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Charlotte Frost

Part 1

Todd Runyan started across the grass just as the sun disappeared behind a cloud. He hoped the game was in a late inning, so the boys wouldn't be finishing in the dark.

There were four Little League games going on at Payson Park. From all of them emerged the serious chatter of little boys.

"B-b-a-a-a-t-t-t-e-r-r SWING."

There were cries of delight and murmurs of disappointment as a batter swung and missed. At one game the voices stilled at the sharp crack of the bat. A ball reached high into the air. Todd was now close enough to identify the uniforms, and realized a player from Sam's Hardware Tigers had made the hit.

But then more murmurs as the outfielder caught the ball. An out.

There was no scramble to exchange positions, so it wasn't the third out yet for the Tigers. Todd wondered again what inning it was.

As he approached the back of spectator's bleachers, he looked over at the dugout and tried to pick out Danny from the row of boys. Unsuccessful, his eyes scanned the playing area. His eight-year-old son stood swinging a pair of bats in the warm-up box. Another kid was up now - Mrs. Crandall's smart-aleck son, Roger - and then it would be Danny's turn.

Todd sighed and slowed his pace. He considered letting Danny know he was there, then decided against it. If Danny struck out, as he almost always did, he would be less embarrassed if he didn't know his dad witnessed it. If he happened to get a hit, then Todd could tell him that he'd gotten away from work in time to see the big moment. He could imagine Danny's smile if that happened.

Todd rested his elbow against the last bleacher seat. Danny seemed to be smiling more often these days.

Roger Crandall swung at the first ball. It glanced off the side of the bat and bounced to the ground, rolling speedily toward the pitcher. Roger flung his bat aside and raced toward first base, but the pitcher snatched up the ball and threw it hard to the first baseman. The latter caught it before Roger reached the plate.

"Oh, dear," Mrs. Crandall said from the bleachers. Todd was standing a few feet from her, and he could see her face pinch with dismay. She always took it badly when Roger didn't perform well.

The players maintained their positions. It must be the second out of the inning. Todd felt a sense of dread. It would be up to Danny to make the fatal third mistake. Todd wondered what the score was. Glancing at the little chalkboard between the dugouts, he saw that it was two to one, the Tigers leading at the bottom of the eighth. At least when Danny struck out, he wouldn't be costing his team the game.

Todd felt both sympathy and hopelessness as his son stepped toward the plate. Coach Starsky was right there with him, speaking enthusiastically and doing something with Danny's hands on the bat. Enviously, Todd watched the easy way the coach communicated with his son, how he patted him on the back and squeezed his shoulder. He seemed to really believe that Danny could learn something from his last-minute coaching. Danny appeared to be listening, as though he hadn't already given up on the idea of doing anything more than striking out.

Todd held his breath as Coach Starsky stepped away and the pitcher prepared to throw.

The ball looked low, but Danny swung with a confident, upward motion. A large crack split the air.

"Go!" Coach Starsky yelled over the shouts of excitement from the other players.

Danny dropped the bat and ran as hard as he could, fists clenched.

Todd watched, amazed as the ball landed hard past the right outfielder, and then bounced farther away. The outfielder scrambled for it.

Danny charged past second base, heading for third. The outfielder threw the ball to the pitcher.

Danny saw the throw and ran harder. He stumbled and fell, reaching for third plate. The ball landed solidly in the third basemen's mitt.

"SAFE!" the umpire announced.

Danny got up and brushed himself off, keeping his foot squarely on the white bag that designated third base.

Coach Starsky shook a raised fist at him. "Atta boy, Danny! Good hit!" Then he turned his attention to the next player stepping up to the batter's box.

Danny nodded professionally, not giving way to the huge grin he had to be feeling inside.

The next batter was the best hitter on the team. Todd felt a sense of destiny. If Danny got batted home, and actually scored a run, it would be the pinnacle of his young life. He'd been playing Little League the past two summers, and he'd never gotten anything more than a single. Usually, he struck out. Now, he had hit a triple, and was poised to make his first journey to home plate.

When had his son grown from being an inhibited, self-conscious youngster into a child confident enough to make a hit like that? Todd shook his head. He felt ashamed that his own parenting had nothing to do with it. Danny had always struggled so hard, always an outsider among his peers, and all Todd had done was watch with sympathy, completely incapable of fixing the situation.

But someone had tapped into Danny, found an area of ability, and given him the confidence to apply himself.

Todd knew who that was. He'd seen Coach Starsky in action during practice sessions. He'd been patient with Danny, and not just in the beginning. He'd taken the time to show him the skills necessary to play baseball successfully. He hadn't dismissed him as a loser, as prior coaches had done. And he hadn't singled out Danny for special attention, either. He'd treated him as a team member, giving him the same coaching as everyone else. Except Coach Starsky took the time to study each player's individual weaknesses, and help them overcome them. Todd remembered thinking at that first practice session that Coach Starsky seemed to take his coaching of eight-year-old boys a little too seriously. Todd had been concerned that Starsky might place too much emphasis on winning, rather than playing for fun. But Danny seemed to be having more fun this season, because he wasn't being dismissed outright by the coach or other players.

Still, Todd had never expected the coach's attention to result in a hit like that.

Crack! The star hitter had come through.

Danny charged for home plate.

Todd's heart swelled with pride as his son bounded across the diamond embedded in the dirt, while the second baseman scrambled to throw the ball to first. The first baseman caught it, and the star hitter was out. But, thanks to Danny, the Tigers now led three to one.

Todd yelled, "Good one, Danny!" His son was jogging back to the dugout, after receiving a slap on the hip from the coach.

Danny looked up, then a huge grin spread across his face as he recognized his father. He waved.

Todd waved back, realizing with a sense of guilt how much his presence meant to Danny. Why hadn't he made the effort to attend more games?

As the players exchanged places now that the Tigers had three outs, Todd climbed into the bleachers and sat beside the other parents. Most were women. Team mothers. The fathers tended to be too busy with work, or were out of town because of divorce, or simply refused to be in the same place as their ex-wives.

Though Todd had been divorced from Danny's mother for two years, the bitterness had eased enough that he could tolerate being in her presence. But she had no desire to attend Danny's baseball games. "That's your job," she'd told him.

Todd tried, but felt resigned to being an inadequate father even before Danny had been born. He hadn't particularly wanted children, but thought he should try not to be a lousy father. As Danny grew to be a shy and self-conscious boy, Todd felt he'd failed at that, too. But with Danny playing ball as well as an average kid, he felt a sense of hope for them both.

"That was a good hit Danny made," Mrs. Crandall said from a few feet away.

Todd nodded. He'd never felt comfortable around the team mothers. "Yes! I'm glad I got here in time to see it."

She went back to her knitting.

Danny was now in the outfield, and likely to see little action. Todd let his attention wander and noticed the blond man who was approaching the playing field from the opposite side of the park. Todd had seen him before. The blond man had two leashed dogs, one a black and white pointer with a stub for a tail, the other a little brindle mutt. The blond man sat on the sparsely occupied bleachers across the diamond. He seemed to interact a lot with the pointer, while the smaller dog lay down and seemed to accept being ignored.

The blond man was Coach Starsky's partner, Todd knew, for Starsky was a detective during his day job. He'd heard that they even lived in a house together.

The inning was boring, for the pitcher walked two players, making Todd wonder if the Tiger's two-run lead was in jeopardy.

Murmurs came from behind him. Todd glanced back to see Mrs. Ellison, the catcher's mother, talking to Mrs. Crandall, and trying to hold a newspaper in the breeze that blew across the park. Todd knew which article they were discussing. He'd seen it at lunch and had felt the same disbelief and fear that any parent would feel.

In Pasadena, a Little League coach had been arrested for molesting children. Three boys had told their parents the coach had forced them to have sex with him. The story said that more boys might be stepping forward to implicate the coach.

A parent's nightmare.

Todd watched as Coach Starsky walked away from the pitcher's mound, where he'd just taken a time out to have conference with the hapless pitcher. Starsky's thick curly hair stuck out from all sides of his baseball cap. The coach was upbeat, encouraging, and energetic. He obviously loved coaching kids.

Todd wondered if that's what the parents in Pasadena had thought about their coach.

Todd looked back to the opposite bleacher. He wondered why Starsky's partner bothered to come to the game, since he seemed bored.

Todd listened as more parents joined the discussion about the coach in Pasadena.

A cheer went up from the field as the pitcher, finally, struck out a batter. In the dugout, Danny was talking with the other boys, laughing, obviously still excited about the run he'd scored. He was no longer an outcast, no longer a loser. He was one of the team. Accepted.

"What do you think about this, Mr.... Ranson, is it?"

Todd turned to face Mrs. Crandall. She was looking at him expectedly, some of the other mothers gathered around her, and he felt sweat run down his back. He didn't want to get involved....

"It's Runyan. Todd Runyan." He hoped the correction would distract her.

"That was Danny who the coach smacked on the butt a little while ago," she said. She had dark curly hair and sunglasses that made it difficult to see her eyes. But her mouth was set in a hard frown.

Mrs. Ellison, on the other side of Mrs. Crandall, said, "He does touch the boys an awfully lot, don't you think?"

Todd shrugged. "Professional players touch each other all the time." He wondered if they would pick up on how defensive he was feeling, on how he didn't want to be a part of this.

Another woman - Todd didn't know her name - leaned down from the row above. Whispering, she said, "That blond man over there... that's his partner, isn't it?"

There were nods of agreement.

"I've heard they live together."

"They do," Mrs. Crandall said. "I remember something being said about it during one of the practice sessions." She paused, snorting. Then, "What do you think?" It seemed to be a rhetorical question, for she spoke some more. "They shack up together just to share expenses or something like that?" Her tone made it obvious that possibility wasn't believable. "Can you imagine what a gold mine this is for Coach Starsky? A whole team of innocent little boys."

Todd swallowed, a sense of doom gathering.

"Now just a minute," Mrs. Ellsworth said. "Tommy loves Coach Starsky. He's a good coach. Tommy wouldn't feel that way if - "

Mrs. Crandall shook the newspaper, interrupting her. "Don't you think those parents in Pasadena thought the same thing about their sons' coach?"


* * *


"Here's your little mutt." Hutch offered Girlfriend's leash. The game had ended, the Tigers winning three to one. He and the dogs had gotten plenty of exercise with a walk around the park, and Hutch was ready to go home.

"You take her," Starsky said as he reached down to pet Girlfriend. She was wagging her tail excitedly. "I gotta take a couple of the boys home. I'll just be a few minutes."

Hutch knew that Starsky was concerned that the parents wouldn't appreciate their sons riding with a strange dog, especially one who wasn't particularly friendly and loved only one human: her master, known in the household as "Uncle Starsky". "All right," he said. "Why don't you pick up some fried chicken on the way home?"

Starsky frowned. "Why don't you? You'll be going right by there."

"In case you haven't noticed, mush brain, I'll have a couple of dogs in the car with me, and they may get to the chicken before we do."

"Not if you tell them no," Starsky insisted. He'd always been more interested than Hutch in making the dogs obedient.

Hutch sighed heavily, wondering what he could say to that.

"All right," Starsky grumbled, waving a hand. "I'll pick up the chicken." He gave Girlfriend a final pat, then turned away toward his car, where a couple of his players were waiting.

Satisfied that he'd gotten his way, Hutch turned toward the other side of the park. "Come on, boys and girls," he said. The two dogs followed him to his green Mercury.


* * *


Starsky was back to his usual cheerful self when he came home with a barrel of chicken under his arm. "Too bad you didn't see when we scored," Starsky said, bringing it into the kitchen. After setting the bucket on the table, he knelt and greeted Girlfriend properly, who was spinning around and wagging her tail excitedly.

"Yeah?" Hutch prompted, though he was more interested in the grapes he was picking off a vine.

"Yeah. A lot of the kids had good hits in the third inning. Then, in the eighth, Danny Runyan got a triple, and then got batted in. Man, was he excited. He hasn't always been a very good player - kind of withdrawn and stuff. And, better yet, his dad was there to see it." Starsky was putting pieces of chicken on the plates Hutch had already set on the kitchen table.

Hutch grunted, taking the grape vine with him to set on the table between them. As they both sat down, he said, "Seems like most of the parents at those games are the mothers."

"Yeah," Starsky agreed forlornly. "Usually the fathers are working and stuff. Or, you know, the parents are divorced and the fathers don't live in the area any more. And then the mothers sit there and knit and read the paper and don't always pay attention. Imagine how that makes the kids feel." He bit into a drumstick.

Hutch supposed it was only natural for Starsky to feel protective of the players under his charge. He decided to change the subject. "We might have a lead on the Salas murder," he said around a mouthful of chicken.

That perked his partner up. "Yeah?"

"Yeah. After you left for the game, I was able to get a hold of that Whitehall guy. We need to talk to him again tomorrow. He knows someone who had the motive, the weapon, and the opportunity to kill Salas."

Starsky wiped his mouth. "Terrific."

Hutch eyed his lover's lips, wet with grease. "You missed a spot."

Starsky ran a finger along his lips. "Did I get it?"

He loved it when Starsky didn't pick up on the game right away. "Not yet."

Starsky again rubbed his fingers all over his lips. "Now?"

"I'll have to check it out later," Hutch deadpanned.

"Oh." Starsky bit into a new drumstick. After chewing a moment, he warned, "You better be damned thorough."

Hutch smiled sweetly. "I intend to be."


* * *


Starsky swore as the last of the sun disappeared over the horizon. He was sitting on the back patio, an array of screwdrivers and other tools spread around him, along with various parts of the gas grill which he'd hoped to have finished putting together well before dark. But the fates were against him.

The grill wasn't needed until the weekend, when Huggy and the sisters next door, Toni and Annette, would come over for a barbecue. But the Oakland Raiders were hosting the San Francisco 49ers on Monday Night Football tonight, and he and Hutch had intended to assemble the grill prior to the game. Unfortunately, the project had been much more involved than they'd anticipated and had caused more than their usual level of bickering. Hutch had gotten so irritated, he'd abandoned the project to watch the pre-game show. Starsky had stubbornly stayed on the patio, determined to finish. But now it was dark. He could no longer work, since the patio light had gone out over two weeks ago, and he and Hutch were each waiting for the other to buy a new bulb. And now, because of this stupid grill - and the assistance from his partner, who had turned out to be no help at all - he'd probably missed the entire first half of the game.

"Fuck," he muttered.

A brindle head looked up at him.

Starsky patted Girlfriend. She was at her usual place at his side. And he knew Hutch's dog, The General, was at his usual place at Hutch's side, on the sofa, watching the game with his master. While I'm trying to get this fucking thing put together. And because Hutch is too damn lazy to buy a light bulb, I can't finish it tonight.

But as he petted the dog, he found his temper easing. "Sorry, Girlfriend," he said, "didn't mean to swear. Guess we better go inside and see what those two lazy bums are up to, huh?" He stood and felt his forty-one-year-old bones protest from sitting on the concrete too long.

Starsky pushed back the sliding glass door that opened into the kitchen. He closed it after Girlfriend trotted in behind him, annoyed that a fly had also managed to slip inside.

"What's the score?" he called as he took a beer from the refrigerator.

"Seventeen to ten, Oakland," Hutch replied from the living room. The living room was dark with only the glow from the television set visible from the kitchen.

Starsky looked in the cabinet for the Doritos, then realized Hutch must be hogging them all. He entered the living room just in time to see Oakland complete a long pass, the crowd cheering wildly.

"All right!" Hutch approved. The blond favored the Raiders, though he respected the 49ers as well. He grabbed a handful of Doritos from the sack on the coffee table. Then he said, "There's six minutes left in the half," before shoving the chips into his mouth.

Starsky noticed that The General was curled up at his master's side. Hutch scratched his ears.

The next play was a run that only produced a yard.

"This is a good game," Hutch said. His tone clearly implied You should be watching it with me.

Starsky bit his tongue and refrained from pointing out that he'd been working his ass off trying to get the damn grill put together, and he would have been able to finish the job if somebody in this household had bothered to get a new light bulb for the patio. He also noticed that Hutch was wearing his robe and his hair was damp. Obviously, he'd showered before the game - relaxing as though he'd actually done anything to help.

Starsky turned back to the kitchen. He reached for the cabinet that contained the dog treats. "Snack time," he called. Girlfriend whimpered at his feet as The General came bounding into the kitchen. He gave each of them a rawhide chewie, then opened the sliding glass door. "Outside." They both ran to the yard.

Starsky sighed, wondering if he should go back in the living room and sit by Hutch. He always hated it whenever they went to bed still feeling snappish toward each other. While bickering was a natural part of them, it sometimes got to the point of genuine irritation, like when they'd been trying to put the grill together. Their bad feelings festered as Hutch watched the game and Starsky kept working on the grill alone. If they went to bed without making up, it would be a long, restless night. And that sucked.

Howard Cosell said there was five minutes and forty seconds left in the half.

Life is too short to be grumpy with each other for stupid reasons, Starsky decided. His creativity went into overdrive.

He walked down the hall to the bathroom, and spent some time cleaning the dirt from beneath his fingernails. After drying, he took a hand towel from the linen closet, and then found the K-Y in the bedroom. He came back into the living room and tossed the items onto the sofa. "Take off your underwear."

Hutch barely glanced up. "Why?"

"Because I have to get you ready for half time."

Hutch sighed as though he were being asked to do something strenuous, but he got up from the couch enough to pull off his underwear, eyes still on the TV screen. "All right, first down!" he cheered. Then he plopped back on the couch, robe open, legs spread invitingly. He took a big swig of beer.

"Wrong," Starsky said, amused. Though, granted, that swelling flesh did look awfully tasty. "Come on, stretch out, on your stomach."

Hutch didn't look at him, but got up on one knee, and put his beer on the coffee table.

"Why don't you get rid of that robe while you're at it."

The center snapped the ball as Hutch took off the robe and grabbed a sofa pillow, resting his arms on it as he lay facedown. "Shit," he grumbled when the running back was tackled.

Starsky pushed Hutch's left leg off the edge of the couch, to the floor. Though he seemed completely attentive to the game, Hutch spread his legs. Bending his other knee, he rested it against the sofa's back. The awkward position raised his ass a few inches off the cushion.

Mmm, Starsky thought as he sat down behind Hutch. He wasn't sure which of the exposed areas before him he wanted to start with.

Howard Cosell announced that there was exactly three minutes left in the half.

Starsky bent his head to Hutch's nicely plump scrotum. He lapped at the furred pouch, using a wide tongue, and the stray hairs tickled his taste buds pleasantly.

Hutch reached beneath himself and stroked his cock.

"Quit!" Starsky smacked a muscular thigh with the back of his hand.

Hutch released himself and called out encouragement to the running back carrying the ball.

Speaking of balls....

Starsky carefully squeezed the generous pouch, his tongue heading up to the perineum. He pushed firmly, knowing how delightful pressure could be on that special area. Hutch made a little grunt, but it was difficult to know if it was from what Starsky was doing or what was happening on the television screen. Starsky's fingertips replaced his tongue, stroking, his tongue moving to the bottom of Hutch's crack, snaking up into that hidden area.

Hutch cursed when a timeout was announced, but he spread his legs more.

Not yet, Starsky chided. He straightened, looking down over the top of that white butt. He parted the crack, moistened his mouth, then slid his tongue down the seam.

Hutch's butt wriggled but he was silent now that a commercial was on.

Starsky thought about reprimanding him to hold still but he didn't want to lose his place. He had to work up more moisture halfway down, but his tongue still stayed at the deepest part of the crevice, dancing there, as saliva ran from his mouth to start its slow trek down that narrow crack. Then he licked downward again, carrying the lubrication faster to the recess below.

Then his tongue was there, feeling that wrinkled texture and swirled around Hutch's tender skin, pressing deeper to deposit a larger helping of spit. His hands spread the cheeks wide, and he took a time out of his own to kiss all around the newly exposed region. And then, as a contrast, he darted his tongue at the very center.

It was never difficult getting past Hutch's opening, for Hutch liked having any part of Starsky up his ass. That trust had been strong from the very beginning. As Starsky circled his tongue around the rim of the barrier, he felt a quiver go through Hutch. He pressed deeper as, as expected, the muscle relaxed enough for him to gain entry. He stiffened his tongue and darted it in and out of the newly accessible area, taking tremendous satisfaction in Hutch's groan.

The game was back on, and it sounded like there could be only one play before the two-minute warning. Starsky didn't know if Oakland still had the ball. He didn't know if Hutch knew, either.

Starsky eased up, kissing gently as he backed out of the crevice. He and Hutch both had their different ways of ass licking. While Hutch's attentions were intense and non-stop once he had Starsky writhing and whimpering, Starsky tended to relax and enjoy himself, alternating intensity with a casual, but no less loving, demonstration of his affection

He kneaded Hutch's buttocks in his hands, then parted them again. Using a wide, lapping tongue, he favored the outer area with slow strokes. This technique had a way of relaxing Hutch, rather than tantalizing, and he enjoyed tasting the different textures of hair, delicate skin, and feeling the depression of the opening there.

There was another commercial on for the two-minute warning, and Hutch was silent - but obediently still - as Starsky leisurely loved that intimate region.

When the game was back on, Starsky put his lips against the opening and sucked. Hutch shuddered and trembled, and Starsky felt goosebumps break out along his ass. Taking immense satisfaction in the reactions he'd created, Starsky shifted and pressed his face in deeper again, swirling his tongue around the outer skin. He worked up more saliva, and used it to further lubricate the opening.

Though he couldn't move much with his legs spread so wide, Hutch tried to push back, demanding penetration. Starsky accommodated him, darting his tongue inside as best he could, as Hutch tried to open and grip the slippery flesh. Starsky's own shaft was hard instantly, knowing it was going to get the full benefit of that clinging tightness in the very near future.

Starsky went back to swirling his wet tongue along the outer rim. He heard an emphatic "Oh, God" and knew it had nothing to do with the cheering crowd. That pleased him and he rewarded Hutch with smacking kisses along the outer area. "Mmmm," he sighed with satisfaction for the pleasure he felt while doing this for Hutch.

With his lips and tongue still busy, Starsky let go of the right buttock and felt along the sofa for the plastic tube. He picked it up, deftly worked the cap off, then held it as he forced his tongue in deeply, pressing up into the tightness. Hutch shuddered. Starsky pulled back with a deliberate, slow movement, loving how that greedy ass muscle tried to cling to his tongue.

Starsky straightened and squeezed ointment along his left hand. Hutch collapsed against the sofa pillow, heavy-lidded eyes staring at the TV set.

Starsky grinned. Reaching down with his coated fingers, he felt along the wet, wrinkled recess, then pushed in with his index finger. Hutch's sphincter muscle gripped the invading digit. Hutch had never needed much foreplay for comfortable fucking, but Starsky enjoyed providing patient stimulation when he was in the mood. He slowly pushed the finger in deeper, loving the way the muscle clenched it possessively, trying to draw it inside Hutch's eager body. Starsky waited until the opening relaxed, then pushed in as far as he could go.

Hutch groaned, a long, drawn-out sound as his eyes closed.

Starsky glanced at the TV and saw that there was forty seconds left of play before half time. He finger-fucked Hutch with short stabbing motions, then pulled back to the rim. His middle finger worked its way in beside the first one, and Hutch moaned loudly. Both fingers rocked against the bottom of Hutch's rectum, feeling for the quarter-sized gland. Once again, ass muscles worked overtime, trying to absorb the fingers in deeper. Hutch was no longer watching the TV. Instead, he seemed to be in some far-off world of his own.

Starsky took pity and removed his fingers, so Hutch could at least see the end of the half. Besides, he needed to get undressed. He used his feet to work his shoes off while he pushed his pants down. He stroked his aching erection as he stepped out of his clothing. He decided not to bother removing his shirt.

Starsky looked at the television screen. Oakland was running out the clock rather than executing another play. He reached for the remote control and muted the television. Straightening, he stood next to Hutch's face, his legs pressed against the sofa.

Hutch obeyed the silent request and opened his mouth.

Starsky closed his eyes as soft wetness enclosed him. Hutch was so familiar with how to please him that the blond could orchestrate an ejaculation whenever he wished. But Starsky knew he wouldn't do that now. Hutch wanted to be filled from the other end. His hands were gently squeezing Starsky's balls, trying to make Starsky harder without sending him over the edge.

The sensations were so good... the way Hutch did this. Starsky stroked the sides of Hutch's face with gentle fingertips, then let the digits drift back until they outlined the shape of his ears. Then one of Starsky's hands reached up and settled in fragile hair, wanting to say "I love you" as tenderly as possible.

"Mmm," Hutch said, sucking noisily now.

Starsky's balls tightened and he wondered if Blondie had misjudged. Quickly, he stepped back, wincing at the wet sound his shaft made as it fell from between full lips.

Hutch stared at Starsky, his mouth hanging open provocatively. His tongue appeared and, so slowly, it circled around his lips. He only released Starsky from his gaze when he closed his eyes and then deliberately swallowed... as though savoring the memory of that flavorful flesh.

Starsky's loins quivered. He wanted to ram his cock down that skilled throat. Satisfy that hungry mouth. Dangle his firm balls along that pale chin. But he'd gotten Hutch prepared for other activities. Not for the first time, he wished he had two pricks, so he could satisfy each end of Hutch simultaneously.

Starsky glanced back at the silent TV set. The Monday Night announcers were talking against the background of a marching band. He shoved the coffee table out of the way, and stood before the sofa, soothing his taut erection. "It's half time," he announced. Hutch had opened his eyes again, waiting to see what Starsky was going to do next. "Get on your knees and face the wall."

Starsky moved to pick up the K-Y while Hutch obeyed. He squeezed some onto his fingers and applied it to the head of his flaring prick. Hutch knelt on the cushions in the center of the sofa, his hands resting against the back. He looked a little awkward and uncertain.

They'd fucked on the couch before, of course. But the mechanics could be confusing at times. And what Starsky had in mind for this little interlude was something they hadn't tried before. But if it worked like he imagined, it would be so good....

He stepped behind Hutch and inserted two fingers up inside that slick, waiting ass. He loved feeling up inside there, knowing that it was his to do with as he pleased. Loved knowing what it felt like back there, and how much Hutch loved every little move of his fingers. "Spread your legs more," he instructed thickly. He almost always had to tell Hutch to do that. Make more room for his huge cock.

With those long thighs wide-spread on the cushions, Hutch's ass was perched just over the edge of the sofa. Perfect.

Starsky withdrew his fingers and used them to take himself in hand. He guided his thickness up against that wrinkled orifice. Resisting all instincts to plunge deeply, he instead pushed just a little, so just part of the head disappeared into Hutch.

His whole body throbbed. "Sit down on it," he directed breathlessly.

Hutch was so damn good to him. That tight orifice opened and pushed down on Starsky's prick, engulfing the head.

"Ohhhhh," Starsky groaned deeply as more of him was swallowed up, millimeter by millimeter.

Most of it was inside when Hutch suddenly reversed direction and slowly pulled up, his tight walls massaging Starsky's baby-soft skin.

Starsky gasped loudly. And then was afraid of losing his beloved sheath. But it started to sink again. It was subtle, but Starsky could tell those muscles were more relaxed now. And they sunk steadily, past the point where they'd reversed direction before.

Hutch was sitting on his prick.

Starsky tossed his head to get sweaty bangs out of his eyes. Then, safely ensheathed, he reached around Hutch's waist, inside those strong thighs. His left hand picked up Hutch's partially erect shaft and stroked it firmly.

Hutch groaned and he tightened around Starsky.

Sweat ran down the side of Starsky's face. It would take so little to put him over the edge. But that wouldn't be fair. He took a deep, deep breath, then exhaled. "Pull off just a bit."

Hutch started to raise himself again. Before releasing each centimeter of flesh, his muscles hugged it longingly.

"Shit," Starsky swore. Hutch had had too much practice at getting his ass fucked. He knew all the tricks. Could probably pull the cum right out of Starsky from muscle movement alone, if he wanted to. You don't want to do that, Hutch. Gotta a better surprise for you.

Only the head of his prick was enclosed. "Sink back," Starsky demanded. He took a firm grip on Hutch's length.

Slowly, he pulled his hand off the front of that generous shaft, as Hutch sunk, just as slowly, back down on him.

Hutch groaned... deep and long.

"That's right," Starsky panted. "Fuck my cock with that beautiful ass of yours, and my hand will fuck yours real nice."

Hutch pulled off, faster now, and Starsky gripped the shaft again at the base. He pulled his hand up and off as Hutch sat back down on his prick.

Hutch had the idea now. He propelled himself up and down Starsky's thick erection, and Starsky simultaneously rewarded him with a similar movement along his big, throbbing cock. His right hand reached around and fondled his partner's heavy ball sac... kneading... squeezing.

Hutch's head fell back, and he groaned more intently.

Ah, yes.... This was working great. Starsky almost felt like he was jerking himself off, except that it was Hutch's massive flesh instead of his, but his own prick was enjoying it right along with Hutch's. He tightened his grip now, preparing to send Hutch to nirvana, working his hand just the way Hutch loved.

He was doing too good a job. Hutch had stopped moving and now simply groaned... over and over again... as Starsky worked with the sensitive organs. That shaft was huge in his hand, and he could scarcely keep a good grip on it. Sensing that Hutch's release was imminent, Starsky moved his hips back and felt his prick slide out until just the first couple of inches were inside. He hoped he could ride out the upcoming wave....

Hutch growled from deep within his chest, and then a multitude of muscles were spasming in a delicious way around Starsky's cock. Hutch cried out, and Starsky watched semen burst forth in a joyous stream to the back of the sofa.

Shit, forgot to put the towel down!

He was grateful for the distracting thought, for it helped him enjoy those flexing muscles as they massaged his crown, without tipping him over the edge. He put his hand back to the base and stroked Hutch's shaft once more, taking tremendous satisfaction in the additional fluid that dribbled on the seat cushion.

Then he let go.

Hutch groaned and his upper body sagged against the top of the sofa back. Starsky knew that his big blond would also appreciate being able to move his legs, but Starsky wasn't done yet. He gripped Hutch's hips, then drove his prick up deep inside him.

"Ohhhh," Hutch gasped with satiation.

Starsky quivered all over. And then he pumped... powerfully... deeply... and when he felt the sensation nearing the peak, he pulled almost all the way out, letting the crown of his prick enjoy the tight sphincter muscles. And then he rammed back in with one long, smooth stroke. He grabbed Hutch's shoulders and undulated backwards once more.... And then release was upon him as he shoved forward....

Starsky's growl was deeper than Hutch's, but not quite as long-winded. He closed his eyes, gasping for breath, waiting for the last of his sperm to pump into Hutch. And then he withdrew and staggered to one side.

Hutch slowly drew his legs together and straightened. He gingerly slipped into his robe, then plopped back down on the couch in the same spot as before. He reached for the remote.

Starsky grabbed the towel and starting wiping up the semen that hadn't dried. He heard Howard Cosell say that the teams were back on the field for the second half, and the kickoff would ensue after a commercial break.

Starsky cleared his throat and sighed as he moved into the bathroom on wobbly legs. He spent a while rinsing out the towel, then used warm water to wet it again. When he came back into the living room, Hutch was sitting relaxed, sipping his beer, sated eyes fixed on the television.

Starsky scrubbed at the residue that had already dried on the back of the sofa. He knew that, while Hutch's eyes were watching the kickoff, the back of the blond's mind was thinking about what had just taken place. And that would go on throughout the rest of the game: Big Blondie's brain circuits reaffirming over and over again what a delight it had been to get an unexpected fuck at half time. So, when the game was over and they went to bed, Hutch would be very horny. He'd put Starsky into a crouch on the bed and tongue his ass relentlessly. Only after Starsky was shaking all over and crying out repeatedly would Hutch bring out the ultra-firm pillow and push Starsky's hips down on it, so that enticing, rounded globes were presented to him. He always favored the "bottoms-up" position; he said it made Starsky's ass feel like the most perfect of cushions. And he'd insert his greased-up prick between those mounds and hump frantically. It would last a long time, because Hutch had come just a couple of hours before, and also because they weren't as young as they used to be. And after Starsky would start to worry about his partner having a heart attack from all his exertions, he'd start talking dirty - something his upper middle class partner seemed to cherish. He'd tell Hutch to fuck his hot, tight ass hard and deep with his huge, thick prick, and Hutch would get even more excited and pump deeper and faster. And then he'd come, screaming like crazy. And they'd curl up together and fall right to sleep, the squabble over the grill too ancient and insignificant for either of them to remember in the morning.

Starsky grinned as he headed for the shower. Life was beautiful when you knew a post-game celebration was inevitable, regardless of which team won.


* * *


Todd felt his heart pound as he pulled up behind a green Mercury. He noted the little red house with the white trim. Yes, he was sure this was it. He'd stopped here once before to pick up Danny's baseball glove, when his son had accidentally left it behind at the game. Coach Starsky had taken it home and called Todd, and then given him directions to the house.

Tonight was a practice night, and Coach Starsky shouldn't be home. Todd both hoped, and dreaded, that the presence of the Mercury meant that the blond one was here. By confronting Starsky's partner, instead of Coach Starsky himself, he hoped it would help prevent any bad feelings that the coach might otherwise develop toward his son. Especially if this meeting went badly.

With a sense of destiny, of a turning point, he made his way up the sidewalk. He could hear dogs barking inside, warning him away, and wondered if he should heed them. After all, who was he to do what he was about to do? Why was he getting involved? Did it really have to come down to a face-to-face confrontation?

He had always thought himself a coward. Everything would be simpler if he still was, for then he wouldn't feel the need to do this.

He pushed the doorbell and the barking intensified.

The door opened and the blond man stood there, holding the screen open a crack. "Yes?"

Todd found line one of his rehearsed speech easy enough to remember. "I'm Todd Runyan. My son plays on Coach Starsky's team."

The blond man had kneed the dogs out of the way, and the animals had quieted. He opened the screen wider. "I'm afraid Coach Starsky isn't here right now. It's a practice night." The tone in his voice said, "If you were a good parent, you'd know that."

"Yes, I know," Todd said quickly, heart pounding more heavily. The blond man had blue, piercing eyes. "I didn't come here to see him." He held his breath. "I came to see you."

Suspicion danced across the other man's features, and his eyes narrowed. "Me?" he asked in a deceptively soft voice. "Why?"

"If you'll give me a chance to explain... it's very important. And... and I think you'll want to hear me out."

A deep frown appeared beneath the mustache. But he held the door open and grabbed the collar of the larger dog. "Come in."

Todd stepped up and held out the back of his hand to the larger dog in a non-threatening manner. The smaller dog was sniffing suspiciously at his feet. The pointer seemed satisfied and Todd patted his head as the blond man let go of his collar. He thought about making small talk and asking the dog's name, but he didn't want to appear friendly when he knew what he had to say would only cause pain.

"Sit down," the blond offered, indicating the sofa. "Can I get you something?"

Todd sat but quickly shook his head. "No." He swallowed and forced himself to meet the other man's eyes. "I'm afraid you aren't going to like what I have to say," he said by way of explaining why he didn't want to get too comfortable. It had seemed natural to finish the sentence by addressing the blond man by his name, but.... He cleared his throat. "Excuse me, I'm afraid I don't even know what your name is."

The other sat heavily in an easy chair next to the sofa, looking very wary. "Ken Hutchinson," he answered levelly. "I'm a detective with the Police Department. I'm Coach Starsky's partner."

"Yes, I'd heard that you were Coach Starsky's partner. That's why I'm here."

"What's this all about?" Hutchinson demanded.

Todd's gaze dropped toward the floor. "I came here to warn you."

"About what?" Hushed. Afraid.

If the speculations about Hutchinson and Coach Starsky were true, Todd thought, then he imagined they tended to be afraid a good part of the time. What if they were ever found out? Being afraid all the time didn't seem like much of a life.

Of course, Todd himself had always been afraid. And he'd thought his son would grow up afraid, too.

Todd forced himself to look up again, and he took a deep breath. "I'm sure you heard about the Pasadena coach who's been accused of molesting his players?"

Hutchinson nodded. "Yes." His expression grew even more wary.

Todd lowered his gaze with shame. "The other parents - the team mothers mainly - have been talking. And I've overheard a lot of what they've said. I hope to God I'm over-reacting, but I'm afraid that there's going to be trouble for Coach Starsky because of this."

Hutchinson's response was a whispered plea, directed at no one. "No."

"I hope I'm wrong, " Todd said again, as sincerely as he could. "But they keep talking about... about how Coach Starsky touches the boys." The blond head snapped up, the eyes outraged. "And - and there's been talk," Todd lowered his voice with embarrassment, "about what he and you... what your relationship is to each other."

Sadness and disbelief now dominated the other's face. "Do they think...," he whispered, then trailed off. "Do they actually think that Coach Starsky has done anything to their boys?"

"No, no," Todd said quickly, sorry he'd caused that fear. "No. No one is trying to claim Coach Starsky has done anything... inappropriate. But the fear is there. That it could happen. You've got to understand, Mr. Hutchinson, a story like that affects parents deeply. They all know it could one day be their kid. And they don't want to look back after the fact and say they could have prevented it when they saw it coming."

Anger now. "What do you mean 'saw it coming'?"

Todd was having a hard time catching his breath. This is exactly why he should remain a coward and never get involved in other people's lives. He always caused pain. When had he ever entered another person's life and left them feeling something good from their association? He tried to stay cool, treat this situation the same way he would a tense board room meeting. "Like I said before, the parents have been talking among themselves about how Coach Starsky touches the boys."

"Touching is wrong?" Hutchinson demanded. "Showing a child love is wrong?"

Todd spent a long time wondering how to answer. In fact, he wasn't sure why Hutchinson was expecting him to have the answers. But he did know certain facts. "Look, Mr. Hutchinson, you know as well as I do that no one would hold it against him if they could think of Coach Starsky as just an ordinary guy. But the mothers see you at the games, and there's speculation about why you're there... about just exactly what kind of friends you and Coach Starsky are, so to speak. When you add in what that creep coach did in Pasadena, you can't blame the parents for being concerned."

"And that's why you're here?" Hutchinson demanded sharply. "Because you're 'concerned' about what Coach Starsky might do to your son?"

"Yes, I'm concerned," Todd said, having known all along that any anger from the blond man would be directed at him, simply because he was the messenger. "But not for the reason you think. Coach Starsky has done right by my son, Danny." He lowered his eyes. "In some ways, he's been more of a father to him these past few months than I've ever been." He looked back up. "I don't want to see Coach Starsky the victim of some sort of paranoid witch hunt. But I don't know how to stop it. So, I thought the least I could do was warn you. Maybe you and he can figure out a way to stop it. I sure hope so." He stood, anxious to get away and leave behind the hurt he'd caused this sad, angry man. "That's all I came here to say."

The detective was hunched forward in his chair, eyes flaring with those very emotions.

"I'll show myself out."

He'd made it to the door when there was a desperate, "Wait."

Todd waited impatiently, hand on the knob of the screen door.

Hutchinson stood, turning toward him.

Todd swallowed, realizing just then what a formidable person he had just offended.

But Hutchinson's voice was soft, though his eyes were still pained. "Why did you want to warn us? Why do you care?"

Todd had asked himself those same questions, and avoided finding an answer. But he could not lie to this man he had just hurt. "Because my brother is a homosexual. And his life is hell." He pushed open the door and walked out.

Part 2