Weekend in the Woods

It’s Hutch’s birthday and Starsky has a surprise for his lover: a romantic rendezvous in the woods.

The following excerpt is from Dandelion’s novel, Finding Hutch.

Originally published in the SHareCon 2014 zine.

4,105 words

“Really, Starsk? You rented us a place without a bed?”

They stood on the wooden porch and peered into the mostly log cabin through its opened door. Other than the fact that there was no bed in the main room, it was a rather quaint homestead with its rich wooden beams and its inviting loft. It was also large enough for the two of them to not feel crowded, but small enough to not feel lost.

Hutch noticed the fireplace beside the window with its brick hearth and tiled mantle. He imagined spending cold winter nights in such a cozy place, up there on that mountain, in the woods, alone with Starsky. In the meantime, he was certain the weekend would be warm and it wouldn’t have anything to do with actual fire.

Starsky, however, was defensive, not dreamy. “There’s a bed store seven miles from here,” he explained. He gave Hutch a shove into the room to purge his own annoyance. “How was I supposed to ask for one bed when there are two of us?”

“Two of us can’t sleep in one bed?” Hutch flippantly asked. They did it all the time at Hutch’s house.

“You know what I mean,” Starsky snarled at him.

Hutch didn’t like it any more than Starsky did, but he understood. “So did you figure out how we’re going to get a mattress here?” he asked. “Strap it to the roof of the car, are we?” He made eye contact with his partner, not failing again to notice the blue in his eyes. Or the way he was dressed, in dark jeans and a long-sleeved blue shirt, but with unused hiking boots, too.

Starsky shrugged as if it was obvious. “Is there any other way?”

“You and your ideas,” Hutch mumbled. He walked further into the cabin, thumbs hooked to his jeans pockets, and spun around to examine it closer. The structure seemed to be in good shape and its solidness satisfied his privacy concerns—especially the blinds-shuttered windows. “You found this place sight unseen, did ya?” It was more than he expected it would be. This particular cabin in that specific place in the woods off the highway was more like a retreat, a place where, with a power line of electricity, it could serve as a permanent home, too. He’d imagined a few days away in a cabin meant some one-room shack only feet from another one-room shack and rented for a lofty price. This structure, the one he found himself in, was much closer to a dream he’d never had.

Starsky didn’t answer the question about how he’d found the place. “Why don’t we go get the bed?” he said impatiently. He had craved Hutch’s physical touch all morning, especially the last hour of their two-hour drive to the mountains. Anticipation was murder. What he couldn’t know at that moment, while he studied Hutch’s seemingly nonchalant reaction to his question, was that Hutch, too–dressed in jeans and a long-sleeved red-checkered shirt, but with well-used hiking boots–had similar anticipations.

“Suppose we play house first?” Hutch suggested. He spied the two wooden chairs on the porch he’d passed on his way in and figured they could put them to use.

Starsky read Hutch’s mind and immediately dissolved into little-boy-behavior. It was Hutch’s birthday, after all, and the combination of that idea–a happy-go-lucky lover at his disposal–and the birthday gifts he planned to give, made Starsky dance out to the porch, whistling, and bring back a chair. He closed and locked the door, gave Hutch a playful wink, and set it in the center of the room.

Hutch idly stood, unmoved from the moment he’d last spoken, and watched Starsky, curious about his actions, since they seemed so determined–while just the sounds of Starsky’s footsteps on the hardwood floor and the chair scraping it as Starsky positioned it to face the opposing shuttered window were heard.

Starsky wanted the most light on Hutch’s face so he could measure the pleasure he gave; he made certain the chair faced the right direction. Then he straightened and noticed that Hutch watched him. With the bow of a dignitary, he presented Hutch with the chair, silently inviting him to sit.

“You’ve done this before,” Hutch said, charmed by Starsky’s deliberate playfulness.

“Never,” Starsky insisted. “I’ve only ever sucked your dick.” He approached Hutch when Hutch didn’t immediately act on the offer and briefly, but longingly, kissed his cheek, inhaled the scent of his cologne, and unbuttoned and unzipped Hutch’s jeans–without any hesitation on Hutch’s part, save the verbal.

“My turn to do you,” Hutch said. He relished the familiar tug at his waistband and the arousal it caused him. But he hated that he already felt weakened by Starsky’s initiation.

“Not today,” Starsky advised him. “Today I make the birthday boy glad he lived this long.”

Hutch laughed. “Suppose the birthday boy wants to give head, too? You wouldn’t deprive him of that, would you?”

“He’ll have to wait,” Starsky said with a mischievous raise of his eyebrows. “Birthday rules outrank his wants–and I’m here to enforce the law.” He lowered Hutch’s jeans to his knees, but only noticed Hutch’s budding erection when he stood back to look at him.

Cool air tickled Hutch’s bared skin, his thighs and his buttocks first, then his enlarging penis; it further aroused him and reminded him just how naked he was as he stood in the middle of the room with his jeans around his knees. He was definitely at Starsky’s mercy. And maybe it was permanently.

“You’re gorgeous,” Starsky said, sucking in the overall picture before him. He then grabbed Hutch’s arms at the elbows and maneuvered him to the chair because his partner could barely move on his own, hobbled as he was by his jeans wrapped around his legs. Despite it, Hutch’s erection was already halfway agreeable and it rose off his lap when he sat down.

Starsky couldn’t miss it–and didn’t want to. He would forever be amazed by how quickly his lover was aroused and wanting, something he wasn’t used to with women, and matched only by his own sudden urges and desire. He pulled Hutch’s boots off him, and then his jeans, one leg and then the other, leaving Hutch just in his socks from the waist down. Hutch helped him. You’re getting undressed, too, he assumed.

“Stop your whining,” Starsky growled. “Sit here and, for once, take it like a man.”

“I’m not sure there’s any other way to take it,” Hutch mumbled. He was a man, after all. But his attempt at humor failed. Starsky was on a mission.

He opened Hutch’s shirt, didn’t take it off him, pushed the garment to Hutch’s sides, and then sat back on his heels to fully admire the penis that had grown visibly larger in those last few moments. Hutch glanced at himself, at his erect phallus, still sheathed, and then at Starsky. “He likes you,” he said about the obvious salutation.

“You like me,” Starsky corrected him, making contact with those crystal blue eyes, and seeing that fondness for him pool in their sparkle. He then pushed Hutch’s legs open at the knees to further expose his penis, his scrotum, and the hairless curve of Hutch’s buttocks where they joined a dark hollow that led to his otherwise concealed anus. Starsky lifted his eyes to follow the smoothness of Hutch’s wide perineum, up over the fullness of his testicle sac, to the upright shaft of his engorged penis, ending with its blanketed tip. “God, you’ve got such a fine specimen of man muscle there,” he said with a whistle. He, himself, fully dressed and planning to make the experience last a while, admired what he saw; his personal satisfaction shone in his eyes and reflected in the quiet tone of his voice.

Hutch’s penis was nearly snug to his bared belly, nestled in a light patch of soft brown curly hair at his groin, a base that was diminished by the swelled size of the penis it cradled. Hutch’s shaft didn’t have an angle, proud as it was–straight as an arrow past his navel, a big, fat, healthy arrow, full of blood and life, of nerve and want.

“Have I told you how much I love your balls?” Starsky asked him, looking into Hutch’s anticipating blue eyes again. He cupped the left one gently and, as carefully, squeezed it.

The sensation took Hutch’s breath away and he was unable to reply. He watched Starsky’s eyes study him, look into his own, study him again. They did not lie. Starsky genuinely admired him–with obvious appreciation–while he massaged and fondled him. After a minute, and especially when it seemed Starsky would never end the handling, Hutch couldn’t watch him any longer. He closed his eyes and lifted his head to focus as much pleasure at each of his testes as Starsky gave him–and he didn’t look back till Starsky released him.

“Have I told ya?” Starsky asked again. He paused so Hutch could answer him.

Hutch still couldn’t think. “Maybe.” He wanted more of what Starsky had briefly given him. “Maybe you have. Yeah, let’s say you have. Starsky probably had; he was quite vocal about his desires.

“Everything about you is perfect,” Starsky said. He enjoyed the look of Hutch’s hips slouched as they were in the chair, and his naked belly, his chest and nipples, his neck and arms. And, of course, that face–despite, or maybe because of, the deep crease between his eyes, the one that proved the man cared about so much. It was all beautiful. His translucent blond hair. His muscled legs. “Look at these,” Starsky noticed for them. He lifted Hutch’s hand from his thigh and showed Hutch his own fingers, nicely shaped and strong. “Right down to your nails. Everything about you … all perfect.”

Hutch preferred Starsky’s study of his genitals, not his hand, and hoped Starsky would get back to it. He couldn’t help but think Starsky enjoyed teasing him. When he gave Starsky a shy smile and got back a confident one, he knew he was right.

“Yep,” Starsky said, matter-of-factly. “Even a beautiful smile.”

“You’re dragging this out on purpose,” Hutch said aloud.

“And you’ll love every minute of it,” Starsky reminded him. He stood then, unzipped his jeans, and lowered them to his ankles, only then untying and removing each of his boots. After he awkwardly stepped out of his clothes, he rotated his hips in the cooling air and showed off his own erection. “See that?”

“Bring it closer and I’ll suck it,” Hutch said with conviction. He took that moment to devour the look of Starsky, naked, with his eyes. Hairy and male. Those were the words that most struck him. There was something very animal, something quite primal, in Starsky’s look. He was muscled, and he was proportionately built, and Hutch remembered that he had the sexiest butt he’d ever laid eyes on, too. But in that moment, Hutch noticed the hair, a sort of animal display, a dusting of pure male hormone beneath its surface, wherever it appeared–the top of his head and his stiff-nippled chest, his flat belly and his groin, his well-exercised legs and his strong arms–and that Starsky was obviously male. A stiffened erection, a tight scrotum, the delineation in the color of his shaft’s skin where his foreskin had been cut, were all indications that he was aroused and sexually hungry. Isn’t that the part Starsky asked him to notice?

“Do you see that?” Starsky repeated, flopping his penis from side to side for half a minute.

“I can’t miss it.” He eyed Starsky’s erection more closely, sensed its promise, too, of heat and semen, and wished Starsky would do something with it other than show it off.

“It pales in comparison to that,” Starsky said, pointing to Hutch’s. “You know it. I know it. But you can appreciate it more when you can compare it to something average.”

Hutch reached for Starsky’s penis, but Starsky bent over to pull his pelvis away and prevent the contact. “Hey, Birthday Boy,” he warned, “what did I tell you about the rules?”

“Well, stop flaunting that thing in front of me,” Hutch suggested.

“I’m just showing it to you. You see the difference between us?”

“I don’t care,” Hutch said with a frustrated sigh.

“I’m not asking you to care. I’m showing you the difference so that you better understand why I think yours has to be the most beautiful dick in all the world. The cock of the walk, it is.”

“You like me.”

“Some things are facts,” Starsky said. He knelt in front of Hutch again and used their clothes as a cushion for his knees from the wood floor. Then he pushed a finger against Hutch’s aching penis, conscious of its firmness. Look how hard you are already.”

Hutch sat squarely in the wooden chair, his bared butt cooled by its surface, his legs open at the knees to either side, fully exposing him to Starsky’s deliberate eye, his back firm against the firm back of the chair, his arms to his sides, hands on his naked thighs, while his erection got intermittent pleasure from where it snugged his belly–and the occasional touch Starsky gave it. Hutch wanted more. The building ache between his legs, one that came from deep within his groin, spurred by the cool air and by his urgent want for mercy, and hoping for that anticipated ecstasy-filled conclusion, begged Starsky to stop teasing him.

In reply, Starsky trailed a finger from one end of Hutch’s shaft to the other, light enough to tease, firm enough to give Hutch pleasure.

“Not without my permission,” Hutch managed to say after his moan. He couldn’t figure out what Starsky meant and didn’t plan to try. “Just suck me already.” His penis noticeably throbbed, lifting off his belly for half a second before it touched down again.

Starsky tentatively fondled himself while he further studied Hutch’s penis. It had emerged from its protective cocoon and a loose nape of gathered skin wrinkled beneath its crown. The curved head was smooth, a perfectly sized cap that topped its thick, blood-filled shaft, so hardened it had visibly lifted Hutch’s scrotum and stretched the skin over each testicle, defining them in the subtle outline. Hutch’s sac was larger than average, too; hairless and flawlessly blended into the shaft it served. Starsky had to touch it again. He had to hold it. To feel it. To caress and massage it. It was just that beautiful and it was just that hungry. He lifted his eyes to Hutch’s face when he heard Hutch moan from the initial contact. Hutch’s closed eyes and the sound of his abbreviated breaths, his already heaving belly, coupled with the sex pleasure he gave himself, made Starsky harder, too.

He pushed Hutch’s legs open wider, leaned forward, and inhaled the scent between Hutch’s legs. As he expected and as he hoped, the smell was aromatic and animal, mixed with sweat and the promise of semen. He wet his lips with his tongue and then gently nursed Hutch’s warm and bulging testicles, first one, slowly sliding it into his mouth, sucking and licking it once in, then releasing it after a minute to do likewise to the other. Hutch’s deep inhales and Hutch’s moans and Hutch’s willing helplessness kept Starsky rooted where he was, sucking and licking Hutch’s sac for unending minutes of time, knowing how much it made Hutch want his penis in that mouth instead–and Starsky not giving it to him.

“Oh … oh … oh,” Hutch murmured. The sensations made Hutch dizzy and crave for something more. His voice, a cadence of ‘oh’s carried loudly in the otherwise stillness of the room. He didn’t think Starsky would give him more than he got and that he could ejaculate just from what Starsky did do, so he slid his hands under each of his thighs and pulled his legs up, to open them further. He rotated his pelvis upward to make his sac more accessible to Starsky’s lips and tongue, too. If Starsky wouldn’t suck his penis, Hutch wanted more out of the pleasure he did get at his testes.

Starsky abruptly released him. “You know I’m going to suck your dick,” he said, “so why are you so impatient?” Hutch lowered his head–and his feet back to the floor–and opened his eyes. His mind was not engaged. He panted. “Is this any way to treat the birthday boy?”

Starsky fondled himself. He knew how good Hutch felt; he felt it himself. “Isn’t it?” he asked. “Isn’t this the only way to treat the birthday boy?” His own penis was quite erect, but he was willing to stall the pleasure he would take for the sake of the pleasure he would give. “I’m going to suck you off, so just relax into it. Enjoy yourself,” he added as he stole a glance at Hutch’s face. Not until Hutch looked briefly at the ceiling and closed his eyes again did Starsky resume.

He inhaled the length of Hutch’s penis without touching him, deeply absorbing its animal scent into his lungs, and felt its heat warm his own skin. He licked his lips, softened his tongue, and made contact, first by a small tease at the base of Hutch’s shaft, and then with wet, sensual kisses along its stiffened length. He licked as he kissed, giving Hutch two sensations, one from his tongue, the other from his lips.

Hutch’s new moans made him moan, too; he imagined how it must have felt, he kneeling between Hutch’s legs with his own penis hardened and hanging in the room’s cool air, wanting similar contact. The sounds of their moans spurred each other, the smacks of Starsky’s kisses as he showered Hutch’s erection with them, heightened their arousal together. Starsky finally released one of Hutch’s thighs, so he could both touch himself, to gently stroke his own penis in a loose fist, briefly, and to use his other to hold open Hutch’s legs, so he could keep his mouth on Hutch’s penis at the same time.

Hutch was subconsciously aware that he sat in a lone chair in the middle of a small, sealed building adrift in the wilds of the woods, naked from his waist down, his butt at the edge of its seat, his legs wide open and accommodating his sexual desire–and that dark-headed boy’s access. He knew one of his hands helped to expose as much of his private self to Starsky as he was capable so that Starsky could suck him at will and at his mercy, while the other, somehow, had found its way into Starsky’s soft curly hair, to feel his head rise and lower, while his hardened shaft was eagerly licked and sensually kissed in what felt like minutes that would never end. How had he come to such a moment?

He emerged from his reflective coma, helplessly and consciously aware of the physical sensations–the hardwood chair beneath his butt, Starsky’s skilled tongue caressing his moistened and hyper-charged penis, Starsky’s lips occasionally and audibly sucking his shaft–interrupted only by a sensual kiss, the quiet of the cabin’s safe room, and Starsky’s breath on him, cooling where he was wet with every heavy exhale from his lover. But only when Starsky finally gave him pleasure at the head of his penis, sucking the edge of its crown and licking its smooth cap, did Hutch think he might not be able to control himself. He had to look. He opened his eyes and lowered his head to watch.

Starsky slid Hutch’s penis into his mouth. It was the moment they both waited for and wanted. In that moment, Starsky needed to suck Hutch’s penis as much as Hutch wanted him to suck it. He slid the breadth of Hutch’s dick as far as it could go into his mouth, protecting it from his teeth with his lips, and then withdrew it, slowly, feeling its length and its heat–with added pleasures of his lashing tongue. Then into his airtight mouth again it went.

Hutch couldn’t watch. If he saw another second of it, of his penis disappearing and reappearing from Starsky’s mouth, he’d ejaculate on his next heartbeat. He lifted back his head again, closed his eyes, loudly moaned, and pushed into Starsky’s face with his hips.

Starsky pumped himself to fuel his frenzy. The strokes of his mouth from Hutch’s cap to halfway down his shaft and back again were smoothly intense in their deliverance. He held Hutch tightly in his lips while he pushed him in and pulled him out and pushed him again, first at a rhythmic and tempered pace and then more urgently. Then he gripped Hutch’s glistening shaft in his hand and slid it into and out of his palm in tandem with his mouth and lips. The shaft he created for Hutch’s shaft enabled much longer strokes. Each pause of pleasure at the head made the returning stroke’s sensation brand new and all over again intensely stimulating. Each pass made Hutch moan louder, too. It was time to surrender. “Let me come,” he whispered. He moaned and rolled his head from one side to the other. “Oh, Jesus. Oh.” He held his own legs open so tightly, the grip was almost painful.

Starsky pulled Hutch’s penis forward, away from his belly, to better devour its meaty flesh in his mouth and fist. On a glance, he noticed Hutch’s erect nipples in the soft light of the room, saw the underside of Hutch’s chin, and fueled his own orgasmic ecstasy simply by watching Hutch’s heaving belly and by hearing Hutch’s plaintive, “Oh,” while he tasted the drops of semen that were occasionally squeezed from the crown’s slit on an upstroke.

He finally had to pray that Hutch would climax; he was so close to his own orgasm, he feared he’d ruin it for Hutch if he ejaculated first. But his worry was worthless. Hutch exploded. First his audible moans, louder than Starsky had ever heard them before, too intense to form any words. Hutch’s body spasmed almost violently. Moments later, the pulse of hot semen filled Starsky’s mouth, mounds of it, as if Hutch hadn’t emptied himself in months. Starsky gulped down each wave of Hutch’s semen as it was delivered, and squeezed Hutch’s shaft as if to milk it of every drop.

Hutch convulsed. Each expulsion of his ejaculate was nearly as intensely pleasurable as the previous one. The delivery lasted long. The ecstasy was beyond bliss. He was overwhelmed. His belly heaved with loud exhales. The room spun behind his closed eyes.

Starsky watched him. He drank and he watched. When there was no more to swallow, he closed his eyes and held Hutch’s penis in his mouth, felt its warmth still in his lips and at his tongue, tasted the slipperiness of its shaft and the saltiness of its semen, and pumped himself in a rather dry, but appreciated, series of quick strokes. Seconds before he ejaculated, he let go of Hutch, lest he hurt him with his own blissful convulsions, and orgasmically deposited his semen onto the floor beneath the chair. It came in powerful spurts that coated the wooden planks. He sank to his butt and pumped himself dry. “God … that feels … so … good,” he said between pulses and pants.

When he heard Starsky finish, Hutch lowered his legs and pushed himself into a seated position on the chair. He laughed when Starsky laughed; purely from the pleasure they’d just shared; it gave lightness to the moment. Hutch leaned forward as Starsky sank further to the floor between Hutch’s legs. Hutch embraced him, pressed his perspiring face to Starsky’s, and, together, they listened to each other’s slowly diminishing pants, felt the moisture from their sweat between them, and held each other for balance.

How had they come to such another moment like that one?

It had been a pain-filled, difficult journey, one of hard questions and harder answers …

* * *