembling body and held him tightly, as much to ease Starsky’s tremors as his own. He stroked the tight muscles in Starsky’s back, running his other hand through the curls he’d so long wanted to caress.

Starsky sighed contentedly and wriggled upward within Hutch’s embrace, resting his head on his favorite spot on Hutch’s shoulder, just next to Hutch’s cheek. Their legs tangled together.

Hutch licked his lips and swallowed, trying to find his voice. “Damn,” he finally rasped. “You are a demon.”

“I’m the temptation you can’t resist,” Starsky murmured, burrowing deeper into Hutch’s arms.

Hutch rubbed his cheek in Starsky’s hair. “Where did you learn that incredible trick?” He thought back to the infinite number of precipices Starsky had brought him to, actually pushed him over, then pulled him back from. “I came without coming,” he said wondrously. “How did you do that?”

Starsky chuckled and traced circles around Hutch’s left nipple. His fingernail flicked at the tip. “We devils know a lot of things you ordinary mortals have no conception of.” He squeezed the bronze nipple for emphasis, stretching up to kiss Hutch at the same time. Hutch bent his head forward to meet Starsky’s mouth.

The harder Starsky sucked at his lips, the harder he pinched Hutch’s nipple.

Hutch’s lips and nipple seemed to be connected by a high voltage current. They both tingled in harmony. Moreover, his cock seemed to be part of the connection.

Starsky chuckled again, his body rubbing up and down the length of Hutch’s.

“Starsk,” Hutch gasped, pulling away from Starsky’s kiss. He tried to push Starsky off his body. “I can’t–“

Starsky grasped Hutch’s hands with his, locking their fingers together. He brought their hands to the floor, then lowered his head to Hutch’s neck, licking and lapping at the tender skin. He licked and nipped his way up Hutch’s jaw line, then took an earlobe between his teeth and sucked it into his mouth.

Hutch’s breath grew ragged.

Starsky chewed on the fleshy lobe a minute, then brazenly stuck his tongue in Hutch’s ear.

The shock sent Hutch’s back into a spasmodic arch. Their cocks met and dueled, growing more rigid with every contact.

Starsky raised up, their hands still clasped, their hips still grinding together. Hutch looked at him in amazement.

“Told you, lover.” He leaned forward to lick a hot, wet trail over Hutch’s collarbone. Hutch responded with an increased rhythm and Starsky rewarded him with a delighted smile. “We devils have more tricks up our sleeve than you have time to discover.”

“I’m willing to try,” Hutch gasped, pumping hard against Starsky’s groin. He wrapped his legs around Starsky, clinging to him tightly.

“My plan exactly.” Starsky murmured. He rubbed and ground with more force, eliciting excited moans and groans from Hutch’s throat. Once more he bent to suck at Hutch’s seductive neck. “I’m going to own you, body and soul, Mr. Hutchinson,” he whispered between tantalizing kisses. “Body and soul.”